Is Owning A Dog The New Promise Ring?

I know the idea of owning a dog with your significant other as a demonstration of commitment and a precursor to having kids is nothing new. But if you're not really a dog person, are you telling the world that you can't commit? Jennifer Aniston (bless her broken heart) was on David Letterman last night promoting her new movie Marley and Me. So Dave asks her if she owns any dogs of her own, and she enthusiastically tells him that not only does she own a dog, she has two.

I know it's awful to say, but as soon as the words come out of her mouth, I thought, not only is this girl ready to commit to someone, she's downright desperate for commitment. Two dogs, after all, for a single girl who travels half the year filming mediocre comedies? Suspicious. If she's not trying to send a message there, I don't know who is. So she goes on to tell everyone that dogs are wonderful pets (like it's some new kind of concept) and she can't get over how you are it for them, and that they are just so unconditionally loving -like nothing she's ever experienced. So just when I'm thinking, oh dear god, she's going to start crying, Jen takes a hard turn toward metaphoric meltdown. Looking pitifully at his guest, Dave ever-so-delicately hits the nail on the head, "Pets are so good, but they always break your heart." At the sound of "heartbreak," Ms. Heartbreak twitches in her seat and bounces her top crossed leg wildly in the air like the failed results of a lie detector test.

"It's a very simple story, really," Jen told Dave. "This husband and wife and..."

"And they have three children, right?"

"That's right, Dave," she said.

"Well, have you ever thought about getting married and having three children?"

"Well, sure, Dave. But I wouldn't say that the film planted that seed in my head by any means."

And in a completely kind are-you-sure-you're-okay kind of way, Dave leans over to his twittering guest and tells her that pets are so good, but they always break your heart. To which she answered, "There's no relationship like a dog, and then they don't live as long as they should. Ya know? You just have to say goodbye way too soon."

Don't live as long as they should? DON'T LIVE AS LONG AS THEY SHOULD?! Dang lady, the only thing that could top the fact that that was a completely bizarre, out-of-nowhere, depressing thing to say is the fact that you clearly spoiled the end of the movie (not that I was going to see it in the first place... but c'mon). Thanks, a lot.

From there, the interview is a serious of flutters and twits from Jennifer Aniston and a short clip of her "acting" like herself in the new movie. At the end of it all, I debated who she made more uncomfortable: Dave who was sitting next to her, or me with my creepy dying-to-commit dog theory. Before I spin off on some cleb-obsessed, Perez Hilton rant, let me get back to the point here: a dog as the new promise ring. Based on my conclusions, the more dogs a person owns, the more commit-able they are.

Come to think of it, I once dated a guy in college who secretly kept a puppy in the dorms, though it was technically against the school's policy. Needless to say, I wasn't ready for the full-blown relationship thing, and he turned out to be a serial monogomist. Another friend of mine has been in a relationship for almost four years. She basically refuses to talk about marrying the guy, but begs him every night to let her buy a puppy and obsesses over all the places they could take it together.

There aren't really hard-drawn lines in this theory here, but I suppose it makes sense that I'm both single and dog-less at the moment. Then again, I've never been much of a dog lover...

My State of Being Convinced

I shot awake at 4:30 a.m. last Thursday, for no reason at all, and lay in bed waiting for the sensor spotlight outside the front door to shut off. I routinely imagine a burglar barging through the glass front door, all the while knowing it was probably a squirrel that set it off. When the light switched off again, I focused on the sound of footsteps in the room above my head. Dr. Thomas Fraser III, I imagined, clambering around for the first cigarette of the day. A man at the mercy of medical emergencies, he is no stranger to 4 a.m.

When you start your day in the wee hours like that, 1 p.m. can feel like the twilight zone. I dreaded that surreal feeling, and debated whether to try to sleep again or get a jump-start on my day. One by one, lists and ambitions and frustrations of the day crept into my head until I swam in an impossible sea of to-dos. Without exhaustion to put my mind to rest, I threw the covers off and woke up to the icebox known as my basement apartment.

At a loss for what to do with my morning, I figured that I would jump in the shower and head to work sooner than planned. There, I could sit at my computer with a hot cup of coffee and write for a few hours before anyone else arrived. I really hadn’t written anything in weeks, which apparently drives this writer to the brink of 4 a.m. insanity.

Though it sounded like a good plan, in reality I moseyed around the apartment for an hour and a half. When I had listened to the same Headline News loop a third and final time, I left for the office. For the first time in the history of any job, I was the first employee to arrive. They are all going to think something’s wrong with me, I thought. Once inside I cranked the heater, brewed a knock-your-socks-off pot of coffee, and sat down at my computer. By then it was 7:30. I had just enough time to check my email and type a sentence when my early bird coworker bounced through the door.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. Just like I knew she would. Everything was fine, I told her, and though she suggested a few scenarios with her eyebrows raised, she guessed nowhere near my real worry.

Three hours later I found myself sitting in her office, confessing. I’ve been called a lot of things in my day, but private isn’t one of them. It’s like clockwork, I explained to her. Every so often --and I’m not even sure how often, just that it’s happened before, I get this unbelievably anxious-restless feeling. I can barely recognize that it’s happening at first, only that I become entirely preoccupied with questioning myself about the tantalizing direction of my 25-year old existence. Before I know it I’m analyzing how well I’m contributing to the things I’m passionate about (fashion, writing, politics, design, art…) in my life.

Then I scrutinize, criticize, bully, and beat myself up in comparison to the people I admire. How will I ever get there? How am I living for the things that I love? Am I surrounding myself with people who inspire me or merely fill empty space? Is my job, is my lifestyle too safe? Am I taking the necessary risks to be the artist I hope to become? Have I exposed myself to the right environments, the right people? When will I dare to chase my impossible dreams? And when will I know the time is right? …Am I doing enough? …Am I doing anything at all? And the questions keep coming…

It’s almost like a creative state of heat –a desperate, insecure, fragmented search for reassurance. This state of mind is like a pothole on the path to envisioning my dreams, designed to trip me up and throw me off course (ironically, the same state of mind has the ability to wake me from my dreams at 4 a.m.). For several nauseating days, I go through the motions of working, eating, and sleeping, while my mind wallows in a self-depreciating muck. It is a test against my worst fears of failure. My mind tries my body with restless nights, and for a moment, doubt paralyzes every artistic bone in my body.

Thinking back on the times I’ve felt this way, it’s been onset by a long, creative dry spell, that’s finally relieved by my obsession with a new idea, perspective or project. The return to sobriety after that makes me feel more focused and alive than before. On the other side of this intoxicating insecurity is a burst of confidence in myself, and I think that’s called conviction.

CON–VIC–TION [kuhn-vik-shuhn] –noun. An unshakable belief in something without need for proof or evidence. Lindsey's state of convincing herself that she can save enough money to move to New York and get a job in the publishing industry.

Conviction must be what separates creative minds that succeed from creative minds that fade into envy and once-was. I think an artist’s misguided conviction can be misinterpreted as egotism, vanity, or pride –when, in fact, it is the most important tool for survival. What do artists have if not the tools to convince the world of their worth? And where would the conviction be without the confidence to persuade them self? As jewelry designer, Robert Lee Morris, once said, “It’s good to see that kind of conviction [in a young artist], because you’re going to need a lot of it.”

I had a lot of questions to answer for myself last week, so maybe it makes sense that my coworker thought that something was wrong. I can tell you this: to an artist, even if nothing is wrong, it can take a whole lot of conviction to believe that you are right.

Waist Not, Want Not

Meet the Thin Foodie: A Curious New Breed Relishing These Gastronomically Decadent Times

My Wallet is Bulging With Money. Repeat.

I was doing some research today for the company Christmas letter, and I couldn’t help but laugh. As the token writer in the office, it is my responsibility to navigate the space between brokerage firm compliance, personal disclosure, and non-denominational holiday cheer.

I began by opening an email that had been fwd: fwd: fwd: to me by the company president. Her instructions were to write something similar to the letter attached. So I opened the attachment and quickly scanned the two and a half page document. Whoa, I thought. There’s a lot of Jesus in this, a lot of joy, and. …affirmations? What the heck is an affirmation?

My only knowledge of affirmations consists of a Sex and the City episode I watched about three summers ago (if I had a dime for every drop of education I’ve received from that show, an entire restaurant would have a round of Cosmos on me). Something about Charlotte repeating the same, positive sentence to herself 40 times a day for 40 days in order to believe is true. A little cathartic, but it doesn’t take much to pique my curiosity. I needed more information.

Enter Google: A-f-f-i-r-m-a-t-i-o-n-s. My search yielded a slew of sponsored websites, each charging $79.99 for a how-to affirmations handbook. No thanks, I thought. L-i-s-t o-f a-f-f-i-r-m-a-t-i-o-n-s …bingo! Now all the affirmation gurus out there are smiling because they know there is no such thing as one, catchall affirmation. Nor will the key to my holiday letter success lie under the hyperlink “Holiday” category. No. Hope is much harder to find on the Internet than you may think.

Here I learn that it takes 40 days to impress upon the unconscious “reacting” mind all that you desire and dream. Then it becomes automatic behavior in the conscious “acting” mind. Supposedly, affirmations are the same as doing any time of repetitive exercise to change or learn a new behavior. I read on. It is very important to say the affirmation slowly with feeling. Give yourself time to let your body feel the affirmation. If your affirmation refers to “wealth,” then feel the wealth.

They have me at feel the wealth.

Here are a few of my favorite examples in the “money” category:

“Unexpected money simply falls into my lap” (Chuckle.)
“I receive money just by thinking luxuriously.” (Harder chuckle.)
“When I open my mailbox, there is always a check for me.” (Now I’m laughing. Apparently, the affirmation experts don’t share a mailbox with two three-year-old and five year old neighbors. I’m lucky if I even get my mail most days.)

Then just when I think my good laugh if over, just as I’m about to navigate away from the page, I notice a simple sentence out of the corner of my eye: “My wallet is bulging with money.”

And right there they’ve got me, I’m a believer. Hook, line, and sinker. Imagine the friends I’ll make repeating this out loud for 40 days. I can hardly clasp my clutch just thinking about it. My wallet is bulging with money …my wallet is bulging with money …my wallet is bulging with money… (I’ll let you know how this works out).

The Day of Questionable Fate

It’s been ten days since my last post, and what do I have to show for it?

One thirty dollar t-shirt from Medieval Times signed by the blue knight, one golden chalice, an unpacked suitcase from six days ago, two plane tickets home from Chicago, a severely overdrawn bank account, one pawned iPod, two days of hysteria, and an empty bottle of red wine.

So the fact of the matter is that my fate and impatience have a habit of colliding at some of the worst possible moments in my life. Not unlike a train wreck, really, when all is said and done. Last Sunday, I arrive at Midway airport in Chicago two hours before my scheduled departure --which is nearly unheard of in itself. I stroll up to the self check-in computer, punch in my carefully scribbled confirmation number, and retrieve my boarding pass.

Only, that last part never happens.

I look around as my hands start to sweat a bit and calmly re-punch the code, VSZZZM. Then the screen instructs me to please see the attendant at the Frontier counter. The bag on my shoulder begins to weigh ninety pounds, and I can tell you that it does not weigh ninety pounds. In real life it does not weigh ninety pounds because that bag on my shoulder is my purse. And if I carry a purse that ever weighs more than two pounds, then I’ll know I’ve made it. I’ll know because I’ll have cash to put in my wallet. I’ll carry a million, one-dollar bills in it, wear a velour sweat suit, and talk with a Long Island accent. Everything feels heavy, and I know that something has gone terribly wrong.

I assume there must’ve been a mistake, so I approach the sociopathic, 10-foot woman behind the counter. After ten minutes of key punching and questioning, she looks down at me. “Honey, she says --in a tone that tells me she’s ready to give this blonde girl the name of two cross streets where she grew up and it’s supposed to mean something, “...your flight was yesterday.” I probably would’ve even seen her smile if I weren’t concentrating so hard on choking back my tears.

For those of you fortunate enough to have use of the left side of your brain, let me explain what it feels like to come to the horrifying realization that you’ve missed your flight by AN ENTIRE DAY: I step away from the counter mechanically, grab a brochure of the table, and search for feeling in my legs. Commanding myself to focus, I dial the Frontier reservation hot line. A kind voice answers and informs me that as of October 1, it is necessary to call ahead and notify Frontier that you will be missing your scheduled flight. Otherwise, you forfeit all ticket value and flight privileges. Right about then, the bottom drops out.

The boring part is that after that I boarded a $400 flight home to Denver. The unnerving part is that these things (that according to Jess “only happen to [me]”) occur with sobering regularity. For instance, the time Jess and I took a friend’s kayak to the Boulder reservoir, and I cracked her windshield loading it into the 4Runner. Or the time I got out of my LSAT practice exam and the instructor asked me when I was taking the actual test. When I smiled and said, “Tomorrow,” she informed me that the test had taken place the day before. I guess there’s nothing that says you’re not ready for law school like missing the entrance exam.

What’s ironic is how these instances throw such a wrench into the image of the sometimes irritatingly meticulous, perfectionistic person I am turning out to be. Though my friend Brian once crowned me “one of two intelligent people I know who actually believe in astrology,” it wouldn’t be without reason here to mention the day I was born. September 6, 1983 is known as “The Day of Questionable Fate.” Which sound about right. According to the text, I can plan my life and arrange everything just so, but it will be upset by an inevitable force beyond my control. The text advises someone born on this day to “roll with the punches.” My mother, who's redundant advice is to “toughen up,” is probably smiling right now.

Back in Boulder, just when I think I’m home free and can indulge in a good, hard, self-pity sob session in the privacy of my own apartment, my mother's sixth sense kicks in from 2,000 miles away. By early in the week, I have three missed calls. So on Wednesday, I listen to her voicemail. Suddenly, I know the thing that only a daughter can know. She knows.

Believe it or not, I actually promised myself that I wouldn’t tell anyone what happened to me at the airport last Sunday. I thought, this time I’m not going to do it. I have sunk so low on the stupidity scale that I’ve weighed in at anorexic. I may need to be hospitalized for severe idiocracy. No one can know that I was the hysterical girl walking tear-blind through Midway airport. Not even my best friend will understand buying an airline ticket at an actual reservation counter. No one, I said to myself, no one.

Luckily, six days later, a bit of the humor has set in.

(Jess says "The Day of Questionable Fate" is part of my plan --that it gives me something to write about. Good point.)

I Heart Art

Anyone who knows me won’t be surprised to hear that I’m reading four different books right now in addition to the Obama Newsweek that arrived in my mailbox Saturday. It's not my glowing overachiever style, it's more of a short attention span reading style. But I’ve got the literary spectrum pretty well covered: two classic novels about life, a historical nonfiction saga about JFK, an incendiary memoir on sexual politics, and an artsy coffee table book collection of interviews called Influence.

I’ve been anxious to write about the Influence interviews since I picked up the book last week. It is a collection of interviews with creative visionaries who have made their mark in many mediums, from oils to interiors, and on many generations of artists in the twenty first century. To me, it is a brilliant attempt to proliferate the ideals, thoughts, theories, and design processes of these incredible interviewees.

I think the last time I was this excited about a book was when a friend gave me The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp last Christmas. And, true to form, I’ve devoured each book with an insatiable desire to understand the creative force. I also watched The Discovery Channel’s Unsolved History: The Chicago Fire from Netflicks last week --just to get all my nerdy skeletons out of the closet.

To the point: there is a part of the interview with Francisco Costa when he and the interviewer are discussing a little concept called “trusting your instincts.” The interviewer tells Costa, “I don’t read any magazines. I really just try to stay in my world and figure out what I want, what makes me happy. I’ve got to trust my instincts. I really try to block out all the media and all the press, magazines, everything. At the end of the day I’m with myself, and I feel like that’s the way I’ve been able to move forward.”

I stinking love it. Not in the isolationist sense, but I was literally thinking about this the other day. I was thinking to myself, “Self, when have been the most creative times in your life? And how can I recreate that feeling?” The answer is two things: confidence and (lack of) funding.

When I think back, one of the most creative, imaginative phases of my life happened during my junior and senior years of high school. It was the perfect storm of new found driver’s license independence, local thrift stores, style experimentation, fearlessness, and naivete. As managing editor of layout and design for the school newspaper, I was the queen of my own little world. Part of my job was to write a weekly column and, by god, it was my time to preach to the people. (Read: awkward Ayn Rand phase where I’m pretty sure no one knew what the hell I was talking about --including myself). The point is that I felt like the first person in the world who thought of driving downtown Indianapolis on a Sunday afternoon to search for thrift store treasures in the all-black neighborhoods. No one knew me there for certain, and no one at school knew where I was shopping for vintage duds. I could lose myself for hours sifting through costume jewelry cases, and my exposure to that world gave me a chance to develop my own style over time (while my classmates were shopping at the mall). And my own sense of confidence.

I was voted Best Dressed by my classmates at the end of Senior year and they presented me with a cheesy plaque. I gave the plaque to the owner of my favorite thrift store as a nod to all the “friends and family” discounts they had given me over the years. Though, looking back, maybe what I should’ve done was give the owner a new CD to play in the store. I stopped there when I was in town last July, and I swear the same Doors album has been playing since 2002.

The second element is a catch-22: money. When I didn’t have my own money to shop at department stores or afford a pair of shoes in every color, I seemed to do more with less. The process of asking my mom for money in high school and instead being sent back to my closet to see if I “already had something like that,” prompted hours of dress-up behind closed doors. I can literally remember standing in my closet, looking at my clothes with a pair of scissors in my hand, ready to deconstruct something I already had.

I experienced one of these maniac moments once while my grandmother was visiting. I remember cutting up a peach-colored dress and hastily sewing it back together in time to have a new skirt for the night. Embaressed of my mom and grandmother's reaction, I tiptoed down the hardwood stairs in my A-line(ish) skirt, and ragged-hem tank top. “Oooooh, look at you,” they humored me. “Turn around, and let us see what you did. Wasn’t that a dress before?” I smiled and twirled, and just as I grabbed my purse to scurry out the door, my grandmother stopped me. “Waaaait a second,” the master seamstress said. “Look at this crooked hem in the back, it goes clear from one diagonal end to the other. Where do you think you’re going dressed like that, young lady?” Needless to say, I'll never make a decent tailor without some training.

So, sure, I still express myself through fashion, it’s just that life goes by at a different pace when you’re older. Suddenly, I don't have the time or energy to play dress-up in my closet after a long day at work --much less hem a pair of pants. It's easier to walk into Banana Republic and grab a sweater off the shelf then spend hours digging through moth-ball remains. Searching for inspiration is such an active process that most days, it's easier to let someone else do the work. Eventually, the process is unconscious. I can pick up a magazine at the grocery store or watch an hour of TV to appreciate the end-result of someone else's imaginative process ...say, Marc Jacobs?

Soon my focus wanders off into places where other artists are going ...their vision, the things that inspire them. When an artist becomes more concerned about the creativity around them, they've lost their authenticity. And I don’t feel much like an artist when I don't have a vision. If best creative state of mind means living the way I used to (minus the braces), I'll need to slow down (spend more time alone in seedy thrift stores?), set aside time to indulge my ideas, and surround myself with people who encourage me to create. As Bob Colacello once said, "Real creativity is being true to yourself and getting people to go with you. That's influence."

The End of My Rope

Despite having four alarms and three alarm clocks, it's nearly impossible for me to wake up in the morning. I've literally tried everything: irritating cell phone alarms (one at 6:00 am, 6:45, and 7:00), digital alarms on cheap plastic clocks, old-fashioned metal clocks with the deafening hammer-alarm ringer, a clock radio alternately set to country music and full-volume static, and others... In truth, the only thing that's snapped me awake in the past month was the shrill sound of my sister's voice, "Lindsey!!!!" It seems that my symphony of alarms is enough to wake up sommmeone.

So I would like to introduce my new, gentler approach: the Soleil Super Bright Sun Alarm Ultima (ooooh, ahhhhh). The Sun Alarm promises to wake you naturally, like a sunrise, and energize you for the day ahead. With a special built-in light (and hopefully a hammer to knock me over the head), the Sun Alarm gradually increases the intensity of light until your body wakes instinctively. Instinctively? Dear god, I hope this little spaceship-looking thing works. I'll have to let you know...

How to Outsmart Your Opponent

A friend of mine recently inspired this posting. I’m going to dedicate the information to her, for whenever and wherever she feels the need to remove it from her arsenal.

Last weekend, I picked up my mother from the airport for her annual fall break vacation to Colorado. We were starving so we met up with Jess and her boyfriend Chad for some microbrews and nachos. As we sipped our tasty brew, Chad relayed the latest news on his two young nephews.

Is it normal for a three year old to give in so easily to his bossy, seven-year-old brother? Shouldn’t he be fighting back? Is it right to punish a sibling who outsmarts the other? We decided ultimately, yes. But that’s because arguing over toys eventually leads to punching, slapping, and pulling hair --I don’t care who you are. Didn’t we all learn this in preschool?

I wont bore you with this analogy, but our conversation got me thinking about strategies people use in their daily interactions. Even from the time we are young. Consciously or sub-consciously, we all make competitive decisions, big or small, every day. A friend once told me to pay attention to the feeling I get every time I walk away from an interaction with someone. He said, it’s simple, “You either feel a plus, like you have taken something away, or a minus, like you have given something up.” His theory is that, over time, these (often subconscious) feelings add up to determine whether you like or dislike an individual.

Strategic translation: You’ve either won or you’ve lost. You walk away with the toy or you walk away with a black eye.

Let me remind you that this type of competitive approach with the people you call your “friends” or your “family” (is it just me or there is something funny about putting quotation marks around the word family? …your alleged “family”) will get you nowhere. I wouldn't recommend using these tactics unless it's absolutely necessary. What I’m interested in here is how to spot a negative, energy-zapping interaction before it happens and how to turn the interaction to your favor when the gloves must come off.

It’s pretty entertaining to Google something like “how to outsmart your opponent.” Here are a few of the top results:

According to MensHealth.com, in order to outsmart and outlast (outlast? I haven’t even considered taking stamina into consideration) your opponent, you must “Dream the Feeling.” The Peter Pan prophets say that when you daydream, you are actually training your neuromuscular connections; and yes, the article is actually talking about sports, but it works. So instead of “fantasizing about coming from behind to beat your rival, focus on the physical sensations you want to achieve during competition.” In other words, imagine your confident posture, relaxed facial expression, and voice with as much authority as you can muster.

The next stop on my wild research ride is a questionable poker website, complete with whisky ads and Wild West photos. The message here? Profile your opponent. “It is a skill that will allow you to outsmart your competition on your way to big time earnings.” (NOTE: I’m not promising any dividends here, but nothing says victory like a little satisfaction.) According to sketchypokerwebsite.com, the first thing to know is that your opponent is profiling you at the same time. For this reason, you should do whatever it takes to hide the real you. This way, you can get a good read on your opponent, but they will not be able to do the same to you. The other gem of advice here is to act quickly and accurately. “Remember, you will not be at the table with the same people for days on end. From the second they approach you, you will have to consider what you will do to beat them, and how you can implement the plan.” Vague and a bit cutthroat, but you get the picture.

Gamblers aside, who better to ask than the psychologists themselves? Patrick J. Cohn, Ph.D, Mental Game Coach and author of the The Confident Athlete: a 14-day Plan for Ultimate Self-Confidence says that a rival will put obstacles in your way just to flex his or her muscles. He suggests grabbing the bull by the horns and dethroning your opponent by forming allies. Invite a few mutual friends out for breakfast, and get everyone on the same page, then foot the bill. Victoria Hilkevitch Bedford Ph.D, professor of psychology at the University of Indianapolis, says that "the person who's out to get you will then be out-numbered. And if most people are in favor of your perspective, the opponent will want to join your winning team." If that doesn't turn the situation in your favor, there's always the moral high road of silence.

"Change has come to America"

So many things... The pundits who doubted the youth vote, the time I spent growing up in Chicago, the number of friends I have living there now (celebrating at Grant Park right now), the way celebrating tonight reminded me of New Year's Eve, the superstitious caution I took in buying a half bottle of champagne, the relief in every black commentator's expression, the honesty, the history, the hope, and the change.

It's not that people my age haven't cared about elections in the past, it's just that we haven't had a reason to care enough. We haven't believed the "bubblegum machine" politics of "I promise you this, I promise you that. I promise to be different." Different has been easy to say, but in the face of "terrorist" accusations, "who are you" questions, and "why trust you" complaints --we have seen an honorable man lead an honorable, steady campaign ending in front of the podium he stands in front of tonight. If we believed there was such change possible in the past, we would've listened, more of us would've voted, and we would've believed. Now I believe. I believe that change has come to America.

"All things are possible."

Tonight as I text my friends, half-jokingly I ask them if it is too early to pop the champagne cork, it feels like New Year's eve. With my friends and family gathered around, I feel an unequivocable sense of new beginning. And it has only just begun.

What an incredible, fortunate time to be alive.

Forever Flirtationship: FASHION

Election Fashion. What Obamamaniac wouldn’t be happy ringing doorbells in a swing state wearing a Narciso Rodriguez number featuring cutouts and bondage straps?" -Vogue Magazine, November 2008

Inexperience as an Asset

"On September 11, 2001, I was a first-time candidate running for mayor of New York. After the attacks on the World Trade Center, one of my advisors said to me: 'You sure you want this job?' Without blinking, I replied: 'More than ever.' At the time, I had no experience in politics, so I hadn't learned what I couldn't do. Looking back now, I realize that was my greatest asset." -Michael R. Bloomberg

Wishful Thinking

I read an article by David Brooks today where he describes the four steps involved in making a decision. Seeing as I’ve found myself the crossroads of some pretty major decisions lately, and given my unhealthy appetite for analysis, I was eager to hear the breakdown. Maybe somewhere in the four simple steps of decision-making, I could understand where I’ve gone wrong in the past, and how to prevent poor judgment in the future.

"You cannot solve a problem in the same state of consciousness –or with the same type of thinking –which created the problem." -Albert Einstein

According to Books, first you perceive a situation. Next, you think of possible courses of action. Then, you calculate which course of action is in your best interest. And, finally, you take action. Simple enough. The article describes how “economic models and entire social science disciplines are premised on the assumption that people are mostly engaged in rationally calculating and maximizing their self-interest.” No surprise there. Though I’m not enthusiastic to admit it, I think I can pretty clearly identify self-centered decisions that I’ve made. Inconsideration is something I can work on.

The troubling part of the process, as Brooks points out, is the first step. Perception may seem simple, he says, you just look and see what’s around. Unlike calculating your own self-interest, perception is much more delicate to deconstruct. The most likely reason for the difficulty is that most perception takes place beneath any level of awareness. Cognitive biases, such as selective perception or optimism “wishful thinking” bias, have the power to distort our understanding of a situation and every calculation up to the point of making a decision.

As Brooks put it, “Looking at and perceiving the world is an active process of meaning-making that shapes and biases the rest of the decision-making chain.”

Another name for this decision-making process is the Analytic Hierarchy Process (AHP). Developed by Thomas L. Saaty in the 1970’s, the AHP is based on mathematics and psychology. It is used extensively today to help people deal with complex decisions politics, business, education and more.

When I sit back to think of my own perception, I can identify at least two biases that have plagued my decision-making over the years. The most discernable is my optimism bias or "wishful thinking". Ninety percent of the time, this bias helps me to inflate any good feelings about a person, and ignore the bad. When I’m being influenced by my wishful thinking, I imagine someone in terms of what I believe is his or her potential.

Do you want to know where this thinking will get you? Constantly making excuses for someone and explaining the potential you envision to others. If I could give anyone advice, I’d say to revisit the jerk in ten years then decide to give it a chance if he lived up to what you imagined.

It's not surprising that the study of biases are front and center right now considering the current presidential race (elderly bias, female bias, racial bias). The chances are that one of these biases will affect every voter's decision on November 4 --not to mention this will be a popular topic to study for years to come.

As Nicholas Kristof said, "This 2008 election is a milestone and may put a black man in the White House. That creates an opportunity for an adult conversation about the murky complexities of race, in part because there’s evidence that when people become aware of their unconscious biases, they can overcome them."

Laundry Mat Soliloquy

The only unpleasant thing about laundry mats are the clothes that people wear to them. I love the soapy scents, the low hum of the spin cycles, the gentle vibrations, and, most of all, the warm clothes and towels that make you want to crawl right inside that triple-load commercial dryer and take a nap. I've been officially intoxicated.

The fact that I rarely go to the laundry mat makes it easy to forget what incredibly relaxing, quiet places they are --not to mention an ideal hiding spot if you don't want to be found. Although I have a standing invitation to use the washer and dryer in the house upstairs, there's nothing quite like the guilt of paying late rent and mixing a Saturday morning hangover with two screaming children to get me packing up my dirty laundry.

My affinity for laundry mats began about five years ago when I was living in the 9th and Marine neighborhood with my best friend, Jess. Jess and I used to go to the cosy little laundry mat at Arapahoe and 4th street that is, sadly, no longer there. The laundry mat was in a tiny building in the middle of a neighborhood, and sandwiched between overgrown pine trees. A true diamond in the rough, as far as laundry mats go.

It was the perfect place to finish homework, to read, and to gossip until one night something happened that made us afraid to show our faces there ever again. One night, Jess and I left all of our clothes to dry and headed back to our apartment to study for final exams. Several hours later, just before nine o'clock, Jess jumped up from the table. "Oh no, we completely forgot about our clothes in the dryer!" she said.

So Jess raced out the door with three minutes to go, but by the time she got to the laundry mat, it was well after nine. She tried the door anyway, and to her surprise, it was open. Laundry bags in hand, she opened the dryers and began to gather our clothes, when suddenly, the overhead lights shut off, a bright spotlight came on, and the security alarm started ringing at full blast. Expecting the police to show up, Jess shoved the clothes into the bag at a criminal pace --like money from a bank robbery. Unseen, she sped back to the apartment as fast as she could. When she finally told me what happened, we agreed just to sacrifice our forgotten load of towels, and leave them behind for good. Sadly, that was the last we ever saw of the 4th street laundry mat.

Since that fateful day, I sometimes come to Doozy Duds across from campus on the hill. The thing about Doozy Duds is that it's right next to Dot's (dirty-ass) Diner. Nothing says "we're going out again tonight" like a Dot's hangover-curing breakfast, so I dropped a few quarters in the washers and ran over for some scrambled egg whites, the pepper-iest hash browns you can imagine, and a couple of greasy sausage links to settle my shakes. After six beverages (well...water, juice, root beer, and iced coffee) my headache didn't stand a chance.

The thing about Doozy Duds that really sets it apart from the 4th street mat are the college boys. One of my favorite things to do there is hop up on the counter near the dryers and watch last-clean-tee-shirt-wearing college boys pack four loads of laundry into one dryer and wait three hours for it to dry. I mean, there's just something adorable about learning.

Speaking of the opposite sex, let me tell you the truth about something here: You will never meet someone you want to date at the laundry mat. Think of all the movie scenes and commercials where a cute girl is folding her lace panties across the table from a hot man? That never happens. First of all, guys at laundry mats have waited until the absolute last possible day to do laundry, so they show up in ratty tee-shirts and sweatpants without boxers because none of them are clean. The scene plays out a little more like this: nine times out of ten you catch some perv-y creep anxiously watching you unload your clothes from the dryer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the g-string of his dreams. It's not nearly as romantic.

And last, but not least, before you set off on a laundry mat quest of your own, I have one fair warning: These timeless establishments will never go out of business, and that's because God made laundry mat floors dirtier than any other floors in the world. It would be cleaner to drop your white shirt on the dirt floor of a hut, than on the floor at Doozy Duds. You are so incredibly fucked when this happens because now all the dirty hair and crumbs and diseases of the world are caked on your clean white shirt. And, trust me, that is exactly what it looks like. In fact, I've only seen a floor mopped once at a laundry mat, and the next week it was out of business. Consider yourself warned.

Circumstances make it difficult to avoid everyone today

Just when I thought I got away with a pleasant Monday start to my week, Tuesday hits like a derailed Amtrack.

If only I had seen the signs... I would've known that Tuesday meant trouble. My younger sister was in court due to a recently confiscated fake i.d., and the reason that this has anything to do with me can be best described as a tangled web of bank accounts, living in the same city, and out-of-state tuition. After a pleasantly-excruciating yoga class (take my advice, don't quit for six months and expect it to be fun again when you start back up), I spent the rest of Monday night transferring funds for her and running to the ATM in my pajamas.

The next thing I know, my four (no joke) morning alarms are going off to the tune of various ringtones, and voila! it's Tuesday. When I hop out of the shower it's barely 7:30 a.m. and I notice a missed call on my cell, which is vibrating itself off the table. In my mind, I assume my mother is calling to remind me to take it easy on my sister this morning. So without listening to the message, I decide to humor her fictitious request.

As I run out the door, my sister calls and asks me to grab a pair of black slacks she has stuffed in my closet. Good girl, I think. Maybe she has a shot at getting out of this mess after all. Sadly, all is lost when I pick her up on campus. She takes one look in the back seat, and yells, "Black flats, Lindsey! I said, bring me a pair of black shoes." Seizing the opportunity to verbally slap her ungrateful behind, I tell her to change anyway, the black pants would look much better.

On the way to work, I have a chance to listen to my voicemail, and the tone is surprisingly unpleasant. In fact, news of my supposed "difficult" behavior from the night before (going to yoga instead of directly to the bank) has already traveled 1,132 miles and back again before my coffe-craving brain has time to process what's happening. What's happening (8:10 a.m.) is that I'm being "not yelled at" for not being helpful enough to my sister in her time of stress and need. If you ask me, stress and need sounds a little bit more like tough-shit and caught-red-handed.

I arrive at the office feeling frazzled, and before I can sit down I get a phone call to tell me that I have ten minutes to ensure a missing $40,000 finds its way into our client's checking account. Unable to close on a new house without the check, my coworker and I have zero time to solve the problem and a mess of red tape to navigate. The rest of the morning and early afternoon is lost in what can best be described as a flurry of phone calls, faxes, frustration, and eventual blackout. When I come to my senses, it's late afternoon.

Gripping a Starbucks iced double-shot, I sit down at 3 p.m. to check my gmail. By the time I read my daily horoscope, I can already tell you what it says. "You may not want to come out of your shell today, but circumstances make it difficult to stay quiet..." More like, circumstances make it difficult to avoid everyone by calling in sick, turning off my phone, and staying in bed all day.

By the time I'm off work, I'm feeling so desperate for two hours of alone time at the gym that I end up falling asleep in the sauna after a long run. Relaxed and well-deserving of a bottle of my favorite wine, I am seconds from home-free when I notice a text from a friend who wants grab dinner. Could I possibly make it? I ask myself. No way, no how tonight. Half passed-out, I text an apology.

Two hours ago, I walked through the door of my apartment, poured myself a fat glass of wine, and collapsed on the couch. Netflicks delivered Platoon last week and I've been avoiding it on my coffee table. What's better than a classic war movie to put a bad day in perspective?

During the first scene, I got another text from my friend saying that "we need to talk soon ...and address the ambiguities in our relationship." I smile to myself, and think, what a perfect ending to a day where everyone needs some sort of answer from me.

"I've got a friend in Aromatherapy. She tells her problems to a scented candle."

I went to a hillarious, pink-themed charity event last night called “Girls Night Out” to benefit Girls Incorporated of Metro Denver. The event began with a cocktail hour that I would know nothing about due to the traffic jam I was stuck in for an hour trying to get downtown. Luckily, there's no two-drink minimum to appreciate comedian Rita Rudner.

Voted the “Best Comedian in Las Vegas” by the Las Vegas Review-Journal for the last five years, and has had several comedy specials on HBO, including “Rita Rudner’s One Night Stand.” She came out dressed in a floor-length blue gown, diamond bracelets, and glossy red lipstick, but was quick to admit that she's really just a flat-chested, gray-haired, 5'1" Asian man beneath the makeup. She greeted the room of a thousand plus women with a smirk and a curtsy, then introduced herself to one of the only men in the room at the front table.

From cosmetic surgery to shoes, Rita gave poor Matt a front-row spanking by explaining why women wear 5" heels, and how until the day a woman dies, she'll never give up trying to create an optical illusion of how she looks. “You see, Matt,” she said, “even a 700-lbs. woman would look slender in 64" heels.” With wine-stained lips, the women in the crowd roared with laughter.

Later that evening, front-row Matt learned to appreciate shopping as a form of indoor hunting for woman, and Rita made a vow in honor of the struggling economy. With military pride, she proclaimed, "I am no longer just shopping for myself. I am shopping for my country."

Since nothing gets high society woman writing checks quite like wine and botox jokes, I can imagine the event was a great success. But really... For more than 25 years, Girls Inc. has inspired girls in and around the west Colfax neighborhood to be Strong, Smart and Bold. Five years ago, Girls, Inc. built a new gymnasium, dance studio, and classroom-style facility to provide the neighborhood girls with a place to meet every day after school. The purpose of Girls, Inc. programming is to enable underprivileged elementary through high school students to achieve their full potential by conquering social, legal and cultural barriers.

Though I was a little disappointed my $20 raffle ticket didn’t pay off in the form of the $6,000 Tiffany’s bracelet prize, Rita’s dry, classy humor, and the opportunity to support this incredible organization made the traffic jam worthwhile.

McCain's going to need a lot more than yoga

I’m going to have to hand it to Gail Collins for hitting the nail on the head –or should I say “nailing the Jell-O to the wall,” this morning in her New York Times column. She says that with twenty days to go in the race for the presidency “the candidates are gearing their remarks to people who have managed to completely ignore nearly two years of news about the 2008 elections.”

Which means anyone who is already informed will just have to suffer?

The only reason most of these people are undecided is because the only time they pay attention to the nominees is during the debates. If this is where you’re getting all of your information, you might as well take a quarter with you into the voting booth and call it heads or tails.

The undecided voters interviewed on NBC last night want someone to spoon-feed them information. Their questions sounded like whining, “But he didn’t mention this,” and “They didn’t explain that,” “There weren’t enough details about whatever,” and on and on. I mean, educate yourself, people. Go to the candidates’ websites. I doubt you have. Sift through Obama’s rhetoric (http://www.barackobama.com/issues/), make sense of McCain’s proposals (http://www.johnmccain.com/Informing/Issues/), and if all of that is too partisan for you, check the facts (http://www.factcheck.org/). Cut your losses, and make a decision.

If it wasn’t evident last night, these two candidates disagree on virtually every issue, which gives voters the advantage. If you’re undecided, in my opinion, it’s because you’re not informed –and watching three debates does not make you informed.

Twice now, in my yoga class, the instructor has paused and asked the students, “Where are your thoughts right now?” She says that everyone has a tendency to think about events in the past, or their plans for the future. The first time she asked, I came to class feeling agitated, tired, and annoyed. My thoughts were hung up on a tangle of frustrating events. Yesterday when she asked, I came to class feeling lighter, optimistic, and prepared. When she asked, I my thoughts were in the future, and my excitement prevailed.

It’s not hard to determine that McCain’s actions in the past two weeks are motivated by the fact that he has fallen behind in the polls. Is it possible that he feels annoyed? Agitated? Even tired of this long campaign to the White House? It’s no wonder that he is focusing on the past by attacking Obama’s former relationship with Professor Bill Ayers. It’s nearly impossible for him to focus on the issues when he can’t think clearly into the future. In the end, McCain is going to need a lot more than yoga to get out of this negative rut. His criticisms were clear last night, but were lost in his delivery.
Obama was riding high on a wave of optimism and recent success, so it came as no surprise that he was able to calmly articulate his plans for the future. The only time that he referred to something in the past was to response to his frustrated running mate. So, if you’re still undecided, here’s about as basic as it gets: would you rather have a president who’s hung up on the past, or one who is thinking about your future?

Every great relationship starts with a flirtationship

For as long as I can remember, I've been involved in one flirtationship or another. In truth, the concept is well-suited for what is often my impatient, 90-mile an hour, coquettish personality. As with many relationships (in the Webster's sense), my flirtationships have lasted for various lengths of time, they have come in many shapes, tested my commitment levels, and have sometimes involved an intensity that later makes me blush. I have tried them on; no doubt, turned them on at times, worn them out, and once or twice, become completely infatuated.

Flirtationships happen not only with the object of your affection. I've had flirtationships with ideas that fascinate me. My career flirtationships involve being a writer, a penniless nonprofit professional, an amateur painter, a financial planning assistant, a political bullshitter, a magazine editor and more. I've had serious flirtationships with friends who later became lovers, and my flirtationship with sushi was so serious I could hardly eat it for an entire year when it ended. I've been in a serious flirtationship with Marc Jacobs for almost two years now, though I'm sure he has no idea who I am. As most twenty-five year olds can attest, your interests may change in the blink of an eye, and mine often lead in unexpected directions.

Flirtationships involve something or someone who captures your attention at any given moment --after all, every great relationship starts with a flirtationship.