An extraterrestrial fear

Some people are afraid of heights. Some are afraid of spiders, snakes and creepy crawly things in general. Some are afraid of dying. Some are afraid of clowns.

Everyone has a phobia of some sort, but my biggest fear might surprise you.

I am not afraid of peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth (arachibutyrophobia). I am not afraid of long words (hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia). I am not afraid of beards (pogonophobia).

My fear is so specific there isn’t even a word for it. I’ll set the scene for you.

The year was 1995; most of America had been charmed by this particular character more than a decade before. I guess that’s why my mother decided to show her 4-year-old daughter this movie, though I think I would still be afraid no matter what age I saw it at.

This year marks the 30th anniversary of the 1982 story of a perfectly normal boy who becomes friends with an extraterrestrial.

My name is Maureen Quinlan and I am deathly and pathologically afraid of E.T.

If I even catch a glimpse of the wrinkly skinned alien, I react much like the 6-year-old Drew Barrymore reacted in the movie: with a blood-curdling scream.

I’m cringing just describing him. Everything about him scares me. Everything about the movie scarred me for life.

The bike flying into the sky, the hazmat suit guys, the mother, the red hoodie. I can’t even recall much else because I try to block it out of my memory.

I would never want to be friends with something that looked like that and wanted to eat my Reese’s Pieces. Get your own.

To make things worse, when I was 6, my family took me on an Orlando adventure.

I loved Mickey and Minnie Mouse. I met Cinderella. I rode the tea cups and filled my autograph book with signatures from the greats like Chip and Dale and Pluto.

But it was the trip to Universal Parks and Resort Orlando that validated my fear. There was a photo studio where visitors could take a picture in a classic scene from a movie. My mother, not realizing I was afraid of the gentle E.T., made me sit on the bike from the scene at the end of the movie with E.T. hidden in the basket.

I barely remember the trip because I am trying to forget the memory of being so close to my least favorite creature.

My next encounter was many years later. It was Halloween. I was in high school. I was dressed like Wilma Flintstone. I enjoyed seeing everyone dressed as bees, nerds and princesses.

Then one boy was dressed in an all white paint suit. As we went around the room telling others what we were dressed as, the boy pulled out a stuffed animal of E.T. small enough to fit in a side pocket on the paint suit.

He was dressed as one of the government scientists in the hazmat suits. I squirmed in my seat and waited for him to put the toy back in his pocket.

The stuffed animal was harmless, but it sure as hell scared me.  As irrational or silly as my fear is, I don’t see myself conquering it anytime soon. I’m not about to sit down and watch the movie to see if I’m still afraid. I’m not about to try and see what is so cute and innocent and harmless about E.T.

If Universal Pictures decides to release the classic tale of a friendly alien invading earth in 3D, you can guarantee I will not be anywhere within a 10-mile radius of a movie theater until it goes out of theaters again.

I know it was nominated for Best Picture. I know it has one of the best movie scores of all time. I know it is one of Steven Spielberg’s most legendary films. I know it started Drew Barrymore’s career. I know it made Reese’s Pieces a bigger seller than M&Ms that year. But you can bet I will never want E.T. to phone my home.

My 90s were all that

We all look back on our childhoods with rose-colored glasses, with 20/20 hindsight and nostalgic viewfinders. But there was something very special and unique about being a kid in the 1990s and early 2000s. Excuse me while I reminisce for the next 600 words.

While not an especially memorable decade current events-wise for me personally, there is so much I will cherish about my formative years. I was born in late 1991, giving me optimum time to enjoy 1992-2006 before I was ruined in high school.

Our generation is the first to not know what it is like to grow up without the Internet. We are the last who had to actually wait until middle or high school to get cell phones.

The style, the fads, the toys and the TV shows, shaped who I am today. I honestly don’t know who I would be without my teen idols, favorite characters and the trinkets of my past.

Angelica taught me how to be a spoiled only-child. Tommy taught me how to be a good leader. Chuckie taught me it is ok to be afraid sometimes. Phil and Lil taught me life is messy, but that’s all the fun.

Lizzie McGuire taught me that every girl feels self-conscious. Gordo taught me that every girl needs a guy best friend who falls in love with her. (I’m still working on that one.) Miranda taught me that you are replaceable. Do we even know what happened to her in those last few episodes?

“All That” taught me to appreciate the humor of sketch comedy, making “Saturday Night Live” even more enjoyable. It also showed me that true talent goes on to do great things, i.e. Kenan Thompson and Amanda Bynes. (Let’s just pretend Amanda never got a driver’s license.)

Mary-Kate and Ashley taught me how to solve a mystery in 30 minutes, throw the perfect sleepover and travel the world while getting into trouble.

Skip-Its taught me how to hop on one foot really well. Pokemon taught me a little Asian culture. Polly Pocket taught me to appreciate small toys before she got stuck up your nose. Lip Smackers taught me that every beauty product should come in 100 flavors.

Lindsay Lohan taught me so much before she fell off the deep end. She taught me that it is possible for an American to sort of pull off an English accent. She taught me that being a Mean Girl is actually really bad. She also taught me that I should never ever dye my hair blonde.

Pixar movies taught me to expect a lot of my animated movie characters. Disney princesses taught me to grow my hair long, hang out in nature and find my one true love. (Still working on that one too, since I live in a city and am not the daughter of a king.)

AIM taught me the art of flirty conversation not conducted face to face. It taught me how to socialize on the computer before “social media” was even a phrase. It taught me the importance of a username and an away message.

The Spice Girls taught me that if someone wants to be my lover, he’s “gotta get with my friends.” Britney Spears taught me choreographed dances and how to lip sync. N’Sync and the Backstreet Boys taught me to appreciate a good boy band, making my love for One Direction bigger than it probably should be.

Lisa Frank taught me that it’s all in the accessories, the colors and design. She also taught me that you can’t go wrong with a folder covered in purple and pink tigers.

Junie B. Jones and Captain Underpants taught me how to have a sense of humor. They taught me how to read and how to fall into a fictional world.

Every picture of my childhood clothing choices has taught me that I will probably always regret the style of the past. But I was looking fantastic in my Little Mermaid sweatshirt, bandana and Jellies at the time.

Looking back, my childhood was pretty happy. I certainly can’t complain that I got to grow up in one of the best decades for kids. Nickelodeon, Disney Channel, 90s pop music and the primitive days of slow computers and no cell phones gave me more than any future generation will have the privilege of knowing.

Above all, these things taught me how to love life.

Hearing voices on your TV

When people ask me what my hobbies are or what I like to do besides write and go to school, I often want to lie. Should I say I read, hike, cook and hang out with friends? Those aren’t complete lies, but what I should really say is that there is nothing I prefer more than watching TV.

            I’m not just talking about flipping through the channels catching reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy” or HBO’s movie of the month. I mean marathon, never-miss-an-episode, obsessed television watching.

            There are so many wonderful things about watching TV, but there is one very obvious and somewhat painful chore that comes with turning on the boob tube: commercials.

            Everyone endures them, networks need them, and once a year we glorify them in between plays of football. As inevitable as they are, and as clever as some can be, there is nothing that bothers me more about commercials than the celebrity voice over.

            It is so unnerving when I hear Tim Allen trying to sell me a Chevy or Julia Roberts pitching Nationwide Insurance.

            I guess the idea is that if we hear a celebrity talking about it, we must assume they use it and we should too.

Am I going to buy a Mercedes just because the oh-so dapper voice of Mad Men’s Don Draper says I should? Probably not. Am I going to run to the store to buy all 100 flavors of Yoplait yogurt because Lisa Kudrow, better known as quirky friend Phoebe, can deliver the just-as quirky lines about a dairy product? I hope not.

            What gets me the most is that celebrities actually agree to it. Don’t they make enough money on my beloved TV or the silver screen? Doesn’t Jeff Bridges have the Academy Awards on his mantel to give him enough notoriety so he doesn’t also have to be known as the voice of those cheesy Hyundai commercials?

            And what do those companies offer in order for a celeb to agree to be their voice-over man or woman. Sure Jon Hamm got one of those Mercedes, but he probably could have bought one with his $250,000 an episode salary. And does Lisa Kudrow get a lifetime supply of yogurt? Again, I really hope not.

            To me the most tragic of these pitchmen are two of my favorite TV funnymen. The handsome and talented John Krasinski babbles on about Esurance, an online insurance company. If a gecko can’t sell me “15-minute or less” insurance, I don’t think Jim Halper can sell me online insurance.

And the perfect comically timed Jason Sudeikis talks about how sizzling and exciting Applebee’s is. The last time I went to Applebee’s there was nothing sizzling or exciting about it.

Some friends who travelled to Europe for dialogue this summer have told me that celebrity commercials are even more despicable over there than they are here. With one look at Uma Thurman dressed as a hooker on a couch talking seductively about Schweppes soda, I understood what they meant. (The commercial is worth a YouTube view for a laugh).

In our celebrity-obsessed culture (me included), it’s logical to have the faces and voices of our adored stars gracing not just the shows and movies we love, but also the ads.

I love seeing Emma Stone put on lipstick and Drew Barrymore swipe eye shadow across her lids. I love watching Sofia Vergara dance around looking for Pepsi and Ty Burrell talk to oranges. I just wish I didn’t.

Take me back to Mr. Moviefone, the deity-esque voice of movie trailers, or the good old days of jingles. Sure I’ll take another dollop of Daisy.

I miss not recognizing the voices of my commercials and taking in the meaning of consumerism instead of the direction of the next celeb’s career.

Red, white, blue and gold

The Olympics. Even just the word conjures the sound of the Olympic theme song incessantly played by NBC at every televised transition, the taste of victory and the sight of tremendous athletes showcasing their practiced craft.

            The event promotes feelings of triumph and patriotism, encourages healthy competition, and allows us to join the whole world in watching a spectacle. Because watching athletes fight for the gold can inspire us to work a little harder, dream a little bigger and do a little better.

            Even the biggest non-sports fans bleed a little red, white and blue in hopes that American athletes will bring home the gold.

            I like the Olympics because of all the great emotional, tense and exciting moments that come with the nature of being American in the midst of a world competition.

            Take for instance the Michael Phelps Ryan Lochte face-off. Who didn’t love watching the man-fish Phelps become the most decorated Olympian of all time? While he slides effortlessly into the end of his Olympic legacy, his teammate, the very confident “this is my year” Lochte, is taking the limelight. Their first event was almost a non-event except for the fact that Phelps had finally missed the medal podium. But watching their team work in the relays provides the drama of unspoken rivals working together.

             And Missy Franklin, from my native Colorado, gives the Olympics that fresh-faced fervor we miss when watching two, three and four-time Olympians take to the court, pool, field, etc. She is youthful and lively and purely excited to be in London. She does not show an air of entitlement to the seven gold medals for which she is in contention. She wants to earn every stroke she takes and every smile she shows.

            For every exhilarating win there is always an equally heartbreaking moment, and sometimes on the very same team.

As the women’s gymnastics team performed for the qualifying rounds of the team finals which would also decide the two contenders from each country who would compete in the all-around, two girls relished in the moment of making the very tough cut while the strongest competitor and reigning world champion, Jordyn Weiber, saw her Olympic dreams crushed before her eyes.

            The men’s gymnastics team entered the finals as the top ranked team. A few crashes and missed landings later, the team finished fifth. They were supposed to be contenders for the gold.

            But don’t we expect all our athletes to win the gold? I know I do. Why else would you be at the Olympics?

            Maybe it is the American spirit that demands not just the greatness it takes to make it to the games and take part, but to dominate and place first. Who wants to watch a medal ceremony where an athlete isn’t mumbling the words to “The Star Spangled Banner?”

It is a high order to ask our athletes to win gold every time. But the commercials, endorsements and never-ending profiles of the athletes trick us into thinking that only gold means you succeeded.

For most of these contenders they have devoted their lives to these sports. Starting from when they could walk, run or jump to the time it meant missing major life moments for that extra training session.

The only thing I’ve ever devoted that much time to is school or maybe watching TV. As a girl who barely knows the difference between a free throw and a freestyle stroke, I’ve come to expect that Americans sweep the events, (except maybe table tennis.)

But that’s why I love the Olympics. I love the way the country stands behind the 531 men and women competing. I love the pageantry of the ceremonies. I love the triumph and heartbreak. I love the hype. I love the non-stop coverage. I love those sappy profiles that tug at my heartstrings. What do you mean he came from a broken home and had to play badminton to save his life? I’m sold. I can’t help but root for these “heroes.”

Maybe I’m being brainwashed by the International Olympic Committee or the awful NBC commentators, or maybe I’m just indulging in an American pastime I only get the chance to do every two years. Whatever you call it, I call it loving every last minute of the Olympics.

Not the end, but a new beginning

On January 1, 2012, I felt like I was looking into a deep crevasse at the top of the cliff knowing I would have to scale the wall and make it to the bottom.

Six months, 40 hours a week, winter, spring and a little bit of summer. Stories, odd jobs and a learning experience lay ahead of me like that giant crevasse. It was intimidating and scary, but not impossible.

Now that I am at the bottom of the cliff, it doesn’t look so big. In fact, six months seems insignificant. A blip in the radar. A very small amount of time in the span of a lifetime.

But I am proud of what I accomplished in the past six months. I embarked on a journey of trying something completely new. My first week of work I read a line in a book I was reading that resonated with the things I was going through.

“Just because you haven’t done something, doesn’t mean you can’t.” Just because I’d never worked 40 hours a week at a big newspaper with so many bosses and responsibilities didn’t mean I couldn’t do it.

Living up to the expectations others have for your success is the best motivator. I proved to myself that taking risks and leaping off the cliff with fear and faith is really the best thing I could ever do.

I wasn’t sure how to approach my co-op at Boston Globe South except with a positive attitude and an appetite for learning. What I got in return because of that outlook was so much more.

In the beginning, I approached each day as a stepping-stone to the big things that would come next. It worked. I was prepared and the perfect amount of overwhelmed at every new project thrown my way.

I worked my ass off. I performed every assignment to my best ability. I guess it was the overachiever in me that wanted to go above and beyond what was asked of me. I felt a need to prove that hiring a shy, somewhat inexperienced, red head from Colorado was not a mistake.

I wanted to prove that I was here to learn and do the very best job that I could. I think my bosses were pleased with how I took the job and made it my own by taking on extra projects and always helping out.

It was bittersweet to leave. I will miss the people I worked with and learning something new everyday (and making money). But I am grateful to be a college student again with papers and homework on the mind. But mostly I like having my free time back to myself.

I haven’t fully transitioned back to class. I can only take about five minutes of homework at a time before I want to tear my hair out, but I will get there.

Looking up at that cliff, I see the old me: a girl scared of her own shadow and achievements. At the bottom I see a girl poised at a new starting line with a newfound confidence and assuredness in herself. I see challenges ahead of me, but I also see all the challenges I happily hurdled along that cliff wall.

If I can do that, I can do anything. (I think.)  

Making it count

I officially have one week left in co-op. I remember finishing my first week and thinking, “One week down, 25 to go.” Well it is crazy to think now, “25 down, one to go.” I think this last week is all about making it count.

   I will do a full reflection on my co-op when I have some more time to really think and write about it. For now, it’s about tying up loose ends and making my mark before my time at Globe South comes to a close.

   The thing about being an intern is that there is a sense of temporariness. There is a timeline, an expiration date, an expectation of a last day on this job. That is what is great about it. I had to make every moment spent in this office count.

   I tried to absorb the greatness that oozes from the minds in the newsroom. I tried to take every mistake in stride and learn from it. I tried to see my value in every task, no matter how menial. If I wasn’t making it count, I would have been wasting my time. And those six months are not ones I’m getting back.

   I don’t want to lose focus in the last week from how hard I’ve worked in the past 25 weeks. It’s a bit like the feeling kids get that last week before summer vacation. “It doesn’t matter anyway; we’ll be done in a week.” But I don’t want to feel that. I want to make every second worth my time.

   I want to end this job on a high note of accomplishment and satisfaction of achievement. I think I’m headed in the right direction, but I can’t give up the determination I started with.

   The hardest part will be the goodbyes. I’ve never enjoyed goodbyes. I’m terrible at them and feel wholly uncomfortable at the thought of “This is it.” I think it’s because change is an uncomfortable concept. I know that change will always be cycling through my life, but it that is the one thing I will never get used to. (Probably because it is always changing. A catch-22 if you ask me.)

   Anyway, I know that change is good. It means new steps and new doors. It means a new path to self-discovery. It means I’m doing this thing called “growing up” ok. I’m not failing at becoming a fully functional human being.

   So in the next week, I want to finish strong with my head held high with pride in myself for coming this far and a little fear of what comes next and experience to draw upon. I want to make it count.

Forever young

It’s been awhile since I’ve last blogged, but I like to think I was spending the time being young.

            As a kid, all I wanted was to be grown up, and now that I’m growing up all I want is to be a kid again. But for once, I’m going to start appreciating the youthfulness that I have, not because I have a youthful spirit or a resilience to grow old, but simply because I was born 20 years ago.

            I recently read a blog about why being in your 20s is awesome. It pointed out that sometimes as a twentysomething, we can resent the crappy apartments and crazy schedules and sheer unpredictability of life.

But that we often take the really good things for granted. Things like feeling my smooth and healthy skin that has seen its fair share of sunburns and laugh lines, but nothing compared to a lifetime’s worth. Things like being able to make plans in a second and change your mind 18 times a day. Things that make being young so fun and envied.

It is time I start seeing all the good in being 20 heading into this capricious decade of life. The world is right in front of my peers and me.

Our dreams fill our minds and days to drive us to success and satisfaction. It is such an exciting time in life to hear about where my friends will be studying: Mexico, Italy, Argentina. It is encouraging to hear what people want to become one day.

They are no longer wisps of dreams in the clouds. They are realities. They are slowly and surely with hard work and perspiration coming to fruition. It is slowly becoming a reality that we are becoming adults.

But I think as we get jobs and begin the adventure of living on our own, we will cling to all the good things about being a kid and let go with grace of a happy childhood. That, I believe, is what defines being 20.  

Much like an Irish Blessing, Bob Dylan said it best.

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young

It is all about living life to fullest on every rung of that ladder that makes being 20 so important. And I hope I never forget that.

Lonely Hearts

As a college student, missing those back home is only natural. Usually two months can go by without seeing those from our past who’ve influenced so much who we’ve become. The ones who know us better than we know ourselves. The ones who love us, bad habits and all. Two months may seem like an eternity, especially to a new(ish) college student who has never spent more than two weeks away from home.

            But this year, I faced a challenge I saw coming but knew would be hard regardless of how I handled it.

            Missing the ones you love is one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world. Missing people doesn’t necessarily mean you are unhappy. In fact, for me, I am quite happy living out my dream. It is just a feeling I have to adjust to living with.

            Missing someone is hard to describe. I’ve never really had to miss anyone before. I always knew it wouldn’t be long before I saw them again. So dealing with this new emotion was like trying to navigate a new territory in the dark. Not impossible, but unpredictable and a little frightening.

            I had a teacher who had to describe the different levels of love to us for a religion class in high school. She said when you reach the level of true love, it is not “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” but rather “absence makes the heart ache.”

            What she meant was that you know love someone when you feel a certain pain when that person is gone. And while I may not be talking about the same kind of love she was talking about, I do know that I really love the people I am missing because I feel that certain kind of pain.

            Missing someone isn’t just wishing they were with you when you are doing something or thinking you need to tell them about something crazy that happened when you talk to them next.

            No, that feeling of missing someone hits you like a ton of bricks when you are riding the bus, or see a mother and her child smiling in the springtime sunshine or watching a father and son bonding over a baseball game or laughing about something you know that someone would find funny too.

            Missing loved ones makes you realize how empty you feel without them in your daily life. Their love fills you like the aroma of freshly baked cookies fills a kitchen. You don’t really notice when it’s not there until you smell it (or feel it) again. And then you realize how truly sweet it makes your life.

            Missing someone can cause their name to pop into your head when your mind wanders without control. “Mom.” “Dad.” “Jenna.” “Chelsea.” “Katie.” “Friends from home.” “Bridie and Bailey.”

            Missing someone is counting down the days until you see them again and looking forward to doing absolutely nothing except basking in the glow of their love.

Halfway done and halfway there

This week officially marks the halfway point of my co-op. It has been three months and I have three months left.

It’s hard to believe it was only three months ago I was first walking through the Globe’s doors with a fresh-faced ambition to do great things and to prove myself. I think I’m certainly on my way.

            One of the numerous tips I heard before going on co-op was to set goals for myself. And while I had some tangible goals, most of my goals were emotional or performance based.

            My greatest fear was that I was going to hate my job. But I’m happy to report, that I don’t hate it. In fact I really like my job. It is not a job anyone could do for the rest of her life, but it is a job that is satisfying, challenging and different enough for six months.

            Every time I can do a job well done on a project for my boss, I feel proud that I’ve worked hard enough to please the man upstairs. I am satisfied when I help a caller. I feel happy when I write a story that makes the people I’m writing about excited. And when I have the right answer I feel empowered to work harder.

            The challenges have been daily hurdles and behemoth sized monsters trying to get in the way of my success. The biggest challenge is probably fighting the boredom. Some days are just very slow with not much to do, and finding a productive and seemingly worthwhile way to spend that time can be difficult.

            Writing, surprisingly, has been my most frustrating challenge. Since I’m not writing everyday, or huge in-depth projects like I did for my journalism classes, my writing skills are slacking. I don’t feel I have a command of words like I used to. I think the fact that the stakes are a lot higher doesn’t help either. I am trying to improve and not get down on myself when editors take a hatchet to my stories. I’m trying to stay positive so I can take away something constructive rather than the feeling that I can’t do this.

            And now to mention the monsters. I have taken the Globe company car out to a few assignments here and there to cover various stories. The first Friday in March I took a Globe car out to a high school girls’ basketball game. As I was coming back at 9:30, the car stalled on the very busy freeway with nowhere to pull over. I pulled over in the far right lane as far as I could, but I was still blocking traffic. I called 911 who sent a tow truck who took me back to the Globe, but then demanded $100. The security office who was supposed to take care of it started yelling at me to find the money, but it was now ten o’clock on a Friday night and none of my bosses were there. Eventually, the head security officer paid the fee from an emergency fund and they sent me home in a cab.

The incident shook me up pretty good, but it also proved to me that I could handle a problem like an adult. Don’t get me wrong, I still cried, but not until the security office yelled at me, and I tried calling my parents, who were out of cell phone range in Nebraska. It was all on me to figure out what to do and how to solve the problem.

The next weekend my phone broke and caused a whole new set of problems. So back to a flip phone I went and onward I marched taking care of my upper middle class, white working girl problems.

So for the next three months, I want to tackle my problems with the same gumption I’ve been showing. I want to be the strong independent person I know I can be. I don’t really have any other options.

So I’m halfway done, but I’m also halfway there to gaining everything I can from this experience and learning a little more about myself.

Is this real life?

Last weekend I had the time of my life in New York City and all I could think was, “Is this real life?” Needless to say, I was feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

            My best friend from college, Chelsea, is currently on co-op in New York City working for a fashion public relations firm and living her dream.

            She lives in Brooklyn just blocks from the Brooklyn Bridge, which we walked across, works in SoHo and attended New York Fashion Week.

            I’ve been to New York City twice before this trip, but this time felt different. The first trip was with my parents and best friends. We were the ultimate tourists. The second trip was a short look at colleges. But this time I was with someone who knows the city fairly well.

            Chelsea knew how to navigate the confusing subway system and where to take me. But it felt very strange walking a huge, gigantic city all by ourselves without our parents. It felt exhilarating.

            Before I even left for the city, I knew I wanted to see a Broadway show. Musicals are my guilty pleasure and I knew I couldn’t go to the one place in the world where all the best shows live and thrive and not go inside a theater.

            So Chelsea and I decided we would enter the Broadway lottery, a wonderful system that most shows participate in, where anyone who wants to see a show puts their name into a big barrel two hours before performance time. Then names are drawn and highly discounted tickets are sold to the winners.

            I thought we would have to enter for all three shows that weekend and still not win. But the Broadway gods were looking down on us.

            We arrived at the Eugene O’Neill Theater on 49^th Street and Times Square at 11:15 a.m. to enter for the 2 p.m. matinee show. We stood in line, chatted with some locals and at 11:30 put our names on two little cards. We kissed the cards for good luck and added them to a pile of probably 300 others. There were 22 tickets up for grabs, and you can enter your name for 1 or 2 tickets.

            Name after name was called. All the front row tickets went, but the box seats with obstructed view were still left. Then all of a sudden the name “Chelsea Addy” was called out. Chelsea and I both screamed and jumped up and down.

            We had won tickets to “Book of Mormon” the Tony award winner of best musical, written by Colorado natives Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the creators of South Park, and a show that is sold out until it closes next year. The best part, they only cost $32 each, originally $155.

            It was a dream come true for a Broadway nerd like me and an excitement junkie like Chelsea. I hope to never let go of the euphoria I felt the moment we won.

            The show lived up to and exceeded all my expectations. The singing, dancing, acting, jokes and humor were spot on.

            The weekend was also filled with great eating, sight seeing and lots of picture taking, but nothing beat that Saturday afternoon.

            The rest of the weekend Chelsea and I took turns saying, “I still can’t believe we won.” I am sure I had a smile on my face from Friday night when I first saw the city lights to Monday afternoon when I left.

            So is this real life? I’m happy to admit that it was and is. 

The theater for "Book of Mormon" 

My seat next to the stage

Chelsea and I enjoying breakfast at Tiffany's

What I've learned so far

I have been on co-op for six weeks now. Looking at the calendar, I can’t believe it’s already been six weeks, on the other hand, that means I have 20 weeks to go. Here’s to hoping it will fly by.

Anyway, I’ve learned a lot in the past six weeks both in and out of the office.

    My day to day duties are pretty light and only take up about half my day sometimes, so I have a lot of extra time to myself. Of course I’ve fallen prey to the temptation of Twitter and my newest obsession, Pinterest, a social networking site that allows you to “pin” pictures to a virtual board. I’ve never been on Facebook; that is the one thing I won’t allow myself to do. So, you might ask, how do I fill an 8 hour day with only 4-5 hours of actual work?

     I read. I read the newspaper, I read Boston.com and I read stories I find on Twitter. I see this as a way to learn. When I leave at the end of the day, my thoughts are swirling around in my head in the prose of a very well-written journalist. I’ve found that reading is going to make me a better writer. 

    Reading is the foundation we build all other learning on, especially writing. If we couldn’t read, we certainly wouldn’t know what we were writing. Reading and translating a foreign language is always easier than trying to speak it or write it.

   So I’m going back to basics at my job. I’m reading. I’m reading everything from news to business to arts and entertainment. And while the comics are probably still my favorite part of the newspaper, I’ve found a new appreciation for the briefs and articles that stain my fingers with newsprint every day.

I look forward to the hour I reserve for myself at the end of everyday where I can spread The Globe across my desk and read the day’s top headlines.

   In addition to my reading of the newspaper aiding my education as a young journalist, the paper has made me a more educated individual. I think back to high school and even middle school when writing an essay was painful because I could always come up with a claim, but finding the evidence to back it up was the true challenge. Nowadays, I can back up most conversations I have with something I read in The Globe.

   The Globe is an excellent newspaper. I’m not just saying that because I work for them. It is a well run business with many functioning parts. They employ over 1,000 people from the cafeteria workers to the return room guys who sort papers to the payroll people to the reporters. It is a well-oiled machine as I see it from my perspective at the bottom. A machine I am proud to be a part of it, even if my role is small.

So inside the office, I’m learning what it means to work 40 hours a week, be a part of a true business environment and to sharpen my skills as a journalist if not just a well-informed member of society. 

   Outside of the office, I’m learning what it means to be an independent adult. Sort of.

   I am still a college student, highly dependent on my parents financially and emotionally. But in the past month, I’ve come to appreciate myself.

   My time in college has been a bit like a revolving door of chaos that just keeps going around and around. I was stuck in the doors never able to stop outside and breathe in the fresh air, or get into the building and begin what I set out to do. It was always something: friend drama, a difficult assignment, housing problems, more friend drama. I was losing myself, I could feel it.

   But my best friend here moved to New York City for co-op, my roommate drifted away, my best friend from home is over 3,000 miles away and my Boston friends are the kinds of friends you eat lunch with, not really the kind of friends I want to burden with invitations.

   I was worried coming back in January that I would be a solitary homebody. And, in fact, I am. But what I’ve always known deep down is that I’m happy about it.

   I like being alone. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy company. I like eating with friends at lunch and seeing some friends on the weekends, but I don’t mind being alone. I am grateful for this attribute because I think a lot of people find loneliness debilitating. I find it liberating. Just because I’m alone, doesn’t mean I’m lonely. I also don’t feel alone on a college campus and with constant connection with my parents and best friends through email, Skype, calls and texts. I’m an introvert and I certainly have a comfort zone I don’t like leaving. But I’m learning to appreciate the nights I can do whatever I want without anyone judging me or waiting on me.

   I’m learning to live my life as I want to. I’m slowly learning to be myself again. 

Happy 2012!

It is a new year, and the weight loss ads are plaguing our televisions and resolutions are being kept and broken.

            My resolution this year is to be more open. Open to new experiences, people and ideas. My resolution is to be braver.

            I have started my co-op job. For the past year and a half, I have talked about this program my school offers, but now I can officially talk about it with authority.

            The whole process of applying and interviewing for jobs began in mid-October. I was offered the job I took the day before Thanksgiving.

            I am now working at The Boston Globe in the South Regional office. I work at the Globe headquarters in South Boston. I ride the bus 40 minutes from the T station by my dorm to the T station four blocks from the Globe building.

            I started on Tuesday. My job involves putting stories that the South correspondents write onto the Yourtown sites that we manage. I am learning a little HTML and a web management system, all good things to know for the future of journalism.

I also deliver papers around the newsroom to different heads of department. This is my favorite thing to do because I get to be in a busy newsroom where reporters are on the phone with sources, discussing the news and sorting out problems with editors.

The first day I went around, everyone I met was friendly and welcoming and made me feel good to be working in such a reputable place.

I also put news briefs into the system for different editors to look at. I will start writing stories soon.

So far, it has been a great experience at the Globe.

But we will see where the next six months take me. That is why my resolutions are being open and braver. I want to seize every opportunity that comes my way and make the most of this incredible chance.

I miss home like crazy. I miss the Colorado air and mountains. I miss waking up to my dogs’ wagging tails. I miss eating dinner with my parents every night. I miss my friends’ banter and spontaneity. And it will be at least six months before I will get to see these things again.

So that is why I want to be braver. I want to find the silver lining to missing all that is familiar to me. I have been given a chance to do something with my life, so I better take it.

I want to feel life with all that I have. I want to live to the absolute brim of happiness and success, which doesn’t come without a little failure and loneliness.

I can’t wait to see what 2012 brings me. And I wish all of you the best year of fun and adventure. May we be partners in experiencing life to the most this year.