Everyone Else is Doing It (NYE Resolutions)

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

My mom loves me (I’ve fact-checked).

This poor woman sat through every single one of my school plays, pretended to enjoy my band concerts and put up with my (very brief and pathetic) teenage emo phase. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

Even though she’s my biggest supporter, sometimes I’m sure that having a globe-trotter for a daughter can be rather trying. So after accomplishing BOTH my life goals in just a year—moving to Peru and reporting from Antarctica—the female parental unit was understandably worried.

I could see the words written in her frown: What is this offspring of mine going to tackle next?

Well, Ma, since you asked. Life Goals 2.0!

Write for NYT: Alright, I ADMIT IT, I haven’t written for The Gray Lady. Now, that’s never been my scene, but in high school I was voted “Most Likely to Write for the NYT” (“Most Likely to Nerd Out Over Stargate Atlantis” was already taken. Damn you, Jessica!), and I’d like to make it happen. #letsdothis

Study physics: I took chemistry instead of physics because I heard we’d get to blow stuff up. Unfortunately, our class watched “Fat Man, Little Boy” a couple times, and that was about as close as I ever got to actual chemistry. </regret> Unfortunately, this didn’t pick up a physics book until much later in life. And, GUYS, physics is SO COOL.

Learn hip hop: I don’t like dancing. Unless someone is blasting Journey or Fleetwood Mac, you can count me out. But I suppose I’m still too young to say “screw it,” order Chinese food and watch Golden Girl reruns on late-night TV while lounging in a sports bra and underwear. So I suppose I should learn polish my skills with something other than YouTube videos. This. Will. Happen.

Now where’s the takeout menu?

Be less judgey: I hold myself to impossibly high standards (which is something I’m working on, too) and naturally that bleeds into my perceptions of others. BUT what’s best for me, obviously isn’t necessarily what’s best for others. I have to learn to cut people some slack and let them be them. It’s a process!

Read one non-science book every week: For years I haven’t read anything but science-related books, and hot damn, have I been missing out! I asked all you brilliant peeps for recommendations back in October, and so far I’ve read ~a story a week. I feel more fulfilled, smarter, richer, happier, all the awesomes are belongs to me.

Visit NYC at least 4x per year: I haven’t seen a rat in 365 days; I can barely recall the smell of subway urine (public restrooms just aren’t the same!); and I now (*gulp) own a bed bigger than my last apartment. How I miss La Ciudad!

Broaden my understanding of philosophy: Freshman year of college, I was super-duper stoked!!!1 (17-year-old me’s words and punctuation, not mine) for Philosophy 101. But my professor spoke like The Dude, and after three hours listening to teenagers argue about whether black widow spiders had souls, I was ready bang my head on a desk that may or may not have existed. I dropped the class. Of course, I’ve studied philosophy in other courses, but there’s so much more to explore!!!1

Attempt taxidermy: I lurk on this FB group for taxidermy enthusiasts. It’s a private group (yeah, I’m cool *shoulder brush*) or I’d paste the link here for peeps to follow. Taxidermists are just ridiculously awesome and creative. But since I’m a chronic lurker, I feel like it’s time to put up. Sadly, I missed the Valentine’s Day Rat Taxidermy seminar, but there’s always the Anthropomorphic Mouse Taxidermy (One or Two Headed!) class. I’m not sure how that works anatomically, but I’m pretty stoked to find out. Plus, I’m pretty sure this is a tax write-off. It’s basically career advancement. If I decide to leave journalism, I’ll have a similarly lucrative profession to fall back on. </sarcasm>

Play fútbol: I played soccer for, jeeze, 12 years? 13 years? anyway, a long time. Then I stopped. For no good reason. When I was working in the rainforest, the guides and researchers played pickup games every afternoon on the beach. I tagged along, and it turns out I’m kind of a soccer god. (Or, at least, I can hold my own.)

Read “The Listserve” every day: It is amazing and brings me down to earth. Check it out.

Rewatch the TV series Just Shoot Me: Everyone needs easy life goals. Don’t judge me.

Be more thoughtful: Most people aren’t bad, they’re just super unthoughtful. Hold the elevator door. Write an honest-to-god PAPER thank-you note. Don’t bail on friends. Think before hitting send. <–I talk the talk. Now I want to make a concerted effort to walk the walk.

Learn rock climbing: Anything perched higher than my nose scares the crap out of me, and I’m a firm believer that in order to grow as a person you have to conquer your fears. Plus, rock climbing is great exercise, and once you get good enough, gives you access to parts of the world untouched by guard rails and pedestrian walkways.

This is a list in progress. I’m thinking of adding more camping, taking an improv class, writing more often about fungus, taking a glass blowing class, completing a javascript-filled data project, and, well, we’ll see!

cactus, peru, hiking, flowers

The Cactus and Me

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato 2 Comments

This cactus was grand

Bright green, blushing red

It burst forth from the sand

Prickles spewed from its head

So out popped my camera, a DSLR

I’d photograph this cactus, I’d make it a star

 

I was soon enthralled

This plant was so pretty

Then nature called

So I had to get busy

But when I squatted down to pee

My friend, the cactus, wasn’t nice to me…

The Jealousy Test

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I was born in December, and it’s a cumpleaños I find stressful. The fact that people are gonna shout “HAPEE BURTHDAY!!!11” this week, wish me “MURRY CHRISSMAS” in two weeks and then just days later exclaim “HAPEE NEW YEARZ!” induces all kinds of anxiety.* There’s too much going on. Too many people expect too many smiles and too many heart-to-hearts and too much happiness and…

December is just toomanyfeels.

Christmas ignites a fierce longing for my hometown—the simplicity of the countryside, the beauty that is California, the comfort that is family. It’s an emotion that’s raw and all-consuming, but because ImnotmovingbackMOM, I don’t like to admit it. Christmas forces me to concede that home life isn’t all that bad and, WORSE, wonder if I’m missing out. So I bah humbug holiday movies and glare at the produce when our local grocery store blasts carols.

Hey, the best defense is a good offense.

Then there’s New Year’s Eve. Whoever invented New Year’s resolutions is right up on my mierda list with adult acne, expensive haircuts, and that dude who decided women should wear high heels. The end of another year means everyone reassesses their life choices, and introspection isn’t exactly easy without your favorite ice cream on hand. (Who can afford the calories? Resolution No. 1 is to eat healthier. BLARGH.)

I think my birthday is really what tips things over the edge. Like every person, ever, I’ve started to consider my own mortality. Plus, I recently found a gray hair. #nocomment

This year, in a brave attempt to stave off whatever emotional rollercoaster December has in store, I took the jealousy test. During the jealousy test you think about all the successful people you know. If you feel pangs of jealousy when you conjure up their achievements, you should consider making those your own goals. And, lord knows, I love setting goals. It makes me feel immensely better—a simple, yet effective way to get through the holidays. Eyes on the prize.

So I thought about my friends who have won awards for their hard work, and how amazing that must’ve felt and how talented they all are.

I considered the brilliant people I know at the WaPo, ProPublica and Scientific American and the important work they’re doing.

Then I let my mind wander, and a woman I’ve only chatted with two times randomly popped into my head. She’s barely 30 and has already been to 37 countries. Maldito, that’s amazing!! I want to be this woman.

If this were a BuzzFeed quiz, I’d hit “enter” and a sensational headline with way too many cat photos would pop up. If it were an actual test, I’d get it back with an A+ (’cause that’s how I roll). But since it’s a very light and non-scary form of contemplation, I can be excited. I can make lofty goals and then plan out my daysweeksmonths to meet my objectives.

That is, if I survive December.

*I guess most people I know are soused for these events.

That Time I Walked Home in a Sports Bra

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Walking home in a sports bra probably wasn’t a good idea.

If it had been night and if I had been walking alone, it would’ve been a very bad idea. But it was noon on a highly trafficked thoroughfare so I figured *shrug.

In this order, the men of Lima bestowed upon me: 1 proposition, 2 whistles, 1 kissy noise, 3 honks. All in the timespan of about 10 minutes.

When I stepped out of the shower at the gym, I realized I’d forgotten my shirt. En serio? Ugh. And though I’ve squatted in forests and taken weekend hikes without bathing, the thought of getting back into that grimy shirt made my skin crawl.

Growing up, my aunt used to quip, “Horses sweat. Men perspire. Women glisten.” My sudoriferous glands beg to differ. After getting off a treadmill, I could wring out my T-shirt and provide water for the entire drought-stricken West Coast. I sweat like a Coke bottle at an August barbecue. Like a turkey on Thanksgiving. Like Chuck Norris on his way… wait a second, Chuck Norris has never sweated a day in his life. #nevermind

In other words, I’m a beast.

So no way in hell was I getting back into my dirty clothes. Thus, the probablywasntagood idea was born. I guess I should’ve expected the unwanted attention. I guess I’ve learned my lesson?

Or, here’s a thought, all the jerks out there could stop being such big pendejos and leave a dama alone. She forgot her shirt and just wants to walk home in a sports bra.

My Big, Fat, American Feet

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My monstrous toes have ruined everything.

In Peru, I’m a giant—and not the Jolly Green Giant who smiles down from the frozen produce aisle—we’re talking fi-fi-fo-fum status. At 5-feet-7-inches, I tower over most Peruvians, both men and women. This comes in handy at markets or fiestas or bar fights, but it’s absolute hell when I’m shoe shopping.

My big, fat, American feet make it almost impossible to buy shoes in this country. And that’s a problem because the whole point of being a third-world ex-pat is so you can buy a whole bunch of inexpensive, unique clothing that you then wear to brunch in America. Basically.*

As I’m not exactly the most fashion-forward individual (I’d rate myself one step above a color-blind Canadian logger who still lives with his mother), I was looking forward to the new status my feet would confer. So, here’s how things were supposed to go:

“Ohmygosh, I just LOVE those! Where DID you get them?” immaculately dressed Brooklynite would squeal, pushing aside her waytooexpensive bloody mary and abandoning her perch at the bar in a waytooexpensive UWS eatery in order to examine those beauties just a li’l closer.

“Oh, these? I got them in Lima, as you do when you live in Latin America,” I’d reply suavely. That’s right girl-whose-hair-always-looks-nice, MIC DROP.

This one exchange would make all the traumatizing mold, all the food poisoning and all the crazytimePeru worth it. BUT NO. The universe has cursed me with sausages for digits.

So in Peru, businesses tend to segregate themselves depending on what they sell. That means that all the shoe shops are on one block. For a whole afternoon, I poked my head into one store after another and asked for size “cuarenta o caurenta y uno.”

One woman in pointy high heels had the decency to shake her head woefully. But the rest of them?

They laughed. And laughed. And chortled. And did that smirky thing where your head tilts a little and you kinda snort. Yeah, that.

Lo siento mundo para mi patrimonio italiano! *le sigh Anyone know a Canadian logger who’s looking for a flat-footed friend? I need to commiserate.

*Joking, guys! Joking!

That Time I Tried Salsa Dancing

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I didn’t know my hips existed until I took a Zumba/salsa class in Peru.

I mean, I guess I had an inkling that they were there. I’m a pretty clumsy person so as long as I don’t fall down a flight of stairs, I figure everything is doing its job and leave well enough alone. But hips exist in a BIG way here, and when you wiggle ’em a little to the left everything looks just right.

I woke up early for the class and made it to the gym in time to claim a chunk of floor space in an inconspicuous corner—right behind the mirror so I wouldn’t trip but right in front of the weights so I wouldn’t trip anyone else. The dancing started off easy enough, in that there wasn’t any dancing. We stretched for about five minutes.

Needless to say, I was a pro. *shoulder brush*

Then our instructor turned on the music, cranking up the volume until the melody was so loud it hurt. He spun around to face his eager disciples, and his pelvis popped in a way that put Patrick Swayze to shame.

If you’ve ever missed your exit because you were staring at the larger-than-life abs of a hunk selling NEWEST GADGET while zooming down the highway or found your eyes lingering on the cover of a trashy romance novel while you were justlookingforthesciencesectionJEEZE, then you’ve seen my instructor. That man was able to get a whole room of women to twirl and high kick and do bendy things with the flick of a wrist. It was impressive.

Salsa is such a gorgeous, fluid dance, and the people in my class are good-good. I’m not a fan of stereotyping, but I’m pretty sure there’s something in the water here because, dang, all these gals can move!

Needless to say, it was the perfect Latin American cliché.

Then there was me—the perfect norteamericana. I’m a head taller than anyone else in the room. Suddenly, I’m very, very conscious of my sickly pallor. I’ve always made fun of my own whiteness, but dayum! It’s like Captain Crunch and the Trix Bunny decided to get it on, and snap, crackle, POP—a gringa was born.

Then there’s this thing called “undulating.” I won a writing award by using the word in sixth grade. Low bar for success, I know, but I’ve been oh-so proud of my mad skillz ever since. Unfortunately, in Latin America “undulating” isn’t word, it’s a concept, and knowing the definition in my head was NOT helping when it came to my hips.

Needless to say, white girl CAN’T dance.

Then a miracle happened. My dance instructor hunkered down over the playlist for a tad longer than normal. When he stepped away, I recognized the song. All those late nights practicing in front of the mirror came right back to me.

Soulja Boy exploded from the speakers, and I killed it for three, glorious, glorious minutes. While these brilliant dancers balked at hopping around on one foot and waving their hands in the air, I had already mastered what every frat boy can do in a drunken stupor. (Thanks WikiHow!) It was amazing.

Needless to say, I’m going back again next week!