Christian Morals

I noticed something very interesting during the "children's moment" at church last Sunday. I attend a Presbyterian church, and during the service, the minister (or other member of the congregation) takes a moment to give a child-geared lesson. Last Sunday, our minister told the story of David and Goliath, and the thing I noticed was that it was difficult for him to use this story as an example of Christian Life. And not surprisingly, either. The story is about killing another person. Killing people is not something we want to praise in our church, and telling kids, no less, that God helped as young boy kill an enemy isn't considered a ------

Our pastor avoided using any language that admitted that anyone had died. David was to "take on" Goliath (he didn't even "fight" him), and in the end (after a pause on the part of the pastor), Goliath was "defeated." He was not slain, killed, destroyed or vanquished. Not last Sunday, anyway.

The Breakup

Ever since moving in together, I base much of my attitudes and actions regarding my relationship with Ken on my sister Caitlin's comment on The Breakup, staring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston.

My sisters and I saw The Breakup when we went to Ireland. Because of the time difference, my parents liked to go to bed early, so we had them drop us off at the movie theater and we would just take a cab home. One night, we saw The Breakup, and because we all have little respect toward the acting abilities of both lead roles, we were shocked when we enjoyed the movie.

For those of you who haven't seen it, Jennifer and Vince break up, and don't get back together. Early on in the movie, they fight over the dishes. Essentially, Jennifer wants help doing dishes and Vince doesn't want to help. (you may watch the scene here)

I was on the side of Jennifer. Vince should do the dishes! I thought. However, after we exited the theatre, my wise older sister gave me the following gem by which I live by:

Caitlin felt that the situation was both sad and realistic. "They both just had different ideas of how to live. When they get home from work, Vince wants to relax and Jen want the house clean. Neither is wrong."

She said something like that. Anyway, I have never forgotten her wise words, and when I get annoyed at Ken for not washing out a pot that he used, I remind myself of Jen, Vince and Caitlin. If a clean apartment makes me happy, then I should clean it. (To an extent. Don't worry, readers, Ken cleans just as much as I do.) Clean isn't right. Just like going to bed early or not watching TV isn't right. It's just how I prefer things.

Sometimes it is better not to talk

The city has hardened me. I notice most when I go to my parents' house on Long Island. I move too quickly in stores, make little eye contact, and don't partake in conversations that are not necessary. I have often found myself unable to respond to a cashier or friendly customer because I have no idea what they say to me. Usually in New York, I don't have to listen to anything. You can respond adeptly to any interaction without hearing any words uttered (if any words are in fact uttered). In the suburbs, though, people actually talk to you, and to respond correctly, one has to listen to the specific words that comes from their mouths. Worse, yet, these people often mean what they say.

Anyway, most of the time I don't have to worry about this, and can go about with blinders on and with a general distaste for others.

One morning on the elevator, for instance, I overheard the following conversation, and just kept thinking, "Why are you talking at all? This conversation is completely pointless. There is no need to be speaking right now." However, when I recounted the story later in the day, I must have been in a better mood, and couldn't recall why it had bothered me so much. I will try to tell the story now as I first experienced it, with mild annoyance and my NYC attitude.

I work in a office building that houses different companies on various floors. The elevator I use services five floors, all of which are home to law firms save the one that belongs to my company. Standing in silence, I heard the man ask the woman who he clearly knew, "Is that tea with milk in it?"

"It's Chai Tea," she told him in the normal morning-trivial-conversation-way, "It's my addiction."

Really, Woman? Is that your addiction ? That is totally the weakest addiction I have ever heard, unless you are trying to imply that it is a waste of money to purchase tea every day when you can more easily make it, which I doubt you are, judging by the floor on which you work, and which you in no way implied.

"I should really switch from coffee to tea," Man said. Which he never will! Why say things that you have no intent in following through with. I often think I should live forever. Maybe I'll try that?

"Well, I just pretend this is better, but I have no evidence that it really has less caffeine than coffee," Woman responded.

No evidence?? While Chai tea does have more caffeine than many other types of teas, it (generally) has less caffeine than per ml than coffee. More importantly, it is very easy to find evidence of this.

Kate Royal

For the past year, I had seen this photo of of a young classical/Opera/art song singer in Carnegie Hall's subscription brochure:

Amazed at how young and pretty this Kate Royal is for a Classical singer, I was intrigued by her concert and considered purchasing tickets.

Later on, I learned that she would be making her debut at the Met in Gluck's Orpheo et Euridice. The Met!?! She is far too pretty to be a the Met! Her concert was May 20, which is conveniently close to my mother's birthday. I delayed long enough that I could only purchase balcony tickets, but I finally bought them this winter.

About two weeks ago, I ended up seeing Orpheo at the Met, but had completely forgotten that Kate Royal was in it. I had read a short reminder that it was the last week to see it, and sad that I hadn't seen any operas this year, purchased a sole $25 ticket in the family circle (which is the uppermost balcony). Despite forgetting that Ms. Royal was in the production and not reading the bio portion of the program, I couldn't really see her from that distance anyway.

On Friday, the day of the concert, I was all ready to see a Hilary Duff look-alike in concert. In my usual manner, I read up on the artist and the concert to learn all I could. Most articles used the publicity photo above, and some used the image from her newest CD, "Lessons in Love".

However, i finally saw some additional pictures that looked NOTHING like the 18 year-old Hilary Duff-looking singing I had pictured all year. See below:

Do those women look ANYTHING alike? (Also, I would like to let you know that I had to learn a small amount of HTML to get those two photos to line up.)
Believe it or not, they are the same woman, though I am more convinced that the older, darker haired version is the true opera singer.

Mother's Day

Sunday was Mother's Day, and I saw many children (adult) on the train with flowers, presumably for their mothers. The young man sitting next to me, college-aged in appearance, was writing a note to his mother on "Mom" stationary. I was surrounded by loving children.

While many went through the appropriate gesture of buying flowers, they did not always follow-through 100%. One flower-carrying youngster was wearing a cut-off t-shirt, exposing her midriff and navel piercing. Another young flower-carrying dude was wearing a Hooters shirt. Their mothers might have appreciated the visit and bouquet more if their children were not dressed like trash.

Aveda Salon: The Compliments are Skin-Deep

I am often afraid of new things. Rather than find a nail salon, doctor, eye doctor, dentist, spray tanning salon, hair dresser, etc in New York City, I continue to take care of all things health and grooming when I am at home on Long Island. (I still call my parents house “home” even though I live in my own, very adult apartment.) Last week, however, my over-straightened hair hit a horrendous stage of disrepair, and being Monday, I had no hope of going to Long Island to get my hair cut before my entire self-image would implode.

I searched the web, and found one salon that was open late enough (or at all) on a Monday for me to get a hair cut after work. It was the Scott J Aveda salon.

From my impression, which is based on one Aveda experience (I watched my sister get a makeover at an Aveda salon in Palo Alto—she had received a gift certificate there for her bridal shower), a few friends’ reviews, and the salon’s website, I gathered that Aveda salons were more upscale than I was used to, which made me feel insecure and undeserving of such an establishment. However, I was too tired to be nervous and too desperate to care much, so I walked into my appointment without anxiety.

Shortly after nodding hello to the security guard and giving my name to the young woman at the counter, a fabulous gay boy took my coat, complimented my outfit, and offered me a beverage. I accepted water and thanked him for the compliment, knowing that if he was as fabulous as he thinks he is, he would know that my clothes were not haute couture and would notice that my boots were worn in the toes, and most obviously, that my hair was in a state of disaster. And if he was as fabulous as he acts, he surely would have judged me as a (financially) poor, (physically) ugly girl who doesn’t have respect for fashion or hair, much like Anne Hathaway in the first hour of The Devil Wears Prada, making his compliment horribly insincere. I didn’t trust him.

Soon I was introduced to Trish, a senior stylist (she was the only stylist available, and being senior, is more expensive). She asked what I wanted to do with my hair that evening without insulting it or commenting on how dead it was from flat-ironing, and told me that my ($26 H&M) bag was cute. She then told me that I had very nice hair. Could Trish, the senior stylist, see beneath the burned wreckage of split ends to my beautiful, thick hair that lay beneath? Possibly. She must know her hair, being the pricey senior-ranked stylist she is, but being a woman in NYC, she likely also knows her bags, and the bag she complimented was cheap. I was skeptical.

Following my brief hair-sessment with Trish, I was led to Jay, a slightly less fabulous man who washed my hair. Though very polite, he did not effusively compliment me and gave me a scalp and shoulder massage while and after he washed my hair with Aveda’s Smooth Infusions Shampoo, which helps keep wavy hair straight and frizz-free in humid weather, and which I will probably buy product if I go there again, thus proving to the super-posh Aveda staff that I have money and respect for my hair. I appreciated Jay for his refrain from unnecessary flattery.

Hair clean and muscles relaxed, I returned to Trish for my hair cut. Trish was surprisingly quiet during the process. I believe that she was focusing on her work, which was nice as I had little to say. While she was focusing on my hair, I imagined trivialities that I could use in conversation and examined myself in the mirror. Through sunburned, I didn’t look completely awful. My pants and outfit were adorable (despite the scuffed boots) and from far away, my bag could be misinterpreted as of higher quality than it really is. I then studied Trish and her ensemble. Most of her jewelry involved diamonds (which I learned were real through a short exchange between her and another employee), but her clothes were not that expensive. Maybe Aveda didn’t see me as a pariah after all.

My mind drifted to the conversations around me. Across the room, a new customer came in and was greeted by her stylist. “OMG, a-dorable bag!”

Oh, okay, so they were trained with a list of compliments to dish out to customers. They aren’t just instructed to be warm, friendly, and polite, they are told, “Say this: ‘_(cute bag!)__’”

After my haircut and complimentary hand massage from Jay, I debated the offer for a free make-up touch-up. It was 9 PM (close to bedtime and too dark to notice make-up), but I was meeting Ken for a drink, so why not please my man? I accepted.

With my makeup fixed and my check paid, I left the brightly lit salon to find Ken. I bid farewell to the security guard, and he said, “Love the hair, love the makeup.”

Lack of Content

I find it very difficult to write a blog these days due to lack of content. There are a few other factors, such as lack of time, my reluctance to spend time by myself when Ken and I are both at the apartment, and my own disinterest, but the largest issue is the lack of day-to-day material that can be used in a blog. Quite unfairly, a vast amount of my week is spent at work, and unlike school and my classmates, I can’t write about work and my colleagues without the possibility of negative consequences. Of my remaining time, a majority is spent with Ken, and unlike past boyfriends, Ken is a pretty good boyfriend and I can’t make fun of him all of the time in my blog, again, without the possibility of negative consequences. (“Do you have to make fun of him?” Yes. If I didn’t make fun of who I was writing about, my entries would be bland and my five readers would abandon ship. Also, because Ken is so amazing, there is virtually nothing I could make fun of him about anyway!)
This leaves me with minimal material to work with. I may have to begin looking outside of my own life for inspiration and issues to comment on, but the downside of that route is that it would take even more of my time, as I would have to conduct research.
However, the busy spring season at work has passed, and with new-found time to spend outside of work, which should provide me with blogable material, and to write-up said material in said blog, I should have more regular entries for you to enjoy.