I sat in the crowd of 20-somethings, who only a few years ago were teenagers with me, and watched Ben Folds hammer his piano with intensity. The seated concert was awkward and uncomfortable. My legs ached to stand, rush the stage and cheer, but the 20-somethings around me sat with their beers in their hands and their blackberry’s buzzing, craving attention, in their pockets. The music was amazing, as I have come to expect. But while sitting I wondered if my music taste has become antiquated enough that all my concerts will now be seated.
I remember back to my days at the Warped Tour, when I would dye my hair pink and wear my coolest ringer tee. Standing out in the sun for hours, my friends and I would watch bands play their 20 minute sets. We’d rush from stage to stage, jockeying for a position toward the front. As the hot North Carolina sun beat down on our golden skin, the dehydration sank deeper, touching our bones, until we conceded to pool our funds and spend $6 on a bottle of water.
Is it weird to rue the day that a painful, blistering, musical experience is permanently traded in for the luxuries and comforts of plush red velvet seating, $500,000 audio systems and expensive lighting?
25 February 2009
12 February 2009
curl genocide.
A dabble of serum (clear goo).
A golf ball size squeeze of moose (fluffy goo).
A upside down fluff.
And off we go.
It seems simple enough, but my quick hair regimen took nearly 19 years to perfect. Nineteen years of combing (read: screaming in pain), no-more tangles spray, pony-tails and monster banana clips. For a girl raised by straight-haired parents, sometimes I think it’s a miracle I figured it out at all. I’ve had every haircut known to man in search of the perfect shape (yes, there was a mullet-like frock in the early 90s.) And still to this day I’m learning new things about my ever-evolving mane.
For years I tortured myself with flat irons and straightening goo, trying to get my hair to look like my parents – like everybody else’s. I hated my frizz and my dirty blonde color. I hated how any bit of rain or humidity would squelch any chance at a good hair day. I hated how my hair had to be difficult. I just wanted normal straight hair that I could comb, blow dry and style without an hour of effort and a clenched jaw in frustration.
Eventually I came to terms with my hair. I found the right products and techniques at the bible of curly hair’s Web site: www.naturallycurly.com. I stopped trying to control my hair and just let it go. The less I touched it or thought about it, the better it looked. Now, every day my hair is a surprise. Sometimes it’s more curly, sometimes it’s more wavy. Sometimes it’s got a round shape, sometimes more square. I’ve given up on dissecting the science behind it altogether, and couldn’t be more happy for it.
Perhaps it is my sense of personal triumph and acceptance with my hair that makes me overly sensitive to any twinge of anti-curl undertones in American culture. I frowned when the Anne Hathaway got made over in “The Princess Diaries.” Her wild, wavy hair was tamed to a pin-straight look instead of developed into something rich and beautiful. Just the other day on Bravo!’s show, “The Millionaire Matchmaker,” a woman was told that she needed to permanently straighten her hair because, “men don’t like straight hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through.”
Ugh.
All I can think of is the poor teenage girls, sitting at home with their straightener’s and chemical goo, planning a method of attack on their beautiful, but undeveloped, curls and waves. Please, America. Be accepting of us all. Stop the curl genocide.
A golf ball size squeeze of moose (fluffy goo).
A upside down fluff.
And off we go.
It seems simple enough, but my quick hair regimen took nearly 19 years to perfect. Nineteen years of combing (read: screaming in pain), no-more tangles spray, pony-tails and monster banana clips. For a girl raised by straight-haired parents, sometimes I think it’s a miracle I figured it out at all. I’ve had every haircut known to man in search of the perfect shape (yes, there was a mullet-like frock in the early 90s.) And still to this day I’m learning new things about my ever-evolving mane.
For years I tortured myself with flat irons and straightening goo, trying to get my hair to look like my parents – like everybody else’s. I hated my frizz and my dirty blonde color. I hated how any bit of rain or humidity would squelch any chance at a good hair day. I hated how my hair had to be difficult. I just wanted normal straight hair that I could comb, blow dry and style without an hour of effort and a clenched jaw in frustration.
Eventually I came to terms with my hair. I found the right products and techniques at the bible of curly hair’s Web site: www.naturallycurly.com. I stopped trying to control my hair and just let it go. The less I touched it or thought about it, the better it looked. Now, every day my hair is a surprise. Sometimes it’s more curly, sometimes it’s more wavy. Sometimes it’s got a round shape, sometimes more square. I’ve given up on dissecting the science behind it altogether, and couldn’t be more happy for it.
Perhaps it is my sense of personal triumph and acceptance with my hair that makes me overly sensitive to any twinge of anti-curl undertones in American culture. I frowned when the Anne Hathaway got made over in “The Princess Diaries.” Her wild, wavy hair was tamed to a pin-straight look instead of developed into something rich and beautiful. Just the other day on Bravo!’s show, “The Millionaire Matchmaker,” a woman was told that she needed to permanently straighten her hair because, “men don’t like straight hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through.”
Ugh.
All I can think of is the poor teenage girls, sitting at home with their straightener’s and chemical goo, planning a method of attack on their beautiful, but undeveloped, curls and waves. Please, America. Be accepting of us all. Stop the curl genocide.
06 February 2009
pleasing people.
What is the difference between a muffin and a cupcake?
Nothing, really.
A muffin is a cupcake that we eat for breakfast. Sure, we may skip the icing so that we can feel like we are, in fact, doing something good for ourselves. We might also fool ourselves by thinking that replacing oil with milk in the ingredients makes much difference. But the cold hard truth of the matter is – muffins are just cupcakes that make you feel less guilty after you eat one.
There are a lot of things that we do so that we can feel better about ourselves. I was thinking earlier about the purpose behind actions we take – like buying new clothes even though our closets can suffice or adding a new gadget to our repertoire of techy-goods (yes, new iPod shuffle, I’m talking about you). But really, at the end of the day what really makes us feel good are things that are often beyond our control – the love from another or acknowledgement at work.
Lately, I’ve been trying to kick an addiction.
No, I’m not hooked on meth or throwing away thousands on a poker game. Fear not wary parents.
My addiction is much simpler, a little less devastating, but still quite destructive. It was born out of too many years in academia. Too many ups, and too few downs. The coddling of teachers, parents and peers. The unparalleled satisfaction.
I am addicted to pleasing people.
Lately it seems as if everything I do is not for myself. I’m so eager for the enthusiasm and appreciation of others, that my own interests get put on the back burner. Whether it’s spending a bit too much time on a class project, or doing favors that I really shouldn’t take on. Sometimes I look up and realize how cute and juvenile my desire for seeing happiness in others is. I know that wanting to please others isn’t a bad thing, but when their happiness trumps my own there is certainly an issue. Or even worse, on the occasion when my happiness depends on theirs. It’s just bad news bears.
I’ve kicked this addiction before, during my semester abroad in London where the only person I was able to please was myself. I came back to the states like I had just come out of rehab, all refreshed with my new healthy habits. But slowly, I have fallen back into the cadence that is so much a part of me I know it must originate in my heart and pump effortlessly through my veins.
So here I am again. Waking up in the mornings thinking, “Olivia, what do YOU want to do today?”
“Hmmm... eat a muffin.”
Nothing, really.
A muffin is a cupcake that we eat for breakfast. Sure, we may skip the icing so that we can feel like we are, in fact, doing something good for ourselves. We might also fool ourselves by thinking that replacing oil with milk in the ingredients makes much difference. But the cold hard truth of the matter is – muffins are just cupcakes that make you feel less guilty after you eat one.
There are a lot of things that we do so that we can feel better about ourselves. I was thinking earlier about the purpose behind actions we take – like buying new clothes even though our closets can suffice or adding a new gadget to our repertoire of techy-goods (yes, new iPod shuffle, I’m talking about you). But really, at the end of the day what really makes us feel good are things that are often beyond our control – the love from another or acknowledgement at work.
Lately, I’ve been trying to kick an addiction.
No, I’m not hooked on meth or throwing away thousands on a poker game. Fear not wary parents.
My addiction is much simpler, a little less devastating, but still quite destructive. It was born out of too many years in academia. Too many ups, and too few downs. The coddling of teachers, parents and peers. The unparalleled satisfaction.
I am addicted to pleasing people.
Lately it seems as if everything I do is not for myself. I’m so eager for the enthusiasm and appreciation of others, that my own interests get put on the back burner. Whether it’s spending a bit too much time on a class project, or doing favors that I really shouldn’t take on. Sometimes I look up and realize how cute and juvenile my desire for seeing happiness in others is. I know that wanting to please others isn’t a bad thing, but when their happiness trumps my own there is certainly an issue. Or even worse, on the occasion when my happiness depends on theirs. It’s just bad news bears.
I’ve kicked this addiction before, during my semester abroad in London where the only person I was able to please was myself. I came back to the states like I had just come out of rehab, all refreshed with my new healthy habits. But slowly, I have fallen back into the cadence that is so much a part of me I know it must originate in my heart and pump effortlessly through my veins.
So here I am again. Waking up in the mornings thinking, “Olivia, what do YOU want to do today?”
“Hmmm... eat a muffin.”
26 January 2009
imaginative infant.
A few Sunday’s a week, I work in the nursery at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Comforter. For someone who is usually more annoyed by children than amused, this has been a great exercise of my patience – and has really softened my life-long aggravation with children. I’ve enjoyed watching the kids grow and develop from week to week, like the baby who just a month ago would spend the entire morning in my arms but who is now sitting on his own and starting to interact with the older children. It truly makes me marvel at the rapid complexities of the human brain.
My time in the nursery has brought about several thought provoking encounters. This past Sunday I was sitting on the floor, playing with Anna, when an elderly woman walked into the room cradling a baby doll. The doll was an infant snuggled in a pink blanket. The woman held the doll close to her chest. A man accompanying her announced, winking and using an unusual voice, that they had an addition for the nursery – this child.
Kissing the doll, the woman handed the infant doll to the other caregiver saying, “Now, she doesn’t eat much.” We assured her that we would take good care of her child. She hesitated as she walked out of the door, like a real mother with reluctance to leave her newborn child.
We soon learned that this woman was going through doll therapy – a treatment often used with patients suffering from dementia or a form of Alzheimer's. Without a doll, the woman might worry about where her “children” are, and go outside to look for them. The anxiety some women experience is so great that doctors have found giving them a doll to take care of greatly improves their quality of life and calms them.
This got me to wondering what I might cling to if I were to suffer from dementia or Alzheimer’s. Clearly this woman cherished her days as a mother, when other lives depended on her – not the other way around. Would I cling to my days on the soccer field? Nights spend playing spades with friends? Or my travels through Europe?
I’m quite certain that above all I would cling to reporting. It is the one thing that at this point in my life I would hate to lose the ability to do. I can see myself now, carrying around a notebook and pen (with pencil backup, of course) interviewing people for stories that will never run anywhere, making up deadlines that I would never need to meet, fuming when a phantom rival paper beats mine to a story or takes ideas from stories I’ve written. I only hope that people will humor me enough to give way to my imagination and play along.
When the woman returned we brought her the infant, saying that she’d slept the entire time.
“Well she never does that at home,” she said.
“Perhaps you should bring her here more often,” I replied.
My time in the nursery has brought about several thought provoking encounters. This past Sunday I was sitting on the floor, playing with Anna, when an elderly woman walked into the room cradling a baby doll. The doll was an infant snuggled in a pink blanket. The woman held the doll close to her chest. A man accompanying her announced, winking and using an unusual voice, that they had an addition for the nursery – this child.
Kissing the doll, the woman handed the infant doll to the other caregiver saying, “Now, she doesn’t eat much.” We assured her that we would take good care of her child. She hesitated as she walked out of the door, like a real mother with reluctance to leave her newborn child.
We soon learned that this woman was going through doll therapy – a treatment often used with patients suffering from dementia or a form of Alzheimer's. Without a doll, the woman might worry about where her “children” are, and go outside to look for them. The anxiety some women experience is so great that doctors have found giving them a doll to take care of greatly improves their quality of life and calms them.
This got me to wondering what I might cling to if I were to suffer from dementia or Alzheimer’s. Clearly this woman cherished her days as a mother, when other lives depended on her – not the other way around. Would I cling to my days on the soccer field? Nights spend playing spades with friends? Or my travels through Europe?
I’m quite certain that above all I would cling to reporting. It is the one thing that at this point in my life I would hate to lose the ability to do. I can see myself now, carrying around a notebook and pen (with pencil backup, of course) interviewing people for stories that will never run anywhere, making up deadlines that I would never need to meet, fuming when a phantom rival paper beats mine to a story or takes ideas from stories I’ve written. I only hope that people will humor me enough to give way to my imagination and play along.
When the woman returned we brought her the infant, saying that she’d slept the entire time.
“Well she never does that at home,” she said.
“Perhaps you should bring her here more often,” I replied.
20 January 2009
beverage gallery.
We laid her down tonight,
that beautiful girl,
who of course went out,
wearing velvet pearls.
We combed her hair,
fastened with a pin
of bobby's nature,
plain and thin.
As pipers played
walked through the crowd
we laid her down
on soggy ground
drenched with our tears
not sweat nor rain
time spent in crossing
now oft and lain
Tonight she licked her lips
and sighed
for she saw it coming
from far and wide
Gather, gather
for her now
the time has come
to lay her down
in fields of memory
where love grows high
she rests tonight
a bid goodbye.
A cycle comes complete
and we take your glowing crown
to help us all remember
the night we laid you down.
that beautiful girl,
who of course went out,
wearing velvet pearls.
We combed her hair,
fastened with a pin
of bobby's nature,
plain and thin.
As pipers played
walked through the crowd
we laid her down
on soggy ground
drenched with our tears
not sweat nor rain
time spent in crossing
now oft and lain
Tonight she licked her lips
and sighed
for she saw it coming
from far and wide
Gather, gather
for her now
the time has come
to lay her down
in fields of memory
where love grows high
she rests tonight
a bid goodbye.
A cycle comes complete
and we take your glowing crown
to help us all remember
the night we laid you down.
06 December 2008
maynard house.
My newest multimedia project can be seen at:
http://student.elon.edu/oallen/blee/Maynard/home2.html
It is about the Maynard House, a historic home with a rich history where Elon University's President lives. One of the most unique things about the house is that it is where Elon hosts famous speakers who come to campus. Desmond Tutu, George H.W. Bush, Queen Noor of Jordan and Anna Quindlen have all shared the same mattress. So cool! Definitely check out the flash presentation to learn more.
This piece was done for The Pendulum.
http://student.elon.edu/oallen/blee/Maynard/home2.html
It is about the Maynard House, a historic home with a rich history where Elon University's President lives. One of the most unique things about the house is that it is where Elon hosts famous speakers who come to campus. Desmond Tutu, George H.W. Bush, Queen Noor of Jordan and Anna Quindlen have all shared the same mattress. So cool! Definitely check out the flash presentation to learn more.
This piece was done for The Pendulum.
20 November 2008
somber senioritis.
Senioritis is not as fun in college as it was in high school.
High school was full of laziness, early releases and nostalgia. Lunch periods were brimming with optimistic talk about college and the future. I remember walking around campus with a pride as I thought about the college life that awaited me. Though we might now have known where we would soon be headed, we did know that it was going to be some place great. Or at least some place better than high school ...
But being a senior in college -- is not fun.
A gathering with friends for lunch feels more like a wake than a celebration. Phrases like "The Dow fell another 400 points today," "The (insert almost any newspaper in America here) cut 10% of its newsroom today," or "Nope, I can't find any job postings for the tri-state area in my field..." fly across the table as quickly as snippets of gossip used to be traded.
It's November. Relatively early for sure. But neither myself, nor any of my friends, have any idea where we are headed next year.
We gaze at our plates in despair, wondering if being a 2009 graduate will be something we boast to our grandchildren about 40 years from now. "You think your life is hard? Well I graduated in 2009..."
I suppose all of us are just anxious ... worried ... and fragile.
Our entire lives to this point have been dedicated to setting ourselves up to take flight after college. We're ready to make our mark on this world. We want to change the things we don't like and push our respective industries further. We are wide-eyed, full of inspiration and highly capable...
but
We are graduating in 2009.
We do not know where we will go. If we will have health care. If we will make a livable wage. If we will actually (*shudder*) have to move back in with our parents. Or sleep in a tent. We are stocking up on health services now, just in case, and saving our pennies for a few extra months survival if jobs aren't immediate.
And though being a member of the class of 2009, I can only feel pity and frustration with the deck of cards I've been dealt, all it takes is a look around to realize that it is not just the class of 2009 that is worried. Everyone is worried. Everyone is anxious. We are all fragile.
We are living through 2009.
(Though I do think well make it. And be OK. Eventually.)
High school was full of laziness, early releases and nostalgia. Lunch periods were brimming with optimistic talk about college and the future. I remember walking around campus with a pride as I thought about the college life that awaited me. Though we might now have known where we would soon be headed, we did know that it was going to be some place great. Or at least some place better than high school ...
But being a senior in college -- is not fun.
A gathering with friends for lunch feels more like a wake than a celebration. Phrases like "The Dow fell another 400 points today," "The (insert almost any newspaper in America here) cut 10% of its newsroom today," or "Nope, I can't find any job postings for the tri-state area in my field..." fly across the table as quickly as snippets of gossip used to be traded.
It's November. Relatively early for sure. But neither myself, nor any of my friends, have any idea where we are headed next year.
We gaze at our plates in despair, wondering if being a 2009 graduate will be something we boast to our grandchildren about 40 years from now. "You think your life is hard? Well I graduated in 2009..."
I suppose all of us are just anxious ... worried ... and fragile.
Our entire lives to this point have been dedicated to setting ourselves up to take flight after college. We're ready to make our mark on this world. We want to change the things we don't like and push our respective industries further. We are wide-eyed, full of inspiration and highly capable...
but
We are graduating in 2009.
We do not know where we will go. If we will have health care. If we will make a livable wage. If we will actually (*shudder*) have to move back in with our parents. Or sleep in a tent. We are stocking up on health services now, just in case, and saving our pennies for a few extra months survival if jobs aren't immediate.
And though being a member of the class of 2009, I can only feel pity and frustration with the deck of cards I've been dealt, all it takes is a look around to realize that it is not just the class of 2009 that is worried. Everyone is worried. Everyone is anxious. We are all fragile.
We are living through 2009.
(Though I do think well make it. And be OK. Eventually.)
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