“Getting bored is not allowed.” - Eloise, permanent resident of The Plaza, my role model

Every time I walk past The Plaza in Manhattan, I feel slightly overwhelmed. It’s on Fifth Avenue, The Fifth Avenue, land of serious storied architecture brightened by the best Christmas windows cinema can conjure. And on this intersection of Mighty Fifth with the behemoth Plaza at its head, its heels dug deep into the oldest of money and power, is an unassuming see-thru cube, an empty vessel of modernity that symbolizes our great country today, an Apple store (in America’s Big Ol’ Apple, no less). Behind lies the entrance to dozens upon dozens of grassy Central Park knolls lined with polar-teched runners, and between are the smells of roasting nuts, the elbows of bumbling tourists and the clunkedy-clunk-clunk of horse-drawn carriages.

However, it isn’t this actual scene that envelopes me; it is the idea of this quintessential thoroughfare of Manhattan, the one I’ve seen thousands of times in my head, read about in books and watched in too many happy endings. The New York City that is supposed to make you realize you are indeed in New York Mutherfuckin City.

As a young, plucky gal out of college, I applied for three internships here, but instead got the single one I applied for in Los Angeles. LA beat the shit of me, and I’m glad that New York wasn’t burdened with such a task, because surely, anywhere I landed in my twenties would have left me defeated and soured. New York has been allowed to retain its majesty. 

Now, after a few romantic, educational and general blah-blah-blah detours, I’ve finally landed here. When people ask me what’s it like to live in New York, I’m not sure what to say. I suppose I should have some kind of canned shtick ready. (Okay, I do: You never have to drive drunk! For $9 someone washes and folds your laundry for you!) But in all honesty it’s like living anywhere else, as best you can, on your own terms—I wake up in an apartment I like, in a neighborhood I chose, I show up at a job that’s not so bad, one that pays my bills so I can do what I really enjoy. I walk, I buy tofu, I drink tea, I watch Housewives on my computer. And yet living in New York is not like living anywhere else. New York doesn’t conform to you, nor do you have to conform to it. Wander through it, absorb, get absorbed. Be anonymous, be a freak, no one gives a shit.

However, there are moments, like when I see The Plaza, or the tree at Rockefeller Center and I think, holy mutha fuckin shit, I live in New York! When I’m at the Highline Ballroom and the crowd is dancing, the drums are swelling and The Roots are calling out, “How you feelin’, New York?” I realize wow, that’s me they’re talking to.

I think Eloise, six-year-old city child and queen of The Plaza, understands it best: Where we live is badass—sometimes you abuse it for what it’s worth, sometimes you just go on living, and other times that notion of badassness makes you strut a little harder.

As we prepare to succumb to gluttony tomorrow, I’d like to take this time to pay homage to the food I’m most grateful for: mayonnaise. 

Mayo’s legitimacy and superiority is in the name of its most amazing brand: Best Foods. Hollar.

Mayonnaise should never ever be mistaken for a condiment. Condiments ooze out hard crusty gunk from their nozzles. They leave their dribble along the fridge and themselves, while they dwell in their sticky pool, looking grumpy and used up. Condiments don’t get proper front-and-center shelf placement next to other important things such as cheese and butter. They aren’t replaced on a monthly basis because they’ve been pillaged twice on Sundays. Nor do they take up more plate volume than what’s actually being dipped into it, i.e. potato chips, funyons or breakfast burritos. No, this, my friend, is a food. 

Mayonnaise is an ally to children and old people, making vegetables palatable, slippery and easy to swallow. Asparagus and artichoke exist to be bathed in mayo and soy sauce, or the almighty combo of mayo and sriracha. Mayonnaise is the main event in any salad that’s worth eating (egg, potato, macaroni, chicken, crab). And if you think a grilled cheese sandwich couldn’t get any better, then sub mayo for butter, and prepare to explode into a million happy little pieces. 

Naysayers will tout “mayo is nasty,” “mayo has a weird consistency.” Well, high fructose syrup is the death of Americans, ketchup lovers. Cool Whip feels and looks a little odd (and who’s complaining about that?). Mayo is pure. It has two ingredients: Oil and egg. I eat oil, I eat egg, don’t pretend you don’t. (Unless you’re vegan, then I have something for you too.)

But most of all, on this day of thanks, I want to commend mayonnaise for reminding me of the person I’ve always been. There was a time (hold on) when I disbelieved mayo’s necessity, when I lived among the rexics in LA and denied mayo just to shave off a few calories from my bacon sandwiches. But my local roots pushed through, and today, I wear my love for mayonnaise like a badge, proof that I am father’s daughter who will one day, though not yet, eat sliced tomatoes with a spoonful of mayo on top. Yes, mayonnaise is in my Hawaii-born-and-raised soul, as well as part of my quirky eating habits that are only going to get quirkier with age (ice cream in soy milk, cereal with espresso spoons, toast buttered one bite at a time). Mayonnaise is me. Mayonnaise is my Thanksgiving gravy. I am the sauce. I am the substance. Bless us all.

I was born in 1977, putting me on the cusp of generations X and Y. Most times I don’t feel like I belong to either; I don’t feel so burdened by society that I understand Sonic Youth, nor do I feel so aloof toward humanity that I grasp the appeal of a Second Life.

However, which side of the line I fall is obvious in the matters of texting. 

My techniques and mores about texting clearly demarcate me as a Generation Xer. The fact that I have mores about texting makes me a Generation Xer.

Sample text: I’m not sure yet. Maybe we can meet up at 7? So ready for a beer. 

I will not sacrifice grammar for time. Punctuation will be exercised. However, as a Gen Xer, I never want to appear to be trying too hard, so I must save face with a touch of casualness, i.e. so ready, beer.

Also, note the subtle use of needing approval, i.e. maybe, ?. Generation X, in its alienated heyday, was feely and mopey, disgruntled and ironically sappy. We were closeted sensitive types that would never admit we cared what others thought of us, but truly, really, we did. 

On the other hand, this three-line text is as long as it gets. We Gen Xers believe the function of the text message is getting important, task-driven information out to another person immediately. Sample use: Be there in five. This message is too short to warrant a phone call, too immediate for an email. 

Texting is also a way to way to have manners. I’m running 10 minutes late. And yes, if necessary, it’s a way to blow someone off… with manners. Sorry, just got this, phone was on silent. (You’d have to be born before 1980 to pull off a passive-aggressive apology/fuck-off combo, plus leave your phone on silent for longer than a movie, then have the nerve to pretend you haven’t looked at it seven times since.)

Generation X believes texting is NOT a means for simply saying “hi.” Or “work sucks.” Or “what are you doing?” (Unless you’re drunk and you have nothing left to lose but try to get laid at 3 a.m.) 

If us Gen Xers want to say a quick hello, or share something funny, we send an email. But we have to be bored, nostalgic, lonely or feeling guilty to take the time to type out a full graph. We do compose these emails, however, because again, we have emotions and know a tad bit more about one-on-one intimacy (just a tad, let’s not kid ourselves here) than a generation that best displays its array of feelings (lol, lmao, you suck) solely on Facebook walls. 

How we text: carefully. Generation Xers are the people stopped in the middle of the sidewalk in midtown near the crosswalk leading to the subway station. We’re better at multitasking than our parents, but we (or at least I) have no idea how to keep the pace or a conversation going while we think of what to compose. Again, this is because we are thinking about what to compose, not simultaneously being bored by the immediate world and expressing that boredom (I’m bored) through a handheld device.

As someone who has to work with Gen Yers, I’m fascinated, dare I say impressed, by their paradoxical plugged-in-ness and disassociation. When I first started teaching college kids, instead of being Old Schoolmarm Machado and demanding everyone put their phones away, I started taking note of how students handled their phones, most of which were plopped on their desks like Hello Kitty pencil cases were in the second grade. The students who stayed engaged in a class discussion on race (“Obama’s white?”) were the same ones who were typing away on their phones (probably things like “silly fuck”). 

So hats off, Gen Y. If you can play my game and your own too, then more power to you. I’m slowly learning to do both, because yes, I’m a generation that cares (casually) to learn things. A generation that dissects the phenomenon of texting, instead of simply, actively doing it. 

(Above: Blame Japan.)

I’m a bad aunt. I’m so bad that instead of apologizing to my brother and sister-in-law for forgetting their son’s second birthday three months ago (as well his birthday last year), I’m going to compose crafty excuses in a neat little blog post. 

See, I don’t have kids. I’m 33 and constantly surrounded by others my age who are also childless. We are of a people who live in a selfish bubble, who believe that a birthday is somewhat irrelevant, unless it’s our own and people are buying us drinks or dinner. Presents are to be digested.

Because my people remember which day of the month offers the discounted bottle of wine at the local Peruvian restaurant, not which day someone else was born, it takes a coincidental glance at the right-hand column of my Facebook page for me to remember a friend’s special day. Then he/she will get an impersonal wall post or a “yup, you’re old” text. And with my nephew too young for Facebook and 5,000 miles away, any recollection I may have about his birthday is doomed.

So what I’m trying to do here is make up for my negligence with a permanent (well, it’s permanent until I brush off my tumblr account too) record of my self-centeredness, letting my nephew (and the world) know, hey, it’s not personal. This blog post, however, may be eternal.

This documented homage is the new type of present for youngsters, as one day they can go back and read all the anecdotes their parents shared (Bobby made doo-doo on the floor! Juju projectiled milk on Daddy!) on Facebook 20 years ago. Hooray for public sharing! 

So happy belated birthday, Riley! Hope you like my testimony of douchiness. It’s much better than a Tonka truck, don’t ya think?  

(Above: Yes, I really am trying to bullshit that sweet lil baby chickadoodle.)

I joined a fancy pants gym this week. At my new fitness center (as opposed to my old Parks and Rec gymnasium, which for $72 a year, I had access to two very loud cardio machines and a view of a concrete wall), I am now in stimulation overload. Eight flat screens dangle from the lofty ceilings, and each 2010-edition elliptical machine comes with its own built-in television and a dozen channels - yes, a piece of equipment that lets me enjoy my most lazy pastime with my most active one. Thanks technology!

As I glided in ellipses over and over again yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice the programming preferences of my fellow gym-goers. At 2 in the afternoon, the rows of premium cardio equipment are primarily occupied by women in the 40ish-plus age range, many of whom do not want to be constrained by the machine’s limited channel options. Some of these women will instead ask an employee for a remote to change one of the cable-ready screens up ahead.

The top choice of this demographic: the Food Network. Runner-up: HGTV. One woman opted for a show dedicated to bathroom renovations.

I’m not here to judge anyone’s programming choices; quite the opposite. I’d like to applaud how shameless age can make a person. That middle-aged women in her “Big Up in Brooklyn” tee-shirt doesn’t care what anyone thinks about the counter-productivity of watching a show about roasting pork tenderloin while trying to burn off her breakfast bacon.  

She like what she likes; it doesn’t even cross her mind to care what anyone else thinks about what she likes. 

I was at a party recently where I began discussing the genius that is “Jersey Shore” and this twentysomething looked at me as if to say “Really? How could you watch that crap?” Eventually she admitted to watching it too. “I know, I shouldn’t. It’s terrible,” she said. 

I was once her, an urban twentysomething who at some point, felt the need to rebel against the box by which she was raised. I’m sure she’ll take up reading and NPR and will pretend to know nothing about “Glee” or Taylor Momsen. But one day, somewhere in her thirties, she’ll wake up and realize that she’ll never be that upstanding, mature person with convictions that she always hoped she’d be. 

She’ll instead align her workout schedule with the new season of the “Real World/Road Rules Challenge” and not give a shit. 

While I try to stick to the general theme of this blog (the general being the ownership of the personal) and (godwilling) offer a few laughs at the expense of my neuroses and half-cocked opinions, I’m not trying to fool you about what’s really going on here: any blog (let alone that of a writer) is just a marketing scheme to further a bigger cause (in this case said writer’s moderately paced writing career).

So now that I’ve cleared the air, let me remove the facade for just a moment to shamelessly plug myself. 

I’ll be reading at the Freerange Nonfiction Series at Cornelia St. Cafe (29 Cornelia St., Greenwich Village, NY) on Wednesday, Oct.6 at 6 p.m. (Heavier baggage included, i.e. bad sex, dead mothers, poorly hidden insecurities.)

I’ve also recently had a few pieces published here (on “so-called” feminist art) and here (on the awkwardness of my butt-rock-loving adolescence).  

Okay, I’m done. Thanks for indulging me as always. 

I haven’t had much use for “gaydar” in a long time. When I see someone, their heteroness/homoness is either obvious or it’s not, and this is like noticing whether someone needs a haircut or is dressing too hipster for his age — it’s usually a fleeting mental note that has no pertinence or weight on the situation at hand.

The only time detecting someone’s sexual orientation seems necessary is when you’re trying to get laid. And for the most part, figuring out whether the object of my affection likes penis or not has never been a problem for me. My gaydar in the singles scene — back when I was dwelling amongst the trolls — was usually spot on based on the fact that I’ve never been sexually attracted to a gay man. This has nothing to do with me not being into affeminate men (I like ‘em gentle as much as I like ‘em rough) or even guys who primp and wear makeup (some guys can pull off eyeliner). No, what I like are dudes who I can tell want to fuck me too.  

But despite all my confidence in sniffing out others’ sexual orientation, I stumped myself the other day when I thought about the man above. I was first acquainted with Santino Rice on season two of Project Runway. There was something about him that was immediately attractive. Sure, he was funny, but if funny were enough, I’d have the hots for Tim Gunn or that queen Anthony from season seven. And yes, he’s tall and dark, which I like, but his eyeballs are a bit bulgy and he has dark circles (okay, maybe I’m attracted to myself), not to mention, he also has long, thinningish curly hair and ganky teeth. He’s not what you’d call no-brainer hot; he has that naughty Latin swagger like Benacio Del Toro, though done with more care and a bit of fuss. 

When his season aired, I never gave much thought as to whether Santino was gay or not. On some level, I sort of assumed he was because he (a) was on the show and (b) wasn’t married like most of the straight dude contestants often are, but I also didn’t think of him as gay because I was attracted to him. Mostly, I just thought of him as sexy and left it at that. 

Then the other day, my stepmom mentioned he had a new show on Lifetime. I tuned in and was immediately charmed once again by his deep voice and impeccable, masculine style. (How is he still able to pull off wearing a scraggly ponytail under a do-rag under a pageboy cap?) And for the first time, I questioned my gut. I googled two words: Santino gay. 

Let’s just say my initial subconscious feelings were right. (Mixed bag!) While my gaydar and pride need to be tested every once in a while, they’re still in check. 

Go ahead, leave the heavy lifting to men.

This is not a metaphor. I’m being literal. I don’t like to pick up, carry or move things. I’m not physically as strong as most full grown men, nor do I care to be. They can have that superiority over me. Actually, I prefer that they do.

But my sucking at moving has only partially to do with strength and size. This weekend I helped my boyfriend move a couch. Aside from vowing to never do such things again (damn love), hating to sweat, walking backwards and carrying at least (or in his eyes, “only”) a quarter of the thing’s entire weight, it once again affirmed that I’m not cut out for manuevering giant, awkward shape objects over banisters, around staircase corners and through narrow doorways. As I watched my boyfriend assess each turn and impending situation, then devise the right tilt or angle to get the couch into its proper place and succeed, just about every time, I was in awe. My tactic would be to shove, grunt, whine and then shove some more.

I’ve moved furniture with female friends many times and according to Jessica’s small-sample-tested sexist hypothesis, believe that women just don’t grasp the whole geometry/sizing-up-correct-angles thing. (Unless it has to do with angles and entering their own anatomy. Maybe this all goes back to the lack of interest in subject matter.) 

As I admit this, ironically, I’ve also just wrapped up edits on an article about feminism and I’ve been teaching gender roles all week in my sociology classes. I’ll spare you the dissertation on the human capital model on why men make more money than women, but maybe men really are better at more mechanical or mathematical type things, and this suits their paychecks.

But a pout, the threat of a snippy attitude and the memory of my uselessness in such matters listed above suit me the next time a moving situation arises in my boyfriend’s quarters. And with me in a pleasant mood, both of us win.

When I was in college and I lived with my parents, I visited 11 countries and 9 American cities in a three-year stretch. Back then, my living expenses were nil (aside from beer and Jack in the Box), and my savings account actually had a purpose.

Since moving out on my own and paying rent (i.e the last 10 years), the only new destinations I’ve traveled to are Canada and maybe three random U.S. states. Why? Because after leaving my parent’s nest in Hawaii at age 23, I’ve spent most of my vacations either visiting places I’d like to live or returning to places I once lived. 

If you were to psychoanalyze that last statement, you could say I’ve been on a perpetual quest for “home,” only to find solace in the homes I already knew. And I would agree: I go back to Hawaii every year for Christmas because I adore being around my family, not because I feel obligated. I also enjoy catching up and reliving old times (only now with 10 p.m. curfews) with my second family, my LA friends, whom I shared my second adolescence with in my 20s. Distance helps me to appreciate how wonderful it is to be loved, and to me, reconnecting with that love is a better paradise than a weekend in the Bahamas.

However, this does not mean that I’m a big sappy dork that doesn’t crave new adventures. It just means that I can’t afford to see my loved ones and fly off to Carribbean within the same year—just about any year of my adult life. While my emotional priorities may be in better check with age, my interest in financial planning has been at a deficit (which typically coincides with my bank balance). Steady paychecks and new summer wardrobes have been sacrificed for sanity and happiness in recent years, and I wouldn’t change any of those choices. Especially since I still have my charge cards.

But balance (not only in terms of my checking account) is something I continue to strive for. And in this coming year, my 33rd, balance will mean relishing in old fuzzy feelings as well as new ones. In other words, I’m committed to both spending a comfy Christmas around people I’ve known my entire life (drinking pina coladas on the beach, no less) as well as spending a hot steamy spring week in Morrocco with the man who is most important to me now. I’m ready to make those sacrifices. 

Paying off student loans will be saved for next year’s theoretical balance.  

(Above: Jessica Machado, world traveler, budding goth, age 19.)

Today I turn 33.

Here’s a little sampling of what I’ve learned in the past year: 

- my correct bra size

- my gut has all the important answers; listen to it

- deodorant stops mosquito bites from itching

- one could in fact sustain herself on peanut butter toast every day

- Rhode Island is a big fan of Dunkin Donuts

- the honeymoon phase doesn’t have to end

- “saxicolous” sounds a lot cooler than what it means

- putting on skinny jeans over footless tights is tough

- Chicken McNuggets are not meant to be eaten sober

- the diviest dive bar on the planet is without a doubt the Mars Bar, Lower East Side

- nothing beats New York in July

- pork hangovers exist

- to have faith in something that’s worth the wait

(Above: Home is a feeling, not a place. And yet this picture manages to capture both. Below: Ditto.)

The best writing advice I’ve ever heard was from an author I’ve never read: 

Ass in the chair. - Nora Roberts

I was recently asked by a friend what gets my ass in the chair. “Lunch,” I said.

As I’m typing this (ahem, pause) I’m eating a bowl of yogurt and berries. Food excites me. I will sit down for food. Then while my brain turns and churns, figuring out what I want to type, I will eat said food. (As you can guess, my keyboard is not pristine.) Once my plate is empty, I usually have coffee to drink and gum to chew. There has to be some act of physicality to keep me locked in the chair when the writing isn’t happening, when my fingers and mind aren’t in sync and I’m not in the zone. Many people would call this anxiety. 

Surprise! Writers are nervous fucks. That’s why we need cigarette breaks to either stay in the chair or make an excuse to get out of it and why we drink booze to turn off our minds after we’ve picked through every crevice of it. And why, as I’ve demonstrated in the paragraph above, writers are traditionally a bit pudgy. 

Thankfully though, we’re in the age of the young marketable lit star (i.e. Jonathan Safran Foer and Colson Whitehead, not Bukowsky or Hemingway), and we vain modern writers have become multi-taskers, able to work off our gluttonous guilt and escape our neurosis at the same time. Ask any writer under 45 what they do for physical activity, and most would say, “I run.” Us nonathletic book worm types love the spontaneous non-commitment of putting on shoes and sprinting out the door. It gives us an excuse to get out of the chair, in fact, get far, far away from it. Then when we return, we can sit down, refuel, inhale toxins and do it all over again. Neurosis is all about cycles and patterns, the human condition we must master before we can make our characters and subjects real on the page! 

That and we justify bullshit for a living.

I often wonder about the unfounded, generous lifespan of certain products: 

1) Visors (just wear a proper hat for chrissakes)

2) Uggs (you look like a stocky brat, grow up)

3) Budweiser

After having a Bud (do people even call it that any more?) the other day, I was further perplexed about who actually walks down the beer aisle and selects Budweiser: The Original. It tastes like the my grandpa’s sweaty wifebeater. 

Don’t get me wrong, though I’d never choose to purchase Bud Light or Bud Light Lime or Bud Light Zero or Ultra Low Carb Bud, I at least understand why others would. Those go down somewhat easy. Those I may’ve had in the last ten years.

While I can’t remember the last time I had a straight-up Budweiser,** I’m going to assume that it was probably an instance much like last weekend. Every other imbibing option had run dry and Budweiser was the lone scraggler, so I accepted. It was still beer after all.

But this weekend I couldn’t even finish it. I didn’t try to make the most of it; I just went home. I’m officially a grown up, which is why I don’t wear furry shoes with pom-poms. 

** (Let’s be honest, I probably don’t remember this last occurrence because I was already drunk and didn’t care what I put in my mouth, as long as it at least had a 3-percent alcohol content.)

When I first moved to New York, I was enamored with the idea of brunch. Here, brunch rarely begins before 2, or most likely 3, and often involves a Mediterranean omelet and bistro seating. In practice, this breezy meal gives New Yorkers balance: go, go, go, get your shit done for five consecutive days, ease into Saturday, then spend your Sunday leisurely—lie about, catch up on Glee, have sex—until you get around to eating, then continue to do so with vitamin-enhanced booze for the rest of the day. So genius, so European. 

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to take the essence of brunch and adapt it to my budget. My friend and I stopped into a deli and bought dollar bagels and ice coffee, then walked to bar that was advertising drink specials on a sandwich board. Voila! We had all we needed: cheap booze, caffeine so we could stay awake and enjoy the cheap booze, something to coat our stomachs from this combo, and endless conversation.  

Bodega brunch is really an excuse to do what I do best, but on my terms: Happy hour. 

This is a nappy, plush toy you win at the fair, not something you put on your person. 

No matter how cold it is, you’ll never find me in gore-tex, polartek or any other kind of high-tech synthetic windbreaking, fleece-insulated zippered nonsense. (And hence why, I was not cut out for Oregon. My rain boots have kitten heels.)

Style wins over function every time. There is always a cuter alternative to whatever the most useful or appropriate article of clothing is for a given situation. You do not have to look like a ratty neon polar bear to stay warm.

That said however, in recent years, if something is entirely uncomfortable, I have given up on trying to make it work, regardless of its cuteness. I once bought a pair of size 6.5 open-toed platforms, thinking my size 8 feet would be okay because they could “breathe.” (I’m not sure what I thought was so stylish about dangling toes.) I got crafty with coffee mugs and salad tongs to stretch out the heels, and even paid $12 for a professional to help the cause, only for the pair to wind up collecting dust in my closet corner.

Thirty-three years of this behavior (okay, maybe 18, I wore Keds in elementary school) has taken its toll. 

I made the mistake of examining my feet recently. I have a total of five scars, four callused toe knuckles, some weird bone thing protruding from the side of my foot under my big toes, and possibly a bit of death under one toenail if I was ever fully able to remove my nail polish.

With this is mind I went to the store to buy summer sandals. I wound up with a pair of black strappy flats with gold zippers up the back, perfect for all my sassy city walking. 

By the end of end of day one, a charcoal film had settled into the crevices of my feet, which were only an eighth of an inch off of New York’s gritty pavement all day; the backs of my heels were blistery from my snazzy zippers. 

But I’d already spent $50 and no one can see these covered flaws, so I feel I must be reasonable and continue to wear the shit out of them.

The contents of a recent care package from my parents: 

6 pairs of athletic socks

4 bags of loose-leaf tea

the local freebie newspaper

July’s issue of Vogue

lip-moisturizing cotton swabs

a cute summer top from Free People

Nevermind that it’s 102 degrees in New York City right now and I don’t have a need for moisturizer, nor can I fathom boiling water for tea; I’m a sucker for my parents’ thoughtfulness, vaguely misguided or not. Their gifts are the perfect balance of planned effort (the lacy shirt is so me) and whatever else they could find around the house to fill up a box and make it look plentiful. (Once for a care package, they threw in a roll of paper towels. I assumed it was for cushioning, but I was actually out of Bounty at the time, so I took it as parental intuition.) 

Yes, I’m 33 years old and I’m still receiving care packages. I’m not ashamed. Though tough-cookie Jessica of her twenties would never admit it, thirtyish Jessica likes being cared for and is a sucker for the little gestures. My parents understand this. As random as the items are in this box, there’s nothing generic about them. No toothpaste, no bath salts, no macadamia nuts. They know I run, I’m vain and I read garbage.

The three of us are no-nonsense types, so we don’t bombard each other with obligatory phone calls every week. But on a Wednesday in the middle of June, my father, who composed his first email less than a year go and keeps most of his correspondence at under 20 words, will write me three paragraphs, purposely in pidgin, about having to endure “Sex and the City 2,” and sign it “your one an only fada.” 

My parents are also aware that I’m a 33 year old with the mindset and financial allowance of a kindergartner. For their birthdays, I’m never able to afford something they’d actually want like a boat, so instead, I make them cards, little construction-paper “odes to their wonderfulness.” Your stubbornness has made me the unrelenting dream chaser I am today. Thanks for never making me feel like this writing thing is stupid. Sometimes I’ll even draw pictures.

It took me becoming an adult for us to master the child-parent dynamic.

Or I could just be more of a sentimentalist in my old age. 

(Above: Me, 19, at Christmas, pouting because my brother, 10, got a bigger gift than I did.)