10 Reasons Why This Generation Only Reads Things Written In a List Format

1) Somewhere between Hop On Pop, The Great Gatsby and whatever tome you were required [but chose not] to read in your college Lit class, someone forgot to tell you that reading critically is good for the soul.  
There is a very realistic possibility that you will not enjoy every page of every written work put before you. Through the laws of schooling, I believe this possibility is made even greater when it is a teacher suggesting the work in question. Students turn into conditioned adults who mirror the attitudes of the literacy practices forced upon them. Articles written as lists get to the point more quickly and allow those against reading lengthy passages an alternative. Maybe you don't consider yourself a "reader" because you are too worried about liking the material and not focusing on the inherently exciting Nancy Drew [or Hardy Boy] sleuthing that occurs even when you read the worst junk. Reading critically means actively assessing the material as you go along. Figure out holes in the author's argument, discover how you would change it and for the love of Hemingway, do not be a passive reader. Which brings me to...

2) You are allowed to do less work.
While the act of reading should be a choreographed give-and-take between the author and the reader, list articles remove the cognitive challenge. Thus, the author is given the task to condense the rant of an otherwise brilliant oeuvre into a veritable outline. You're Welcome.

3) Lists are fun!
Right? 

4) It's easier to tweet what you have read if it's already spelled out for you.

5) The last "novel" you read was Twilight and if there aren't vampires involved you cannot be bothered to read anything without sequential ordering.

6) You are half expecting a list to be funnier than something written in verse.
Think about it, did Dickens ever write a book made as a list? Nope. And I'm sure if Homer took the time to enumerate The Odyssey, they'd be flying off the shelves. 

1. Sing to me, muse.
2. Where has Odysseus gone, now? 

7) For all the love and heartache your favorite English teacher put into providing you with a variety of literary tactics, "skimming" is the only skill you remember. 

8) You think you don't have the time to read anything longer. 
Yet, if you add the amount of time spent gawking at cute kittens GIFs and ecards, divide by the number of new girlfriends your ex-boyfriend acquired [thus forcing you to social media stalk on an hourly basis] then you end up with a sum greater or equal to the value of The Book Thief [one of my all time favorite books which I highly recommend you find the time to read]. 

9) You don't "like to read".
Seriously? Next time you see a STOP sign, enjoy not reading it and let me know how that works out for you. Literacy is a gift, people. 

10)  Because no one has told you reading a book is sexy.  
 So, fellas [this could easily be changed to "ladies" but let me talk to the fellas for a second] imagine you have finally reached the coveted age of 21. You know you look incredible and cannot wait for the good looking woman at the end of the bar to notice you. Suddenly, she looks up and smiles. This is your first bar interaction so you aren't sure if you should go to her but she seems pretty experienced and walks right up to you and puts her hand on your shoulder. Take it from me, there will never be a time, a bar or a corner of the world in which this woman leads with, "So, read any good lists, lately?"


Be prepared. Read a book. 


~carter  
 

 

Independence: Or, How I Realized I Wasn't Making Chaka Proud

The note inside the "How to Bake Everything" book ended something like this: ...and now that you have finished college, I thought this book would be the perfect gift to help you focus on the next chapter of your life: your family. Both slightly offended by its implication and delighted by the prospect of pastries in my mouth, I set the well-meaning present aside. Those who know me will probably file themselves under Less Than Shocked to discover the book has remained unopened. 

Whether chauvinist or feminist, it is undeniable that societal norms have been [read: are currently] shifting. Today's woman is situated somewhere between those broads in Mona Lisa Smile and the title character in Erin Brockovich [I love Julia Roberts, by the way, and if you haven't seen either film make sure to Netflix that ish]. So, while we are not all going to college simply to find a husband, we are not exactly not looking. And while a woman with a strong sense of self is appreciated, we still factor her exterior beauty into the calculation when rationalizing her success. If she is beautiful then she must have seduced someone for that coveted promotion and if she isn't, well, she must have been so lonely that she had no choice but to devote all that time to her career. No wonder she is doing so well for herself!! Never mind where I fall on this distasteful spectrum, we have all accepted an anachronistic and worn definition of "independence". 

If today's music is any indication, as long as we are buying our own goods, kicking broke men to the curb, or giving our boyfriends ultimatums while waving our left hand around and dancing, then we women have somehow mastered the art of independence. FALSE. Independence is not being so detached and jaded that we lack vulnerability. It does not mean accepting and reaching a level of complacency with loneliness. In fact, independence within a healthy relationship is just as necessary as when you are on your own. Because worse than receiving a book on how to turn a woman's worth back 50 years is the fact that deep down you wouldn't mind baking each and every recipe if it meant making him happy. So go ahead, bake, cook, clean, fold and actively demonstrate your love. But devote a portion of every day to your self-constructed and personalized definition of independence. [Like, INDEPENDENCE - noun: your love of you.] You can take my word for it or simply wait until the illuminating moment hits you one afternoon. Since the need to define your own independence can be triggered by the smallest events, recognize its presence and then act. For me, independence is writing without permission, restriction, or guidelines. Because when the highlight of your day is snuggling, it just might be time to start a blog. 

~carter 

Ask Me One More Time Why I Moved to New England From Los Angeles

The first winter my mother came to visit me in Boston, I was in the middle of a college choir rehearsal. She walked in, scanned the room from soprano to bass and couldn't recognize her own child...who was waving at her. No, I was not disfigured by the "Freshmen Fifteen", recently tattooed nor altered by some drastic hairstyle change. Instead, ladies and gentlemen, I was pale. 
Perhaps the sole unforgivable sin a Los Angelina can commit, there I stood amongst many an Irish individual while my own mother started for the door unsure whether her ethnic kid was present.

So yes, I miss the damn sun that warms and tans instead of just brightens things. And yes, there were certain parts of my town [particularly my high school] where you couldn't trip without falling on someone who had recently starred in a movie, written a movie, held a dolly grip for a movie, or [most likely] just came from auditioning for a movie. But is it so hard to believe that experiencing life away from home is how someone discovers who she is and what she cares about? No, the answer is no...that was rhetorical.

While the rich city history and sports fanaticism intrigued me, the people have kept me consoled, loved, intellectually stimulated and aching from laughter. Even the most experienced nomad will tell you that you do not stay in one place to avoid your past, you stay because you have identified your future. I cannot say that I knew I would be a New Englander for the next seven years from the moment I stepped off the plane. But between educating myself and falling in love a few times I recognized that no matter how loyal I am to my birth place, there is nothing like the allegiance to the town that granted you your first taste of independence, accepts you and allows you to mold your own experience.

I may have the occasional pang for Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, The Grove, the 3rd Street Promenade and Jamba Juice. And even though I will request this song anytime I am anywhere with a music playing machine, I have become the woman I am as a resident of Massachusetts. I am a little paler...a little wiser...but mostly I am #BOSTONSTRONG


~carter

25 Is Weird.

Sometimes I have trail mix and sangria for dinner and sometimes I feel ready to have a baby. It's a complex situation. 

Next month marks the one year anniversary of me no longer being a student. So, technically, it marks the anniversary of me being an "adult". Hilarious. I thank graduate school for a lot of things, but preparing me for being anything other than an amazing student isn't one of them.

I'm not sure if I ever truly envisioned TWENTY-FIVE as a kid. But, if you were to ask 10 year old me how I'm coming along, she might say I'm about a puppy, three kids, a home movie theatre and a Personal Assistant away from a decent life. And, to be honest, as someone who has consistently worked with, studied with, and socialized with people older than myself, 25 year old me isn't quite sure if I'm ahead or behind schedule.

Never mind the fact that this is officially the last socially constructed milestone age [hit me up if you need a car rented] there is no clear-cut blueprint as to where we are "supposed" to be. Anywhere from drunken hook-ups to nuptial ceremonies is "age-appropriate" and landing a job with health insurance could be the single most exciting adult news we could receive. 

Student loans, my social life, and questionable grocery shopping skills not withstanding, there are days when I want to start a family of my own. The Manfriend and I have discussed what starting a troop of Mini-Us would mean and the conversation inevitably turns to financial stability. But when is THAT? Who is ever truly prepared to sustain another human's life? And If I want to be present for every one of my littles' touchdowns, pirouettes, graduations and weddings, shouldn't I be starting sometime this decade? 

Instead of perpetually teetering on the brink of Señor Panic Attack, I like to think that the answers will reveal themselves when I am genuinely ready to listen. 

...until then I will enjoy the freedoms that come along with sticking your fingers in your ears and shouting "LA LA LA" at an ungodly pitch. Because 25 is weird and who am I to disrupt the order of things. 

~carter 

The Wives Draper

There has to be a reason why I will always choose Betty over Megan.
Maybe I’m a sucker for “The First Wives Club” or maybe I am still having nightmares of Megan’s “performance” at that house-warming thing, but quite frankly, this newly rotund lunatic has my heart.
As I faithfully watch this 6^th season and question whether or not the drowsy pace of each episode can be attributed to the words “directed by Jon Hamm” floating past my screen, I recognize a nostalgia for Betty and Don Draper. I miss the days when Betty pretended not to notice her husband was a serial humper, when Sally was a tot, and when weird baby Eugene was merely a glimmer in a desperate woman’s eye. 
…and then it hit me
Perhaps my devotion to Team Betty stems from the memories I associate with my introduction to Matthew Weiner’s world.

Several summers ago, The-First-Time-I-Have-Ever-Been-In-Love and I spent an entire pajama-clad weekend watching the 1st season on DVD before the debut of season 2. It was a simpler time where love now meant love forever and both of us knew the series would be cancelled long before we ever were.

Everything is different now.  We both moved on to successful relationships, Lane’s dead and even Drink-You-Under-The-Table Draper is vomiting at funerals. To be honest Don has lost a hint of his luster in my eyes...

Megan is simply a reminder that things change; we grow up and apart. And every so often, maybe it is in our best interest to just change the channel because with or without our consent life keeps on getting picked up for another season.

~carter

The Debate

Every person has the right and luxury of reinvention. Whether it's starting a new job, finding a new circle of friends, or overcoming consuming the entire jar of Nutella (for just a few spoonfuls) resulting in some weight loss, it is human desire to alter, modify and become a newer version of the selves we've come to know. As every curly-haired lass could tell you, it is our plight to vacillate between the luscious curls or the sexy straight hair we so desire. Because, let's face it, while the grass is always greener, it is a woman's prerogative to own both lawns and jump between the two.  

Recently, I have wondered how much my definition of "beauty" and "sexiness" mirrors the definition thrust upon all women by our surroundings. I am a multi-racial woman who grew up in a not-so multi-racial community where "beauty" meant thin, perky [and often] straight-haired. As I reached my mid-twenties I discovered that I actually like myself and altering my exterior will not alter the confidence that comes from some place much deeper. Yet, I cannot shake the constant "compliments" from my Caucasian friends as I leave the salon. You know, the ones proclaiming that I should really "think about getting my hair permanently straightened" that "you look so beautiful! I mean, you look nice with curly hair too but this looks better" or "you look like Beyonce"... I'm not quite sure what that last one even means because I'm sure if we ever saw Beyonce chillin' around the house without her glam squad that SHE wouldn't even "look like Beyonce"...but I digress. 

I put it to you, blog readers, are strong women still forgoing their "natural" [whatever that may mean for them] solely because of external pressures? Is that some sort of internal betrayal? And for my mixed ladies, by consciously choosing a certain style, will we forever be placing a facet of our heritage on the back burner?  

While one's personal style should always evolve, to those who ask me why I won't chemically alter myself let me say THAT is NOT up for debate. These are the curls of my mother, great-grandmother, father and those who fought like hell so I could have the freedom to write the words I choose and the free time to worry about my hair. 



~carter

This is me after a blow-dry and flat iron.

This is my face with its naturally curly hair surrounding it