Meet Lauren

I have always been a philanthropic person - while I don't have much to give financially, I have always been interested in supporting charitable organizations with what little money I have and moreso, my time. When I was younger, I was mostly aware of larger organizations such as Make-a-Wish and St. Jude's (both of which still continue to benefit so many people). I volunteered for a few years at the Medical University of South Carolina Children's Hospital and think its Child Life program is remarkable; I was so blessed to spend time with children and families and hope that anyone who has a sick child will benefit from a program as good as MUSC's.

I stumbled upon Autism Speaks (the organization I work for), knowing virtually nothing about autism. I attended a Walk Now for Autism kick-off event and immediately wanted to become involved - my desire to become a volunteer translated into a full-time job. Seeing the families that are affected by autism has further driven my passion for the cause.

Working for a non-profit organization is a double-edged sword. While most people who work for non-profits are generally philanthropic in nature, you are trained to advocate and fundraise for your cause, primarily. When the economy forces people with already limited needs to have even less, you find it difficult to ask people to support "yet another cause."

I'd have a hard time finding a charity that I don't think is worth supporting. Unfortunately, some of the best charitable organizations are small and don't get the support they deserve. One such is Lauren's First and Goal, a cause that is very dear to me.

I'd like you to meet Lauren, the lucky girl pictured above with Orlando Bloom, who she had the pleasure of meeting recently. Lauren is the recently 12-year-old niece of two of my closest friends; she is also a brain tumor survivor who has been living with a diagnosis of multiple brain and spinal cord tumors, Neurofibramatosis and Evan's Syndrome, since she was nine months old. Read more about Lauren and her story here. Lauren is one of the most sunny, optimistic, unique, loving and courageous people you will ever get the chance to meet. How many 12-year-old girls do you know of that ask for a birthday party themed after "The Office," after all?!

Lauren's First and Goal is a charitable organization created to raise funds to support pediatric brain tumor research, support local pediatric cancer services, provide financial assistance to families living with a pediatric cancer diagnosis and to raise public awareness regarding pediatric brain tumors. The fund is supported primarily by Lauren's First and Goal Football Camp, a non-contact, one day instructional clinic taught by experienced Division I, II and III college coaches. Since the Foundation's inception five years ago, over 5,300 high school players have attended the camp and over half a million dollars has been raised to support research towards a cure for pediatric brain tumors.

Everyone knows that times are tough - but when it comes down to it, we are all luckier than we think we are. Having volunteered at a Children's Hospital taught me how optimistic terminally ill children and their families are - it also reminded me what I can do without to help others.

Take the money you would spend on your morning's Starbucks, that extra pint of beer at happy hour or the cab you took instead of the subway and donate it. I guarantee the benefit you are giving someone else will certainly outweigh what you are giving up.

If you can't donate, help raise awareness. Awareness is the key to fundraising - join the Facebook group for Lauren's First and Goal; link the First and Goal website to your Facebook page.

It's a beautiful Friday here in New York and hearing Lauren's story of meeting Orlando Bloom reminded me that great people DO exist in this world. I'm proud to know so many people who put others first and do what they can to make a difference.

17? Really?!

Spring began this past Friday - or so the calendar claims. I flew out of JFK to Virginia in snow flurries that day. Although the temperature in Virginia Beach probably didn't top 40, we were determined to properly ring in spring by going out that night in tank tops. It's a wardrobe skill I acquired in New York - it doesn't matter how unseasonal your outfit is ... as long as you're wearing a pashmina or scarf.

A few weeks ago we had our first tease of spring. It was a warm, hazy blue skied Sunday and spring fever was in full effect. The boardwalk in front of my apartment was chock full of walkers, joggers, bicyclists, dogs and strollers - everyone eager to put away their winter jackets in favor of short sleeves. Days like that put a smile on your face. Days like that remind you that winter doesn't last forever; you will get off the treadmill and your sneakers will touch real pavement again. You become determined to forgo the winter clothes in your closet, ignoring turtleneck sweaters and woolen pants.

Spring is here, you think triumphantly!

And then Mother Nature smacks you back down, because deep down, she truly is one sadistic bitch. Just over one week until April and the wind chill was 17 this morning. Seven-friggin-teen.

Easter is just a few weeks away - no one wants to wear winter clothes on Easter morning. Kickball starts the next day; I hate trying to play kickball in ten layers of clothes. Opening day at the new Yankees and Mets stadiums is just over a week away. I cannot fathom sitting in a stadium on a day like today. I think I see why baseball just doesn't cut it in Canada.

Let's make a deal, Mother Nature. I'll stop whining when it rains during my morning commute. I won't even complain if we can get the wind chill above 30.

Really, my standards for weather are getting lower by the day.

Green Was the Demise of My G.P.A.

Minus the two years that I waited tables in an Irish pub, St. Patrick's Day has always been my favorite day of the year. Having grown up in New York where the holiday is somewhat of an institution, I was disappointed to find that it was a mere blip on the radar when I moved to Georgia for college. There was a bright spot, though, when I discovered the St. Patrick's Day celebration in Savannah, which was just a few hours away. There was always a catch, though. My first two years of school we were on the trimester system and St. Patrick's Day fell swiftly during midterms. Especially my freshman year, midterms were not going to spoil my fun. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to share my slack-adaisical attitude towards skipping class for green beer; I only hope their GPAs exceeded my stellar 2.3 after their freshman year. The last two years, St. Patrick's Day fell during finals, when we were on the semester system. However, because we had the longest semesters in the history of any college in America (UGA never seemed to excel at figuring out anything administrative), we lucked out my senior year. I was able to convince some friends to head to Savannah with me and we celebrated by the river.

My freshman year, I was without a car for the first time in my life since I got my driver's license. You never realize until you don't have a car how appealing everywhere sounds, but where you are. Athens seemed to be a short drive (well, ride, then) to just about everywhere. If someone was taking a roadtrip and there was an open invite, I was willing to go. Class would definitely take a backseat to traveling and seeing all there was to see.

We went to "The World's Largest Cocktail Party" in Jacksonville. We went to Destin for a weekend at the beach - hell, I even tagged along to Talladega once. By far, the most memorable trip my freshman year was to Mardi Gras. The first thing that made it funny was that I actually called my parents and asked them if I could go. Granted, I was only 17 at the time but I did live like a thousand miles away from them. Somehow, I just felt like they should grant me permission. My friend, who was over 21, assured my mom that I would be well taken care of and that she didn't need to worry about me. In typical college travel fashion, there were about 15 of us in one room with two beds. Also, it happened to be colder in New Orleans than it was in Georgia (and New York, which was even more insane.) Needless to say, I came back deathly ill right before midterms.

I was enrolled in this insane World History Before the Dawn of Time class (at least that's what I thought it was about) that I rarely attended and probably didn't pay attention to when I was in there. I think this was one of the rare moments in my collegiate career when an exam took me by surprise. We were handed a blank map of the world and were expected to draw in and label cities and rivers. I couldn't even label actual present countries on a map now. I handed the blank exam back to the teacher with my drop request attached.

That should have been the first sign that my wanton travels were beginning to affect my grades. At 17, I wasn't entirely sure why I was at school. When I got my final grades for the year (again, a remarkable 2.3 overall), my dad echoed the same sentiment.

My travels and escapades had to take a backseat to class over the next three years. I took fewer spur of the moment trips and made sure that my responsibilities at school wouldn't be affected. And if traveling interfered with class, there was always a plan B.

I took an art appreciation class my sophomore year, which had a 5 p.m. Friday discussion group. Day one when I got my syllabus, I realized this wasn't a viable option, since I spent most of my weekends in Charleston then. My master plan evolved -- two words -- teacher's assistant. I quickly learned that a young-20's TA could be swayed to give you an A for a discussion group you never attended. All it took was attending his mediocre art shows and swooning over his pieces.

By the time four years of college were said and done, I graduated with over a 3.0 AND got to finally celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Savannah.

I took next Tuesday off to celebrate St. Patrick's Day and I've been trying to my hardest to convince everyone to do it with me -- and yet again, it feels like freshman year. Except this time we're not leaving at 2 a.m. and getting stuck in Dothan, Alabama, because we ran out of gas.

Won't You Be My Neighbor ... or not

We're snowed in today in New York. As the picture shows, there is even snow in my apartment. (Actually, what that photo depicts is how poorly sealed my windows and doors are.) Thankfully, I was given the opportunity to avoid the snowy, delay-laden commute to work from my not-so-toasty living room.

My upstairs neighbor is driving me insane.

I wouldn't be complaining if this was an isolated incident, but whoever this person is, s/he has absolutely no etiquette when it comes to common space and downstairs neighbors.

For good reason, I never lived below the top floor of an apartment building since my college dorm until I moved into my current apartment building. Honestly, I don't have many complaints about my neighbors. The girl next to me, who replaced the woman that had extremely loud phone conversations in Spanish, I never see her or hear her. The girl that lives three apartments away from me occasionally has loud parties, but they're not often enough to truly bother me.

I've never in my life complained to any of my neighbors about anything they do. I'm not one of those passive aggressive people who tapes notes to the mailboxes about the volume of someone's TV or three notes on the door about a barking dog. A month or so ago, I was watching my friend's dog when she had to leave town suddenly for a family member's funeral. I knew that when I left the dog, he barked, so I did the best I could to not leave him alone while she was out of town. However, when I had to go back to work that Monday, he must have put on quite a show. I returned home that evening to not one, not two, but three increasingly angry (and detailed) notes from fellow building dwellers that were disrupted. While I felt bad that people were disturbed, the notes were insanely excessive. One person threatened to contact the management company. Really? I've lived here nearly two years and you've never heard a thing before. The funny thing was that not one of the notes was signed.

I have three nominees that I would like to award with "bad neighbor" honors. In third place, guy on the other side of my floor who loves his surround sound television - but seemingly only when watching war movies or playing video games. It's always fun when you feel like you're living "Saving Private Ryan" on a Sunday afternoon.

Second place goes to the girl who lives below me, affectionately known as "F*ck Me Naked," which she was once yelling out to her bed partner at 4 a.m. We have very thin walls in this building - when I play my iPod on the speakers, you can hear it in the hallway. Well, this girl doesn't apply that same logic to her bedroom antics. When I am in bed at 3:30 a.m. and she comes back from the bar, I am always treated an audio performance that rivals amateur porn. Lately, she's been quiet - I guess her social life is slow during winter. There was a time during the summer, though, when she had a partner with the same drive and vocal capacity as she did. I would hear the two of them going at it a good few times a day from when the bars closed until about lunchtime. He, much like her, loved yelling out ridiculous things (see: F**k me naked!), which were totally impossible to tune out while trying to sleep.

And the first place, gold star winner is the person (people) who lives above me. From what I can tell, it is a person and a toddler. It could be two people and a toddler - I'm not entirely sure. Beginning at about 7 a.m. on the weekends, they seem to have parades and foot races. The kid just runs back and forth across the bedroom. Repeatedly. If they could just let the kid run laps in the living room, I wouldn't be woken up at dawn on the weekends. S/he also loves to move furniture. To the best of my knowledge, this person also has a one bedroom apartment. How many different furniture combinations can you really create in an apartment of that size? This person also loves, LOVES to stomp. I'm sure that occasionally, I'm heavy on my feet. I do my best to be cognizant of it, though, and encourage my guests to do the same. I also try to remember to take my shoes off. This person has got to be wearing wooden clogs.

So here I am, today, working from home. The neighbors upstairs has: stomped back and forth across the apartment hundreds of times, allowed the kid to run laps back and forth, drilled something and hammered the floor (are we assembling more furniture to move?), moved MORE furniture (perhaps the new piece we built?) and dropped no fewer than 20 things.

Seriously?

I've gone back and forth in my mind about going upstairs one day and just asking them to be more considerate on weekend mornings. I'm not really in my apartment that much anyhow, and honestly, I should be grateful they chose a weekday afternoon for furniture assembly. I'm quite surprised it wasn't saved for 7 a.m. this Sunday.

The kid is bouncing a ball now.

Awesome.