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.)