Oh What a Difference 10 Years Makes

10 Years Ago…

I was a junior in college; today I work in a corporate office.

My idea of cooking was buying sloppy joe mix and buns at the Dollar Store or whipping up a batch of Fast Mac (because it was cheaper than “Easy Mac”); today I bring my own Stop ‘N Shop bags when I grocery shop there twice a month and I rarely eat prepackaged food.

I wore men’s corduroys from the Salvation Army (which were too long, so I’d roll up three-inch cuffs which would trap snow and leaves), a striped polo shirt, and my college sweatshirt; today I shop at Ann Taylor Loft and get my pants hemmed (the sweatshirt is still around, but parts of it are literally hanging by a thread).

My alcoholic beverages of choice were Mike’s Hard Lemonade, Zima (with a Jolly Rancher dropped in for added flavor), and daiquiris; today I drink red wine and occasionally a beer.

I lived in a dorm and my only bill was the on-campus telephone (one ring for on-campus; two rings for off-campus); today I rent an apartment and have two utility bills, a cable bill, a cell phone bill, a car payment, a car insurance bill, a school loan, and a credit card bill.

My idea of makeup was Chapstick; today I have a moisturizer, foundation, powder, eyelid foundation, blush, bronzer, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, and Chapstick.

I drove a hand-me-down 1983 Plymouth Reliant (aka “The Bad Peanut” or “The Bi-plane”) and let my dad worry about its daily maintenance; today I drive a 2008 Toyota Matrix and I keep a log of every oil change and every part replaced.

My idea of stress was writing a 10-page paper and studying for an exam with flashcards; today I wonder how I can pay all my bills, save money for a 401K, put money in a savings account, AND have enough to put food on the table and pay for new tires.

My plan was to be married by 25 and have kids by the time I was 28; today I’ve thrown the plan out the window and wonder how it’ll all turn out.

I carried a small wallet on a lanyard (and Chapstick); today I carry a satchel that can tote four small pieces of Tupperware, my wallet, my toothbrush and paste, my emergency supply of medications, my cell phone, my keys, my sunglasses, gloves, headphones, reading material, AND my Chapstick.

I thought I could navigate my way back home from anywhere; today I live in Boston and bow to the city that endlessly makes my GPS recalculate.

I considered myself an introvert and shied away from talking to new people, including people sitting directly next to me in class; today I run/assist with three meetup groups and meet new people on a weekly basis.

I was a year away from graduating and had no idea if or what I would use my degree for; today I’m on my fourth writing-related job (fifth if you count an unpaid internship) and still wonder what my next job will be.

An average Friday night was spent with friends, getting hammered, stumbling back to the dorm, and being entirely too loud; today when given the choice between a house party or sitting at home on my couch, wearing pjs, and cradling a bottle of cheap wine…I’ll still pick the house party (especially if they have beer pong), but it’s 100x harder forcing myself to leave my couch.

A Birthday Robbery

My dad’s birthday is on Christmas Eve. But before you start feeling bad for the guy for getting birthmas gifts (birthday gifts wrapped in Christmas paper), he enjoys saying, “I’m older than Christ!”

Since my family is getting bigger and my siblings have spouses and in-laws to entertain/visit on the holidays, we always make a point to at least get together for my dad’s birthday, thus leaving Christmas as the in-law vistation day.

My dad, God love him, is a curmudgeon. Like a combination of Archie Bunker, the dad from the “Wonder Years,” and Red Forman of “That 70s Show.” Well he used to be, anyway.

With the birth of grandkids, it’s like he’s gone haywire. Before the arrival of Grandkid #1, my mom asked him what he’d like to be called: Grandpa, Pop-Pop, Poppy, or some other such nonsense. He simply replied, “Sir.” So my mom retorted, “If my grandkids are going to call you anything, they’ll call you Sir Pop.” But when the little ones try to pronounce Sir Pop, it usually comes out as “Sah Po,” and the old curmudgeon just melts.

This Christmas Eve, we all gathered together for delivery Chinese food from Wok ‘N Roll, located about 5 driving minutes away. My sister, a neurotic party planner, had scanned and emailed the menu to have everyone’s selections and have our food delivered before the rush of Christmas Eve orders.

But, of course that didn’t happen.

After about 30 minutes, my nephew, known as a finicky eater who can seemingly run on 5 pieces of spaghetti for 3 days, started to whine that he was hungry. The appetizer of crunchy noodles with sweet and sour dipping sauce had vanished. After 45 minutes, my sister called only to be told something about the owner’s son being tied up in a robbery.

This may be a common occurrence in Harlem or Queens, but my parents’ house (three blocks from my sister) is bordered by a corn field. Our high school had off for the first day of deer season because half the students would be missing (mostly boys, but some girls too). The street that my sister lives on doesn’t have curbs or lines for lanes. So a robbery is kind of out of the ordinary.

Once our food finally arrived and we finished feasting (my nephew ate 10 grains of rice and was full), we turned off all the lights, presented my dad with a cake, and sang “Happy Birthday.” And like every other year, my dad sang along with us, essentially singing Happy Birthday to himself. But this year, surrounded by three grandkids, all watching his face glow in the light of candles, he sat clutching a stuffed animal under each arm not even realizing his curmudgeon status had fallen another notch.

After his presents, and some early Christmas presents for the kids had been opened, we sat around in blissful silence for a few moments until my sister bleakly said, “Sorry about the robbery, guys.” And maybe it was the two limoncello shots or four daiquiris, but I thought it was just about the funniest way to end Christmas Eve.

Here’s a link to the actual news story about the robbery. When they said the owner’s son was “tied up,” they literally meant it, as he had been tied to a chair during said robbery.

http://www.lehighvalleylive.com/phillipsburg/index.ssf/2010/12/phillipsburg_police_investigat_5.html

The Half-Naked Professor

Once upon a time…I had Astronomy Lab with Dr. Chambliss, age 70.

Now to aptly describe Chambliss, let me mention that the first time I saw him he was wearing a sweatshirt, black khakis, and velcro shoes. He also only had shaved half his face, leaving white stubble sprinkled across the other side. Essentially, I thought he may have a learning disability only to find out he was a Harvard alumnus.

To add to the confusion, he only spoke in unintelligible fragments, never finishing a full sentence. This explains why I received an F in Astronomy Lab (thankfully I had a normal teacher for Astronomy Lecture to average out my grade to a B).

Chicken Feet

A few weeks ago, some coworkers and I decided to get Dim Sum for lunch. As a transitional picky eater, I thought it would be a fun way to broaden my palette and experience something new.

Michelle, my cubemate, gave me a brief overview of what was about to happen. She said phrases like, “mystery meat,” “food on carts,” and “you don’t know what you’re eating,” but I threw caution to the wind anyway.

The restaurant used to be an old theater and the interior is just picturesque. High, domed ceilings with a scalloped inset, shiny gold paint, bamboo paintings on the walls, and baby pink tablecloths. Ok, the pink tablecloths were out of place, but the rest was pretty cool.

Before we even unfolded our napkins, servers were beelining it to our table to showcase the dishes on their carts. And Michelle was right, I couldn’t pronounce or identify any of it. Luckily our coworker speaks fluent enough Chinese and  understood and ordered for all four of us (it’s family style). Knowing I don’t eat seafood (hey, ‘transitional picky eater’ not a ‘fully-reformed picky eater’), he ordered mostly meats.

I tried a few things and was open to suggestions until my coworker ordered chicken feet. I know they were chicken feet because they fucking LOOKED like chicken feet. Breaded, fried, and covered in goo, but definitely poultry feet.

My look of disgusted horror as two of my coworkers set to sucking the ligaments and juice from the feet was unparalleled. Except for maybe the time a former coworker showed me a picture of his broken front tooth from biting into a giant turkey leg at Disneyworld (I have a thing with teeth and fingernails).

Michelle attempted to cut the “meat” off with her fork and knife when she was informed “there’s not really any meat.” Then I saw one of my coworkers spit out something that resembled a chicken toenail. Further, after nibbling on a second or third chicken foot, I saw him spit out a HINGED TOE JOINT.

Game over. I stopped at a coffee joint on the way back to the office and ate a giant Rice Krispie Treat in less than 15 seconds.