I Forget To Breathe

Blogging has taught me a lot about myself as a writer. For example, that I am distracted by everything and need almost complete silence to write. I've also confirmed that I hate drafting (always have) and like any athlete with an injured knee, I've learned to compensate by writing slowly enough to edit as I go. I now know that no matter how many times I use the word definitely, I will definitely spell it definately, and perhaps most satisfyingly, that I have the ability to make people laugh out loud (I've heard you!).

What writing hasn't taught me is how to prepare myself for the deep, questioning, soul-searching paralysis and doubt that accompanies writer's block. I mean, I'm no dummy, I knew this was coming at some point. I can't even tell you how many times I've read about the "miserable self doubt" that plagues writers who encounter a dry spell. But for all the wonderfully-talented writers and artists who try to recapture the miserable depths of creative self-doubt, none of them does much to prepare you for the mud-stuck rut of it.

Which, on a side note, brings up an interesting thought: Have you ever read the description of an emotion that you've never experienced that made you feel as though you have? The idea is such a tangle of metaphysics in my head right now I can hardly get the point across without confusing myself. Does the question make sense? For all the books I've read about places I've never been that truly made me feel like I was there, I can't think of one example of an emotional experience that was ever described so well that I felt like I had had it before I had it. (Is your head spinning yet?)

Think about it. By the time women in our culture are in their 20's, most have been so well-conditioned to talk about their feelings with one another that they are expertly-versed in psychobabble and bored with talking about the "typical range of emotions" by the time they're 30. I realize this conversation doesn't strike everyone as fascinating, but the fact that we live in a culture that is so saturated with emotional analysis explains why I'm hung up on the idea of experiencing a new emotion altogether, and whether its possible to translate that emotion to someone else through writing.

Okay, wow. Enough of that sidetracking crap. Sheeeesh!

The point is, though blogging has taught me a lot about writing, writing (more specifically not writing) has taught me something very important about myself: That I put an incredible amount of pressure on myself to accomplish great things. Then to remedy any sense of overwhelming, I try to do too much at once. My Dad is always telling me to "Slow down. Take things one day at a time," and he's right. Sometimes life intersects with stress and writer's block and moving to a big city and I forget to breathe.

Writer Anne Lamott describes a similar momentum like this,

"One time, in one of my classes, I asked my students to write about lunches for half an hour, and I sat down with them and wrote ...But in half an hour there was already too much material for me and some of the people in the class, and it threatened to immobilize us. So we decided not even to bother with our parents' handwriting on the outside of the brown paper lunch bag--how much it resembled a Turkish assassin's and what that said about us. We decided to set aside the bag itself for a moment. For the time being we'd stick with the contents, and, to begin with, the sandwich. That was the one-inch picture frame we were going to look through." (From Bird By Bird, "School Lunches")

You see, 99% of the time when I'm having trouble moving forward, it isn't because I can't think of what to write. It's not that I don't know where I'm going. It's that I want everything to come together at once. I'll try to fit so many ideas into a few short paragraphs when I can't even get my arms around the idea enough to begin. Eventually, some miserable voice inside of me starts whispering a speech I've heard a thousand times before... About how I can't possibly become a successful writer if no one takes me seriously. And if I want people to take my writing seriously, I'd better write about something profound. And if I don't write from a new, creative perspective, then I'll drown in the overwhelming sea of no-talent nobody writers and never accomplish my dream.

From there, it's all over. I'm paralyzed.

I won't dare sit down to write until I've got the Number One Best Idea I've ever had, which I might as well throw away forever if I don't already have a witty lead composed in my head. And if the Number One Idea doesn't ever come, then I'd sooner reconsider any dream I've had of moving to New York to become a magazine editor than face the embarrassment of writing something lousy. What an awful thing to say.

This type of thinking is incredibly frustrating in itself. There are too many people standing in the way of my dreams in life to be standing in my own way with this do-nothing paralysis nonsense. No shit, it frustrates me. It frustrates me that I'm moving to New York next month and despite applying for dozens of jobs, networking with influential professionals, having a handful of face-to-face interviews, a terrific resume and plenty of capability, there's still no assurance I'll be any closer to my dream.

"What I do at this point," writes Lamott, "as the panic mounts and the jungle drums begin beating and I realize that the well has run dry and that my future is behind me and I'm going to have to get a job only I'm completely unemployable, is to stop. First I try to breathe, because I'm either sitting there panting like a lapdog or I'm unintentionally making slow asthmatic death rattles. So I just sit there for a minute, breathing slowly, quietly."

I do yoga. I tell people its for my mental health and lean muscle tone, but it's really to ensure that I'm breathing for at least one hour a day.

Ironically, my first sense of relief comes from knowing that people have felt this way before. Other people, sure, but breaking down and feeling completely insecure about your craft is almost a rite of passage for artists, some sort of sick initiation. (Maybe now I'm in the club ...? I don't know.) What I DO know is that for the next month I've got to concentrate on a one-inch frame perspective, take things one day at a time, and breathe. It may sound easy, but you'd be surprised.

Really Fast Halloween Recap

Ahh, another wonderful trip to the shitty, gritty (as I've affectionately dubbed New York City). The latest? I've got a new favorite part of the city (Chelsea... the Marketplace, the High Line, reclaimed industrial spaces), a few new favorite shirts from Madewell, and handful of new favorite people in my life to make it all worthwhile (you know who you are). Thank you to everyone who played a part in all the job networking that took place. As I burned the candle at both ends and made mad dashes from Brooklyn to Chelsea to the Upper West Side and back through Midtown on interviews, I've come to understand the real necessity of a having a messenger bag with a casual change of clothes in tow.

Then again, here's to being able to buy just about anything you need on the street in Chinatown. The day after Halloween, I even considered buying a pair of cheap pants until I realized that the only things for sale were skintight, pleather Gucci knockoffs. Instead, I bought a scarf and tried to forget about my chilly flapper-tights-as-pants attire. I mean, honestly, I would rather die than have to wear my Halloween costume the day after Halloween (and wash a decade's worth of snarky walk-of-shame comments down the drain with my hipocracy??? Never!). Luckily, my friend and I were able to fashion a white v-neck/his longest cardigan "dress" to go with my black tights and menswear flats from the night before. Phew!

I'll post a couple photos for your imagination to work with, but, backing up, the whole Halloween experience was pretty dramatic this year. I was a 1920's flapper with a white-blonde wig. We also had a She-Ra, the Rocketeer, Lady Gaga, Richie Tenenbaum, one blue robot, and six guys in white jumpsuits with painted Twister circles and a spinner. We all ripped through a bottle of Jack, filled up our whiskey flasks, and climbed out on She-Ra's rooftop to watch the crowds lining up for the 6th Avenue Halloween parade. Luckily, She-Ra's rooftop comes complete with a 40-foot, Stella billboard and two enormous spotlights overlooking Broome Street. In no time, we were posing for all of Manhattan to see and taking hillarious photos.

The really sad part is that soon after that we left for the start of the parade, which more resembles herding cattle into a corral, then it started to rain and Lady Gaga dropped the camera amidst all the slosh and puddles and pushing. Sad day, folks. Ten minutes later, the rain was unrelenting and my feather headband was drooping miserably. The Rocketeer took one look at our sad state and jet-packed us on out of there.

More like, we jumped the police barricade, searched one last time for the sopping camera, and ran for the subway. Needless to say, after few romantic, rainy make-outs, a towel-dried wig, and warm dryer for my dress, we were ready to greet the guests at Blue Robot's apartment. You can imagine how the rest of the night ensued, like any other party with plenty of booze and people you don't know. (Well, people I didn't know.) The only difference on Halloween is adding dry ice to the punch and readjusting your wig every ten minutes.

These are a few of my (NEW) favorite things:
Yeah Shang Hai, Soup dumplings
Chinatown Ice Cream Factory, Black sesame seed flavor
Madewell, On Broadway
Club Monoco, Black leather gloves
Chelsea Market
The High Line, Originally constructed in the 1930s, to lift dangerous freight trains off Manhattan's streets. Last summer Section 1 of the High Line opened as a public park, owned by the City of New York.

xoxo Besos!

Why me?

I think I cringed along with the rest of the world last week when I heard the news that President Obama was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. I mean, reeeeally? Give the guy a break. No one wants that announcement to be followed by the (inevitable) question, "What has he even done to deserve it?" At least its been safe to ask that question in the past when you have no idea who Martti Ahtisaari is, let alone what he has done.

Ouch and ouch. By the time I got to work last Friday, the President had already made his speech to the press, so I filtered through CNN.com and found the video. "I don't deserve to be in the company of so many of the transformative figures who have been honored by this prize," he said. I held my breath, watching to see how he would manage to mask his surprise and, quite possibly, his discomfort. And, frankly, you can say what you want about this President, but one thing is clear: you can learn a hell of a lot about poise, humility, and public speaking when you listen to him address a crowd.

The only way he is going to pull it off, I thought, is to spread this out. Any leader worth the title on his or her nameplate knows that when an honor or a responsibility too great is bestowed upon a single person, the first thing you do is recognize the others to whom credit is due, or enlist their support. Look at Grammy winners, for instance. They are first to thank the producers, the collaborators, and the fans who help them achieve success. It is a natural response to assume that the honor is much greater than yourself.

The President continued on to name some of the men and women who have inspired him and who have inspired the world in their pursuit of peace --just as I thought he might. I let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't that long ago, in fact, that I was in a similarly uncomfortable position.

It was the summer after my freshman year in college and I had all but hung up my camp counselor headlamp for retirement when I received an unexpected phone call. On the other end of the line was a familiar voice, though we had never spoken over the phone. It was Mike Nichols, the owner of the summer camp I had grown up working at every summer since I could remember. Sounding tired, and even a little desperate, he asked me if I would be interested in co-directing the camp for the upcoming summer.

"Well.... um, I mean... really?" I stammered. My mind quickly flashed through all my wild, prank-ridden, skinny dipping, teenage summers at camp. Any Co-Director I had ever known was at least 35, going through some sort of mid-life rediscovery, and MALE. I was the shrimpy blonde counselor who led cycling trips and played the reckless female lead in the campfire Real World parodies. I wasn't even allowed to drive the diesel trucks, for god sakes, and I could think of at least ten other senior staff who were more intimidating and boss-like just off the top of my head!

There has been a lot of speculation about what went through Obama's head when he first heard the news over the phone, but I know what he said to himself: "Oh, shit. Why me?"

To make a long story short, I told Mike that I would do it. Had I been in my right mind, I might've confirmed that he dialed the right number and ask him if he even knew that I was only 19, but I was pretty much in shock. It wasn't really until a few days later that it all sunk in and I started feeling anxious about the stick-shift learning, tobacco-chewing, alliance-forming, intimidating, sexist summer that lie ahead. Shit. What was I thinking? Forget teaching me to drive the enormous camp truck, they were just going to run me over with it.

I took one look around the crowd, gathered outside and on the porch of the back cabin several weeks later, and my stomach dropped. Here were seventy-five of my friends, some who knew me better than I knew myself --half of them shirtless, tanned country boys, dripping sweat, bickering amongst themselves, waiting to criticize my every word. I took a deep breath and told them, "It could've been any one of us up here this summer." Because that was mostly true.

In the end, it was a wonderful, scary, humbling, and hilarious experience being the co-director that summer, and I was extremely lucky to have a supportive group of friends (Mere, Bradford, Austin, KGB, Mari) who watched my back and forced me out of camp on fun overnights when I took myself too seriously. Best of all, I was given some of the most valuable advice I've ever heard.

After a raucous of a staff meeting one night, my friend KG pulled me aside and said, "You know, there's always an audience for what you have to say." I looked at him puzzled, and he explained, "I mean that even when its not a popular thing to say or your voice comes out shaky and small, there are others in the crowd who will listen and who probably agree with you but are too afraid to speak up. You're giving them a voice." Wow, I thought. Sometimes its so easy to hear the loud, hurtful voices of criticism that we forget about the quiet, subtle nods from the rest of the crowd.

So what I will say is this: You may not be ready for what's coming your way. You may not think you deserve a certain honor or position or title or responsibility (or whatever), and in fact, you may not even deserve it yet. But sometimes, you have to trust what others see in you and do your best to speak from your heart, even when you're not sure who's listening.

Love, love to all of you today! Mmmmuuuuuuaaaaaaaa!

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours

Damn you, Boulder. Why is it that every time I make an actual plan to move and leave you behind, you wager with a cloudless, 70-degree day in the middle of Fall and taunt me with snow-covered mountains just within view?

I've been crazy about Colorado since visiting Boulder for the first time nine years ago. I mean, come on, after a half-dozen road trips to a handful of journalism school east of the Mississippi, I'm not sure if it was the fear of spending another eight hours in the backseat of the car with my sister or the Rocky Mountains that convinced me first. All I know is that if I had to choose where to spend my four years of college all over again, this would still be the place.

Back when I graduated high school (yawn), the University of Colorado was still a fairly balanced combination of "granola" culture, academic credibility, and airport proximity to appease most parents (generous enough to pay $30,000 a year). The four-state distance from my home town appealed to my budding independence, the liberal climate to my sense of rebellion, and the mountains to an artist's taste for aesthetics. I think I summed it up for my parents something like, "I just like the people."

My first winter in Summit County was a mind-eraser. After that, I couldn't remember what I ever used to do with the snow in Indiana. And from what I remember of growing up in Chicago, winter was nothing but wind and The Walnut Room.

Wow. Just thinking that I actually won't be living here past December stirs up a good wave of emotions in my stomach. Back to wind and pointless snow. Damn you, Colorado, for making me want to stay. ...For nurturing me and pushing me out of the nest, for having more sunny days than anywhere I'll move, and for the loads of sexy, athletic men more muscular than anyone should grow acostomed to.

In fact, this whole love letter to Boulder mentality was triggered by someone I met unexpectedly this weekend, yoga instructor, Richii Jai. (God bless male yoga instructors who inspire me to write, let alone contort my body for an hour and a half in a sweaty room.) I stumbled into Richii's class Saturday morning at the same studio that I go to every day, so I was surprised that we had never met. He is this tall, sinuey guy with tattoos up and down both arms, a shaved head (minus a grown-out mohawk rat tail or something...?) and this great spastic, hyper energy that I;m attracted to in just about anyone. Let me put it to you like this:

Think of how your mom is capable of making a meal so delicious, so favorite, the night before you leave for college that, even though its the same meal you've had a million times before, something about the way it smells, the way it tastes, makes you want to just throw in the towel, forget any plan to get on a plane the next day, and stay forever.

True. But lately it's felt like all my "moving" pieces have fallen into place, so I felt immune to all the local home cooking, so to speak. Nevertheless, Boulder cooked up one last meal that took my breath away this weekend --proving that it can still give me what I need when I least expect it. It happened during Saturday's yoga class --where Richii's incredible sense of humor, lightheartedness, wit, and spontaneity left me with hands-down the best mood I've had in months.

AND THAT'S WHAT BOULDER DOES TO YOU when you make a plan to move away. It gently, subtly reminds you what you'll be missing, such as the fact that no where will the skiing be as sunny nor the guys as "mountain men" gorgeous (as Mari would say).

Just when I thought something that I love as much as yoga couldn't get any better, I meet a great teacher who takes the practice not to the next, serious-spiritual level, but in a completely new direction (such as a crack-you-up, techno-blasting, quit-taking-this-shit-so-seriously direction) that makes it feel more comfortable, less-phony than ever before. So, there it is, and herein lies the lesson, I suppose: That when Boulder leaves you wanting more, it's time to take things in a completely new direction. Literally.

The War on Terra (or The War on Terrible Dreams)

My friend Oded invited me to a screening of The Age of Stupid last night, a part-SciFi, part-documentary film about the climate crisis. Running late, we could only find seats in the back of the theater and I teased him not to make any moves. Five minutes into the feature, my stomach sunk. It hadn't even occurred to me that this could be another feel-like-shit-about-being-an-American film and I reeeally wasn't in the mood for that. Ugggghhhh. I imagined sulking deeper and deeper into my seat as the next two hours passed by, until finally I'd land on the Raisinette-littered floor and let any foreigners spit on me on their way out.

Thankfully, Stupid doesn't focus on the United States as the only curse to climate change (though the facts speak for themselves). And although pretty much all climate change information sounds redundant to me at this point, writer and director, Franny Armstrong, calculates enough of a human-interest angle to temper any trace of science. I recommend it, especially to all my sustainability-speaking, green guru friends in Boulder (Nicole).

The screening was followed by a live press conference via satellite from New York, a cool acoustic performance by Radiohead's Thom Yorke, and an even cooler all-night happy hour with my friends at Tahona Tequila Bar. Jess is invited to a darrrrling little (non) "low budget," (non) "D.I.Y.," ranch-style destination wedding next weekend outside of Winter Park (which has, no surprise, erupted in last-minute chaos) so that became the topic of conversation.

The five of my friends and I stirred up our own set of opinions about "destination" weddings (namely, that they're disastrous) which triggered a now reoccurring dream later that night. In this horribly uncomfortable dream, I'm the bride about to be married and days away from walking down the aisle. As the situation comes into focus, I begin to panic at the thought of marrying that guy. "What was I thinking?" I ask myself every time. Then when I try to remember him actually proposing to me, I never can.

The dream lasts a few days, and all the while I'm looking at the people around me, trying to decide who I can desperately trust to help me. I'm feel frantic imagining marrying this guy and assured that we will end up divorced shortly down the road. When I decide on an accomplice, I tell them that I'll do anything to call off the wedding. In one version, the accomplice is my mom who gives me a tough-love talk moments before I walk down the aisle. She tells me, "You can't back out now and do this to such a wonderful man." In last night's version, Jess actually helps me off the hook and I'm able to leave the bewildered groom behind. (In a strange sidenote, his family is overwhelmingly understanding. Ha!)

So you're probably wondering who the guy is. Let me just say that it's been a different ex either time.

The groom is always one of the remarkably (...or, reasonably) eligible bachelor's I've dated and remain friends with, but haven't ended up with for one reason or another. Seriously, is this some sort of sick curse for calling myself a Romantic? For daydreaming about marrying the guy I'm dating? For doodling my third grade boyfriend's name all over the front of my Trapper Keeper? If I promise never to let my imagination get ahead of my relationship, will that be the end of this stupid, terrible dream?

I suppose it couldn't hurt. Shit, I may even learn a new thing or two about the realities of dating, end my own Age of Stupid. In honor of my personal War on Terra, I promise to keep my cynical feet on the ground ...momentarily.

Same As It Ever Was

Alright, to call myself a slacker in the blog department wouldn't even begin to cover it, I KNOW. I've also written about half a dozen leads at this point, all starting with some lame excuse for now writing recently blah blah blah, so I think maybe I'll mash them all up and call it a "Choose Your Own Adventure" post someday so that they can quit clogging my gmail inbox and I can stop saving lousy half-drafts on Jess' desktop.

(With THAT off my chest...) I couldn't be in a better mood!

Truthfully, nothing puts me in a better mood than buying a plane ticket to New York, and my wonderful mom offered to foot the Halloween trip bill for my 26th birthday present! Yay! After a summer of traveling (i.e. playing around the east coast), however, I've promised myself that I'll make this trip a productive one by actually (A) setting up some job interviews and (B) leaving a bag of winter clothes behind so that I have less to bring when I actually MOVE.

But back to the good mood for now... I've had this wild spinoff tonight, from what started as a "work" session to wrap up a freelance job. Then somewhere between looking up vintage Halloween costumes, listening to Devandra Banhart videos on youtube, and searching for the perfect pair of brogue flats for fall, I gave myself permission to stay up as late as I want -to hell with feeling exhausted in the morning! I'm not sure why, but staying up really late when you know you have somewhere to be early the next day is sort of like having breakfast for dinner or popping an oreo in your mouth first thing before getting in the shower when you wake up... sometimes it just feels like the right thing to do.

Also contributing to the mood: an amaazing Labor Day weekend trip to New York, two of the SICKEST vintage finds in years (denim shit/coat with cowboy star embroidery and a black, beaded sweater with pointy Balmain shoulders that might possibly weigh 7-lbs.), seeing Phoenix, Passion Pit, and Chromeo at Monolith music festival, being photographed at the festival, daydreaming about a new love interest, and finding a brand new Vogue and Vanity Fair waiting in my mailbox. I mean, really, what else could a girl ask for?

I also started an internship last week with Bonnier Mountain Group, which is the media company in Boulder that owns Ski Magazine, Skiing Magazine, and Warren Miller films --as in skiporn, for those of you who don't live in a state obsessed with snow sports. I've basically been helping the film tour director, Cheech, get the new website up and running and last Friday he asked me to screen the press copy of this year's film for audio glitches (I mean, if I haaaaaave to). More than anything, though, I'm grateful to have the industry exposure right now while I'm looking for a full-time job.

I guess that watching the film on Friday is what really started off this whole blissed-out mood thing in the first place. With plans to move after Christmas, it gave me an opportunity to reflect on all the unbelievable ski seasons I've had out here. Then I couldn't help but think of how far things have come since I first moved out here. Let me sum it up for you: The experience I had skiing before moving to Colorado was a total of two hours one day when I was working as a camp counselor at winter session in southern Indiana. The place was called Ski World (may it rest in peace), and all I remember was my best friend Mari grabbing the crotch of her baggy non-waterproof snow pants to stop herself from laughing as I crossed my skis (standing still) in the lift line and fell on top of two guys I later recognized from high school.

Needless to say, I was not the most graceful swan in the pond. I also briefly dated this guy this guy who was, once upon a time, completely obsessed with skiing. We're talking the walls of his bedroom plastered with trail maps of places I pretended to have heard of. For Christmas that year, I thought that I would really hit it out of the park by buying him a ski movie, so I picked out the coolest looking one that I could find online. I later found out that he already owned the same copy --because he bought it as a new release ...five years earlier!

I definitely want to write more about the Warren Miller film, especially for those of you who haven't seen one before, but I'm going to save it for later this week. This is going to sound really cheesy, but watching the film on Friday just reminded me of how incredible it's been to be a part of the ski and snowboarding culture out here for so long, and a reminder of what I will miss! Ha ha, and how far I have come...

"It's funny how one big storm can come through and make everything seem the same as it ever was."

(And now, please excuse the blog-vomit to follow. Without much explanation, below are just some of the fashion images that have inspired me lately... Also, I'd like to give a shout out to the friends who helped me celebrate my 26th birthday in the Hamptons this year ...that backdrop is the most PERFECT canvas for a creative mind. Zora, Kacy, your style f*cking rocks! Danee, Kloke, Oren, Greg, Dan, everyone, thank you for the inspiration! Mmmmuuuuuuaaaa!)


I absolutely love her, as always.




1960's French model, Charlotte Martin

I'm A Poor Kid Trapped In A Trust Fund Body

It’s time to put the rumors to rest –I am alive and well. I have not fallen off the face of the planet, though the last two months have been an interesting ride. I guess I could best describe them as speeding through an empty parking lot covered in ice, then yanking the emergency brake, and spinning dizzily around a half dozen times. Through the blurred landscape and my white knuckle grip on the steering wheel (which I was not steering in the least), all I could do was hold my breath and pray to God that I didn’t smash into anything. That’s basically what it feels like to be laid off.

For a long time, I didn’t know how to feel. I wasn’t terrible crushed, in fact, I did a standup job of convincing the President of the company that I would have no problem finding a job. Before I knew what I was saying, I confessed to her that I already had a freelance writing job on the side. I may have even gone as far as saying, “Don’t feel bad.” But then I took it even farther. My body felt paralyzed from the news of losing my job, but somehow my tongue wagged on and on about fabricated job opportunities and writing contracts I had never heard of. I slipped into some sterile tone of creepy, programmed professionalism, and before I knew it she was laughing at my jokes. (Layoff …funny?) It was all very strange. I had no idea what I was doing, and I sat there in awe of myself, thinking “Why the fuck am I trying to make this woman laugh? Who turned on the autopilot, and what have they done with Lindsey?”

I sat at a stop light yesterday, half laughing to myself at the thought of the whole, idiotic scene. Why couldn’t I have seized that moment to make to make this otherwise non-confrontational, fiscally-infuriating, nonsensical CEO feel as uncomfortable and nervous as I could make possible? FOR ONCE! Instead, I sat across from her and desperately convinced her that I needed the job just as little as she needed me. What the hell?! Autopilot is our body’s cruel and unjust way of handling delicate situations with care –so that we can torture ourselves later with what we wish we would’ve done.

All this out-of-practice blog babble leads to the one thing that’s occupied 99.9% of my thinking since that fateful April day: What to do next. In short, I’ve wanted to move to New York since I first set foot in the shitty, gritty city eight years ago. (If I have to explain ‘why on Earth I would ever want to live there’ one more time I’m going to have a seizure, so I’ll save that blog for another day.) Immediately, I thought, I’ll save money to move and get out of Boulder by the end of the summer. The month of May flew by with two car seats buckled in back of my nannymobile, and soon after I burned my first paychecks in a trashcan in my back yard (might as well have), I remembered how hard it is for me to save money (see blog archive).

I stayed awake in bed until 4 a.m. for three nights in a row --stressing, stressing, stressing about finding a job, feeling unqualified, packing my winter clothes, finding an apartment, talking to my friends in NY, meeting my ex’s new girlfriend there, the fact that its taken me so long to move there, how much money I will need to live, and why I still hadn’t fallen asleep—until I made myself so sick that I threw up and broke down in tears on the phone to my Grandpa. (Pathetic, I know.)

That’s when I decided to give myself (a F&^%$#*) break. I called my wise friend Nicole, asked her to meet me, and went to the place I always go when I need to get a grip: Efrain’s Mexican Restaurant. I don’t know what they put in their Premiere margaritas, but all is well with the world after one of those –every time. Nicole broke it down for me in her wise old way, and helped settle me down long enough to devise a (simple) plan. 1) Apply to at least two jobs every day until I get one in NY, because only a fool without a trust fund would move there with no job in a crappy economy; and 2) have a serious talk to my landlord about living in my apartment until I move.

Today’s horoscope just about sums it up:

You might be having a hard time today because knowing what you want isn't all there is to the equation. (No shit.) Your big concern now is how to realize your dreams. You may be best equipped to make a plan and focus your efforts on meeting each goal in a timely manner. (Thank you, Nicole). But you also might think it's better to stay loose enough to respond to anything that happens. (Which would explain hanging out with a bunch of climbers who just moved from Florida). Find a workable balance between planning ahead and being spontaneous. (Which would explain how we all ended up singing karaoke at The Outback and staying up until four a.m. this morning.)

The Unspeak[or text]able

I woke up groggy this morning, rolled over in bed, realized I wasn’t in my bed, and squinted until I could see the clock. 6:42. Really? Wait. Where am I? Wait. Where’s my phone? I reached for my phone, only to realize that it was, in fact, 7:30, and the clock on the nightstand was wrong. Life can be so unfair.

Let’s just say a certain, um, chain of events this week has led me to an exhausting state of scatter-brained disarray, tempered only by a strong happy-hour cocktail and good company cure-all (Jess, Chad, Ali… the rest of you responsible for the gchat hugs and encouraging words know who you are). I’m going to leave the explanation at that. I don’t need more questions, conversations, or concerns right now to compound my mood swings. Let’s just say I could’ve done without the third martini last night.

So, I scrambled out of bed and lately I’ve been finding this comforter-all-twisted-and-half-on-the-floor thing when I wake up, so I quickly tried to remake the guest bed. Next came the closet, and all this fashionista could think about were leggings and a soft sweater-something to cozy up in at work. At one point, madame hostess poked her head in and said, “You’re not wearing that are you?” Well, no, but where are your damn leggings, I asked her.

Forty minutes and sixty-five outfit changes later, I’m off to work. The best part about my current, um, situation is immunity in the home stretch. So, I chatted with one coworker over a venti cappuccino, sat in the office of another coworker for the next hour, left to have lunch at the nearby deli (Salvaggio’s), and by the time I got back it was 1:00. Now that’s what I call a work day.

But, martinis and drowning sorrows aside, I realized something in Salvaggio’s today. What’s crazier is that I knew something was going to happen. I could sense it. All morning I had been having a case of “the stupids,” as my friend JJ likes to call it (the stupids: a pre-hangover state of mind in which everything seems funnier than it is and life occurs in a scattered series of surreal events. I tend to bare unguarded honesty and put things so bluntly that I surprise myself). When I walked into the deli, Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” was playing –a song that conjures a million high school memories, and still makes me sentimental.

I’m listening, half sadly to the song, ordering my sandwich …listening …trying to keep myself together (did I brush my teeth this morning? Have I combed my hair?), and I knew I was going to lose it at some point. It’s like listening to sad music when you’re already feeling upset. You know the tears are coming and you might as well get your big cry over with by pushing yourself over the edge. Well, the rest of my afternoon was nothing like that.

In fact, I paid for my sandwich, bought a brownie for my coworker, and began filling up my drink at the fountain when, suddenly… a guy in his mid-thirties turned to me and said, “This food here’s fucking amaaazing, huh?”

Enter: the stupids.

“Yep,” I said, laughing a little. “It’s pretty good.”

“You work around here?” he asked.

“Yeah….well…..*&(*&^*&%^$*%^#$@*%%&*)(*&(*^%$&^,” I tell him matter-of-factly, and I started to walk away.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear about that,” he said. “Well, would you (static static static)?”

“Huh?”

“I said, would you like to have lunch with me some time?”

(Um, ahh, no…ummm… what? ….shit.) “Actually, I’m seeing someone,” I said, and quickly headed for the door.

As soon as I got back in the car, I told my sister and her friend that I got asked out inside. “Really??” they asked me, excited to hear about some hot young deli boy inside. “Yeah… but he was old-ish and not at all my type,” I told them.
Later, I got to thinking about the incident. To be honest, despite my lack of physical attraction, he struck me as a genuinely decent kind of guy. Who knows? Maybe he just wanted someone to talk to, or maybe he’s been eating lunch at Salvaggio’s for years without anyone to share a conversation with. I consider myself a pretty open-minded person, but who am I if I can’t even take a chance on some kind-hearted stranger who wants to share a sandwich? Which got me thinking even more…

(Fast-forward five hours and three emotional breakdown near-misses later) Two beers into happy hour, I was starting to admire this Salvaggio’s stanger-man. I mean, come on. Name one person you know besides some cocky college friend who’s actually willing to ask a stranger out for a lunch (date)? I can think of two people, maybe. All of a sudden, I felt disappointed in myself. It seemed sad that I was so quick to say ‘no’ and that I’d been so hesitant to take a simple leap if faith. I started thinking that if you’re not willing to take a risk on another person (especially one who seems like a good person), then you’re limiting yourself for the rest of your life. How will I ever know if there’s a type of person better suited for me than someone I’ve already met?

Prompted by this analytic tangle and my second Brasserie beer, I decided to take bold action. If a complete stranger can find the courage to ask me out in the middle of a crowded deli, then I need to stick my neck out in the world a bit farther than a turtle. And what better place to start than with someone who’s smart, that I’m clearly attracted to, and that I’ve already made out with? So I text him (I didn’t say much farther than a turtle, besides it’s been a rough week). I suggested that we have dinner when I get back in town. At least it's a start.

Snow Day Savings Plan

If I were to (um, hypothetically) have the web pages, “Dictionary.com: Hypochondriac,” and “GetRichSlowly.org: Are You a Shopaholic?” open at the same time, what would that tell you? Does one diagnosis cancel out the other? (Hardly.)
While I spent several hours yesterday wading through the mess that is my Google Reader, I managed to completely avoid the “Finance” folder. You see, sometimes I do smart, proactive things like subscribing to blogs about savings strategies, money management, or Get Rich Slowly (my favorite). Other times, I purposely ignore my well-placed, well-intentioned tools (ehem, Chase Mobile Checking) in lieu of …shall we say, old habits. Nothing makes me feel like the proverbial old dog quite like trying to learn a new savings trick.

Allow me to digress for a moment: You should know that I’m being a little dramatic. In many respects, I have been blessed with wonderful financial health. I have one minimal student loan to pay off from my Semester at Sea, and my greatest debt is to two generous parents whose value for education earned me a Wielgos Family Scholarship. I wouldn’t call it a “free ride.”

I’m behind the curve for most 25-year olds in terms of having credit card debt, which leaves me with only one enemy: my monthly cash flow. Like I said, things could be much worse. I have a second job as a freelance grant writer, though the additional paycheck alternately exacerbates and alleviates my financial problems. I also know things could be much better. That’s why I swore up and down, as the clock struck midnight on December 31, 2008, that 2009 would be the year of financial security! No more headaches, self-induced ulcers, parental stimulus packages, returned checks, or overdraft fees.

Considering my resolution, I’m neither a Tortoise, nor a Hare. I’m more like the three-legged donkey you’ve never read about. The one who takes an uphill shortcut then stops to eat grass for awhile along the side of the racetrack. By the time I’m done with the race, no trace of the crowd is left at the finish line. I’m really not expecting things to turn around overnight or anything, and I’m prepared for the fact that making sacrifices always hurts a little at first. I’ve already experienced a few setbacks, but I’ve still got nine months left and I’m not giving up.

Where was I? ...Scrolling through my “Finance” RSS feed… when, suddenly, a headline caught my eye: “Defeating Temptation: 10 Questions to Ask Yourself When You’re Tempted to Buy.” This couldn’t hurt, I thought. Besides, I’m quite attracted to bulleted advice. Someday, when I have some advice to share with the world, I’ll be sure to bullet it. All bullets, no bullshit. That’ll be my advice motto –straight to the point. On second thought, that could easily be misinterpreted. (Can you tell this topic is making me anxious? I’m all over the place with crappy jokes and side notes.) Moving on…

The author of the article writes a blog called Get Rich Slowly. He used to be a compulsive spender, and says there was once a point when it was difficult for him to enter a mall, a bookstore or even a supermarket without buying something. With the exception of an occasional impulse purchase, the author says that his urge to buy stuff has largely diminished due to a series of questions that he asks himself prior to making a purchase. At this point, I’m all ears. I’ve definitely tried asking myself questions before making a purchase, but I’m learning that when someone can’t quite distinguish between a want and a need, “Do I really need this?” is a really pointless question.

Half way through scanning the When-will-I-use-this, Do-I-have-one-like-it-already list of questions, a thought occurs to me. Why not write these questions down and stick a cheat sheet in my wallet? With that constant reminder, my spending habits could be curbed by one of two possible outcomes: A) I take the list out of my wallet and read the questions before making a purchase or B) I’m so embarrassed to use the list in the first place that I leave my wallet in my purse entirely. I figure it’s worth a try, so for the next 30 days, I’m committed to asking myself the following questions:

• When will I use this?
• Do I have one like it already?
• If I buy this, where will I put it?
• Can I pay cash?
• Can I buy a good-quality version for less?
• Does anyone own one I can borrow?
• Can I wait to buy this?
• Why do I want to buy this today?
• Are there better options available?
• What would ______ say if I bought this?

After copying the list of questions to a post-it note, I went back and starred a few of the most poignant. Initially, I wrote “my mom” in the last question blank, but on second thought I changed the name to “Lesley.” Lesley is a friend of mine who recently saved enough money to spend four months –carefree, without a job—living in Argentina. When the fog lifted from my state of South American envy, it occurred to me how much I truly admire her financial discipline and frugality --so I’ll imagine what Lesley would say if I bought the item instead.

My 30-day trial begins next Wednesday, which happens to coincide with Money Management International's Financial Literacy Month (who knew?). When I found this out, I knew it must be a sign (I also thought it might be a bad sign that Wednesday is April Fool's Day ...but nevermind that). In an effort to take myself seriously, I went to the website and joined 2,781 other people in making a pledge for my financial wellness. I'll now be receiving additional daily finance tips (yay! ...shoot me) which makes me hereby armed-and-ready to tackle my resolution. While the 10 questions are an important part of my strategy, I’m also planning to lean heavily on the following rules:

1. Only use cash (with the exception of bills and rent)
2. Check my account balance daily –aka bite the bullet and actually use my Chase Mobile account.
3. 30-day wait period on purchases –if I still wantneedmusthave something 30 days later, I’ll reconsider buying it (*see 10 questions).
4. 10% self-imposed clothing tax –10% of the total for every clothing purchase goes directly to savings.

Aside from saving my receipts, I'm not too worried about adhering to these rules. I considered whining about keeping the debit cards in my wallet "in case of emergency," but since I have trouble defining anything besides fashion emergencies, the cards are going in the sock drawer. No questions asked.

If all else fails, I can just pray that we have another blizzard in Boulder –like the one that’s kept me inside for the past two days. That seems to be a terrific money-saving strategy.

Th-th-three uh-uh-Oh

Would you believe me if I told you that Nat first tried these dance moves out on my friend and I in our living room senior year? I remember the first time they sold out the Fox Theater in Boulder ...Ahh, what a blast from the past. Soo grown up now. Still moi favorite song.

I Dream of Jacobs ...Again.

It was only a matter of time until my weird, brother-from-another-mother connection (obsession?) with Marc Jacobs was resurrected. I had a dream about the prophetic designer last night, as I lay in the twin bed of a Winter Park vacation condo that my sister and her friends rented this week for their Spring Break (remember that? Sigh.) I can't explain why I have this (not so secret) affinity with this man. Okay, he's one of the most successful designers of this day in age, who consistently hits the mark with not one, but two, innovative labels (Louis Vuitton and Marc by Marc Jacobs) every season. And I've always had a thing for dark, handsome Jewish men ...though Marc has had his share of awkward stages.

In my dream last night, I was sitting in the classroom of some design school --but who really knows, it was probably somewhere more illogical than that. For whatever reason, Marc was the class instructor and singled me out at the end of class one day to accompany him to his newest label debut. Why me? I have no idea, but I remember scrambling to pull a pair of capris on under my skirt as I ran to catch up with him (again, quite strange).

As I sat with him at the back of the venue --music blaring, models pounding down the runway in front of us- I could barely hear his narration, so we leaned closer, as he described his inspiration for the designs and elaborated on their construction. This is surreal, I kept thinking, and before I knew it the show was over. As a gift, he walked me backstage and handed me a pair of white, ruffled shorts from the collection --still on the hanger.

The dream progressed, as dreams often do, in a scattered, day-is-night-is-day sort of way, and I'm transported to a small, retail store-type space. As it turns out, a corner of the room is my closet, with all my personal items hanging among the sweaters and skirts for sale. I'm trying to pick out something to wear when a clerk informs me that a private, Marc Jacobs sales event is about to begin. Could I please show my invitation, she asks. "But this is my closet," I tell her, and I'm allowed to stay.

Naturally, I grab up as many items as I can, ruched blouses, floral dresses, and even strange patterns I'd never wear. My friend, Alanna, appears next to me, handing me some additional items (where did she come from?). The rest is a blur, though I'm desperate to remember what I ended up buying in the dream. Come to think of it, this part is probably based on a stuffy, little vintage store she and I visited in the East Village last weekend. I tried on a thick, canvas-material, floral sundress by Marc Jacobs, but decided against purchasing anything over $200 before brunch on a Saturday. I can't even make an impulse purchase on an empty stomach.

The best part of the dream was the end, right before I awoke to the sound of out-of-towners mal-adjusted to the time difference. I was sitting back in the classroom as Marc walked over to me to tell me he had a wonderful evening the night before. I had told him how much I admired his talent, and that I looked up to him as a mentor (or something to that affect). He said he was flattered, and recognized a talent in me, as well.

Imaginary or not, nothing says Sunday morning like a good dream and waking up in the mountains.

A Heavy Hand at The Open Bar of Life

‘What makes us American?’ seems to be the question of the week.

Having spent the past week at the epicenter of America, New York City, maybe I should have some insight. After all, isn’t Manhattan where the brightest and the biggest-dreaming stars go to chase their dreams? The city that never sleeps? The Big Apple --where anything is possible? Two flights and one layover later, I arrived back in Denver with more questions than answers.

What makes us American? And why the preoccupation with this question now?

Last Saturday in Manhattan, I was lured to a rather pretentious party with the promise of walls draped in Matisse and Picasso sketches. Being the art sucker that I am, an eager enthusiast, I accompanied Joe to a surprise birthday/engagement party at a friend of a friend’s Union Square penthouse. The view was enchanting, the art collection astounding, and the snobbery abundant (former company excluded).

Considering it polite to introduce myself to the hostess at some point in the night and thank her graciously for the invitation, I made my way to the other side of the room. Now, I may have been to New York more times than I can count on my hands, but apparently, I know nothing about upper-crust etiquette. As I introduced myself to the hostess, she turned to me, unsmiling, and asked my single most favorite, buzz-kill party question, “Who do you know here?” To her credit, I barely knew where I was, let alone who anyone was at the party, but I stammered my friend-of-friend chain of acquaintances as she looked irritatingly at me, then promptly walked away. Matisse sketch or first grade finger-painting, rudeness becomes no one.

Does our snobbery set us apart as Americans? No. I think that stereotype belongs to the French (though maybe the hostess was French? She did have a French name). Does collecting expensive art make us American? Certainly not. Compared to many European cultures, Americans’ history of art appreciation is infantile. Besides, people all over the world own expensive things.

So it must be conceit, our American sense of self-importance and excessively favorable opinion of our own abilities, that sets us apart. No. Although conceit is a popular trait amongst some of the 25-year olds I know, that’s not necessarily American either. After all, let’s not draw conclusions based on one rude scenario and a few snobby strangers. Conceit is one thing, but defining ‘American’ is a complicated matter, particularly when a large part of the population has been widely raped of its riches (…or is it, ‘the riches they’ve reaped’? Never mind.)

The question feels harder to answer in tough economic times. When the thought of climbing the corporate ladder, owning a house, and taking your family on vacation signified success, it sufficed to say that ‘The American Dream’ defined our country. When owning multiple houses, driving fancier cars, and hedging money in high-risk investments moved into the picture, things became complicated. Had consumerism become the new American?

And then it ended, just as soon as we began to get comfortable. Our perception of economic growth during the past 20 years, it turns out, was nearly 40% inflated. Job security was not what it seemed, and unemployment rates are double-digit in many parts of the country. If consumerism had indeed become the new 'American', it may be accurate to say that we returned items to the shelf as fast as we could and went home empty-handed. Without any of the “stuff” left to define us, we’re left to search for something beyond the cheaper meaning of ‘American.’ (Something makes me think we have a thing or two to learn from the folks in New Orleans.)

Newsweek’s Daniel Gross writes that, “It’s tempting in this period of [economic] contraction to mimic Thoreau, to live simply and deliberately.” He says that, “…if we lose our penchant for gain and risk, we’ll lose some of the essence of what makes us American.” More than anything, taking risks is what makes us American. Those who strive for bigger, better, faster –greatness …and persevere beyond all odds, have given this country its name. Give me snobbery, fancy art collecting, and a few good friends to make fun of it all, and I’ve got something to write about any day. But give me courage to risk everything for my dreams, and I’ll have something to write about for a lifetime.

This Sinner's Being Punished [or Guadelupe In My Remote]

Something serious happened to the remote control in my apartment. I’m afraid it may be nearing the end of its (battery) life, and is trying to punish me for something I've done. I think someone somewhere is trying to teach me a lesson. The question is: is it a miracle or a mishap?

Lesson #1: You will learn to speak Spanish.

One of the handy things about living in Colorado is that there are about six or so Spanish-speaking standard cable channels. And by “handy,” I mean useful to no one but your long-distance boyfriend, Marco, when he comes to visit. Truthfully, I’ve barely even noticed these channels (half-telenovela, half-Catholic programming) during the seven years that I’ve lived here. Until recently.

What do I mean by the television remote is trying to send me messages? I mean that when I warm up my cup of coffee and sit down on Saturday morning to watch What Not to Wear, the buttons on the remote stop working. And when I’m lying in bed, trying to catch an episode of Letterman before I fall asleep, the buttons on the remote stop working. What’s more is that I’m convinced this only happens when I’m at my most tired or when I’m one channel away from the show I like to watch. Life can be so unfair.

Exhaustion and frustration can also encourage you to do violent things (I’m learning). So after re-arranging the batteries five times, I try smacking the remote against the palm of my hand. And when I decide that my hand shouldn’t be taking the blame, I smack the remote against the coffee table, the floor, the side of the couch, the corner of the drywall, and my hand again. Nothing.

The kicker is that during the whole ordeal, through every violent remedy and self-inflicted abuse, the Spanish channel is buzzing full-volume in the background. Day, night, mid-afternoon –it doesn’t matter! Some greasy-haired soap star with his shirt unbuttoned to his naval rattles Spanish-nothings in my ear every time the remote suffers a breakdown. It seemed coincidental enough, at first.

Lesson #2: You will listen to the word of God.

The only thing worse than a remote-meltdown in the middle of a Spanish talk show is a big fat malfunction on the Jesus network. Those are really the worst. I’m telling you, these people have projectile, hallucinogenic word vomiting 24-hours a day, and twice on Sundays. Or it may be holy-Tourettes, considering every other word is “praise Jesus.” I have no idea. All I know is that Jesus and I have been spending a considerable amount of time together since my remote started to schitz, and I hope this kind of Tourettes isn’t contagious.

I feel like the Catholic guy Miranda dates during an episode of Sex and the City. He’s constantly showering to wash away his sins. Lately, I’ll be sitting in my bathrobe, queued up for five minutes of The View when the remote stops working and I’m stuck in the gaze of some “praise Jesus” priest. By the time I bang the remote my apartment around with no results, I’m convinced only a shower will save this sinner. If I don’t get to Target for some batteries today, there’s no telling what the Guadelupe in my remote might tell me next…

A Career Blogger Named Penelope.

I realize that if I keep writing about my obsession with the creative process, I'm going to have to change the name of this blog to Monogamy. Having said that...

I don’t even know what I was reading this morning. (This is the way 90% of my statements begin each day, btw). I don’t remember what led me to this career blog, what RSS thread I followed, or what newspaper article pointed me in her direction, but there I found myself, sifting through archives and jumping around like a bean, hot on hyperlinks. Brazen Careerist: Penelope Trunk.

“The starving artist routine is total bullshit” catches my attention first. Go figure. I would rather start a conversation with a provocative, definitive statement any day over something tired and truthful. (The idea of this makes me laugh because I know I’m about to get myself into trouble here.) I mean, seriously. I can talk for hours with someone who is a provocative bullshitter (I mean this in the most light-hearted sense) as opposed to someone who is going to bore my socks off with safe things to say.*

So “the starving artist…” line catches my attention and seconds later I’m on a tough-love kind of posting about building a career as an artist. Halfway through the article I not only agree with everything Ms. Penelope says, I’m half-tempted to cut-n-paste it to Flirtationships and call it my own (Flirting with copyright infringement? Flirting with disaster, perhaps?) Her advice is as follows:

1.You cannot do art if you are starving. Literally. Romantic notions aside, its difficult to make art when you know you can’t even pay your rent, she says. “Your brain cannot stop solving [the problem of being kicked out on the street] long enough to solve the problem of what is truth and beauty.” Good point. In fact, brilliant.

2.Art emanating from a black hole is a choice. Don’t kid yourself, says Penelope, “Your art reflects your surroundings, and you can live like a pauper, but that limits the range of your art.” [Insert ‘why I spend all my money on fashion’ argument here]. Surrounding yourself with beauty begets beauty, just as happiness begets happiness, and so on. She makes me chuckle though, talking about the stories she used to write, back when she couldn't afford to go out with her friends. Her mentor suggested that she add a character so that the narrator could have a conversation, and it struck Penelope as a revolutionary idea. Oh dear…

3.Real artists will make art no matter what. You already have all the tools you need to make art …if, in fact, you’re really an artist. “Because making art comes from a place that you cannot stop. People who need to make art make art no matter what,” says the Wise One (and by now she’s on par with Twyla).

The next thing out of her mouth gives me a pang of Washington Post-ism but I love it anyway –because she takes the words right out of my mouth. “Do you know how many blog posts I throw out? Maybe two a week,” she says. I’m gathering that I’m a bit more ADD than my new friend, though, considering I throw away about six posts per week, but hey...

“…Sometimes something happens and I absolutely have to write about it, and I see, from the beginning, that there’s no way I’ll be able to relate it to [my blog topic], so it’s going to end up in the blogging trash can. But I write it anyway.”

And so do I.

4.You do not need to quit your day job. (Noooooooooo! No! No! No! She can’t be saying this!) I hate the truth in this statement just about as much as I hate when people ask me what I do when I’m in front of people who already know what I do (particularly coworkers). So lately I've been confidently telling people that I’m a writer, but that I work at a financial planning firm to “keep the lights on.” Try my strategy. It’s got a pretty remarkable effect on the conversation.

Don’t tell Penelope that your day job is crushing your soul (But… but…). She’ll tell you that her entire blog is about how your soul does not depend on your job or your job or your paycheck. I’m telling you, this woman is the real deal. Right, Alanna? Penelope says that, “if you are an inherently creative thinker, you probably bring that to whatever job you have.” I think my mom told me the same thing once.

5.You are not a better artist if you can do it full time. Good to know. I wish I could say here that she saved me a lifetime of wondering what it would be like to travel the world a laHemingway-style, but the jury's still out.

So I’m feeling pretty good at the end of this article, and she hooks me with the last sentence: “And, I leave you with one of my favorite posts, that I never get to link to, about me making myself crazy being an artist.” I’m not even going to pretend I had anything better to be doing at work this morning, so naturally, I followed the enticing jump.

That’s when it happened. The words: How to cope with self-doubt, emblazoned across the top of my screen in towering, extra bold 600-point font. The first thing I did was look around me to make sure no one else noticed. The second thing I did was find all the reassurance I’ve been looking for:

“Tonight I am so upset I can’t even finish my stack of reading,” Penelope writes. “I fear I will read somewhere in my pile that the Nobel Prize committee has decided to make 100 simultaneous awards and they are all to people I know and now everyone I ever talk to will have a Nobel Prize and I won’t [...irrational daydreams. check]. Tonight I am worrying that other people have greatness and there is a finite amount of greatness and it is slipping out of my hands […said Lindsey. Jesus, this woman is reading my mind]. Also, it is embarrassing to admit to wanting greatness knowing that there is a risk that I will not achieve it.”

From there, she moves through a few familiar phases: 1) emotional eating (though I may have opted for a martini happy hour and cheese plate) 2) bringing others down to make yourself feel better 3) refocusing on her own career and 4) finally, pushing past ugly face of self-doubt. I’m not alone! As it turns out, gosh darnit, every artist has moments of self-doubt –they just don’t like to talk about it, let alone post it where Google can find it.

So tonight, my friends, let me leave you with something to soothe that secret bit of self-doubt you occasionally hide from your friends. Because for the time being, it’s soothed mine:

“Everyone has her moments of huge self-doubt, often in the face of someone else’s grand success. But there is not finite success in the world. There is just a finite amount of people who can stomach the pain of wanting success so much.”

*(And immediately I want to take that back. But I’ll let the statement stand on the condition that you know there are exceptions to this rule. Such as a bad discussion of religion, sex, and abortion in a terrible Chinese restaurant outside Beijing with Jaime, from Semester at Sea.)

I'll Read Vogue So You Don't Have To

You can call me lazy if you want. You can call me judgemental. You can call this a waste of time (more like a waste of ad space). But I thought I'd rip though the 515 pages of March Vogue and whip up a stream of consciousness to entertain myself today. Even at the speed of light, it took me 27 minutes. Or maybe I'm just a slow typer.

First off, Giselle should never have bangs. The two girls on the next page look like gazelles fighting. Hermes seems soft. I freaking love Yves Saint Laurent and I would do anything for that red sequined bodysuit.

Clinique boring. St. John reminds me of my ex-boyfriend’s mom and Angelina Jolie. (Skip about 30 pages.) Really creepy bratz doll with huge eye and even bigger head on next page. Love Burberry, remember that it always rains in England. Pack a trench coat, muddy boots. My friend thinks I look like Lily Donaldson in that photo. Victoria’s Secret models can kiss my ass (they look so great, and so does that beach). Waaaaaay too much denim in that Guess ad. Jason Smith took his high school senior photos wearing a startched denim jacket and matching jeans, someone said “Too much denim makes anyone uncomfortable.” Good rule to live by.

I should think about buying white tights. Love all and anything Chanel. That orange looks delicious. Ralph Lauren ad campaign is bangin’. Love the safari, love the gold, love the drop crotch, and the setting is all very Motorcycle Diaries meets Out of Africa. These models are a little hotter than Meryl.

That boy has yellow hair. Looks like Agyness Deyn. Her hair is white, though. Where the heck is the title page…(am I at page 100 yet?) Never heard of Pringle of Scotland but me likey their bags. What is it about expensive fabrics that always makes me think of butter? Voila! The title page (206…jeeesus). And they say ads are down…

Cole Haan: love the bag, not Sharapova. How do they take photos where everyone is jumping? Boggles my mind. Bebe’s ads are much better than their clothes. Actually, I change my mind –the ads aren’t much good either. Looks like this girl is going to eat the pink rose. Stop! Don’t do it! Those things have thorns! I’ve made it to the Contributors page (forty pages later)… John Galliano reminds me of Salvador Dali. People are just reflections of other people. Kind of like when a couple has been married for many years. Their faces blend, their expressions, even the dog starts to resemble them. That Etro jumpsuit make-a me wanna disco! (I’m picking up on a jumpsuit trend here). Minty green. More minty green, white satin, black trim. Must try this combo.

Flash! Frida Pinto. Ever notice how popular Indian women rarely look all that Indian? Frida’s also in Vanity Fair this month looking like any other Americana housewife from the 60s. Maybe if Bollywood hadn’t overdosed on all the high-pitched singing and choreographed dancing this beauty could’ve found a middle ground. Ads, ads, ads, ads, boring, boring, boring… red sequined skirt catches my attention. So I’m all red sequined and jumpsuits today, who knew what I’d discover flipping through Vogue at 200 mph? …Oooo, the sequined skirt comes in other colors. Bonus.

Ferragamo, so svelte. Reminds me of walking down Madison Avenue, past all the designer stores, so nervous, way too intimidated to walk in. Some people are afraid of spiders, I’m afraid of the boutiques on Madison Avenue. I love this black and white photo from the 70s, some Bill Blass dress. Woman unknown. Imagine that concept. A dress more famous than you’ll ever be.

Flipping, flipping, flipping through pages …lots of beige, white, beige, beige, a little black. Marc says, “The creaminess create a soft sense of nudity, but the fabric mix makes the dress exciting and fresh.” Thanks, Marc. I knew we were on the same page. Kid dressed up like a tiger (page 414….am I done yet?). This is no way to read a magazine. This is the only way to read a magazine. My sister once said that while most people think its cute to see a little kid dressed up like, say, a princess in public, the reality behind it is that the parent/nanny/babysitter has simply given up trying to get the kid dressed. Her knee-jerk reaction is a sign of nanny long gone nanny days.

Michelle Obama: show stopper. I’ll bet that article is decent. Moving on. I’d hate to be Mrs. Bill Gates on the next page… tough-act-to-follow speaking. I definitely wouldn’t hate to be her, married-to-the-richest-man speaking, or it’s-my-job-to-run-a-foundation-speaking. Love Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. They could put her in every issue for all I care. Nicholas is growing on me. The rest of the magazine is Gatsby and cotton-candy heads. All very March, and all very unaffordable. Mildly inspiring. Going to march myself on out of here now. See you tomorrow.

Chew On This

Since you're all going to have to wait another day for my ranty little piece on how "we're all really just old dogs trying to learn a couple of new tricks in this crappy economy," I thought I'd throw ya a bone with this educational video.

Study up, young pups, you might learn a thing or two. I know you'e all dying to know how we got in this mess to begin with (not). Or if you're anything like me, you work with a very loud Republican financial advisor whose voice carries like a megaphone down the hall, so you already know everything you ever wanted about the economy. You can go ahead and pity me.


The Crisis of Credit Visualized from Jonathan Jarvis on Vimeo.

Did Someone Say Silver Lining?

Today is the 169th day anniversary (depending on who’s counting) of the country’s economic crisis. So along with the ongoing doom, gloom, and stellar performance of the markets today, I decided to celebrate by mentioning a silver lining or two.

First of all, I have heard this phrase used more often in the past six months than in all my 25 years. In fact, I’ve heard so many silver lining proclamations (including recently while I was on the treadmill at the gym) that I’m not sure there are any storm clouds left at all.

Here is how a number of sources are weighing in:

According to philanthropist Jennifer Dowley from Berkshire Massachussetts, “The silver lining for nonprofits is the fact that donors will always care what happens to their communities. That doesn’t change.”

“The silver lining to the slumping U.S. economy is that neither the Obama administration nor the Democratic-led Congress has the stomach for massive new war funding or even to continue Bush-style grandiose Defense Department spending,” says Debbie White, About.com liberal political guru.

Now that consumers are more hesitant to commit to new talent, many fashion designers are lowering their prices and moving dress production from Italy to New York. Even so, Stephen Courter of Ohne Titel in Manhattan see a silver lining. “I think we are still so small, with lower overhead than the established labels, that we have less to lose.”

A writer for NBC in San Diego goes as far as to call our weakened economy “trashed,” (which gave me a good, loud chuckle at work this morning.) Like most things in southern California, the city’s take on silver lining is equally amusing. The title reads: Trashed Economy Has Silver Lining.

“There's an upside to the economy getting trashed: landfills around the state are receiving considerably less garbage,” says the anonymous writer.

In my opinion, one of the best things about this whole silver lining phenomenon is that it is contagious. I watched as the term spread like wildfire across the networks. Silver linings abound! And they seem to apply to anything. Rachel Maddow may not believe that the economy is worth it’s weight in silver, but she sure believes there was something lining Iran’s satellite launch announcement last week.

“Here‘s the photo, that they released last summer that supposedly very impressive scary missile launch,” she says. “Check out how this photo is totally photo shopped. They just duplicated the same missile all over the picture. Their photo shopping is worst than the North Koreans. So that is the potential silver lining for this otherwise worrying news. The silver lining here is that they might be total BS artists and, of course, we all hope that they are.”

“Hardware stores [in Ohio] are seeing a silver lining to the economic downturn as homeowners take on projects themselves and start seeking eco-friendly products,” says writer Nick Sabo of the Wooster Daily Record.

Furthermore, the poor little tourism folks of Aspen, Colorado are feeling important again. (From what I hear, clouds there are typically gold lined, so silver’s got to be a tough pill to swallow.) After real estate sales dropped 40 to 50 percent last year, and possibly more in ski resort valleys, locations like Aspen have had a surprising recovery in recent months.

“Is there a silver lining in these enormous economic storm clouds? Well, from the perspective of the ski marketing folks, they feel wanted again. …What would Aspen and Vail look like this winter if the only ones bringing home the bacon were real-estate agents?” says writer Allan Best.

Many journalists have really run with the whole silver-lining spin, explaining how the bad economy can be a good excuse. “The recession may be nerve-racking, merciless, seemingly intractable. It may leave your job in peril, your 401(k) in shreds. But apparently, it is not without its uses,” writes Alex Williams of the New York Times.

After deciding it was high time to find a new nanny, Dani Klein Modisett, theater producer and comedian from Los Angeles, explained to her current nanny that it was necessary to downsize her staff due to the economy. Then promptly hired another. “It’s the silver lining of the recession cloud. In fact, it comes in quite handy,” said Modisett.

White lies aside, my favorite silver lining quote comes from Graydon Carter, Editor in Chief of Vanity Fair. In the January 2009 issue, Carter writes that whether this is the Second Great Depression, or the Great Retrenchment, or the Great Reckoning, or whatever we decide to call it, there has to be a silver lining somewhere.

“Perhaps all those expensive educations and burning talents that wound up on Wall Street moving money around will be redirected to fields of endeavor with some tangible output,” he says. “… After the collapse of Wall Street in the 1920s, the culture stopped being all about money, and the country survived and ultimately flourished. Amid the wreckage we’ve created, America will most certainly rise again, and it might even be a better place to live and dream.”

Amen, I hope he’s right. What a terrific quote, and much more on that tomorrow…

Obama Change-O-Meter

Whatever Melts Your Butter

Growing up, I spent Sunday dinners next to my cousins Melissa and Brent at the kids’ table in my grandmother’s kitchen. When your parents, Wayne and Sherry, were once high school sweethearts whose families still live on opposite sides of the same Indiana town, you tend to spend every holiday and three-day weekend driving to see them.

Aside from serving ourselves first and taking way more than any kid could eat, our seats at the yellow and brown, plastic-coated card table left the three of us feeling left out. My grandpa used to place two phone books on my chair so that I could reach my plate and, unlike Melissa, I was just tall enough to see the adults’ table. I used to watch as my dad told animated stories to his three oldest nephews that left everyone laughing so hard they had tears streaming down their faces.

After dinner, my grandma used to let each of us reach our sticky hands into her buttery cookie jar. It was the kind of cookie jar that, no matter how many we ate, we never seemed to make a dent in the number of cookies. While we stuffed our full bellies on sweets, the adults played Trivial Pursuit. I’d hop up on my dad’s lap and he’d pass me unused turquoise “pie” pieces. Why no one ever picked the prettiest color was something I never understood.

From my post-dinner vantage point, I concentrated on my twin cousins, Shawn and Shannon. Wow, I thought, imagine cars, girlfriends, real jobs, chest hair, beer… The whole idea of becoming an adult still didn’t mean much beyond sitting at a different table. I had no real need for a car to take me anywhere or for a beverage my grandpa claimed was likely to put hair on my chest; it wasn’t yet an enviable age.

As I grew up, as lanky and awkward as any teenager, Shawn and Shannon remained eternally 25 in my mind (something to do with being impressionable). The twins were the first “kids” I knew who were old enough for the adult table, and still young enough to be scolded by grandma. They made me so nervous to talk to that I'd blush with embarressment, so I hardly knew them at all. I looked up to them more in a literal sense and envied their parental freedom.

It’s possible that I was a particularly imaginative child, and it’s also possible that 4-year olds rarely interact with 25-year olds, but for the next 21 years of my life, I expected to turn 25 and wake up to four kids, a husband, a real job, and a big house of my own.

It happened a little differently.

The fact is that I turned 25 while vacationing in Maine with two of my closest friends. On the morning of September 6, I woke up in a quiet, comfortable bed, with no diamond on my finger and no one sleeping next to me. To no surprise, things in life are not always what they seem. My cousins, in fact, didn’t start having kids until their thirties, but how many 4-year olds do you trust to get story right?

When I asked another friend how he felt when he turned 25, he admitted that he, too, had misconceptions. We agreed that 25 feels particularly in-between. In between married with children and re-living college on homecoming weekends, between commuting from Connecticut and stocking liquor store shelves for an hourly wage. Twenty-five is between where you dream of living and the town where you grew up. In fact, 25 might not be in-between at all. It might just be just right.