Christmas Eve's Eve

I don't know how many people call this day Christmas Eve's Eve, but I love the label. It makes the day just a little more special and makes the anticipation of Christmas Day just a little sweeter.

And it's also part of the reason that I'm persnickety about the names for things. Like, when I found out what fruit ambrosia was, I was super angry that something so disgusting was deemed worthy of the name ambrosia. There's a super strict part of me that insists on having just the right name for things and finding out what things are called when I don't know.

It's the reason I loved finding out the meaning of the word "philtrum" and figuring out that I could say "rheum" instead of "eye boogers." And I love using the phrase "Christmas Eve's Eve" because it's so wonderfully precise and festive that I feel a zing of delight in using it.

Naming something makes it more real and tangible. If I don't have a name for it, what is it really? I'll need ten other words to describe it and even then I might not be able to communicate what I actually mean. I'm not able to talk about it or write about it or even like/dislike it completely. The first thing we do when we discover something is name it. When a new life comes into the world, we make a big deal of giving the baby a name that will define him or her. Adam named the animals and so we name the rest of the animals and elements and chemicals and everything we've invented and dreamt about.

And people's names mean something, which is probably why I own two baby name books and why I get excited when the Social Security Administration releases its annual list of the most popular baby names. I love looking up name meanings and hearing new names and wondering what they mean.

I once met a girl from Iran named Arazou. She told me her name meant "wish" in Persian. I'm usually not great with remembering what people's names are no matter how simple or common the name. But I always remembered hers because I thought it was nice that her name meant something fanciful and dreamlike.

So the enchantment is this: Names are important and what we choose to name ourselves and others can make or break us.

House of Mourning

I like sad stories. 

This doesn't mean that I like stories that are mawkish and corny. Way too many stories insert sentimentality that doesn't really teach anything about life or pain. Sure, they may teach a few good lessons, but, ultimately, the tragedy doesn't do anything for the story that a happy ending could do just as well. The fatalistic idea that life is futile and full of sadness and that there are no bright spots is almost as bad. (This is kind of how I felt when I watched A Farewell to Arms.)

But good stories with sad endings or overall happy stories with sad or bittersweet elements--those are the ones I love. I've even wondered why and thought maybe something must be wrong with me.

But recently I read this Ecclesiastes 7:2-4 and it got me thinking.

It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart. Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.

When we don't acknowledge sadness, we don't acknowledge every aspect of life. We ignore it to focus on what is easy and convenient for us. We never think seriously about things and we drown ourselves in frivolous pursuits so we don't have to feel pain. But pain is a part of life and we have to deal with it in a healthy manner rather than leave someone else to deal with it. In the same way, we can't be so wrapped up in our pain that we have no mental space to be there for those who love us. When we know the seriousness of pain, we can better understand and acknowledge others' pain.

Those who choose to ignore sadness can't be compassionate toward others. They are uncomfortable with tears and don't wish to have their happy-go-lucky lives interrupted by reminders that life isn't always sunny. They'd rather be blissfully unaware of suffering and not do anything about it.

That not expressing our sadness is not healthy and doesn't allow us to fully experience other emotions was basically the lesson of Pixar's Inside Out. Because Riley can't express her sadness, she is unable to cope with the changes around her. It's why her core emotion Joy has to feel sadness to fully understand Riley. It's only when she experiences this sadness that she is able to overcome her situation to achieve her goal.

The film's director Pete Docter summed this up perfectly in a quote for E! News: "Joy is certainly something we seek after and desire, but it's not always in reality what we get. I think it feels truthful to people, which is what we were reaching for. Unlike a fairy tale where it all wraps up in a nice happy ending, you deal with the reality of loss and disappointment. That's where sadness really comes in."

So the enchantment is this: Life has happiness and sadness and we have to deal with both. But we don't have to deal with it alone.

Being a Mermaid

Who doesn't want to be a mermaid right?

Every time I go to the beach, I spend some time lounging on the shore, out of the tide's pull but within its reach. It's a way of enjoying the water without having to constantly fight the waves or jump over them.

And without fighting the waves, you can just let nature literally wash over you and listen to the crash of the water, finally expelling the energy that's propelled it for miles and miles. The sand is coarser when you rub it against you and your skin easily absorbs billions of sunbeams that traveled eight million miles to fry or warm you.

I actually don't care much for nature though my desktop backgrounds would suggest the opposite. Walking outside is a bother unless it's cool and windy and preferably overcast and I've never been one for roughing it out in the wilderness or even a park. But the ocean is different. As long as I stay where my feet can touch the sand, I feel safe from the sharks and fish and seagulls and crabs and rip currents and whatever else is out there in the big blue. It's just me and the feeling of being in a little piece of the small infinity that is the ocean.

I used to dream that I could breathe underwater, even though I'm not the best of swimmers. But I've never gone out into the deep to experience the feeling of weightlessness. I've never thought of improving my swimming skills to enjoy the water even more. All I think about after the waves have tossed me over and shoved me back to the shore is that I want to sit in a comfortable spot and not think about my worries for a while.

Some people sleep at the beach. Others swim or read. I sometimes read, but mostly I think. It comes so naturally to me that I don't know how others live without taking the time to just sit with their thoughts. And when you pair your thoughts with the ocean, your thoughts don't feel small and important. They feel like they matter, like they're the perfect foreground for the immense background noise and image that is the ocean--like everything's in harmony even if your thoughts aren't.

This is another one of those thoughts that I feel doesn't have an enchantment except that it's great to just relax at the beach with your own thoughts. It's always good to take the time to do that.

The Lake Made Me Sick

When I was little, I lived in a house near a lake. Not a big lake or some luxury water sports paradise. Just a lake that grew from a canal and made neighborhood backyards a little more picturesque than they would've been. Looking at it from Google Earth, one can see it's not Lake Tahoe, but it's a body of water larger than a puddle, and that's good enough for suburbians.

This lake wasn't special, but it made for a nice backyard, and I suppose the ducks visited often and we would give them food. I have a distinct memory of my dad holding one and me freaking out when it waved its wings. Maybe that's why I strongly dislike ducks now.

There was a red canoe, which apparently I did go on once, but I don't remember. But the canoe belonged to our landlord as did the Chinese-style gazebo that I always longed to lounge in but never had the freedom to. I felt as if everything belonged to him, even that lake.

This sounds like a charmed childhood, and for the most part it was except that I often had bouts of bronchitis, and the doctor said it was because we lived by a lake.

According to my parents, when we moved, I stopped getting sick. Now, I only get sick about once every two to three years.

But I'll always wonder though if the lake was really that bad. Sure, it was nondescript, but I wasn't one to play outside very much. How was something so pure-looking so toxic to me?

There's a lake in the neighborhood we live in now. It's not in our backyard, and we never go visit it. And there may be a lake behind my window, but a giant tree that looks more like a bush on steroids blocks most of my view. For a while before that tree became an overachiever, I could see several small bodies of water that I called lakes even though they were separated by little more than ridges of dirt. The rain would wash away the distinctions and make everything the same.

I swam in a classmate's lake for an end-the-year party. It made my hair and skin smooth and I loved the feeling of the mossy rocks against my toes.


I've been trying to find an enchantment for my relationship with lakes. They haven't followed me around really, and I'll always prefer the ocean. But there's something about the placidity of a lake, the way the wind moves above the surface just so--just gently enough to make it seem that it's constantly moving. The way it reflect the color of the sky truer than the ocean does. Lakes just seem to make anyplace more serene. Even the little sliver of lake I can see from my window makes me feel calm.

So the enchantment seems to be this: Nature. Just nature.

I Miss You (Not)

When I watch a movie and a character says "I miss you," a little bit of my heart warms. But in real life, in most of my experiences (obviously can't speak for everyone else), the sentence "I miss you" is uttered with almost as much flippancy as the sentence "I love you."

I miss lots of things. I miss Disney World a lot. I miss watching cartoons on Saturday morning. I miss a certain little dog (that story coming soon).

But what really gets to you is when you miss people. And the thing is, you want to be missed. You want people to long for you to be in their lives, especially certain people. So when you hear "I miss you" and you know the person doesn't mean it, it makes hurt that much harder to get over, no matter how insignificant it is. No matter how much you think you've forgotten.

Recently, an old friend of my sister's commented on my sister's Instagram photo. The message read in part, "I miss you." My sister was surprised as she hadn't spoken to this person in years and this other person was the one who had left the friendship.

I wasn't too surprised, even though I knew it was disingenuous. I just expect it to be one of those things that people say without thinking or say when they don't want to make someone feel bad.

"I miss you" we tell that friend we never take the time to call.

"I'll miss you" we write in the yearbook of that school chum we know we won't bother to hang out with over the summer.

"I miss you guys" we tell a group of fun acquaintances after someone tell a really good joke and you're glowing in the endorphins and company.

"I'll miss you" we tell people who are leaving their lives, even, sometimes, when we don't really know them that well.

But doesn't it follow that if you miss someone, you do everything you can to let them know and close the distance? You call. You text at least occasionally. Surely, you do more than act like you were crossing your fingers behind your back when you said "I miss you."

Or maybe you don't because maybe, sometimes, we say "I miss you" for ourselves and not for the other person. Maybe it's just a way of saying, "I know we haven't talked in a while and though I'm not super bummed that you're not in my life anymore, I feel kind of guilty about the way things ended so I'm saying 'I miss you' even though no part of me longs for your company anymore so that you don't think that I just completely stopped caring because I don't want you to think I'm  cold, heartless person. But really, I'm fine without you. I'm just trying to make myself feel better because I believe you miss me a lot even though I haven't honestly asked you if you did, or maybe because you said 'I miss you' for the exact same reason I said 'I miss you.'"

Or so it seems.

So the enchantment is this: Maybe, just maybe, there's a few people out there who mean it when they say "I miss you."

Forgetting to Fly

I used to float in my dreams--push myself off the ground and experience a few moments of weightlessness as if the air and I were one. And a lot of times, I could fly, soar through the air and see the clouds and whatever was below me.

As I grew up, I had to focus hard to float slowly upward. Flying became harder and more energy-consuming and I had to swim in the air to stay afloat.

Maybe the effort I had to exert in my dreams mirrored my effort against how sucky life can be. Maybe my mind was letting things get me down and maybe my dreams were trying to grapple with that.

I don't remember all my dreams, but, except for nightmares, I have the impression that they used to be fanciful and fun and maybe even beautiful. These days, most of my dreams are either strange or disappointing--mostly both.

As I write this paragraph, I'm in the midst of a vivid dream aftermath when you remember most of the dream when you wake up and you recount it to yourself to make sure the details don't slip away later.

I dreamed I was in a sort of dreamhouse. It was almost like a luxury wooden cottage. It had tons and tons of rooms. Everything was a mess because it hadn't been cleaned in a while. There were two dogs--one small and fluffy and one large and short-haired--and I was wondering when the last time they had eaten was. There was even something like a Disney Store on the fourth floor. And though I knew someone else was taking care of the house and was visiting every few days, I had the distinct feeling that the house was mine and that I could do what I please with it. I'm pretty sure I had a key too. It was my property.

And then ... everything messed up. About twenty kids came over and I had to take care of them. A former friend showed up and I had to avoid her. And I was anxious about a million little things that I couldn't see but I could clearly feel.

In most of my dreams, I'm frustrated and overpowered. I try to yell and my voice comes out weak and hoarse and falls on deaf ears. I try to drive and I have to navigate impossibly steep hills (we're talking 90 degree angles here). I go to school and I get lost on campus or I fail a class.

I get in big trouble or I'm scared or something bad happens or I'm falling and then my subconscious reminds me it's a dream and I force myself to wake up.

Once in a while, I still dream about trying to fly. I end up swimming ineffectively, trying desperately to get some traction on the invisible air and failing miserably.

In the end, it's all our anxieties coming out in our dreams and messing with us, so that our brains can supposedly process our lives better. So we won't go insane.

But I can't see why my brain can't give me a break and give me happy dreams. Take me to Disney World, brain! Show me what it's like to sail around the world and find a private island!

Or, you know, don't show me my former friend in the house of my dreams and remind me that I haven't gotten over some stuff and that I don't know how much longer the hurt will last.

And please don't have me facing that same friend in another dream and have her say absentmindedly, "Isn't it weird how we never talk anymore?" and then not have her answer me when I tell her the truth.

Obviously, my brain and I have to work through some stuff together, but maybe it's better to have these dreams as long as I don't have to face exaggerated anxieties in real life.

The enchantment here? Just what I wrote. Bad dreams are just dreams and we don't have to let them come true.

I don't really do poetry

I think most of us fancy ourselves poets as least once in our lives, especially when we're told to write a poem in school.

I prefer poems that have a clear meaning while managing to be lyrical. It probably stems from my frustration with poems that I couldn't understand as I analyzed them in college classrooms. See, my problem is I tend to take things literally before I start seeing them as symbols. For example, in a college English course, I read the poem "Barbie Doll" by Marge Piercy. I thought it was about a woman who had become so unsatisfied with her body that she cut her nose and legs. In reality, the character had plastic surgery and apparently died of complications.

Of course, the meaning was fairly obvious once I heard it. Still, when I read these things, I tend to think, "Why not just say that with pretty words?"

So, when I have written poetry, I find myself trying to be deep and slightly symbolic and clear and--for lack of a better word--poetic, only to end up being obtuse. I'd still like to think though that any poems I've written (mostly ones I've had to write for class) have had a clear message.

So, in the spirit of knowing I will never be a poet, I present this specimen written in a moment of poetic hubris. I wrote it for a science and nature writing class after spending some time outside and wondering what I should write about. I remember sitting in a gazebo and seeing an ant crawl near me and later realizing that dirt was part of nature and it was literally everywhere. I may have also gotten the impresson that sitting in the gazebo was getting dirt on my clothes as well because that's what I tend to think when I'm outside.

As is obvious, I had some fun with the physical form because poetry amirite?

Aschenputtel, etc.

“A bit of earth—

“She wants a little bit of earth.

“She’ll plant some seeds.”

But can she not find it everywhere?

Dirt, sand, soil, earth.

Housing our trees, nourishing our flowers, displacing protein and cartilage as organisms decompose.

Soot on her dress.

Cinders on her face.

Wind and water buffet the rocks, creating sand and sand and more sand—the creation of multicolors, flavors, textures, and sands of time in the hourglass.

Ash exploding from the earth, burying a city.

Rendering it forgotten.

Grainy, rocky, dry, moist.

Dust on the mantelpiece.

Layered by time and settled by abandon.

Irritating pink membranes until covered by cream—desirable when hardened.

In the cracks of your skin, caked under your nails.

Scratching your eyes as your slide into home base.

Seeping into the lungs, sickening and clogging oxygen.

In the black mud pie.

Made fresh to order—heavy on the water, light on the gravel.

Sometimes free of dirt’s impurity but never free of its elements.

For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

Too deep? Too shallow? Too much? It's whatever at this point.
So the enchantment is this: you can write poetry even when you're not a poet, and no one can stop you.

Love is a Funny Word

When I was in seventh grade, I made a few friends. And by "friends," I mean school friends, the kind that you hang out with only at school. They were all in eighth grade, so we didn't even share classes together except for a choir class. We sat at lunch together every day, and that was pretty much it.

We bonded to the point where we bought each other Christmas gifts. I've always wondered if that really meant something. On the one hand, it's a big deal for me to spend money on people, and as we tend to see the world through our eyes, I almost always assume it's a big deal for someone to spend money on me as well. On the other hand, it was a private school, and most of these kids were rich, so maybe they just could spend the money, which makes me doubt the validity of the gifts.

Anyway ... on my way to class one day, I passed by one of the girls and we exchanged some words about a present she bought me, the details of which are lost in my memory. The one thing I do remember is that the conversation ended with me shouting, "I still love you though!"

See by then, I had picked up some of their vernacular, which included liberally telling each other "I love you" in the spirit of young philea love. Those relationships fizzled out pretty fast for reasons that are too convoluted to post here. But from then on, I was aware of the fact that some friends felt the freedom to express their love to each other.

That's when the cynicism started setting in. For good reason, I might add. We'd all like to think that love means forever. It's strong and lingering and unquenchable when nurtured. So when I said "I love you" to those temporary friends, did I really mean it? Did I love them at the moment? Or did I only think that because my ego was flattered?

These questions have followed me into my other friendships as well. Depending on the situation, I start thinking, "Okay, we've openly expressed that we love each other as friends. Then why do you not act like I'm your friend?" And then things change, and love either turns cold or the feelings of love turn out to be mirages--beautiful to see but impossible to feel.

This self-imposed cynicism, built in part by the dictates of the company I've kept, has lead me to keep the word "love" to myself and those I truly know I love. Of course, when it's not people, I'm okay using it. I do use the word to express my excitement for things/celebrities/hobbies I enjoy. I liberally say, "I love this song" or "I love this actor. He's the best." But when it comes to a person standing right in front of me--that's when I my love meter goes into hyperdrive.

Several times, would-be friends have told me they love me, and I freeze as several questions run through my head. Would it sound mean if I don't say "I love you too"? Do I just say, "Aw that's nice"? Why the heck is this person saying that? We never talk to each other. Not really anyway. I've tripped up and lied, feeling awkward and experiencing the burn of being disingenuous as I muttered "I love you too."

Thinking like this can be exhausting but worth it. But it can also take its toll on you when you realize that some people you said "I love you" to can turn their back on you just when you thought everything was going to be fine. Which, of course, makes you all the more cautious. Sure, I believe in opening up your heart to people, but you have to admit that little bit of cynicism can keep you from being hurt. At least it's worked for me. Sometimes.

So the enchantment is this: There are a few people you can believe when they say "I love you" and that's enough to make up for all the fakes.

Stories that Stay With You

In middle school, I read a short story about a blue jay called "Bobo." I don't really remember the story at all, and I don't remember being particularly impressed by it. What I do know is that I mentioned the story in one of my old middle school writings--a reference that tells me that I liked the story and maybe even wanted a pet blue jay of my own. Though this is hard for me to wrap my head around since I actually strongly dislike birds, and you couldn't pay me enough to have one in my house.

Until I remembered "Bobo," I thought that stories that stick with you stick with you forever. I realized that maybe some stories don't stick with you as much leave a delicate impression that can be easily molded as you change as person.

When I first read Jacob Have I Loved, I thought it was amazing. I thought I had found a masterpiece of writing that I would love forever and carry with me for the rest of my life. I'm not sure how long it took me afterward to decide the story is odd and depressing. I found I didn't care for the heroine's personality, didn't like that she fell in love with a man in his 70s, thought the ending was rushed, and wasn't impacted by the final scene.

(I'm not saying it's not a good book. In my memory, it's a well-written and engaging coming-of-age story. It just didn't appeal to me.)

But then there are the stories that do stick with you forever, like a bumper sticker you can't get off your car. This is one of them.

John, a young poor farmer, marries well-to-do girl Mary. Soon after their wedding, he finds a book of English poetry and decides to memorize a poem and surprise her with it.

John tells Mary that though he doesn't have a phonograph like she had, he will give her what he can. He recites the poem he's memorized, and Mary is delighted and concludes that he wrote it. Before he has time to explain, Mary excitedly tells him how talented he is. Not wanting to disappoint her, John decides to memorize more poems and recites them to her over the years.

Years later, their children come to visit and the daughter shows her mother the poetry book. She tells her, "Can't you see that dad has been lying to you all these years?" Mary responds, "No, he never lied to me. He never told me that he wrote those poems. I was the one who assumed he had. And I'm glad you showed this to me because now I know how much your father loves me." Mary resolves to never tell John that she knows his secret.

One day, Mary becomes ill and on her deathbed, she tells her husband," John, poem. A new one." But John is out of poems, having memorized and recited all the poems in the book. So he makes one up on the spot. "John, you wrote it," she says when he's done. "Yes," he says truthfully. She dies thinking it wasn't his work, and on her grave, John places the book of poems.

I read this story in school, but, for some reason, couldn't find it in the book I thought I read it. I have no idea who wrote it and I've tried Googling for it to no avail. But who know? Maybe someone out there in the world will read this and tell me where it comes from.

In the meantime, the enchantment is this: Not all stories stick with you, but the ones that do are the ones that matter.

The More We Get Together

When I was a kid, I used to watch a show called Kid Songs, which was basically TRL for prepubescents.

The songs were upbeat, playful and optimistic, and, as a young, impressionable child, you couldn't really help but believe everything they were singing, especially when they all looked so happy singing together. I mean, they had a song called "I Like Trucks" and you sang along, even if you had never been in a truck.

Several of these songs still roam around my musical memory, especially one that I heard a lot.

The more we get together, together, together
The more we get together
The happier we'll be
'Cause your friends are my friends
And my friends are your friends
The more we get together
The happier we'll be

The word "together" drills into your mind like a not-so-subliminal message: "Get all your friends together and everyone will be happy!" After all, who doesn't want their friends to like each other? Surely, even those who are convinced their groups wouldn't cohere still wouldn't want these groups to strongly dislike each other. Those who like having different friend groups would prefer these friends to be indifferent to each other and not uncomfortable with each other.

Google+ (which I still insist is underrated) understood that people have different groups of friends and created circles so people can decide what to share with each one. I know this works for some people. I, too, used to think having different groups of friends worked well when you liked everyone equally.

But the thing is, I've never really seen equality of friendship in these situations. People always seem to be more friends with one group than another.

Or jealousy gets in the way. Feelings get hurt. Promises are made only to be broken. People form bonds with some that they don't form with others, and professional and personal interests get in the way of strengthening existing bonds.

It's hard for me to fully articulate what happened to me last year that made me think hard about this topic. It took a while to come to an anticlimactic head, and involved different social settings. All the world's a stage and there were many scenery changes and even costume changes on my part.

A series of events--fortunate and unfortunate, personal and professional--and the people that participated in these events combined and disconnected to form a web that I felt I couldn't unstick myself from. People's attitudes ebbed and flowed, actions were misunderstood, time was spent with some people and not with others, and, as always, things were said to people's faces and behind people's backs.

In the end, the web seemed to kicked me out of its own will. I was left floating aimlessly in the wind, shell shocked and wondering what had happened. Wondering most of all if I should reach out. If it was my job to call or text and make sure things were okay. But did it really matter if no one cared to be reaching out to me?

This is all vaguely poetic, of course, but the feelings I went through while trying to cope when it was all over were real. I still struggle with them, which I try to convince myself is normal.

Sometimes, I wonder if I was selfish in wanting everything to turn out a specific way and trying to talk people into going that way. Then I try to convince myself that I was trying as hard as possible to not be controlling, since "controlling" is never one of the words I want associated with me.

I don't know how much longer all these thoughts will float in and out of my mind. I'll be frying eggs or going through Facebook or taking a shower and the thoughts will just come to me and I'll dwell on them somewhat pathetically.

What I have stopped doing is trying to understand why everything had to happen the way it did. Sometimes, things just don't work out for us and that's the way it is. Our world is messed up that way. The unfair part is how things that fall apart for you fall into place for other people. That's when it hurts.

As much as I thought the theory "the more we get together, the happier we'll be" would come through in the end, it didn't. Groups of people join and dismantle, led by common denominators and uncommon circumstances that get blown out of proportion, and all that's left is dust, texts, hurt, and photos.

There isn't really an enchantment here. Maybe I just haven't found it yet.

Are you really an original?

When I was younger, I would fill in the paint bubbles.

Now, that I've discovered the Internet, I've gotten swept up in the wave of nostalgia that 90s kids seem to be going through now. Not too long ago, I saw a post online that asked, "Did you ever open Paint, draw a bunch of lines and fill in the bubbles?"

I realized that I wasn't the only person who did this. What I thought was a wholly original idea was actually a logical action that thousands, maybe even millions, of other kids did.

Then I grew up and realized every 90s kid did that. Like, all of them.

Finding out things like this make you question yourself. Sure, it's one thing to see posts about how you constantly lost your scrunchies. But to see that you used a program that was supposedly going to unleash your creativity the same way everyone else did--it makes you feel less creative. Less unique.

It's easy to get discouraged when other people have similar ideas, especially when you're creative or when your livelihood depends on creativity. But maybe you don't need a lot of original ideas to be happy with yourself. Maybe you just need one.

The thing is finding that one idea while keeping in mind that you share experiences with others simply because you're human and there's something beautiful about that. As a professor of mine once said, "There are no new stories; just new ways to tell them." We're all constantly sharing stories because we all experience the same things so it makes sense that we occasionally think the same thoughts or feel the same emotions as others.

Once you think of it, it's a banal concept and we see it everywhere. But it's still worth thinking about and writing about.

So the enchantment is this: We can be the same and different at the same time.

The Monopoly Problem

Like most people, I have a love/hate relationship with Monopoly. Unlike most people, there is more love in my ratio than hate.

I have three different versions of Monopoly: the classic one, there Here and Now Edition and a reproduction of the first version that came out.

I also have the app on my tablet and a 15-year-old electronic version that's not as fancy and graphically beautiful as the app but still serves its purpose well.

But it doesn't matter how many version of Monopoly you have if there's no one to play with. The thing is though, people usually don't want to play Monopoly because it takes hours to play. Once, I actually showed the Here and Now game to some friends because they wanted to see it with the clear understanding that we weren't going to play. That would be crazy.

My mom has plenty of stories of days-long games with siblings, which required physically moving the game to different locations in the house to keep playing. That's true dedication to the game--a dedication I've yet to find among others.

And it seems to me that's what we're all looking for: someone who wants to play Monopoly with us. No, more than that. Someone who wants to do something that we want to do and be willing to play with us for a few hours, maybe even a few days and, sometimes, the rest of our lives.

With the electronic version, I play with virtual characters who each have a different personality. But they don't grow or develop as players. After years of playing, I know exactly which character will do what under certain circumstances and I use this knowledge to my advantage. It's not as challenging as playing with real people. After a while, you instinctively know what each character will do to win. Hot Shot and Greedy Grannie are always going to ask you to trade even when they have little to offer, Connie Cashola and Penny Wise will always be smart about their trades and say no to offers that won't benefit them, and Diamond Jim will always be easy to fool at the beginning of the game. And every one of them can be persuaded with exorbitant amounts of money.

Playing with a real person is different. Mostly, because a lot of people don't really trade on Monopoly (then again, how would I really know that right?), and also because they have brains. You can interact with them. And that's what we really want: the connection with others. In the end, even for those who are really competitive, a game of Monopoly is just a game. There's no real money, no real risk, no real mortgages to pay off. But the people are real and their reactions to us and even the game tells us more aobut them, lets us see other layers of their personality.

So the enchantment is this: It's more fun to play with friends, no matter what game it is.

The Mythical Black Panther

I’ve always loved the idea of a thick forest, so tangled with branches and magic that it engulfs you in moments.

But I didn’t want one behind my house. It blocked my view of the expressway (which I preferred over a bunch of trees), and at night, it made my open window look like a sheet of lead instead of a nighttime landscape painting.

Someone else wanted that forest there though: a black panther. The day the city bulldozed the forest, the panther wandered into our backyard as if it were a common house cat.

The closest I had ever gotten to seeing a real black wild cat was the black panther Bagheera in Disney’s live-action version of The Jungle Book. The panther in my backyard was younger, brasher. He ambled silently like a trapeze artist at the beginning of a tightrope walk, graceful, balanced, and sure of the path ahead. He looked like an ink drawing, all ebony shine with curved lines and perfect proportions. It looked at me with the steely and unperturbed stare of a defiant teenager’s, its eyes enchanting marbles of fluorescent pale jade. Its poise made me feel pathetic.

I assumed I had seen a Florida panther, the state animal and endangered subspecies of Puma concolor. My theory was too fanciful; black panthers are about as real as Bagheera. According to the Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge, large black cats are leopards or jaguars going through a melanistic (black) phase or spotted cats in a rare melanistic phase. More interestingly, the refuge claims, “there has never been a black or melanistic panther, cougar, or mountain lion [different names for P. concolor] documented in the wild or in captivity.”

And I thought the idea of a panther in a suburban backyard was far-fetched.

So the enchantment is this: sometimes, something you want to be real can never be real, but the idea of it is real, and an idea is the start of everything.

My Chemical Reaction

When I was eight, I wanted to be a chemist. Knowing this, a classmate gave me a chemistry kit for my birthday, and I made perfume with it, feeling intelligent in my cheap plastic goggles while holding a test tube above a flame. I used those goggles to dress up for career day and show my classmates what happens when baking soda (sodium bicarbonate) and vinegar (acetic acid) combine. Their awe fueled my dreams of concocting potions in a mad-scientist laboratory.

But my career aspirations were as fickle as that temporary reaction. It’s a multi-step reaction, meaning several steps happen so quickly that they seem to be one step. In the same way, several things combined to halt my career progress even while I fiddled with test tubes and practiced science with a mad-scientist themed computer game called Widget Workshop (shout out to the fun CD-ROM games of the 90s).

When sodium bicarbonate (NaHCO3) and acetic acid (CH3COOH) combine, they form unstable carbonic acid (H2CO3), the acid that gives soda that pleasant zing. Carbonic acid becomes water and carbon dioxide bubbles in the following decomposition reaction: H2CO3 ➜ H2O + CO2. In my life, the combination of the complexity of the chemistry kit experiments and the fact that chemistry was not included in the second-grade science curriculum formed the unstable foundation for my love of science. My demotivation reaction was the following: Curiosity of science (CS) ➜ Unwillingness to work hard (LaZ) + No knowledge of science (NO2How).

As the carbonic acid decomposes, sodium “leaves” the baking soda and acetate “leaves” the vinegar in a double replacement reaction. They combine to form sodium acetate (CH3COONa), a salt used in food preservation. Because carbon dioxide is heavier than air, the bubbles flow downward and dissipate, leaving only water, sodium acetate and a funny smell.

Two broken test tubes later, all I had left were chemicals too dangerous to use at home. I don’t even know what happened to my career day project. That's probably a good thing since it was all grey and used no colors like my classmates' projects. I thought I was being a good scientist by being professional sticking to one color. But I was just kidding myself.

Thankfully, unlike many, I didn't come to regret my decision later. In tenth grade, I finally took chemistry. The first chapter of the textbook was easy. Basic stuff that encouraged me in my studies. Then came the second chapter, and everything fell apart. Especially when I learned about moles, a concept I could never fully understand and had lots of trouble applying.

So the enchantment is this: the dreams that you have as a kid aren't always the ones you stick to and that's okay. But kids should be allowed to follow their dreams anyway. You never know when it might stick.

Decay and Rise of the Barbie Dreamhouse

Once upon a time, a large family of perfect Barbie dolls lived in their perfect Barbie world. They were plastic; it was fantastic.

One day, a giant toymaker named Mattel invaded their land. Mattel kidnapped them, cloned them, packed them in boxes, and shipped them to different parts of a strange land. Miraculously, I reunited the family by choosing them out of all the clones in the toy stores and the family was happy again.

This was the story I made up to make all sixty-seven or so of my Barbies related. The mother was a glamorous white-haired beauty and their father had the the distinction of being able to grow facial hair. They had about sixty or so daughters and I named each one. (None of them were named Barbie, so I kept careful list of their names on paper.) They obviously raised their daughters to be independent as they all had successful careers—a dentist, a teacher, a model, a diver, a student, a princess, a biker, a veterinarian, and more.

Like the mythical Barbie character, my dolls were spoiled. They didn't have a dreamhouse, but they did have order and luxury. They had an impeccably clean pink RV with a kitchen and a pink limousine with a pool. Their tiny accessories were stored in pink bubble gum containers stripped of their sticker labels. Any accessories too big for the containers were always stored near them. I was constantly brushing their hair and making sure they didn’t share brushes. Their shoes were always on their feet—never the floor.

And though they were sisters, they never shared clothes either. It was too much of a hassle to change them, and why would the teacher wear the clothes that belonged to the dentist? Barbara’s outfit was Barbara’s and Tiffany’s outfit was Tiffany’s. End of story.

One day, I was forced to watch a girl I had just met change their clothes while we were playing in my room. Her pitch was high and her tone sing-song as she stole them from my imaginary world and played with them in hers. I stared at her, my brows fighting their muscular limits, my face as pink as the bubble gum containers. When she left, I indignantly put things in order and all was right again.

Today, these Barbie dolls and two Ken dolls live in a refugee camp: a plastic green box with a top that can never close completely. Their hair is matted and most of them are only half dressed. Almost all of them are barefoot. Their limousine is gone and their RV is dirty. Worst, their possessions are hopelessly lost, scattered in their camp and some landfills.

The family's world has been destroyed a second time; but, in the recesses of my seven-year-old imagination, I know their consolation is that they are together this time. Perhaps that’s why they still smile.

How they ended up in their camp is the most common story in toy history: I gave my Barbies to my little sister, who I never imagined wouldn't share my proclivities for organization and neatness. In the years after her birth, the family was separated, leaving behind random accessories, hairbrushes, and shoes—lots and lots of shoes. Once in a while, I’ll find a tiny toy and remember exactly which Barbie it belonged to and then put it in a box with other Barbie knickknacks, unwilling to throw them away while knowing the pieces will never come together and not really caring if they ever do.

My old toys are displayed on my bookshelves, and I’ve kept my stuffed animals. But when I stare at my Barbie dolls’ unnaturally starlit eyes, I am void of nostalgia. I now have one thought about the only imaginary world I have completely grown out of: “Too bad I can’t sell those dolls on eBay.”

Ironically, besides not being able to throw the Barbie box away, Barbie still has two holds on my life.

First, I surprised myself by falling in love with the film Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper, which, to others, could be deemed one of the least adult things I've ever done (but, thankfully, I firmly believe being an adult means liking and doing what you want, so there).

Second, I've become a fan of the web series "Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse," which is self-aware, smart and funny. It's a contrast to my sweet and cushy imaginary Barbie world, but it's so much more appealing than my faded memories. (And having watched a few Barbie movies thanks to my little sister, I can say the series is much less cheesy and awkward than other Barbie films.)



So the enchantment is this: something you thought you grew out of can surprise you.