iRedDelicious

I used to think it was a fad. Like Kabbalah, Scientology, or Twilight-mania. I dismissed it because it was foreign to me. I'd been raised on alternative methods of thought, with differing tools for life. How could I convert after all these years to something that was clearly just a marketing scheme and a clever ploy to make the world into a uniform body with an obsession with one all-powerful entity.

Then I got my MacBook Pro.

With that ridiculously overpriced purchase, I could never look back again at any electronic that was not associated with the name Steve Jobs. Just nickname me iRedDelicious because as far as Windows, HP, Gateway and every other bested brand were concerned, I was a rogue fruit. It was Apple all the way, and no mistake.

But my relationship with the Almighty Fruit did not travel a smooth path. It was a troubled journey full of missteps and wrong turns, choices that would set me back rather than pushing me forward. It would take a while until I'd "Choose the Right" (as a Mormon might put it).

My first encounter with Apple came in preschool. Of that period in my life, I have a few select memories. Some are fascinating insights into childhood - like when one of my childcare teachers (if that's what you'd call them) took my favorite jacket from me and removed the lace that is used to tighten the hood. I cried and I cried and I complained to my mom. But it couldn't be salvaged.

Other memories are not so traumatic or telling. One of them is a little snapshot of looking around in my childcare center and seeing a little symbol on a computer. A rainbow colored apple. The symbol meant absolutely nothing to me, but shortly thereafter I'd connect some dots - realizing that the computer I had was different than the one I saw in childcare. What that meant, though, was lost on me.

A few years later, the movie Legally Blonde came out. In one scene of the film, Elle purchases a new Mac laptop so she can fit in with the Harvard Law crowd, but unlike the rest of the students in her classes - her laptop was white and bright, almost neon, orange.

At that point, I still only used a computer for playing Solitaire and going on AOL to chat with my friend Ashley, so the concept of Apple versus PC was still a foreign concept. A computer is a computer is a computer, right? The only benefit of an Apple computer was that it came in a snazzy neon color. Which I guess was a draw, but it was not enough to trump my multi-colored "Away" status on AIM.

Up until then, I can't remember Apple products being much of a phenomenon. Sure, they were competitors to the Windows sales model, but they weren't exactly a threat. What they offered was equivalent to what was already well-provided by an established market of home computers. Equivalency being relative, since my tech-un-savvy brain knows nothing about the strengths and weaknesses of early 2000's era Macs versus PCs.

When I finally got an Apple product, though, I was entering my early teens. I walked into Costco and picked up that silver iPod Mini, and as I held it up to the light (I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect, here, I hope you know) it was like looking at the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Nothing could be more beautiful than a little box-y electronic that held hours of music on it. When I touched that scroll-y circle (technical term), it was like Adam touching the hand of God (I'll leave it up to you to decide whether or not I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect here).

Still, I refused to embrace the concept that was Apple fandom. Surely Apple products were, as my young self believed, the equivalent to their computer counterparts.

That's why when I went to college, I was suckered into buying a Laptop PC. My dad and I were at a local electronics store, wandering through the aisles when a floor salesman ambushed us in the Apple aisle to drag us over to a row of off-brand Laptops. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and put it inside the laptop, slamming it shut and proclaiming to us and the entire store that it had "incredible durability." An MacBook wouldn't be able to do that. And they're made for people working with art and imaging, not word processing like me, the budding young journalism student.

So I was duped. And even though I left that store without purchasing a thing - since I realized that it was some kind of a scam - when I moved onto another store I'd mistakingly abandoned the idea of getting a Mac - even though in my heart of hearts I was starting to believe there was something to Apple-ianity. Apple-ism. Apple-tology. Apple-am.

I went on for a year and a half with my Laptop PC. It did fine work for about...well...two days or so. A short time after I started using the thing, I was already discovering defects in the audio and the general speed of the functions of the computer. But returning it was out of the question.

So I stuck with Soleil 2.0 until her very last day. It was my first day of class in Winter Quarter 2012, and I was all set to go to my Landscape and Cinema class with a pen, a notebook and Soleil.

Then she died quite suddenly. As I tapped the Firefox shortcut on my desktop, she shuddered and turned black. Pop-ups blasted all over my screen. Somehow I'd gotten a virus onto my computer - even with my purchase of a full-priced security and virus protection program.

When Soleil died, I was lost. I called my dad and I asked him what to do - should I buy a new laptop in person or purchase one online and use school computers in the interim? There were many concerns, but one thing was absolutely decided: I was not getting another PC.

When I purchased Soleil 3.0, there was a bit of a learning curve, but as with every Apple product I've ever purchased, that was soon dismissed.

Now, after having her for almost seven months, I think about my transition from hesitant Apple customer to one of the many who've found themselves worshipping the partially bitten fruit. If I'm going to return to a previously used metaphor, we are a bit like the image on the Sistine Chapel. Except instead of God representing the Almighty Fruit, we would have to replace the ceiling's imagery with the apple itself. The forbidden fruit - that lost us eternal life, but gave us a reason to live. That is not to say that Apple as a brand is the be all end all of humanity's need for electronic interconnectivity, but the ease and beauty of Apple is sometimes awarded to us in exchange for our souls.

Yesterday I bought my first iPhone. I say "first" because when it comes to Apple, there's always a second. And a third. And maybe even a fourth and a fifth, though only time will tell. Not because the products are defective or fall apart easily (as was the fate of poor Soleil 2.0), but because we as humans want our devices to keep evolving along with us.

A few minutes ago, my dad interrupted my writing of this blog with a phone call. He was on his way home from work with his new iPhone and wanted to ring me just to let me know how much he loves using his new phone.

I think that little moment between my dad and me is the perfect example of what Apple does for its customers. It gives them something to be excited about, something to take joy in and want to share that joy in with everyone around them. It's why there is such a large cult following behind these products. It's why as soon as a new model of iPhone comes out, the next one is already being hypothesized about. It's why they've invented tools like FaceTime and every reputable programmer has their eyes set on the next marketable App.

It's why we've all found ourselves considering our own devoted worship of the Almighty Fruit. And Amen for that.

Storytelling 101

A lot of times when I think about writing this blog, I'm astounded with my lack of creativity. As I near 200 posts, I think about how much I've written of already and it makes me wonder whether there's even anything more to say. There must come an end point in a writing spree, no?

Then I think about how I started writing. Not just writing like copying down letters and spelling out my name, but really writing. Learning to express myself in different ways, not just academically, but personally. I think about my high school freshman year journalism class.

Some of my favorite anecdotes of that class involve watching Newsies as part of the curriculum, or having my stomach growl in the middle of the class as I waited to be released for lunch. But I didn't only walk away with a greater love for Christian Bale and a schedule-specific diet.

I also walked away with a career path. And even more than that, a greater understanding of what I am capable of doing in every aspect of my life. Because that's what writing does - if you do it right, that is. It lets you peek into your mind to discover the little treasures that lie in there. Even when you can't find the words in conversation, or you can't even think of a concept in your own mind, your fingers have a way of doing the talking and bringing clarity.

It was when I met my high school mentor, Ms. Cummings, that I really discovered this.

Through years of elementary school and middle school English lessons, I'd been told a million things about how to write. First they just asked us to tell stories. Then they told us to structure them with introductions, body paragraphs and conclusions. Then they overcomplicated things by dissecting paragraphs into funnel introductions, topic sentences, evidence, analysis, conclusions, etc. etc. until we were practically crying out to have our individual voices returned to us.

I think I came into Ms. Cummings' class with a reputation that preceded me. She'd known and liked my sister when she was in high school, and after middle school when she and my dad were both picking up their kids in the parking lot, she got to know him too. The last one was me, and I'm pretty sure I made an impression.

Most of the kids in my journalism class were seniors who needed an easy elective. Little did they know that there was nothing easy about it, and perhaps they should've elected to take something more suited for them. At 14, I had 17 year olds asking me why I got A's on all the assignments when they barely scrounged up a B in the class.

To be honest, I didn't understand. It only became clear to me a few years later that maybe my ability to write was not just an act of favoritism, but an encouragement of what Ms. Cummings saw as my greatest strength.

Throughout high school I got higher and higher on the student newspaper. I ended up sharing the role of Editor-in-Chief in my senior year. It was during this time that I started considering what my real goals were.

At the time, my grandma assumed I was still a malleable teenager who could be persuaded into pursuing any sort of career with the promise of money. She would tell me, "Go into a government job," reminding me of the stability and the constant flow of cash.

But I wanted to work for love. So I thought a lot about what I would major in to make that happen.

Journalism was the obvious choice, Ms. Cummings would tell me. If I wanted to become a writer, I should go to a school with a top notch journalism program. But so few schools even offered journalism majors. I settled on applying to study English at about 85 percent of the schools I applied to.

When it came down to a final decision, though, it became even more clear to me that the colleges could see the same in me that Ms. Cummings did. Many of the schools where I applied to study English shunned me, but of the two I chose to pursue journalism at, I was a welcome candidate.

Still, I thought about what my options were. Would I be happy going into a journalism profession? Was it really right for me?

To those questions I haven't even found the answers, and I'm already nearing 20. What I do know, though, is that the place I've been brought to (via Ms. Cummings urging and pushing my own inhibitions aside) has allowed me to grow as a person. It keeps me interacting with people where an English degree would have had me hauled up with books 24/7 (I do that anyway when I can). It improves my writing by forcing me to push myself to lengths that an English student could never dream of reaching (ask my dad, he writes the same amount of text as I do in four times as long). And somehow, it makes me even better at expressing myself despite the confines of a journalistic writing style.

Thanks to a freshman year of being told I'd found my greatest skill, I've been able to hone that skill and make it into something different - and better - than it was before. Without that I wouldn't have gone to a good school, been given fascinating internship opportunities...or started writing this blog. And I don't think I'd feel comfortable giving up any of those life experiences.

Baby obsession in pictures

Much like yesterday, I spent a lot of my day thinking about how despite wanting to write a blog, I needed time off to relax and just stop thinking. Since I'm going into work extra early tomorrow (on a Sunday, gasp) for a photoshoot that I'll be assisting on, I thought I might as well document my day's activities (in other words babysitting my niece) in photos rather than try to make some philosophical inquiry tonight. My brain just can't handle it and I want to sleep.

But this is an incredibly cute baby, so you should actually be pleased I chose to share her instead of my thoughts.

The easiest way to distract her for long periods of time.

As Leona the kitty looks on in mocking serenity.

But TV won't suffice for long, so before she leaves, Mommy (my sister, Emily) does what SySy loves best - she claps.

SySy helping my dad play kitty piano.

Then she reads - or flips pages.

More book reading.

Then it's peanut butter and jelly time.

And time for some lame "artsy" pictures of toys.

More lame "artsy" pictures of toys.

But we're really here to see this adorable little one, aren't we?

Hopefully you enjoyed this little insight into my niece's world. She's not half as adorable in photos as she is in person, but I'm sure you can just imagine what kind of craziness ensued while babysitting her. Goodnight and thank you for not chopping my head off for being a lazy bum of a writer.

Pizza chefs in pictures

This is a story about three friends who came together on a Friday night to make pizza and watch the top notch Mary-Kate & Ashley film, Winning London. It's not a particularly enthralling story, or a particularly dubious one, but it is filled with laughter and yummy food. So hopefully you will enjoy.

We have a game where when we open our door to whoever is outside, we take an awkward picture of them. Diana wasn't prepared even though I was the one outside the door.

Say Yes to the Dress was on TV, but before we sat down to watch, we set out flour so that we could...

Let the dough set for a few minutes. Looks tasty, no?

Yeah, I was lying. But it will look more delicious when it's in the shape of a pizza.

As the dough was setting, we waited for Kelly's arrival. When she came, she was greeted at the door with a surprise photo in the dark.

Together, Kelly and I had salads. Diana complained about having eaten non-stop all day. We could not say the same of ourselves.

The dough had set and it was time to roll it out. The instructions suggest either using a rolling pin or your hands. Of course we chose hands.

With one goopy ball (technical term) of whole wheat dough and another of a dough filled with herbs, we proceeded to smush them into whatever shapes we could (with little preference for circles).

We added sauce and cheese, tomatoes and fresh basil, and set the oven to 450 degrees.

And we put our little triangle baby into the oven. That sounds strange. If you replace 'baby' with 'pizza' it makes more sense.

Kelly managed to make her pizza into a trapezoid. And so the second round of our geometric dinner entered the oven.

Soon enough (after about 10 false alarms and 30 minutes of Winning London), our pizzas were ready. We feasted for minutes, making "mmm" sounds and dancing without even realizing it.

 

Our night wasn't crazy. We ended up dispersing before midnight (once the Mary-Kate & Ashley festivities had ceased). But we had more fun than a lot of people have staying out all night. And we ate good food too.

This is what summer is all about. I hope yours is happy too.

Love,

Rachel

The city of angels

It pains me to give you homework, but for the context of this blog post you might want to read this New York Times opinion column.

Earlier today I was sitting around floating through the Times' website, looking for something, anything that might catch my eye. I saw a photo of a bridge and an article titled "The Commuter's City." After nearly three full workweeks of traveling from Orange County into the San Fernando Valley in the morning and back again in the evening, this was a title that intrigued me. It meant something to me because after hours of whining about sitting in traffic, I wanted someone to opine with me on the tortures of living just outside a city.

Well that's not what I got in this article. Instead, I read an homage to small just-outside-a-city towns everywhere. Absent were the long-winded rants about the troubles of traffic, the self-righteous prose about suburban-life versus metropolitan living (notice the differentiated connotations of "life" versus "living"). What was present in high quantities was a loving retelling of a life with a view of New York, but just outside its confines.

I didn't grow up just outside New York. I have, however, lived my whole life just outside a city. From infancy until young adulthood, I have always been an hour's drive outside a big city, but never anywhere closer unless I was in a car.

This is LA. I hope you already knew that.

My mom worked in Los Angeles for years and years, so every few weeks I'd make my way into the city to experience life "on the other side." But the other side was still something nebulous, devoid of meaning save for the pleasure of driving past the Pantages Theatre or Walt Disney Animation Studios.

We'd drive into downtown, park in a parking structure and go upstairs to what I believe was the 14th floor. I'd stand on her vent and look out the window at the freeway overpasses below. Cars would zoom into and out of the city, but I would just them from above - a nonparticipant.

Most of my time in my mom's office was spent playing with a receipt printing machine, punching numbers in and telling my mom she owed whatever quantity of money. If I wasn't typing out numbers, I was using the rubber stamp collection she stashed away to destroy perfectly clean pieces of printer paper.

If we did venture out of the building she worked on, my mom and I would go to the Bonaventure Hotel across the street. I'd have a strawberry-banana smoothie at one of the little shops in the building, she'd grab a cup of coffee or a quick bite and we'd head back.

I knew little else of Los Angeles other than those two high-rise buildings. But in some way I appreciated being a spectator.

Being a commuter myself, though, has changed how I see Los Angeles and its surrounding counties. No longer is it this place of mystery and intrigue, where there are smoothies aplenty and stationery tools I can fiddle about with.

The city that resides just beyond my Orange County-ite reach is a regular, old, lackluster place.

When I read this article, though, I was reminded that perhaps complaining was not all I should do for this or any city I live near. Sometimes, it's better to revert back to that childlike perception which allowed the belief to persist that skyscrapers were beautiful and sidewalks could be places of exploration rather than the favorite haunts of homeless people.

As I was growing up, all I dreamed of was a life in a big city. The first time I visited New York, I promised myself I'd move there. When I went to London, I made the same decision. But over time those hopes changed and took on different characteristics. I decided if I were to live in a city, I wanted to live in a more rural part of that city, or at least near a park. The wonders of a life surrounded by concrete and steel were no longer of interest.

But when you step back and look at a place like New York, London, even Los Angeles, you can't help but notice that there's something beautiful about them. They're these giant communities that are populated by millions of people, yet they feel so singular and personal. When you see a city or travel through it, you develop your own traditions, memories, internal images. The city becomes your own, even if you don't necessarily live in it.

I've spent too long thinking of myself as an outsider of Los Angeles. Looking at the city from a distance makes me judgmental and harsh. But looking at every city in the world, I still embrace the fact that I have had the chance to grow up near on at all. I may be conflicted about the beauty of these places, but that in no way reduces their value, as a stepping stone into a diverse and thriving world just outside my passenger seat window.