Trusting your gut

After a long, snowy winter, I heard the ice cream truck boo-bee-dee-boop its way down the block the other day -- and I instinctively scrambled for quarters. I didn't end up getting my Firecracker pop, but I knew exactly what to do.

I made pesto sauce from scratch yesterday, based on a whole lot of guessing and praying, and that turned out well, too. I'm starting to realize that I have enough of my mother in me to be able to cook instinctively. Should I add more olive oil? Probably. Will a little cream cheese brighten up that sauce? You betcha. I know what to do, even if I have trouble trusting my inner Betty Crocker at times.

Some things, I think, are just automatic: cookies need milk; kites gotta have breezes; don't wear white after Labor Day. My best friends and I went to a showtunes-only piano bar in the West Village this past weekend; I know that when I'm with them, there's a 95% chance I'll laugh so hard that my beverage'll shoot out of my nostrils. (This is, apparently, genetic in my family. Thanks to my aunt for passing on this darling propensity to snort liquids out of my nose. Totally chic.) Before you eat birthday cake, you blow out the candles. Before babies can walk, they have to learn to crawl. I've heard that you never forget how to ride a bicycle once you've learned, either. Some things...some things you just know.

I should have known, then, that senioritis would come knocking at my door. I'm not being an extraordinary procrastinator - I just can't sleep very well lately. My brain is whirring through thoughts and ideas and dreams at a hundred-bajillion miles per hour. There's too many banquets, and projects, and parties to look forward to! Spring is coming, and with it comes the end of my year-long thesis project and the conclusion of four years of workworkwork. Daffodils will be blooming soon, and I'll have heard about graduate school and decided on my summer plans and settled into a post-coed life.

I've been working towards these next few weeks for the past four years. I'm almost a legitimate participant in the real world. But I'm not all that nervous - though my five-year plan is fuzzy, I'm weirdly at peace. Somehow, I think I'll know what to do when the time comes.

Long time, no type

I usually don't make official New Year's resolutions. Despite my penchant for to-do lists, I've always tried to live, love, and laugh with gusto every day - as opposed to being gung-ho for only the first two inspired weeks of each year.

Still, I promised myself that I'd make a few changes in 2010, as I began my last semester of college. I resolved to take more pictures and to write on my blog more often. (Will I ever be 21 in New York again? Nope. Better make sure I remember these moments, then.)

It's February 7th: I have no new photos on my Canon, and this is my first blog post of the new year. Womp, womp, womp.

But maybe - since I don't normally do this whole resolution shpiel - I can amend the rules? I loathe messing up; being late, spilling things, and disappointing people are all on the things-that-make-my-stomach-lurch list, and slacking on my resolutions is no exception. In the interest of avoiding stomach ulcers, and in the hopes of capturing the magic of my last 4 months as a co-ed, I'm calling for a do-over. Did I swing and miss? You bet. But I'm granting myself another metaphorical at-bat.

After all, January was pretty jam-packed with awesomeness. I love all of my classes, and I may actually complete my senior thesis (or, BLT, aka a Big Long Thing) on time and with some panache. I've celebrated good friends' birthdays, and I've gone on some ridiculously tasty food adventures in my neighborhood: Mercadito and Podunk are my current obsessions, albeit their guacamole and scones (respectively) are total opposites. I led the BC's campaign to help the people of Haiti, as if I needed another reminder of how incredible the Jewish community is. I've learned and laughed and loved a lot already.

Now I just have to remember to capture it all, to say cheese and to write witty banter, so that I can remember all of my silly young hi-jinks someday.

Seasons of love

I was almost home yesterday when I looked down and realized that the sidewalk was strewn with leaves. Weren't those still on trees the day before? When did it become autumn?

For that matter, when did I become a grown-up? I walked out of a rough meeting in the journalism department yesterday and somehow felt sure that my mom would be sitting in her red car waiting for me across the street - but then I realized that I haven't been in high school for four years. Mom still talks me down when I'm upset, of course, and Dad still helps me see things clearly (how does he always do that?). But I'm a not a little girl anymore. I have to solve my own problems. Actually, I've been so busy lately that I have to decide which problems are worth solving.

So, on my way home, I crunched through leaves and realized that I don't have time to be upset. I don't have the time to be anyone but myself, to do anything beyond what gives me glee, or to share my life with anyone but the people that make me happy. (Homework doesn't count, here - I read a book on the history of the color blue last week. Seriously, 200 pages on a color. It was ridiculous.) I looked up at the trees on 12th Street and realized that they'd changed colors without a fuss - no upset or tantrum, just a subtle shift from green to gold. They were different, sure, but they were still beautiful.

I went to rehearsal with my friends instead of pouting last night. We laughed and ate fake chicken nuggets (holla, Red Bamboo) and sang, and I decided to face whatever is in front of me without fear.

I have no idea what my future will be like. But I do know this: I'll be the best Rachel Liane that I can be. I'll be goofy, and sweet, and a little edgy; I'll write with wit and live with intention; I'll cherish sunshine and friendship. Seasons change. Leaves fall. I have no idea exactly when I grew up; no one hands you a manual and says, "Welcome to adulthood." (Wouldn't it be great if you got one of those car navigation ladies in your brain when you turned 21? "Turn left here." "In 2.3 miles, you should ask that guy out." "Pay your bills." That'd be swell.) Life, though, has granted me enough friendship and love to make it through.

Miracles and Mangos

Inside the label of my Honest Tea Orange Mango "thirst quencher," 30 minutes after I correctly solved 3 GRE math practice questions:

"Anyone who doesn't believe in miracles is not a realist." - David Ben-Gurion

Wonders never cease.

Wherever You Go

I've said it a million times, but today it finally clicked: this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I went horseback riding in the hills of Central Asia today. I went swimming with no fear, and sat in a sauna with Kazakhstani teenagers. I davened at a campsite alongside my Orthodox, rainbow-haired friend, and I was so absorbed by my prayers and the sunshine that I didn't mind hearing the Black Eyed Peas blasting in the background.

I learned what it's like to have kashrut tested today. We asked for vegetarian meals, our noodles arrived, and -- halfway through the meal -- I found a piece of meat on my plate. I didn't eat any, to my knowledge, and I immediately pushed my plate away, but I still felt awful. Guilty. Disappointed. Angry. Worried.

So I prayed. I resolved to keep trying. I reminded myself that I keep kosher to connect with G-d and to find moments of holiness -- and this brush with trayfe had allowed me to pray and refocus and pause my day, so I'd still accomplished something. Onward and upward.

I've seen how important a Jewish community can be. I've realized how impactful one helping hand can be. And I'm ready to go home.

Dairy products, baked goods, and drinkable tap water, here I come.

I happen to like this town

I went for a walk today...it was lovely.

I laughed at the girls in Ray Bans waiting in line for blocks and blocks just to get into some sample sale; I smiled at the old Latino men scraping ice to make snow cones on street corners. I window-shopped; I had major puppy envy; I picked out at least 10 places where my imaginary boyfriend and I will be going to brunch next weekend. I found a swimming pool, too, an unexpected oasis in the midst of the Lower East Side. And I giggled at the little boys who had tied their towels around their shoulders like superheroes as they ran down the sidewalk in their flip flops and floaties, the cheerful defenders of a beautifully hazy afternoon in the city.

I love summer. I always have. But today I realized that, as with basically all things in life, it's better in New York.

A new world

I took the ferry across the river to visit my aunt in NJ today. We spent too much money on clothes, ate Chinese food and ice cream (not at the same time, understand), and walked around one of those infamous Jersey strip malls in the sunshine.

And, somewhere in between my egg drop soup and my lunch bowl, my aunt suggested that I should really think about working for one of the magazines within the publishing corp. that gainfully employs her; last night, one of my dear friends told me the saga of her break-up and then make-up with her boyfriend, explaining that the fighting was more or less based on the details of their future marriage; another friend is pretty sure that she'll be engaged within the next two years and just landed a fabulous job (a real job, with benefits and a salary).

Am I really old enough to be having these conversations? I feel ancient some days...especially the days that I spend with my adorable, toddler-age cousins. I pay my bills. I clean my house. I'm in charge of getting myself up and out the door. I'm feeling pretty ready to graduate. But babies and FICA and wrinkles, oh my! Is this normally the vantage point of 20-somethings?

And if it is, how exactly does one go about improving the forecast? Because, right now, I'm soon to be the copy editor of a trashy teen magazine, thanks to my aunt's connections instead of my own abilities, with lots of bridesmaid dresses in her closet and a bunch of dead houseplants (I may claim to be responsible, but I'm awful at remembering to water those things)...

The only logical solution, as far as I can tell, is to hearken back to the third grade and paint my nails Barbie pink. Ignorance sure was bliss.

Hot child in the city

This is the third or fourth night this week that I've heard people sing "Happy Birthday" in the garden across the street...they laugh and listen to music, and tonight they popped champagne. They're celebrating and happy and very East Village chic, and it all seems so glorious that it takes lots of willpower to not throw on a sundress (instead of the schlubby sweats that I've been wearing all week as I work on my final papers) and crash their shindig ASAP.

I was absolutely positive that my 21st birthday was going to involve several jazz clubs, dancing, tons of friends, and cocktails galore. I wanted that sacred moment where you flash your totally legitimate photo ID at the bartender with pride.

Now, I'm reconsidering: my close friends and an ice cream cake in the garden seems so lovely. Flowers and laughter in the moonlight is very Midsummer Night's Dream a la 2009, and it seems so much more me than a night of bar-hopping, however traditional that may be.

There'll still be cocktails galore, though. Some things never change.