Alicia l'Américaine

Say, when's France's next match?!

At the risk of getting fired...

Notice how I avoid partaking in such conversations at the office. :)
    

Catchin' Elves

    I could sit there for hours on end, catching elves. Surrounded by computer cables and wires, an assortment of keyboards, monitors, mice and hard drives, I delighted at immersing myself in Daddy’s world, tucking myself away in the basement at every opportunity.

    For most parents, sitting their child in front of the TV or computer represents a well-earned break from the fatigue of parenting - a moment of solace where they can sip a glass of wine or simply take in the sunset without screams and shrills, the sound of blocks tumbling against the hardwood floor or a cat being pulled by its tail.

     My father, however, knowingly welcomed interruptions. Just as he had expected me to solve the 24 piece puzzle he gifted me on my two-week birthday, he willed me to become a certified "Treasure Mountain" elf-catching expert by age three. Determined not to let him down, my nets would catch one, then two, then three four five elves... With each solid catch, a written clue revealed. The sole problem being... I didn’t know how to read.

    “ELF!!!!!!!” I would shout, impatiently, fidgeting as I waited for Daddy to descend the basement stairs and interpret the characters on the screen. My elves would sit in my net squirming, ready to escape at any second. The game required his help, and I never felt so distressed as when an Elf found itself in my net during his absence.

    Mommy tried to help me, when he was gone. She would hear my excited cries and begin making her way down the stairs. Standing above me, she would lean over slightly and pretend to read whatever was written on that obnoxiously heavy 1990s monitor. Though in desperate situations I would take her word and try her answer, most days I would simply roll my eyes, quit and save the game until he got home. Didn’t she realize only Daddy knew how to read computers?

    I have to admit that sometimes, when I’m a little lost in the treasure mountain that is Silicon Valley, I still wonder that if by shouting “ELF”, he somehow might appear...

****************************
    Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you!
   

Lazy Sunday

Easter Eggs

    They'd always snuggle, before bed. Wrapped in his arms, not one year ago, she breathed the smell of his cologne, and to a background of fading classical music on NPR, admitted she was scared.

    "John," she began, "I just hate to think that there could ever come a day when I'd have to fall asleep without your arms around me."

    "Well, Maxine, I want to keep you happy...

You'll just have to die first!"

    They fell asleep, laughing.

***********************************************************************

    Not even five months have passed since my last visit home, but she looks older now, more dependent on her cane. I dash to her side in the Washington summer heat, enveloped by the humidity and basking in the frivolous delight of a white sundress. They would often sit here together and take in the sun. Her wedding ring still shimmers, though her eyes are tinged with a painful nostalgia. In younger years and colder weather, I poetically proclaimed that Grandmom sparkles like the Christmas tree. Vying to keep the title, she pulls her cashmere sweater more tightly closed as I approach, attempting a smile and ignoring the 90 degree heat, visibly struck by the chill of his absence instead.

    She looks over at my calling, brightened by my voice. I plop down excitedly on the bench built for two, pulling her down with me, greeting her hurriedly as I race into a million details of my red-eye flight and plans for the weekend... a distracted, dizzy haze of random thoughts. I throw my words around playfully, determined to keep her fixated on anything else, like a small child blowing soap bubbles and begging his parents to watch them pop in mid air. She often complains that I talk too fast, but I refuse to slow down, convinced the effort expended on comprehension will keep her on her feet - proving she doesn't really need that hearing aid, after all. What should I wear? You know better than anyone, as a Southern Belle yourself. Pink? Blue? Ruffled? Subdued? I can't wear white and black's too solemn. Red's a little racy and you know you can never look better than the bride. How about my hair? Up? Down? It's a Southern Christian wedding. They're reading the Corinthians. How does it go, again? Love is patient, love is difficult, love is hard to find...

    The same tar heel accent my Grandfather must have fallen for so many years ago emerges gracefully, and she corrects me, laughing. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts..."

    Aha! Kind, not difficult. I knew I was screwing it up somewhere... Reciting the lines over in my head, I lose myself in reflection for a moment, drifting off somewhere, anywhere, on a pink inflatable floatie on Lake Barcroft, giggling somewhere on the family pier, mentally removing myself from the sterility of this retirement home. I picture her bringing us wheat thins and cheddar cheese by the backyard lanterns, sitting down to swing gently with Grandpa as they beckon me to come inside.

***********************************************************************

     "John and I were married 57 and a half years."

    Mission get Grandmom's mind on a different subject fail.

    Unsure of what to say, of how to guide her through this, I stretch my legs wide in front of me and bend over, placing my head between them in a semi-Yogi pose I'm sure I learned somewhere... convenient for pulling off the un-dainty immaturity of a 13 year old while effectively hiding one's tears. Dirty blond hair flipped upside down, temporary bronzer mixed with salty water staining my hands. On day 3, our Unitarian Universalist God made waterproof mascara, and with his strength, I re-emerge to listen to her speak. He comes to her in dreams, she says. Oh, two to three times a week, or so...

     "And how I treasure those dreams."
   
    He spoke to her last night. Placing my head against her shoulder, I clasp her hand between both my own and grant her the space to keep speaking, asking her silently what he said, not sure I'm ready for the answer.

    "I have to, John, I have to!" she shouts. The jerk of her shoulder jolts my head to attention, the sudden gesture hurts my neck and I let out a brief cry of pain. I blame the tears on my jet-lag and try to absorb what she just said, to let her finish.

    He had asked if her if she could. Fall asleep without him. Without his arms around her.

    I await the humorous ending that accompanies so many of their stories. The witty denial of circumstances and appreciation of shortcomings that was unique to his outlook on life, essential to pushing us through. But it doesn't come. The strong determination in her voice has never felt so searing, her acceptance so sure. Without Granddaddy there to help, I let my eyes wander and contemplate the concrete awning above us, the bushes around us, the driveway in front of us, convinced he left a punchline hiding here somewhere.

    My vision is blurred and hers fading, but just like the impossible Easter Egg on a warm spring day, I promise her we'll find it.

Dessert?

It’s not that she was colorblind.

That was her ex’s ailment. And just as her emotional intelligence had largely compensated for his lack of consideration and brash, poorly timed remarks, her sense of style and coordination had kept their romance alive. She had never let him leave the house wearing navy with black, or pink with orange. Just like she had planned that one day, their children would leave for school, their lightly tanned, metisse skin accented by the fuchsia on Barbie’s backpack or the or the bright green of a childrens' JCrew sweater.

"It’s the one thing I can’t get over," she stated, matter of factly, twirling her hair and basking in the self-confidence of a liberal discourse as the waitress took their plates. "Such a waste. Our personalities may have clashed but our colors would have mixed so well. Interracial children are just so, so much more adorable - don’t you think?!"

It took his nervous hesitation and the first indications of a sinking smile for the realization to even cross her mind.

It's not that she was colorblind, just slightly awkward... somewhat unobservant. After all, liberal he may have been, but black he was not. A Washingtonian WASP, born and raised. Drawn to her blond, blue-eyed, hourglass figure. Apparently drawn, as well, to the thought that they might be compatible enough to bear children. Ready to settle down, with a hometown girl who didn’t speak of offspring with the same casual excitement as his niece did of Bratz dolls.

"Dessert?" she offered, meekly attempting to fill the silence.

First dates are overrated.

Luckily, chocolate never disappoints - regardless of the color.

On Cookies

Her: I mean, it's like eating cookies, right? You're so excited because you've been on a no carb diet for months, and then all of a sudden you can delve right in and savor them one by one, the chocolate chips, the white chocolate macadamias, the oatmeal raisins, the snicker doodles, the whole box of thin mints, and you're so overwhelmed and high from suger land and they taste great...

Me: ... and then all of a sudden you eat one too many and you get a stomachache

Her: Right! and you're like ooooooohhhhh I wish I had eaten a more legitimate cookie...

Let's raise a glass of 2% to that.

Happy Thank You More, More, More... Please?

It's been awhile since I've had a celebrity crush.

Though I've kept my childhood obsession with Billy Ray Cyrus alive for literary effect, the truth is that somehow, that giddy, love-struck, bursting at the seams excitement I once felt for his voice on It Won't Be The Last or Somebody New has transformed itself over the years into a sophisticated, reasoned appreciation of more tangible role models with good grammar and better haircuts - professors, CEOs, family, successful Georgetown alumni... Chalk it up to the downside of privilege, but flirting with success in the academic and business worlds led me to forget what it really feels like to be artistically inspired. 

FUCK, though. (Don't curse). If there's anything more heart-wrenchingly beautiful than watching the man of your dreams tear off his shirt and do the Achy Breaky in front of a thousand adoring women, it's watching a sitcom actor that had barely crossed your radar humbly, seemingly effortlessly, captivate your heart and mind for hours straight.

I'm hardly a film critic. But last Saturday night, at the screening of happythankyoumoreplease, I remembered what it's like to be so utterly enamored with and inspired by someone's work, that you practically lose your voice searching for words to do it justice.  

Josh Radnor has written and directed a film to which my generation can intellectually, and emotionally relate. Not in the way that we 'related' to Shakespeare in senior English or felt moved by Stravinsky's Rite of Spring in Music Theory 101. The tone he strokes throughout evokes those moments of ephemeral delight and heartbreak - a bittersweet first kiss in the rain, funnel cake on a crisp fall day, the sinking self-disappointment and regret over a drunken, empty one-night stand... The characters and plot are as enveloping as a southern rainstorm and as tangible as a scrabble board, to the point you're convinced he's cheating and worked with at least 8 letters. He strips us of references as modern as Twitter or as comforting as McDonald's, begging us instead to re-focus on what's real - the optimism of a generation struggling to find a voice and celebrate what's right in this world, hidden away from the clamor of information overload. He reminds us that the suburbia born and raised, privileged college graduate doesn't need to bear the burdens of an Ivy League education and a Wall Street career, but can instead be celebrated for the wit, sarcasm, and authenticity of an irresponsible but well-intentioned hope.

The director of SFIFF forewarned the audience that watching the film would make you want to have sex, over, and over, and over again. For my fellow movie-goers that night, I can only hope the molecules on the face of the person sitting next to you rearranged themselves as needed. For my part, it was if the hustle and bustle of my technology-driven life had disappeared, and all that remained were the city lights above, illuminating a slightly different path than the one I was sure to have set out on... and all I wanted to do was write, over, and over, and over again...

I can't remember the exact, awkwardly ineloquent words I did manage to gather when I met Josh at the after party. I almost didn't want to say Hi, for fear he'd really turn out to be an egotistical jerk and my magic carriage would turn back into a pumpkin. Desperately racking my brains, I searched all evening for something that might pique his interest, an intelligent conversation topic other than "oh my god you're amazing," but my mind went blank and I essentially blurted out something to that effect. If you're out there, Mr. Ted Mosby, thank you for humoring me, with a smile and handshake that will keep me on cloud 9 for quite some time. All I can say is:

    Happy. Thank You. More, more, more,

    please?

I think I might be kind of maybe ok who am I kidding please don't get another gorgeous celebrity girlfriend and break my heart too soon because I am, officially inspired and in love.

Self absorbed

In the middle of nowhere Arkansas last summer, seated at a corner Starbucks, 9 AM.

Me: It's such a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for taking the time to speak with me this morning.

Him: Pleasure's mine. Tell me, have you had the chance to read my autobiography?

Me (unaware that Mr. Joe Schmoe had an autobiography): Oh! No, not yet, but I'd love...

Him: That's a shame, there's a lotta interesting stuff in there.

*Awkward silence*

I'm sure there is.

Emotional Economics

The truth is, I've never been passionate about economic principals in the same way that Granddaddy was, though I often pretended to be so in his presence. If I persevered and attempted to understand concepts of macroeconomics, tacking courses into my schedule just for "fun", and eventually majoring in Political Economy, it was to understand a little about how the world works... but moreover, to understand more about my grandfather's work, life, and passion. 

C.A. Knox Lovell and Robin C. Sickles brought me one step closer this week in their beautiful memorial tribute, written in prelude to Rice University's Biennial North American Productivity Workshop, to be held in Houston exactly one month from now.

A brief excerpt:

If anyone deserves the appellation of father of productivity analysis, it is Kendrick. He had few predecessors, either analytically or empirically, although he paid particular homage to Fabricant and Hiram S. Davis, then at the Industrial Research Unit of the Wharton School of Finance and Commerce at the University of Pennsylvania.

In our brief discussion of Professor Kendrick’s professional contributions we have chosen to focus on what we consider to be the two most significant of Professor Kendrick’s many contributions to the field of productivity analysis.

Kendrick is best known for his monumental Productivity Trends in the United States (1961), and it is difficult to overstate the impact of this work. Kendrick prefaces a detailed empirical study of productivity from 1899 to 1957 with a discussion of the concepts and measurement of real output, real input and productivity. His empirical investigation reveals substantial variability in rates of productivity change through sub-periods and across sub-sectors of the total economy. He finds productivity growth to account for roughly half of output growth, and more than 80% of growth in output per unit of labor input, capital deepening accounting for the remainder. He also argues conceptually and demonstrates empirically that equality between national product and national income generates a dual measure of productivity change: the difference between the growth rate of output and the growth rate of input is equal to the difference between the growth rate of input prices and the growth rate of output prices. “[T]his is the means whereby the fruits of productivity gains are distributed to workers and investors by the market mechanism.”

[...]

Not only was Professor Kendrick a scholar of the first rank, whose contributions to the field of productivity compare to those of Edward Denison, Dale Jorgenson and Zvi Griliches, but he was a wonderful colleague and mentor.  One of us (Sickles) had the remarkable fortune to have been a colleague of John Kendrick at George Washington University (not to mention being mentored as a graduate student by Knox Lovell and Peter Schmidt at UNC-Chapel Hill!). John was a warm and thoughtful senior colleague who was giving of his time and professional insights. His influence to generations of scholars and practitioners is profound. His legacy is not only a professional one, however, but for us, a very personal one. 

He will be missed."

...

Save for emotional breakdowns during midterm exams, journals of academic research have rarely, if ever, brought tears to my eyes.

I suppose there's a first time for everything.

Little Spoon

It was a corny pick-up line.

I sat there staring at my computer screen in a daze, overwhelmed by that once-a-year feeling that only the end of exams can inspire. Wine on my desk in lieu of a senior thesis. Last attempts at an adrenaline rush evidenced by the blasting Lady Gaga from my $10 stereo speakers, the straightedge girl's alternative to the smoke rings blatantly rising from our housemates just below. In those blissful 15 minutes of denial, I deliberately ignored the sudden emptiness of our 34th Street townhouse, as if both the sunrise and the end of our lease were pushed back indefinitely, contingent on my paresse.

Him: So uh, I just sold my bed on Craigslist.  

Me: Sweet! Congrats.

Him: Yeah. Can I sleep in yours tonight?

There's an obligatory 30-second period of contemplation that rolls through a girl's head, before she can laugh and accept the fate of indulging a pathetic request from her male counterpart. Except it wasn't one. Just a genuine plea for help from my neighbor down the hall who had kept me laughing when the world came crashing down, be it through Jettie's runs in my beat-up car filled with rotten banana peels, philosophical debates over scare tactics used by Republicans surrounding the swine flu, romantic reflections worthy of How I Met Your Mother, or forced participation in KANE Show antics at 5 AM. A meek admission of faulty logic from a friend whose excitement at a $60 sale led him to forget that he might need his bed one more night. Before graduation, and the like.

Him, cuddled up next to me, 30 minutes later: So, do you want to be big spoon or little spoon?

Me: Shut up.

Toppled by the more daunting, immediate realization that my bed was a simple twin, hard as a rock and cruelly uncomfortable even for one sole occupier, I fleetingly resented him for choosing our house furniture without my input, and instantly regretted that 9 months had already flown right by.

My response came in the form of a sarcastic giggle and the silence that foreshadows the dawning of a real tomorrow.

One year later, I still can't believe it worked.