I Heart Pretty Clothes

So, what did you do this morning? Work? Go to school? Learn a new language? Probably something more productive than what I did, which was drool over the clothes at Ron Herman.

I recently worked out my student budget, and it turns out that I will be...poor. Oh, I hate that word. Lots of rice and lentils, not so much eating out or buying new clothes. Shoot. I need a boyfriend STAT. Preferably someone long distance, who is sated by paying my rent and buying me presents, in exchange for one Skype phone call a week. There is no age limit. In fact, they should probably be a bit older than me so there is no possibility of romance to distract me from school. What? You had one in college? Called a 'father?' Innnnteresting.

Anyway, since I cannot shop for real, I will shop in my head, and then post about the things I want to purchase, but cannot. Feel free to steal my finds as gifts for yourself, friends, family or me.

First off, on Ron Herman, is a little number that I would happily wear to Dolores Park in the summer, or anywhere that it is hot out:

So cute, right? I love how it embodies the BoHo style, while also incorporating stripes, which are huge right now in New York (AKA will be huge in SF in 6 months). The halter top is super flattering for girls with a lil sumthin' sumthin' up top, and the cinched waist on a maxi dress makes girls with small waists and big hips - which I hear is a sign of intelligence - look super tiny. I would wear this with little make up, simple leather sandals, dainty earrings and my hair huge, curly and all Brazilian, even though I'm not Brazilian.

Ok, next up is the perfect shirt dress for me to wear on my first day of school:

Can't you just see me stepping of BART on a sunny Berkeley morning with this dress, some black tights, my Frye boots and a leather satchel holding my computer and books? I would meet the structured, yet casual feel of this look with a headband of braids, and keep the rest of my hair down. Until, that is, I am working on a particularly complex assignment and sitting across from a cute Jewish grad student in his late 20s, which is when I will flip my hair over my head, wrap it into a curly mess of a bun, and secure it with a pencil and a wink. I mean, nothing.

Finally, I will probably need a good coat for school. A good, leather coat. Because that's an investment. Like this one:

I think I could pull it off. I know it's a stretch because I am curvy, and sometimes waist-length jackets make me look incredibly butch, which is dangerous in San Francisco because it secures my situation as a single, straight lady, but I think this jacket is doable. There is something unerringly feminine about it - kind of like how boyfriend jeans are feminine because it implies that you have a boyfriend and are wearing his clothes. Yes, that's it. This jacket would tell people that I have a boyfriend, and that, when I left his house this morning after a passionate embrace, it was chilly and he loves me enough to lend me his $900 leather jacket. But, it won't scare away potential suitors, because this jacket also says that my man is probably gay and I will need a shoulder to cry on when he comes out of his well-equipped closet.

Perfect.

Nobody's Perfect

During a rousing bout of public school office hopping yesterday, I took a moment between the office of the College of Letters & Science and the admissions office to take a deep breath and appreciate the fact that I AM A BERKELEY STUDENT. And then I snapped a pic of Sather Tower, rising triumphantly from the bowels of the campus into the gloomy day, and reminding me that I am where I want to be...

And then I snapped a photo of a nearby parking sign, rising proudly into the world, and reminding me that it's OK if things get a little stressful for me from time to time because, even at Berkeley, not everything is perfect.

Major Changes

Whew. It's been a tumultuous few weeks. Inside my head. And I know I've been a little absentee, but don't worry. I'm back, full force. Luckily most readers of this blog are also my good friends, so y'all pretty much know what's going on with me. Also, y'all know that I generally don't use the term 'y'all' unless I'm channeling The Bloggess. She's so funny, y'all.

Ok, here's the big news. You know how I got into Berkeley as an English major? Well...I'm going to switch it up. Pending a meeting with the department later today, I will be on my way to becoming a 'Peace & Conflict Studies' major. Whew. It's intense to say that.

I have thought of myself as a writer for so long, and, truth be told, that is what got my bootie back into school at all. But the kind of writing I love is the creative variety, and Cal doesn't offer creative writing as a major. 'No worries,' I thought to myself, 'I'll just major in English. Same thing, basically.' Well, it turns out that it's actually very different. And the English major at Cal is very different than the Creative Writing & Journalism major work that I did at Baruch, so I would be starting from scratch. Still wasn't something I couldn't get my big old head around.

But then I began investigating the classes I would be taking in the next two years. There was Chaucer, Milton, Willy Shakes...no classes on the labyrinthine mind of David Foster Wallace or how effed up Chuck Palahniuk really is. And no writing classes that apply as prereqs - basically half of my undergraduate course load.

And then there is this other part of my brain, I call it the 'Brent Schulkin Lobe,' that just wants to help the world be a better place. Yes, it's really that vague. I have no business plan for it, but I just want to make a positive impact on this big, beautiful world, and do what I can to improve the lives of people who need it. And I don't know exactly what I want to do, or how I want to do it, but it became clearer and clearer to me that majoring in English wasn't going to get me any closer. Not when there are prepubescent prostitutes in India and other human rights violations that make my stomach churn occurring every day.

So, now, here I am. Getting ready to change the direction I've planned for myself. I'm veering onto the exit ramp with seconds to spare. I'm jumping off the cliff without a bungee cord and I'm only pretty sure that the water below is deep enough.

I really hope this is the right choice. Wish me luck!

Plus, we all know that I am an awesome writer already. Pshaw.

Salmon

This here blog post is in appreciation of salmon. The fish, not the color. I don't really like the color salmon. Wait - that's not totally true. I like the color of salmon when it means I will soon be eating lox from Zabar's. I do not like the color salmon when it means I will be wearing a hideous bride's maid dress. Like this chick, who obviously did something terrible to the bride:



Man, is she a good friend. But that is not what this post is about. This post is about the fish salmon, before they are caught, smoked and put on bagels. Clever and interesting little critters. If you continue to read, I promise you will learn something. And that it will take less than five minutes. Because this is being graded. For school. And it has to take less than five minutes to read. Also, don't leave any lewd comments. Jerks.

Anyway...

Did you know that salmon are anadromous? No, that doesn't mean that boy salmon dress up like girl salmon. It means that they can survive in both salty and freshwater, through a process called osmoregulation. I think that's pretty cool. I had thought only the little mermaid could do that, but no! Salmon can, too.

Salmon typically live in the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, as well as in some Great Lakes. If I was a salmon and I could pick where I lived, it would probably be in the Atlantic because then you get New York AND London. But, if I were a salmon, I probably wouldn't care about discount designer shopping as much as I do now. I just don't think I would want to be in the Great Lakes because it seems so sheltered and confined, you know? But then I guess I could be near Chicago. Wait a minute, what am I talking about? Of course salmon care about discount designer shopping.

Let's focus on the life cycle of a typical salmon. Their eggs are laid in freshwater streams at high latitudes. It's easy to remember that if you just think about the mile high club. Oh, man I can't believe I just wrote that in a science blog. Betcha aren't bored, though. This here is what the eggs look like, thank you US Bureau of Land and Management:



Then the little samalams hatch into something called alevins. Wikipedia told me this is one of the finest images available of this hatching. To me it looks like a baby monster from The Mothman Prophecies:



Scary, no? Don't get too freaked out - they change into something else quickly. These little winged monsters become salmon parr, which is the closest to being cute that salmon will ever officially get, as per this picture I found on the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's digital library:



The parr stay in their cutsie patootsie stage for 6 months (for the early developers) to 3 years (for those late bloomers) before becoming smolts. Those itty bitty salmon must be tasty because only about 10% of the eggs make it to the smolt stage. What is the smolt stage, you ask? Well, I will tell you because I like saying 'smolt' in my head. Smolt. Smolt. Smolt.

SMOLT! They are usually bright and silvery. If I were a salmon superhero, I would call myself 'The Smolt Bolt.' Look at these shiny lil' fishies from this Alaska lovers site.



These smolts have it pretty rough. Not only are they 72% less cute than parr, but their scales are really easily rubbed off. And they often get caught in turbine blades, or cannot stand the pressure changes during their passes through dams. Damn dams! Killin' all the smolts.

So the smolts are basically chillin' and waiting to be flushed out into the ocean. They float tail first, which is a little wacky, but hey, at least their theme song can officially be 'Back That Thang Up.' They tend to spend some time in brackish water (like in an estuary) while their bodies get used to that osmoregulation we talked about already.

So then the adult salmon get to the open ocean, spending their days avoiding fisherman and garbage, until one day, when they turn 26 and all their other friends are getting married, their biological clocks kick in - oh, wait. That's me. Salmon get ready to spawn after 1 to 5 years, depending on the species. And, to be clear, I am not ready to spawn yet. I just want to meet a nice Jewish boy. Don't judge or I'll sic The Smolt Bolt on you.

During their time in the ocean, salmon get a little freaky. They can develop humps and canine teeth. Which is weird to me because they are fish. I'm suddenly having second thoughts about the subject matter I've selected for this project. I fear I will now suffer from a condition I just made up called 'sushi dentata,' which is when you are scared your sushi has teeth. Oh. I'm over it. And now I'm hungry.

Ok, where were we? Ah, yes. The ugly salmon leave the ocean and return to the same place they were born to spawn. Crazy, right? If I were salmon then I would have to have my kids in Danbury, CT. I hate that place. I am so glad I am not a salmon right now. Although my teeth have gotten pointier...

As you can imagine, switching their locale back to freshwater after being in saltwater for so long wreaks havoc on their bodies. They start to deteriorate, and almost all of them die shortly after spawning. Sad.

So, that's my blog on salmon. To recap: I would make a terrible salmon.

Or would I????

Beer Goggles

As far as I am concerned, when I am drunk I am a fantastic dancer. If you have any information that nullifies, contradicts or otherwise disagrees with that statement, keep it to yourself mo fo.

Also, this should be a lyric in a rap song written about me:

When I dance, they call me 'Meat' 'cause I'm a grinder.

Ahahahah. Dancing! So fun!

Oh, also, I got in to Berkeley! Boo yah! More on that over the next two years.

UCLA is Trying to Kill Me

Editor's Note: I originally wrote this on Tuesday night, but did not immediately post it because it made me sound so crazy. But then, I spoke to some other students at CCSF waiting to hear back from UCLA, and I decided that our stories should be told. We no longer have to suffer in silence. This blog is dedicated to my SPCH2 peeps.

Setting: My living room. The couch there is green. The carpet is beige, and of the wall-to-wall style.

Characters: Just Melanie. Striking eyes, voluminous hair, forlorn look shadowing her face like a veil of mystery.

Internal dialogue as follows:

So, UCLA said they would get back to me regarding their judgment of my character, I mean, admission decision, in late April. That is SO VAGUE. As far as I'm concerned, late April started on March 20th, so my neurotic ass has been checking their admission website at least once a day since then. Although, as it gets to be undeniably late April, I check it more often. Today I checked it four times, including once right now which you would think wouldn't make any sense because it's 11:11 PM and who the fuck admits a young girl from New York to college this late at night? Key words: You would think.

Those educated mofos sent me an email last week at 10:20 PM to ask me a question about my application. 10:20 PM. What the hell are they trying to do, kill me? It's like there is a bullet heading for my eye, and it could be filled with a really cool and refreshing contact lens solution or it could be filled with that acid that they used to burn Roger Rabbit and I have no idea what's in the bullet, and there is no way to tell, and it could come at any time, day or night. I would sleep with my eyes open, but that's dangerous when there is a bullet aimed at your eye.

Also, I'll bet they can see how many times I check that shit, and they were initially going to let me in, but now they're not and it's because they think I'm crazy and should just wash my teeth and go to sleep instead of obsessing over something I have zero control over. Yes, I said 'wash my teeth.' And I meant it.

An Open Letter to UC Berkeley

Hey there Berkeley,

Melanie here. I would take more time to introduce myself, but you already know everything about me. You know that I grew up in Connecticut and then moved to New York. You know that my GPA is a sparkly 3.8. You know that I love writing like fat kids love cake. You even know how much money I made last year. And you say nothing.

I gave you all this personal and private information - and more. I wrote you essays when I should have been studying. I filled out your supplements when the sun was shining and Dolores Park was calling my name. I've told all my friends about you already. Even my parents know about you. And, yet, you give me nothing.

Oh, sure, there were the impersonal form emails. Those few pleasantly mass-produced reminders. And of course the dream I harbor of being a student under your fine tutelage, but none of this is specific to me. Thousands of potential transfer students received those form emails. Those reminders have been seen by more eyes than that Paris Hilton hamburger commercial. And that dog that sleepwalks into walls. COMBINED. And almost every student at CCSF, ever, has had the dream of walking through your doors as a full-fledged student. I say 'almost' because some of them are just not smart enough to see you the way I do. Plus, they are kind of lazy.

How do you think this makes me feel? All I want is a little reciprocity. A little requited love. All my professors think we are made to be together. And most of my friends, too. And I know that some people think you are out-of-my-league, but you know what, I don't care what they say, because I know that you and I would make beautiful music together. But not real music. Like, figurative music. That was a metaphor and I used it because I am smart. You could definitely use me - and I don't say that to just anyone.

That's all for now. I just wanted to open the lines of communication. Again. Some people think I deserve better, but let's prove them wrong. Write to me. Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me. Hold me in your educationally esteemed arms and let me put you on my resume for the rest of my life.

Even if you just need to tell me to give it up, that you are not interested in a girl like me. Sure, I might cry. I might eat a gallon of ice cream. But that's OK because I live right near the best ice cream store in the world. And I have, like, a million friends on Facebook and in real life, so I'll be good. Just please say something, anything. I'm dying over here.

The ball's in your court.

Sincerely yours (if you want me),

Melanie Duve

PS And if you break up with me it's totally fine because SF State has been writing me love letters for months.

PPS I'm just playing, you know I love you.

PPPS But really. Other people want to tap this resource.