26 April, 2009

Sunday Brunch

Sunday morning Brunch. Is there anything better? Fresh waffles (with the college symbol imprinted in the middle. We eat school pride here, yo.) Coffee, friends and/or respective boyfriends and hook-up mates, and best of all stories from the weekend.

Back in freshman and sophomore year, Sunday morning brunches were what I lived for. For one, I usually hadn't done any work on that Friday or Saturday, so the brunch period was the last hour of freedom before we all resigned ourselves to our respective library carrels and dorm rooms to do all that work that needed to be done. There usually was too much work, but somehow it all got done, or probably wasn't that important anyway.

The most important part of these brunches was the conversation. ALL of the stories from the weekend were rehashed over eggs and coffee, and analyzed from a myriad of different angles. Flirtation was an art form, and I revelled in how my friends were so adept at it through the retelling of all of their stories from the nights before. Bad hookup stories were laughed off. The word "Awkward" was thrown around a plenty, usually in the context of the boys in question's lack of social cues or frustration at their shyness (or apathy). The awkward turtle was colorfully interjected into conversation, as well as large arm movements, sheepish looks around to see if others were listening in (dining halls are not exactly the most private forums for these talks, and I am truly sorry for those that heard information they didn't want to know.) Screams of glee and exasperation often called attention to our table on those Sundays, but it was all part of the scene. We could have cared less. I often wonder what the upperclassmen thought of my group of friends- I know that we thought ourselves beyond the coolness spectrum here at school. But whenever I see a group of loud, energetically attention-seeking freshman roaming around campus, I still get annoyed. Maybe it's all part of the process- you live and you learn. I try to forgive these freshman, for they know not what they do.

Though now Sunday brunches are less of an event then they once were, there is something so comforting about walking across campus on a sunny day with your friends to enjoy an hour or more of talking and conversing, venting and planning. Things get so busy here, that free time with friends is a novelty, and hard to come by. And there's nothing that beats a good waffle.

02 April, 2009

Fiercely Armenian

My mother is a little over five feet tall. She has very dark hair, dark eyes, darker skin. She looks every bit Armenian as her maiden name: Avedian (pronounced A-vee-gin). She tans gloriously in the summertime, entering into a dark shade of olive that is devastatingly healthy and beautiful. My older sisters are similar. Dark hair, dark eyes, tan well in the summer, always have a darker tone even in the dead of winter. My grandmother, from Armenia, was much the same, but shorter and more crotchety.

Armenians are what can be generously called "feisty." They like to know exactly what you're doing, and then tell you exactly what they think about that. And they don't stop there- they keep telling you exactly how they feel, even if the situation is long done. It does provide one plus for conversation, though. Because they keep re-hashing what happened in the past, you have ample opportunity to refine and strengthen your argument. My mother still talks about middle school as though it were only yesterday, telling me exactly how insecure I was and exactly what I could have done differently. We have this talk about twice or three times a year or so. You know what makes middle school more painful than reliving it on your own? Having someone remind you periodically exactly why that time in your life was so terrible. Yes, PERHAPS I should not have worn blue eyeshadow with the brown turtleneck on picture day in the 7th grade, but I'd like to believe I've overcome that adversity through the next five halfway decent school portraits. (Except for junior year of high school. That's a whole different fish entirely.) When Armenians get together, they have a lot to say (as you might be able to imagine). One can get by with simply nodding from time to time for hours (especially if there's wine involved. Armenians love wine.)

My dad is Irish, very very Irish. Tall, leaner, less hair in unusual places, fair skinned and fair-eyed. My twin and I take after our dad. But still we are fiercely proud of our Armenian heritage, though we have to defend more often (than, say, my sisters, who got off scott-free with beautiful tans and dark eyes.) People don't usually believe I'm half middle-eastern until they see my mother, which I can't really blame them for. Do you know how hard it is to claim you're Middle-eastern when you're a blue-eyed, translucent-skinned Irish-looking girl who's last name is Flynn? My strongest arguments are in my mother's cooking, having grown-up in a house where grapeleaves, yogurt, hummus, and dolmas were handmade and baklava was made using my grandmother's recipe from the old country. That'll make anyone love being an Armenian, even if you can't easily convince someone you are.

Like all good Irish girls, I burn red in any and all amount of sunlight. I freckly in the summertime, and the darkest shade my skin attains can only be indulgently called 'dark beige.' Luckily for me, my twin is much the same with the light hair and the light eyes (we are clearly our father's daughters), but it's always interesting to stand in the mirror with my mother, inches shorter than me and lightyears darker, and boggle at the wonders of genetics. (It could have at least given me the ability to tan.)