Every summer at around the same time, the same thing appears on my dresser. Slowly, but surely, three piles of books appear. Each pile varies in size throughout the summer, but if I show restraint, hopefully, once the summer begins, they all keep the same amount of books collectively.

They are all marked with post-its. The first pile reads “To-Read” , the second “Reading” and the Third “Finished.” It’s a very remarkable system, with the problem being that there are no fewwer than fifteen books fed into this system at any given time.

There is something aesthetically pleasing about a large pile of books in the “To-Read” section, with titles ranging from trashy romance novels to stuffy classics, and everything in between. I have always considered reading to be an adventure, something to take with you and enjoy no matter where you are.  I’ve always considered the summer a time for resting, a time of long days and reasons to be outside, and what better thing to do outside but read?

The only problem I seem to have come in contact with during my non-academic required summer reading is the “Reading” pile. As of press time, I seem to have no fewer than five books occupying this pile, with only about three books in the “Finished” pile. There is still an embarassing number of books in the “To-Read” pile, but that’s okay, at least I’m not cracking them!

The worst part seems to be when I find myself wandering through a book store, staring at the new Ken Follet venture and wondering how that could possibly fit in with the order of the books I already have to read. Should I read it before Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel? Or perhaps after The Count of Monte Cristo? The possibilities are as endless as the books in my “to-read” pile.

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I have recently become addicted to clothes shopping. Something that, for as long as I can remember I have hated with a visceral passion is now something I love with an almost serial killer-like obsession and intensity. I stalk pretty little indie dresses like a lioness stalks her prey, every pretty little necklace I find is a triumph only comparable to how the big game hunters must have felt.

And don’t get me started on cute boots.

How did this happen? How could I have suddenly changed my tune so completely to the point where I will impulsively tell my friends about this fun new thing that I love to do? How can I possibly have the money as a recent college graduate who, for the time being, is saving up whatever earnings she can gather in order to make the move to California in the fall? (However, to quote Alton Brown…that’s another blog.) Well, that’s an easy answer.

I am addicted to online wishlists. I love going to websites and picking out things that I absolutely love, that I absolutely can’t afford right now, and constructing a fake cart that will probably never be purchased. I love it. I love it to pieces.

Having found a way to capture the high of shopping without the stress of a hemorhagging bank account or the pain of having to try clothing on, I find myself thrilled about my online wishlists. I impulsively tell people about my new treasures, my new favorite hobby, in the hopes that maybe they will also start, also find as much joy in it as I do.

Do any of the clothes in my hypothetical closet fit? Who knows! That’s not what it’s about! I have become addicted to the feeling of having something without the hassle of maintaining it, and I’m not going to stop anytime soon!

One day, I might purchase something off of my bottomless shopping cart of dreams, until then, I’ll keep fake shopping, and you should too!

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When I was in the 8th grade, I had the distinct pleasure of being Canada in our school’s Model United Nations.  While my job was to resolve my country’s major issue (we had two official languages. In Canada times were tough) I ended up cutting a deal with Mexico to take all of their unwanted children to form a Spanish speaking army (which, oddly enough added a third official language to our noble country to the North) in order to one day attack America. I seemed to be a 12 year old Mountie terrorist.

However, looking back, I remember the 12 year old kids who showed up to Model U.N. with little attache cases and blazers. They wore little effects that would denote what country they were from (I’m 95% sure I carried a piece of paper that had a maple leaf on it somewhere on my person at all times, but it was notebook paper, and I drew the maple leaf myself.) These kids would grow up to go on to High School Model U.N., maybe do mock trials, they would watch election coverage on tv, these are the kids that would watch primaries and vote in them. These kids would grow up to be political science majors.  These kids are the ones that would grow up and say “I believe in so-and-so candidate’s principles” and actually know what those principles are!

I am incredibly jealous of these people. For as long as I can remember, I have never had a passion for politics. Sure, I usually know who’s running, I know what a democrat and a republican is*. I know that if a democrat supports one issue, a republican will support the opposite. I also know that I usually took the exact same stance when it came to my enemies in Middle School.

I know people, where this is all they care about, I envy such passion, I envy such love for something where, for the longest time, I assumed that because so many people in Washington were taking care of it, that I didn’t need to spend so much time worrying about it. This isn’t, of course to say, that I didn’t care about the issues that politics are passing laws on.

Like for starters, I didn’t know that a bunch of men over 50 could tell a woman what to do with her body (or anyone for that matter.). I didn’t know that gay marriage was actually replacing hetereosexual marriage**, and I didn’t know that skin color, race, creed, gender, religion, or age made anyone different or better than anyone else.

Those are the things that I truly believe, and these things are based on common sense though, not on politics, and not on some sort of party system, and in the end I would fight to the death for someone else’s right to disagree with me, because I, in the end, do believe in freedom.***

I suppose, when all in said and done, sometimes I wish that some people in politics felt the same way.

*Though I sort of don’t know the difference between the two besides the fact that republicans hate themselves for having money less. Also Abraham Lincoln was one, so republicans are the ones that hunt vampires.

**people are certainly acting that way, don’t you think?

***So does that make me a member of the independent party?

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Last week I had the pleasure of finally (after 5 years) attending the commencement of my own graduation. After moving my tassle from left to right (or was it right to left?) and tossing my cap into the air, I found myself, for the first time since I was two years old, a truly free woman.

Gone are the days of books and papers, pencils and notebooks. September is just a month now instead of a beginning. An as I sit here, at the end of it all, I wonder…what am I going to do now?!

I’ve taken to calling it Post-Grad Depression. I’ve given birth to a wonderful baby diploma and now I stare at it and I wonder what I could possibly do with it. It’s not as though I want to go back to school, after five years I can’t imagine anything I would like less than more college, however the idea of not going to school is absolutely terrifying. What else do I know?

I’ve spent the past week wandering my parent’s house like a ghost, attempting to plan my future to no avail. How do you plan something so big? It’s overwhelming. My first instinct (which I assume is the right one) is to get a job that pays more than my part time foray into retail. But what then? I assume there’s more to life than just a job. There’s marriage, there’s kids, there’s all these things I can now do now that I no longer have school, right?

Of course, this is me getting ahead of myself. I’ve been graduated for less than a week, of course this doesn’t mean that I’m honor bound to get engaged and pop out a few kids. What’s scary is that it’s now all possible. And this isn’t to say that it wasn’t possible before,  though to me it sort of was. I no longer have the excuse of “I can’t fall in love, I need to study for midterms”. What was once considered frivolous a distraction from classes and exams, can now be played for keeps, and that’s just in the game of love! This isn’t even touching on the big pictures of careers, mortgages, paying taxes and everything like that.

However, how can such things fill me with fear and depression? Should this newfound freedom not fill me with joy? I’m a choicester, I love choices, so how come, when faced with a newfound overabundance of choice I’m now chock full of terror and sadness?

Possibly because, like all choicesters, I love the idea of having choices, choices are great! Choices are my favorite!

It’s making them that are terrifying.

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Some of you may remember my older blog where I discussed writing letters to my future boyfriend (or husband). A few of you inquired to me just what these letters might look like. Now, at the advent of my college graduation (which is happening on Saturday) I seem to find myself consumed with tying up all the loose ends of my life and heading out to a new place (taking you all with me, of course). This doesn’t lend much time to writing, so I decided that this week, as a treat (hopefully) I’d feature one of the letters I wrote to my future husband.

This was not written for the intents of the Choice Effect more as it is an old letter I’m typing up for you all to read and enjoy!

Here goes:

To Whom it May Concern (my future husband?),

Ever since I learned about what love is, I’ve been waiting for you. Like some sort of sailor’s wife on the dock I watch the horizons in the hopes of finally seeing you appear. I’ve been increasingly patient, and I will be incredibly devoted to you, but you will know this, when we meet. At least I hope you will. I’m not asking for love at first sight, I’m asking for interest. I’m looking for a lasting devotion born out of a mutual respect and friendship. I hope that you feel the same way.

I’ve always been remarkably idealistic, in a world where few people truly believe in this whole “love” thing, I stand strong. I believe that love is finding a person whose flaws are like a bunch of holes, that the other person can fill in with their strengths, and vice versa. I hope that you think that I’m wonderful, because I’ll probably think that you are wonderful too.  I want you to be a great friend, someone I can tell everything to. I hope that you like that silly fancy flavored non-dairy creamer that I like in my coffee, I hope we can share it. I hope we’ll be able to share so much.

I know that I’m pretty young to be looking for you, but I want plenty of time to fall in love with you. I think that I would enjoy falling in love with you, and I hope that you are out there somewhere hoping that you’ll fall in love with me too.

I hope that our futures spread out on this wonderful horizon, only to have it seem even that more wonderful, because it’s with each other.

Anyway, hurry soon? We have an entire life to start together!

Love always,

Cat

Idealistic thought it is, I do believe in every word I’ve written. So how bout it, dreamers? What’s your ideal love?

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I am a Filmmaking Major, and after I say this, I will pause to hear the gasps of “oh my god! you make movies?!” and “are you planning on being a star?!” The answer to these questions, of course, is heck yes, but that’s not precisely what this blog is about.  I’ve spent the last four years focusing on f-stops and lighting writing my essays in the standard screenplay format, and discussing how there’s no harm in shooting in a 2.8. Now, in my last semester of college, something happened.

I was told to take a studio art course in a concentration that wasn’t my major.

I was thoroughly  scandalized, my entire being up to this point was devoted to the process of film, everything about it! And now I must take another class? The answer to this of course, is heck yes.

Armed with nothing but determination, I immediately signed up for a class called Intro to Cartooning. This decision was influenced by my favorite hobby, the occasional watercolor painting. “How bad could it be?” I thought to myself. “It’s just an introduction, clearly it won’t be too hard.” Boy, was I ever wrong. My fellow classmates could create masterpieces armed with just a pencil and some india ink, I was proud any time I found a pose that didn’t require the liberal use of hands. My painting, which up until that point, had been more in the abstract range, and mostly of flowers, I did not seem to comprehend that we would have to not only draw character designs, but also draw these characters doing things beyond standing still and looking vaguely sassy.

This all might imply that I absolutely hated it, this could not be far from the truth. Here I was, in a class that was clearly meant for people who knew how to illustrate, drawing vaguely lumpy people, all with the same sardonic expressions. I grew to fiercely love that class, because not only were the people amazing, but it offered me a refuge from the ever increasing pressure of the Film Department.

“But Cat,” you all might be asking. “This is all well and good, but what does this have to do with me?” Well, Reader (May I call you reader?) I’m here to explain how this can work for you! I’m here to challenge all the history majors to take a course in botany. I’m here to tell all of the business majors to take a sculpture class. No longer in school?  Well, I’m here to tell all the doctors and lawyers and kindergarten teachers to find a class in yoga or thai cooking. We have to break out of our comfort zones, because only then can we truly truly truly appreciate what we’ve been given, which is our calling.

The comfort zone, while cozy, can also be a cage, doing what you don’t usually do? That’s picking the lock on said cage.

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I have a complaint about the educational system in America. That complaint is that I never took a class in how to get leaves out of my future gutters. I know a ladder is involved, and I think you need to wear gloves, however, I don’t know what to do after all of that. I think there’s a garbage bag involved? Possibly.

I’ve been in the school system for twenty years and yet I feel like I never learned how to fill out taxes, or how to grocery shop in a way where I’m not just filling my cart with various flavors of bagel chips. I feel like I am on he cusp of being shoved into a world that I barely understand, filled with secret rules that I won’t know until I break one by accident.

In college, I learned stuff concerning my major. I also learned that ramen is a food group and taco bell can feed an army for ten dollars. I learned that it’s not a party until someone gets embarassingly drunk, and that you aren’t really dating unless you announce it on  facebook. However, I don’t know how to change a tire, or when it’s proper to send a thank you note. Heck, I had to google how to fill out a check properly. Some of these things, they just never occurred to me.

So I ask you, American Education system, with less than a month until graduation.. where’s my Life 101?

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I met a boy in the campus coffee shop yesterday. We had a bright, engaging conversation about our futures as we waited in line. His name was definitely not Robert, and he had that green eyed brown haired combination that I always use when I write romantic heroes.

Robert seemed shockingly interested in my life, he asked me questions and listened, and a little voice in the back of my head questioned “is he hitting on me?” This led me to act even more awkward than I usually am (which is still pretty awkward) and when he came up ten cents short for his purchase, I threw in the dime.

The worker behind the counter smiled, looked at me, and then glanced at Robert. “This one’s a keeper”, he said. Robert smiled.

“And I don’t even know her name.’

At this point in the story, I wondered how I had seemingly stumbled into some indie romantic comedy where the romantic lead loves the girl for her quirky nature, free spirit, and threadbare green sweater sporting more Orson Welles pins than could ever be considered cool. I awkwardly blurted my name, ordered my own coffee, and waited with him.

When he received his order, he gave me a smile, lifted his cup in a toast and said, “well, I’ll see you around!”

And like that, he disappeared into the depths of the library.

Days later, I still remained baffled by the interaction, a boy who seemed genuinely interested in my life had come and gone before I even knew what had really transpired. Because of this, I did what any sane college girl in her twenties would do.

I  attempted to find his Facebook profile.

The first thing I learned was that Robert (who is still not really named Robert) has an insanely common name, so as I picked my way through people who may or may not be him I began to worry. What if he has a girlfriend? What if he’s secretly seventeen? What if he’s a Republican? What if he doesn’t recognize that Apocalypse Now! is the greatest war film ever made? These things could possibly be dealbreakers in a romantic sense.

Not like I was looking for him for that reason or anything. That would be crazy.

In the end, I ceased my attempt at initiating a Facebook reunion, and chose instead to leave it all to chance.

I thought of it this way: maybe, just maybe, he’ll Facebook me, and then we’ll ride off into the internet sunset as the credits roll.

Or maybe, just maybe, I should have given him my number.

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Photo from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shankarmenon

I am not a fan of Lady Gaga. I need you to know this before I continue. I am not, and have never been a fan of Lady Gaga, her use of Kermit as a fashion accessory terrifies me.

However, I have not one, not two, but three songs of hers on my iPod. This is something I usually end up begrudgingly admitting while I’m wrestling my iPod away from a person looking through my music library to see if my taste is comparable to theirs. It usually isn’t, and that’s entirely because of my Car Mix. Everyone has a car mix, or at least they should, that set amount of songs that you can only truly listen to at a very high volume when the windows are down. You know, the Car Mix. As of press time, my Car mix has taken over 85% of my iPod and this is all because of my sick addiction to singing in the car.Oh wait, did I say singing? I meant rocking out so hard in my car.

If I were a rock band, my tour would encompass Most of North and Central Jersey, and also a few bits of New York if I’m feeling up to it. I once got a landscaping truck to throw me the horns outside their window after watching a particularly awesome rendition of “More Than a Feeling” by Boston a few summers ago. I could write my dissertation to get my masters degree in Awesome, and it would be entirely about my version of Bowie’s “Diamond Dogs”. I could get into Pink Floyd and King Crimson while I’m at it, but let’s be serious…prog rock can’t be contained by just one blog post. Oh, and Lady Gaga I mentioned before? I made up dance moves to go along with “Poker Face”.

So why do I do this? Besides the obvious entertainment value, why is “Cat in Concert” so important? Well, I’m on the cusp of graduation, job and apartment hunting, and sometimes the idea that in just a short month and a half I will never have to set foot inside a classroom again if I don’t want to. When I think about these things, I get overwhelmed. The weight of my potential future might crush me, so I sing.

If you see a white car out there somewhere with the windows down blasting Hall and Oates’ “Private Eyes” being driven by a girl who knows all the words and seems to have a dance routine to go along with it, give her a honk.

I’ll definitely wave back.

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Love has always been a complicated emotion; people are always in love with someone who doesn’t love them who loves someone else but doesn’t love themselves, it’s entirely a mess. The good thing about love, at least in the past, was that not everyone had access to your love life. Love and romance was for you and your partner only. Back then, you could become a nation of two, only loving each other, and that was enough.
The Internet has killed love. With websites like Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, Facespace, Mybook, Twitspace and Twitbook, the world is shrinking and becoming far more voyeuristic. You can’t buy a gallon of milk at the grocery store without having all 200 of your Facebook friends knowing about it and liking it or not liking it and commenting about not liking it.
How can one keep the romance alive when your love is usually plastered all over the Internet? What ever happened to old-fashioned things, like flowers, candy, and love letters? Love letters, one of the most beautifully poetic parts of being in love, has now evolved into a gushing status update. Where’s the stationary? The ink? Romance has evolved from tokens of permanence to fleeting digital words that can easily be moved to a recycle bin.  This would not do, so I started fighting back by writing my own love letters.
The thing is, I’m single. Who am I writing to? Well, I decided that instead of writing to what is (which is nothing) I’d write to what will be. The Ghost of Boyfriends Yet to Come as it were.
So I did. I filled pages and pages of my little moleskine notebook with words of eternal love and devotion to a person that I didn’t know. The only thing I did know about this person was that one day we would be outrageously in love with each other, and that he would fill the holes caused by the weaknesses of my personality with his own personal strengths. From this, I created a romance with the future.
The scariest thing about writing letters to my future soul mate had to be just how much I believed in it. I still smile when I think about this person, this complete stranger that I will one day meet and adore. However, this begins to raise a valid problem.
Who will be good enough to fill the shoes of this fantastic hypothetical man? What if I meet him, and he isn’t all that I imagined? Is that possible? If that nature of the person I’m writing to is solely based on the fact that I will one day love him, wouldn’t I never be disappointed?  Am I killing this project by doing the very thing I preach against; talking about it on the Internet?
I suppose I’ll have to ask him in my next letter.

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