« Page 9 of 12 »

Yesterday, I received an email from my mother that was rather poignant yet disturbingly offensive, all at the same time. She discussed the return on investment of children and her disappointment with its current dividends. "ROI" is a concept we use a lot in the business world, but perhaps I'd never considered it quite the way she expressed. I am not now nor have I ever been a parent, so I don't presume to know the type of emotions involved in watching your offspring head a different direction than you'd originally planned, but I can only imagine, it's no walk in the park.

By now, many of you know my story of educational rebellion. All my life, I was "set-up" to become a [insert cliche lucrative profession] of sorts. I never really had the heart for anything traditional or pre-formulated, but being in college only reinforced the fact that I was indeed on academic, analytical, and high-expectations overload. The thing I usually fail to mention in "my story" is the absolute fear I felt when I had to make that frightful decision to leave my "prestigious" college for a world of uncertainty. As I sat in my obsessively organized dorm room, I was unable to appreciate the beautiful Connecticut Springtime because I knew the mountain before me. When I picked up the phone to dial the dreaded number of my parents back in Seattle, I felt like Sean Penn in Dead Man Walking. I knew I wasn't coming out of the conversation alive, so I said my last prayers and was read my last rights. Around that time, I could have desperately used a Susan Sarandon in my life. The burden to make one's parents proud can be incredibly motivating. The burden to make one's parents proud can be incredibly oppressive.

Continue reading "Human Capital: The ROI of a Kid">>>

Posted in Education, Life | Permanent Link

 

Okay. One email too many.

I intentionally used the second half of my rant to bash pharmeceutical companies in the hopes that readers would get the revelatory irony. Perhaps I'm asking too much.

I realize that many people have struggled with many things and you just never know what you say/how you say and the way it is perceived. I am completely sympathetic to the varying degrees of abuse and addiction other people have experienced, but I feel the need to point out that everything on this website is 50% tongue-and-cheek and 50% serious. (Must I continue to state the obvious?) For this reason I announce to the relative world:

Ambra is not addicted to vicodin.

Ambra took vicodin as prescribed.

Ambra is no longer taking vicodin because the pain has subsided.

Ambra is anti-drug abuse.

Would you like me to flush the remaining prescription down the toilet?

Oh yeah, by the way, yeah I'm still a Christian too.

There. I said it. If only you knew how funny these accusations are. As you were soldiers.

Posted in Life | Permanent Link

 

Sometimes, life just pokes you. Life's little pokes run the gamut of expression. They manifest in major disappointments, setbacks, strained relationships, and both physical as well as emotional pain. We all know that pain can sometimes be good. It reminds us we're still alive and human. Pain also stretches us, gives us fortitude and helps us to grow in this grand thing we call life. There are hundreds of flowery words and deep insights we can give pain, but let's just be honest, sometimes it stinks. The stinkage of pain is far more pungent than the aroma of its virtues.

I spent the first two days of this week wallowing in the depths of my own extreme and total pitifulness, writhing in insane pain. This "good" pain I speak of was not what I was experiencing this time around. No, this was bad pain. This was very bad pain. This was the make-you-want-to-slap somebody type pain. This was that pain that keeps you up at all hours of the night, thanking hallucinations of Nick-at-Nite executives for producing another Cosby Show marathon, sleeping on the couch because you never made it to the bed, and counting the dots on the popcorn ceiling because it takes too much energy and focus to close your eyes to sleep and that "energy" would be better spent wide-awake fighting off the evil pain monsters that haunt in the night. This is also the pain that would graciously allow very enticing opportunities like, "Hey let's go shoe-shopping, all-expenses paid, my treat!" to ease on down the road. This was the pain that kept a wordy writer such as myself silent for two days.

Continue reading "Requisite Monthly Rant III: The Point At Which I Worship the Wonders of Vicodin">>>

Posted in Life, Requisite Monthly Rant | Permanent Link

 

This is probably the only time I will ever do anything like this on my website, but I have a favor to ask. When you get a chance, drop by my younger sister Amelia's fundraising site sendamelia.com. Following me in true rebellious fashion, she's deferring college to attend a year-long ministry leadership training program to gain focus, direction and a deeper relationship with God.

Unfortunately, my parents, being livid that she is postponing college, have decided to support this decision from afar (read: they ain't coughin' up any dough). I love and respect my parents very much, but sometimes they are very stubborn (and yes I know they will probably read this but that's okay, this is nothing I haven't already told them). So anyway, if you get a chance, and feel compelled, go and donate. She has to raise a great deal of funds in a short amount of time. I guarantee it's a legit-op, and she's a legit person (however looking rather like Angela Davis in this photo). If you can't donate, at least forward the link to someone who can!

Posted in Life | Permanent Link

 

While driving home yesterday, I pulled out my PDA and placed it on my lap (I'm a notorious multi-tasker). In any case, at a red light, I snapped this rare photo opportunity as this image is a sign things are a bit out of hand at nykola.com headquarters. When you start putting post-it notes on your electronic calendar device, it's probably time to re-examine its effectiveness. A few months back, I lost my organizer and proceeded to miss every single one of my appointments in one week. But at least it's a neon pink post-it so it stands out right? Whoever created post-it notes definitely had me in mind. Funny Stuff.

For reasons above, I shall be posting later on this morning.

Posted in Life | Permanent Link

 

Every now and then, I wake up in the morning and think, "Someone please tell me this is not my life". Today was one of those days. Don't get me wrong, I am one of those people who lives without regret and is in love with life and its hilarious tendencies. However, it seems these days, I am desperately in need of some rest and relaxation otherwise known as a vacation. Sometimes, I call myself the "oldest 22-year-old I know"; figuratively speaking. I say certain things that just plain should not be coming out of my youthful mouth. Things like "my feet hurt" or "I need to go pay bills" or "my how you've grown!" or "sorry can't stay out late, I've got work in the morning" or "that boy needs to pull his pants up!". I knew it was bad when last night, I kept nodding off at my desk in the midst of writing a post. "Oh no" I thought, surely I have not become my mother.

I understand that I don't have a kids (thank God) or a husband (soon enough), or many of the other things that drive people to the nutty place at which I currently exist. Keeping this in mind, I do try to keep my life in humble perspective. But maybe there are some of you out there who can identify with the great burden it is to be the blacksheep in life, your family, your sphere of influence, or even worse, your age bracket. For reasons only God knows, my age has not hindered me in the least. Maybe this is why I don't subscribe to the "level playing field" argument. In my lifetime, I've had tremendous doors opened for me, been given promotions and favor minus a college degree, and probably carry more responsibility than the average 22-year-old. Responsibility is something you grow up wanting and grow old hating. I'm not old, but I already hate it. And trust me, I have my days (although few and far between) when I wish I could just go back to college and be a hapless, debt-free student again. That's usually the youth in me reminding me that I still have the right to kick back and have fun.

Continue reading "Momma Said There'd be Days Like This">>>

Posted in Life | Permanent Link

 

I could write about the recent debates around the Federal Marriage Act (I probably will later but not right now), I could write about how Weezie from the Jeffersons moved on up, or how sick I am of hearing about Kobe Bryant, or "Queasy" Mfume's dumb and typically calculated remarks on behalf of the NAACP. I could discuss the theory of relativity, the war on Iraq, or the current lack of leadership in the Philippines. I could finally finish and proofread my dissertation on not-being a Republican or write about the other fifty some odd topics I have lined up for this site, but today I won't. Right now I am going to talk about shopping and my addiction to buying shoes, the anger I feel when my lipstick melts in the sun, my love for ridiculously priced designer jeans, and the strange "peace" and solace I feel when I wander through the mall. Or how about the fact that every now and then, when I don't feel like thinking, processing, or analyzing, I indulge myself on Sunday evenings by watching my nemesis, MTV's Punk'd in re-run, laughing very hard and eating an entire large Canadian-bacon pizza by my lonesome, all while reading pointless magazines none of which contain the words "U.S., Today, World, News, or Week" with articles who peak in profundity when they outline the best forms of leg hair removal. Here's a tip: waxing hurts. Even in the midst of all this, I still manage to feel good about myself, and I still consider myself a half-way decent and intelligent human being. Every now and then, I reserve the right to vent.

Today I am going to talk about a subject I've toyed with in my head for quite some time. That is, being female and being intelligent. Before the "tomboy's" get all bent, let me just say that my intent here is not to stereotype anyone. I realize that the spectrum of womanhood is deep and wide so forgive me in advance if I pigeon-hole anyone. After all, you know how I feel about those labeled boxes.

This is a subject rather dear to my heart since I am most definitely female, and dare I venture to say I am somewhat intelligent (most of the time). So I have this problem, although I'm not sure what it is but maybe you can help. My dilemma is best outlined in a brief story I'd like to share:

The summer of my junior year, my best friend Alyssa and I took a trip to Washington, D.C. The trip was multi-faceted. I visited some relatives in Pennsylvania and Maryland, and the both of us were on a mission to check out Georgetown University, George Washington University, Howard University, UPenn and Temple University. It was an action- packed two week trip, most of which was spent in our nation's lovely capitol.

After a few adventures, the worst of which included getting stuck on the Beltway (a heinous work of engineering if you ask me), and included crying, sweating, and cautiously used Christian-profanity, we'd managed to successfully pick apart every university within a 120 mile radius. Alyssa decided if accepted, she'd attend Georgetown. I wasn't as impressed and remained pretty neutral on which school I'd choose.

After tasking intensely, the remainder of our trip left lots of time for sight-seeing and profound historical learning. We'd both been to Washington a number of times so the Capitol Building, the White House, Washington monument and the Holocaust Museum didn't interest us much. I wanted to go shopping and eat ice cream. So I'm certain you can understand my excitement when my aunt with whom we were staying mentioned we should check out the Mall. Needless to say, wrong mall.

The best time of the entire trip was not the time we spent immersed in the history of Washington, the buzz of politics at the Capitol, or the guided tours of the top universities. No, it was the day Alyssa and I, along with my cousin, who's also fluent in French, and some well-saved spending money and allowances, rode the train into Georgetown and hit up every shoe store East of the Mississippi. Nevermind that we managed to only speak in French the entire time, when we returned at the end of the day with shopping bags in hand, I had this feeling as though we'd done a great disservice to womankind. We chose recreational bliss over scholarly aptitude and had the shoeboxes to show for it.

So what is it about our culture that makes a girl feel she has to act a certain way to be deemed intelligent? I consider myself a moderate girly girl who doesn't mind getting dirty or breaking a nail. There are times when I absolutely need my "non-academic" interests to involve the least amount of thinking possible. Does this make me normal, does this make me dense, does this make me a ditz? I could care less what the answer is, but somehow society's decided to define that for me. I read the work of many great female journalists and authors and increasingly disturbing are the comments from critics who feel the need to point out their shock of someone with such great aptitude. You mean a woman right? You mean you're shocked that they're women and intelligent right? I recently poured through the comments on a blog of a particularly insightful female writer. Every now and then I'd see someone write "wow, you've got beauty and brains! How rare!" Is it really rare, or is that the concept our culture's projected?

I struggle back and forth with this as many women do. I've always hesitated to post my picture in conjunction with my writing. Not because I think I'm pretty or anything, but because writing can be a lot more fun when people don't know who's behind the words. First impressions are a funny thing and I'm not sure what my picture gives off, but I would have rather not risked it. Then I remembered two things:

1. When I read, I like to put a face with words.
2. I don't care what other people think.

So after all that rambling, I'm hoping you see my dilemma. I reserve the right to be mindless every now and then and unfortunately, these days that gets attributed to my sex.

Posted in Culture, Life | Permanent Link

 

Cultural tendencies are a funny thing. I grew up with a mother who had the uncanny ability to embarrass you in public every chance she got. She didn't wear frost lipstick, high water pants, or polka dots and plaid. No. Her crime was much worse; she was loud.

Not only was she loud, she was also outright bold and lacking certain inhibitions of most sane people. These are the same inhibitions that serve as a restraining mechanism for saying things that might embarrass family members and show up on your record when you run for congress. These are the very inhibitions to which most people yield in order to avoid inciting riots. I've never underestimated my mother's ability to say the first thing that comes to her mind out loud. I come from a call and response culture. I've found that most of white culture (whatever that is) in general tends to be less given to outward expressions of fits of excitement, anger, and perplexity. Then again, Greeks are pretty loud. Italians too.

I spent most of my childhood dreading every moment I had to enter the presence of the general public with my transparent (what you see is what you get) mother. She's an educated woman, a Ph.D. at that, so her words were never uncouth. Raw maybe, but never uncivilized. If the platform was available to disagree, she usually would. I've become all too familiar with that pit-in-my-stomach feeling when in the middle of our meal, I know she's about to start telling our waiter how she thinks his attitude stinks. Our culture was one where if you liked something, you said so. If you didn't, you said so too. This is otherwise known as "co-signing". Find your run-of-the-mill predominately black church, sit in the back row, and you will see this concept epitomized. The word "Amen" essentially means "it is so" or "let it be". Now a days, it's common vernacular across racial lines as a vocal affirmation of agreement. Being the non-traditionalist that she is, my mother took her propensity to "co-sign" to the culture. At the ballet it was, "You better dance girl!", at the opera it was, "Alright now, you better sing!", and at the symphony it was, "That boy is PLAYING that violin". All of this was said aloud for the row behind us to hear. And there I sat next to her, shrinking into my seat, hoping no one saw me, praying I could be a white kid. Surely white kids didn't have mothers that proclaimed "Yes that's right!" in the middle of a play or "Amen" in the middle of my high school valediction.

Continue reading "Public Displays of Expression">>>

Posted in Culture, Life | Permanent Link

 

Freedom is a beautiful thing. It's also a costly thing. This weekend I was reminded of how life is but a vapor.

Since the rest of my family ditched me for other bigger and better events, I spent Sunday afternoon with friends, trying to find the best barbeque going on in town. Well, I found one (the food was good too) and also fell in love with one very cute pitbull puppy who goes by the name of "Prince". Not formerly known as, his name is just Prince. In any case, about two hours after this picture was taken, Prince was struck and killed by a vehicle.

That's a tough one for me since I'm a dog-lover. More importantly, it just reminded me how precious and short life is. Period. Call me deep. Yes, I probably am being so, but hey, God can speak through a rock so I figure why not this situation.

I honor the memory of all those who've given their lives throughout history so I can celebrate freedom today (it took me a minute, but I did bring it home). Happy Birthday America.

Hope everyone had a great holiday!

Posted in Life | Permanent Link

 

Tobey McGuire. Is he really as vapid and blah as he appears in his interviews? If so, the potential of me seeing SpiderMan 2 this weekend is not looking so hot. Update: confirmed that he is vapid, however that characteristic was fitting for the role of Peter Parker.

Hershey Kisses with Almonds. Would it kill somebody to sell them without the wrappers? Seriously. My fingers are getting tired.

Lionel Ritchie. What happened to him? Is he even black anymore?

Iron Chef. Are you serious? No really. Please stop, before I get addicted.

And for all you waiting on part two of you know what, it's coming okay. Geez. SaturdayMonday probably. I don't even post on weekends, which should show you all how much I care about my readers. Jerks.

Posted in Life | Permanent Link