i hate uncertainty.

well, what i really hate is the fact that one year from right now, i have no idea what city i'll be in, no idea what subject i'll be studying (although the do-it-yourself tarot cards implied it would be business, law, or archeology), and -- most importantly -- no idea who the next american idol will be.

ever since i was little, i've marked the passing of life by milestones, whether it was looking forward to the weekend, a cousin's bar/bat mitzvah, or the spring season. (actually, i did not learn that spring was my favorite season until i moved to st. louis when i was 19. who knew that leaves turn colors, fall off their stems, and grow back every year? they don't teach that in miami public schools. actually, they don't teach reading or writing in miami-dade public schools either.)

somehow, marking life by significant events always made it easier to bare the mondays and to care about the mundane. but as one gets older, the workdays blend together, the months become indistinguishable, and the only excitement between twenty-one and thirty is the age at which one becomes eligible to rent a car (twenty-five).

and really, that doesn't get my motor running. in the abstract sense at least.

and so, in the two years during which i've been a profakessional, i've come to measure life by the cycles that envelop my daily life -- namely: seasons eatings (november-december), weighing in (january), chocolate obsession weekend (february), grilling and chilling (june-august), and cook with your kids month (october).

in essence, i measure my life by what has come to be known as domestic porn.

(domestic porn is a term recently erected to describe shows and channels like the food network that depict aspects of our everyday lives -- recipes, decorating, wedding planning, and sex -- so far removed from real life that the viewing cannot be used except as a vicarious experience. for instance, on the food network, while deliciousness is the primary celebrated feature, one cannot "taste" or "smell" television -- unless you watch emeril and have "smellovision" -- making the food network the epitome of voyeurism. like in pornography, the food network presents its "porn" through a medium by which the pleasure cannot be experienced firsthand, so visual stimulation is the alternative.)

and although i will always remain a food network pervert, my broadening taste has prescribed a reality by which i am able to measure my uncertain professional and academic future.

here's what it comes down to:

• by the time jack bauer saves millions of people from russian terrorists plotting to release viles of nerve gas, i will already know which school i will be attending next year. (actually, by the time i probably blog next, i'll have made a graduate school decision.)
• by the time the next season of entourage begins, i will have decided my last day at my current job, signed a lease on a new living space for the next two to four years, and the next president will have been elected on the west wing.
• and by the time america names its tenth american idol, i will be a jd/mba graduate from some yet undecided university.

tv -- and the absurdity of reality tv -- has become a hallmark measure of my reality. and not because i live vicariously through the nerds on beauty and the geek. or critique the fired employees' performances on the apprentice. or cry everytime a needy person has his/her car pimped out.

and perhaps it seems infantile to measure important life decisions by the meaningless and ridiculous truth -- and even domestic porn -- that television creates for millions of americans. but as i find myself on the verge of a reality change, i welcome any stability by which i can normalize uncertainly.

and really, is there anything better in which to find strength than a butterscotch creme brule?

i suppose that most people look up to their older siblings.

but at least six inches taller than she, i find that looking up isn't literally a real possibility. unless, of course, she's wearing her stilettos.

i have been putting off writing the roast of -- i mean toast to -- my older sister for some time now. and it's only because encapsulating erica is a little like describing the simplicity of the quadratic equation. (negative b plus or minus the square root of the quantity negative b-squared minus four ac all over two a. but nonetheless ...)

just as my little brother reached the critical age of 20 (joshua tree) -- thereby involuntarily making his personal stories sharable to the general public through this forum of education -- last month, my sister also reached a significant milestone as far as my book is concerned: twenty-nine.

in essence, the three of us represent the epitome of the twenty-something decade: young, fresh blood. experienced, wiser blood ... and, well. just bleeding.

in addition to representing the over-the-hill-sector of the twenty-nothing experience, my sister's maturity (well, maturity is a debatable term) also serves to exemplify the segment of twenty-somethings approaching real adult-ery.

erica is a doctor. a doctor who dresses in pink juicy jumpsuits, ties her shoes using bunny ears, and skips when she walks. about a year ago, she and i were in a department store trying on the most skanky lingerie we could find (don't all sisters do that to waste an afternoon?), when she managed to find something sheer and skimpy, with two strategically placed tassels. after we finished convulsively laughing, she examined herself in the mirror.

"if my patient's knew that i woke up wearing this, do you think anyone would let me stick them with a needle or give them a rectal?" she asked me.

few situations in life leave me without a witty response. even fewer leave me speechless.

"looooook at me!" she hollered way louder than was appropriate for a department store dressing room while she performed some sort of dance move. "i'm a doctor!"

since then, her infamous "i'm-a-doctor" dance is only rivaled by the "i-see-your-nips" dance, the "welcome-to-our-house-kelly-and-josh" dance, and the "pre-interview warm-up" dance. i think she may even have a pre-surgery good luck dance -- but i just assume that all doctors do. the untrained eye probably can't distinguish between these intricate dance moves, but i assure you they are all unique. (**see picture below.)

and although i have felt the need to compensate for not being the pride of the family by pursing both a business and law degree, my sister reminds me that being a doctor does not necessarily mean that one can read a map, figure out how to use public transportation, or spell the word "second."

in fact, my sister might be able to shove a breathing tube down a patient's throat, but she often can't find her car in a parking lot.

(then again, pursuing a law and/or business degree does not necessarily mean that one can file her own taxes, return phone calls, or pronounce the word "asterisk.")

the abundance of pink in erica's wardrobe and her relationship with her manicurist have only been rivaled by reese witherspoon's character, elle woods, in legally blonde. in fact, erica's manicurist had better seats at my sister's medical school graduation than we (her family) did.

my sister snorts when she laughs. collects anything with a flower pattern. prefers to go braless. wears stilettos to the hospital (or pink tennis shoes). decorates her apartment with antiques anything that looks antique. and really likes sparkley things.

and nothing is more sparkely than a diamond ring. (well, maybe a tiara, but jewish princes -- outside the ones who think they're royalty because their jewish mothers have told them so -- are few and far between these days.) so she got engaged.

(actually, i must admit that i, too, like really sparkely things. but i'm thinking of getting a disco ball.)

part of erica's charm is her radiant smile, her golden-blonde-ever-changing highlights, and her compulsive anxiety; yet while her younger, taller, plumper sister fears the permanence marriage and the permanence of tattoos, erica fears neither.

she currently awaits the one of the two that is not a quarter inch pink heart on her lower left hip.

i guess that taking the plunge -- in marriage and in tattoos -- is part of the twenty-something transformation. we enter the decade as students: choosing between careers, exploring new relationships, and trying different sexual positions. and somewhere in between twenty and twenty-nine we choose a path, end/begin relationships, and figure out that when one put one's leg behind one's head, it really impresses people.

and for all my little older sister's quirks, i realize that for all which we don't share, there is more that we do have in common. and although under no circumstance do i like, buy, or care to incorporate flower patterns and antique crap into my living space, it might be that her greatest faults are the ones that bother me most because so many are my own. but probably not.

so maybe we're supposed to turn 30 with answers. or maybe we just learn to ask the right questions. or maybe having the right dance moves reminds us that no matter what age we are, maturity is overrated.



**i realize how difficult it is to imagine these so-called dances, so here is my little brother and his best friend, robby, demonstrating the "i-see-your-nips" dance. technical difficulties; coming soon.

as i stood in a room filled with nearly 300 people -- each one of whom was older, brighter, smarter, and more experienced than i -- i was consumed by just one thought:

"who the hell let me into business school?"

gmat sentence correction; qualification error:

"who the hell let me into harvard business school?"

this past weekend's leg of the rock-star-nerd tour brought me boston, ma -- famous for tea, traffic, and joey from friends. and although some of my grad school visits have been deemed superfluous, attending admitted-students-weekend at harvard business school (known for short as "hbs" for those of us too important to mince words) was extraordinarily critical for when it comes time to make a grad school decision. my attendance this weekend had one distinct purpose: to gage the snobbiness and pretentious factor.

and in the words of martha stewart's failed apprentice series, whether or not i'd "just fit in."

and here's what i have to report: the pretentious, snobby, and self-absorbed people were far outnumbered by the really big i-banking and finance nerds. in fact, the majority of admitted students were just as shocked as i was that hbs actually accepted us. while humbleness was hardly pervasive, ambition and intelligence was.

i am both proud ... and horrified ... to report that i was wearing more tiffanys jewelry than anyone else there. everyone has some distinguishing characteristic, right?

as everyone does at these painfully awkward forced meeting events, i sought out a few people to befriend to chat with more than superficially between faculty panels, mock classes, and roasted chicken breast over artichoke and heirloom tomato risotto. naturally, i found the one girl from new york city with whom i could adeptly and successfully play jewish geography. and she works for the national football league.

if i go to harvard, i've already claimed her as my best friend.

to date, i have been rejected from approximately two top-ten business schools for no reason beyond my age. i have been rejected from three top-ten law schools (with three more rejections pending), but those eliminations have been for good reasons: lack of a clear purpose. yet until this weekend, i have never been the dumbest and youngest kid in a room. well at least never at the same time.

while no one laughed as i reciprocally shared my dream career goals with which i will pursue after attaining a dual law degree and mba, i have no doubt that many snickered once i walked away: "what the hell is she going to do in the nonprofit world with the ultimate powerhouse corporate degree?" i may not know, but don't doubt what i'm capable of (i.e.: tanning to look latino and wearing fake glasses to look older).

at some point this weekend, my potentially new best friend's fiance asked me why, if i had been rejected base on my age at other great business schools, harvard decided to give me a chance.

that's the $142,695 question, buddy.

i think i improv-ed some line about recognizing potential leadership and proving my ability when i leveraged my age to make significant changes in a mature organization. however, the only viable explanation i can realistically conclude is that there was a drastic mix-up in the admissions office on the day they reviewed my application.

i mean, this is the interview in which they asked me which ceo i admired most and what my greatest fear would be about attending harvard. in case you haven't heard the story: i couldn't remember the name of the ceo i admired most (& he is no longer the ceo) and i gave them an answer to my biggest fear about harvard which was labeled by friends as "pompous" and "arrogant."

and although the dean of admissions assured us jokingly in one session that "no one was accepted by any mistake in the admissions process," i remain unconvinced.

after all, no one really wants a kid to represent its institution who has to tan to look latino, wear glasses to look older, and part my hair on the side to look smarter. or maybe they just reward ambitiousness.

(answer: no, i don't like guns.)

this past weekend -- 7 months after i began what can only be compared to the excruciating pain and shrewdness that comes with pledging a fraternity -- i completed the very last possible (controllable) piece of the grad school application process.

and after an unconventional phone interview this week with a school someone must have paid to pretend to show interest in me (but in case the honorable dean of admission is reading this, i'm deeply grateful that they did and of course i'd be flattered to attend your unparalleled, unpretentious school) ...

... i'm done.

i'm done writing essays. done filling in the blanks. done honing my resume. done regurgitating every small honor and unimpressive award i've ever received in my life (including the car i won in high school). done coming up with reasons why i want a jd/mba. done lying about why i want a jd/mba. done flying around the country showing some cleavage and begging for acceptance (otherwise known as interviewing).

i am done trying to convince admissions committees that my completely uninteresting, unoriginal, and unexceptional life is interesting, original, and exceptional.

applying to graduate schools with a normal (i use the term loosely here) affluent family, without having discovered a cure for cancer, and pretending to maintain a definite-concrete-unambiguous-specific career-ambition-that-completely-changes-pending-my-audience, has been a little bit like running a marathon barefoot. or staring in a porn movie without protection. or flying without the use of an aircraft.

and boy, are my arms tired. (badah-ching)

this whole application process has been fundamental to my life since i started studying for the lsat almost 2 years ago and the gmat a year ago. i guess that somewhere in between a grande/nonfat/vanilla/bone-dry cappuccino and hating my job(s), i convinced myself that i needed at least two graduate degrees to be successful in life. and since that decision to apply and get my ass accepted to a law school and a business school within the same university grounds, admission has been the prize.

and now that i'm done playing the admissions game (with a magic pen/red-window hint book i shall write if twenty-nothing: uncircumcised and uncut, does not work out for me), the rest of my life lies in the hands of admission offers. i'm left open, vulnerable, and naked (naked is perhaps by choice) for judgment as to whether or not my academics, extra-curricular activities, and awards -- my life -- and my cleavage, are good enough.

i hate -- hate -- not being in control. almost as much as i hate not being good enough (read: being rejected).

yet in a sick way that only i could construe, i'm having separation anxiety from the application process; i've become kind of good it. subsequently, i'm quickly developing a severe case of decision anxiety. i can't decide what i want for dinner or what movie to see. and now i have to choose an institution that will determine my education, contacts, friends, family and peers for the rest of my life?

holy crap.

you mean, i have to actually go to grad school?