i have a plan a and a plan b for this summer.

plan a:
i am accepted to the winant clayton volunteer program and will be an american ambassador of goodwill to britain providing meaningful full-time service in the nation's capital, london, and strengthening the bond of friendship and wartime alliance we formed back in the 1940's. classy.

plan b:
i am not accepted as a winant clayton volunteer and i move to new york city. as of april 1st, there is a a sunny room for rent where one of the roommates is a german jazz pianist who loves ice cream and cooking. awesomeness incarnate. (although, the likelihood that i would move in time to be a candidate for that specific apartment is slim, but just the idea of discussing the delicate bouquet of flavors in a certain carton of ben & jerry's with a german expat musician is so alluring.)

how much do i love the oscars?

so much.


it is silly how much they inspire me. and every time i watch i vow to be there next year. (i'm thinking original screenplay nominee. or documentary short. or on the arm of a celebrity (actually, scratch that, i would much rather be there of my own merit. i am not an arm-candy kind of girl, i don't think. it is the oscars, though...)).

however, this year, i am more antsy than ever. i think it is because i am not "where i want to be." i get mildly defensive every time a well-intentioned acquaintance inquires "so, what are you doing now?" because i am doing the same things i did when i was 17. it is like the last five years didn't happen, except that i have two pieces of paper saying i went to college collecting dust in a drawer. watching those little gold statues being bestowed to masters of cinema is not leaving me feeling inspired. instead, i feel a little bit like a failure.

so, i think i need to make some promises to myself. the promise to sacrifice security for fulfillment. the promise to make time to be creative. the promise to expand some of my ideas.

i have had a crazy penchant to move to new york the last week. however, i hate the notion that things are only happening in big cities. come on, we also create things here in the suburbs of the southwest, people. but maybe i will. maybe, i'll be impulsive and bold and be gone by next week. like i said, this year's academy awards is making me antsy.

and can i just say, i kind of consider james franco a nemesis. i want to go to more school than him and then stand on a pile of degrees and stick out my tongue at him. i find him stunningly attractive, sure, but i am also embarrassingly jealous of all the things he does. he makes me feel lazy.

the last time i was in las vegas

I have been waxing existential as I contemplate the last time I was in Las Vegas.

It was October 2010, and for the first time I was visiting the pleasure paradise in the middle of the Nevada desert without my family, but with four single, of-age sheilas.

May I say it was a much different experience.

The second night, after avoiding going to see the male revue "The Thunder from Down Under," I strolled solo up and down the infamous strip. (An aside on my thoughts about "The Thunder from Down Under": The girls really worked hard persuading me to attend by assuring the the men kept their underwear on and that they guys liked being looked at just as much as the ladies loved ogling them. They convinced me to buy a ticket, but even with the ticket in hand I was scheming about how to get out of going, which I did by offering to watch-over a hung over companion who had to bail out of the taxi on the way to the show because she was sure she was going to hurl (which she did, but we did make it to a nearby bathroom before the chunks flew). And sure, I probably would have found the muscle-bound Australian hunks delightful to stare at, but I just feel that objectifying men is just as bad as objectifying women, and therefore, found it the height of hypocrisy. So, I got the sicky a taxi back to our hotel, but I chose to stay out under the brigh neon lights of the city.)

But back to this walk I was taking down the strip. I was staring at the high-rise hotels and the imitations of nearly every major destination in Italy (The Venetian--Venice, Ceasar's Palace--Imperial Rome, The Palazzo--just your general Italian theme, The Belaggio-high-class Lombardian society (although they do have a great little Siena-themed cafe) and having been to these places I was massively unimpressed.), and just found the Las Vegas Strip the epitome of inauthenticity. Because going to the New York, New York Hotel/Casino is nothing like the real city (bagels aren't as good, people aren't as crazy), and I will not go belabor the fact that although the fake San Marco's Square is a stunning work of forgery, it lacks the aura of the real place (oh, Walter Benjamin, why do you haunt my life?!). I also will not rant excessively how Caesar's Palace is more of a tribute to Bernini's Baroque Rome than Caesar's Imperial city.

But I will say, I really wanted out of there. I wanted to be real. I started doubting every person I met, especially the man who claimed to be a millionaire from Dubai (I actually didn't speak with this fellow, but some of the other gals were telling me about him). It was a horrible state to be in. I find a Vegas with the slogan "Just be yourself, and have a good time," more appealing than the current Vegas "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

Perhaps, the highlight of this solitary walk (which really wasn't solitary I was part of a steady stream of tourists from all over sauntering along the sidewalks) was seeing a middle-aged Hispanic man with a cowboy hat standing near an outdoor escalator playing his accordion. I gave him all of the change in my pocket because he felt like the most real thing on all of Las Vegas Boulevard.

denver

have i ever expressed my immense love for denver?

i love that place.

i believe i spent just less than twenty-four hours in the city last summer (just enough time for its reputation to remain pristine in my mind), and it was magical. i started looking up studio apartments near the capitol, assured that i could always get a job as an unskilled laborer.

i used to be a little bit uppity about denver boasting its "mile-high" status. i mean, payson is just about 500 feet short of a mile high, and i don't know where the city is measured from. it is perhaps possible my house is a mile high and you don't see me bragging about it. (but then again it is possible my house falls short of the mark and that it really is remarkable to be a mile high.)

nonetheless, a car with a colorado license plate passed me last night and i can't get denver out of my head.

Perhaps the greatest book ever published. Perhaps not.

I wish I had a certain fondness for cleaning. But I do not. The only time I feel any inclination toward tidying up is when I am incredibly frustrated. So, therefore a well-kept living space is a sign of an unhappy Roni.

However, this Saturday morning necessity dictated I pick up my crap, as some strangers were coming to tromp through our home. I scrubbed the toilet, hung up the clothes I'd draped over my desk chair, and even ventured to cover-up some of the mess in my sister's room. And that is where I found the long-lost gem Snappy Put-Downs & Funny Insults. Possibly the greatest and worst collection of words ever published.

The text came to my family in a box filled with old children's books that had belonged to my uncle and father, and this book had clearly been my uncle's, and he had even decorated the pages with slightly disturbing stickers of the Garbage Pail Kids. Since the day it arrived in my hands, probably more than ten years ago, it has provided me with my favorite mean or sarcastic remarks. Notably, "Why don't you reach down into your heart and grab me a piece of ice?" (page 90) and "They used to say your brother looked like you, but then they turned him right side up." (page 60)

It is the pinnacle of crackpot juvenile writing. I would never say the things contained in these pages to anyone except in a very clear jest. I mean it would be hurtful to say "Don't go to a mind reader, go to a palmist. At least I know you've got a palm," (page 38) or "The closest you'll ever get to being the toast of the town is a sunburn" (page8). Although, I do like, "You should be on the parole board, you never let anyone finish a sentence." (page 69).

i made some resolutions

You may not be able to readily read what those resolutions are as I used my webcam to photograph the list of my objectives for 2011. (Many a schoolteacher has told me unwritten goals are just wishes.) However, mark my words (that you can only decipher by holding your computer screen up to a mirror), I shall accomplish all of these goals. I applied to the NYC Marathon not less than an hour ago. Look for me on November 6, 2011. I'm thinking of purchasing some purple spandex for the occasion. Would a violet spandex bodysuit be too much?

Futher, as soon as I am done with this post I shall zip down to the grocery store and by myself a hearty supply of floss. After that, I'll break out the accordion and rehash "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

And don't worry the brain is stewing up plans for how to accomplish "WRITE A BOOK" and "VISIT BRITAIN" before the year is up.

expatriat-ing

Instead of taking small, reasonable steps to get my life out of a rut, I jump to crazy solutions.

I am moving to Britain. Preferably London, as that is notoriously the most thriving city of the UK.

The dilemma I face (besides the student debt that haunts my present and my future) is that nobody wants any foreigners in their country. Well, the UK is fairly liberal towards allowing members of their commonwealth (i.e. Canada) to enter into their country and become candidates for employment. You get screwed over if your rebellious ancestors were too haughty to pay a little tax and decided to start a big fight over it. (I mean, the British did send their troops to protect their citizens and territory from the French and Indians. If I say I would have been a Tory rather than a Patriot, can I come to London?)

However, I have a potential plan. I'll move to Italy first, with my grandmother. Since my grandma's grandma was native-born Italian, she qualifies for Italian citizenship, or at the least, an Italian passport. Once she has a passport, I can use her as my gateway to Italian citizenship. Once I have that, I'll be a citizen of the EU and maybe the Brits won't be so lithe to treat me with disdain.

But I do love Italy, I could just stay there.

But I want to meet a certain Irishman I have developed a little crush on from watching the British sitcom The IT Crowd. So, I've got to spend some time on the island. And as much as I love Italian, there is something to be said for sweet release of conversing in your mother tongue.