The 1990s: Protest the the first war in Iraq with armbands in junior high school, listen to the Indigo Girls on my first CD player and finally feel understood, stave off my parents' attempts to get me to smoke pot, learn how to make rainbow friendship bracelets at music camps, write an autobiography about how I am a workaholic at age 12. Raise my hand too much, draw "calculus virgin" cartoons with my friends in calculus, attempt to figure out hair situation. Attempt to figure out makeup situation: In college, when pathologically under-slept, I rip out all of the eyelashes on my left eye with my eyelash-curler by accident when I am getting ready to play in the pit orchestra of a production of Sweeney Todd. The feeling of horror that courses through my entire body as I look down at that perfect row of eyelashes clamped in the curler makes me understand the profundity of my vanity. Later that night I also fall backwards down the stairs of the stage and break the meat grinder (see: Sweeney Todd). Eyelashes grow back.
The 00s: I develop a love-affair with old-time and bluegrass music. To this day there is nothing sexier to me than a great banjo player or fiddler. Inspired by the Dixie Chicks, I decide I will become a country music star, wear long skirts, and move to Austin. I spend a delicious summer traveling around North America on a grant's dime faking my way through all sorts of fantastic oldtimey music. I fall into, and in love with, violin teaching instead and I join many nyc bands. I cross state lines and interstate highways to chase dogs in hopes of rescuing them. Many of my favorite people have tried to curb my addiction, but I only let them down. Eight years ago I decided to keep a particularly pathetic rescue who has blossomed into a loving (and devilish) little pit bull named Honey. If you're gonna be mine, you might get sucked into this life of puppy-nabbing in one way or another.