FLIRTATIONSHIPS

2011-07-25T10:35:00.002-04:00

Pastry chef apprentice at Lure

Mick Boogie

2010-11-23T12:08:00.005-05:00

Some lovely mixtapes for your Thanksgiving travels... @MickBoogie Soul, sex and fashion...just a few things I'm thankful FOUR. Big fat thankful FIVE for family!! Xxxxx

The Other Side of The Coin

2010-10-20T12:58:00.002-04:00

My NYC education has taken an unexpected turn--in the form of waiting tables at a new restaurant in SoHo, Burger&Barrel (B&B). The man in charge, Josh Capon, is a fantastically boisterous, outgoing chef whose reputation precedes him and whose many loyal fans have followed from famed Lure Fishbar just down the street. In a city where most egos resemble the 30lb. pumpkin I saw yesterday at Whole Foods and there are more restaurants Capon makes you feel like you're actually working for a human being. He knows each server by name, each food runner, each busser and spends just as much time greeting guests and sitting down with close friends as he does in the kitchen. Having worked at a handful of hairbrained breakfast joints during college (once, at Burnt Toast in Boulder a pigeon flew into the grill exhaust and feathers blew up in the kitchen), I've seen enough to know that a many things can stand between serving great food and being a profitable restaurant and while it may need a little grease to get going, B&B is a well-oiled machine in the making.

As painful as the process of opening a restaurant can be at times, it still has its pleasures--like the tasting dinner the Saturday before B&B opened, where each server was asked to bring a date. After attending several New York Food & Wine Festival Events earlier that weekend (Giada Laurentiis' cooking demonstration, Sunny Anderson's demo, Rachel Ray's Burger Bash afterparty), I would argue that listening to Chef describe the 18-oz Dry-Aged, bone-in Ribeye (with roasted shitake mushrooms, scallions and jalepenos), sipping free-flowing wine and sitting around a table with one best and fifteen other soon-to-be friends may have been the best event of the week.

While the 5pm to 2am schedule has basically turned my sleep habits upside down and the absurdities of working in the restaurant business always take some getting used to, I wouldn't trade anything for the characters I've already met or the excitement of being a part of something new. I've been really struggling with the decision to pursue my career interests in either fashion or food (in terms of writing and marketing/PR, that is) and though the thought of choosing only one or the other is agonizing (why I am making myself choose in the first place is a good question) I'd rather focus on one career path at a time. The point is that doors are opening for me in the food industry...meeting restaurateurs, chefs, Food Network executives, bloggers, New York Times critics, PR reps...so I'm going to let fate intervene awhile, close my eyes and see where this goes. I'll be well-fed in the meantime.

Xxx

2010-10-08T06:08:00.001-04:00

****Please bare with me while I adjust the new design and layout****

THE TORTOISE & THE HARE

2010-10-08T02:27:00.006-04:00

It feels appropriate to compare my first year in New York to being a turtle frightened back into its shell. Luckily, I've caught my breath, stuck out my neck to see if the coast was clear and have found my way back to the race.

I can't even believe its been TEN MONTHS since I moved to NYC! I've already lived in four apartments, given directions to a tourist, yelled at an intern right after my boss yelled at me, fallen for a guy too good looking to be straight (SO unfair), had a half-dozen celebrity sitings, befriended more Jews than exist in the entire Midwest, spent an entire Sunday in Central Park, kicked my Yellow Cab motion sickness to the curb, shopped a designer sample sale (well, maybe a few), modeled for The Early Show, saw a taping of The Daily Show, attended a fashion show during NY Fashion Week (photos here), and slept through an entire night.

If I tried to tell you all the things I've learned so far (about myself, about friendships, about what I want to do with the rest of my life) it would be impossible--quite possibly, boring as hell. Besides, I'm only beginning to recognize how moving here (which sometimes feels like, giving up everything I ever wanted in Colorado and submitting myself to torture) has changed me. So instead, I'll share just one thing and save the rest for a more intimate setting. Say, coffee on the front porch swing at the Back Cabin or two bar stools on the end after a long brunch at Brasserie 1010.

One thing I've learned is that trying too hard to make things perfect can bring you to a screeching halt. Perfectionism is something that I've struggled with (ehem, excelled at") my entire life and learned to manage long ago. In all familiar settings, that is. Pair a new city and a new job with a serious penchant for critical observation and you've might as well have a corpse on your hands.

Naturally, I'm exaaaaaggerating, but you get the point. It's hard to do a perfect job of something when you have no idea what (the eff) you're doing. Remember that next time you try to out-perfect yourself in unfamiliar territory--that's all I'm going to say. Sadly, it applies to my blog, too. For some reason I got it in my head that every post, every sentence, every word had to have this weight and wisdom that became completely unattainable in an everyday sense. I mean, sure, writers hit the jackpot here and there, but really...blogs wrapped up with a perfect little bow each time? Reminds me a lot of trusting a guy who doesn't exist to deliver all the right presents to all the right children of the world in less than eight hours one night of the year. DOESN'T HAPPEN.

For awhile, I didnt know what to say...and I didn't know what was worth saying..and I didn't really feel like I was the authority on anything. Which, for a writer, is a lot like having laryngitis: you can't say a whole lot when you lose your voice.

In terms of dealing with perfectionism in unexpected places, I finally decided that something, anything is better than perfect-nothing. And if I have to post half-blogs or only have time for a photo, its better than silence. Let's be honest, I'm not a very quiet person. The important thing is that I'm writing and while no one in this big, fat city probably gives a shit, I know at least three people (besides my mom) who do.

Since you know who you are--thank you for the emails, Facebook messages, encouraging voice mail and persuasive harassment to get me to write again. ...Even if it is 4:27am.

Xxxxxx and now Zzzzz...

Sheeesh

2010-07-08T14:38:00.000-04:00

http://blogs.psychcentral.com/mindful-living/2010/07/proclamation-of-psychological-independence/

Simple Diary

2010-05-16T23:56:00.005-04:00

Jess and I perused the gift shop (ahem, exited through the gift shop) after spending some time at the Whitney Museum this afternoon, and came across a terrific surprise: Keel's Simple Diary. Jess, her mom (Coleen) and I quickly decided that we couldn't live without our own, and took home copies in royal blue, orange and yellow, respectively. (The diary's author--that's strange oxymoron--Philipp Keel, has a lot to say about why people choose the color that they do.) For each day, the Simple Diary asks you to chose from three descriptions that best complete the sentence, "Your day was (only chose one)." For example, a. a lettuce, b. an ostrich, or c. a bonus. You can see how this keeps things much more interesting than your typical diary. In the intro, Keel writes that "there are three reasons why most people, although they have tried, wont keep a diary: 1. Not every day is very eventful. 2. It actually takes a lot of discipline (regarding 1 even more so). 3. In retrospect, many find what they have written quite embarrassing." His version, as you will see below, has a completely different take on recording the day's events (not to mention a fantastically-creative use of adjectives). Sadly, tonight marked the end of Jess's NYC visit, so we've agreed to use the diaries as a way to stay connected. I'll do my best to post our entries here from time to time, for comparison, and with as little editing as I can manage. To kick off our little experiment, the three of us filled out our first pages tonight after dinner...

Lindsey

Jess

Coleen (aka Mama Petrey)

Brainwash

2010-05-15T12:09:00.004-04:00

Mom,

I saw this movie last night: Exit Through The Gift Shop

Its all about street art (ahem, graffiti... stenciling... public/semi-illegal street installations, etc.) and one notoriously-anonymous artist, Banksy, in particular. I know the subject matter might not sound appealing to you at first, but I can assure you there's more depth here than it may seem. Its a great documentary about how urban street artists run around at night with buckets of glue, climbing billboards high above the city, searching for vacant lots and the "best walls" to display their work, why they do what they do and how the mainstream media/art world misconstrues the whole lot. Decide for yourself, but the film is basically a hoax based on two incredible street artists, Shepherd Fairey and Banksy, who turn the camera around on this documentary "filmmaker" (really, just a crazy French guy who loves videotaping everything around him). They encourage him as a pop/street artist and he gets all this media attention, then sells his (crap art) for millions of dollars.... Anyway, its super-entertaining and a provocative commentary on today's art culture. If you can find where its playing around you, GO SEE IT.

Most importantly, it will really inspire you to see everyday life as a canvas of possibility! Mmmmuuuuuaaa!

STREET AS GALLERY

Saturday

2010-05-04T22:39:00.008-04:00

When I moved to New York back in December, there were some things that I had in mind. Namely, artsy parties, artsy men, more fashion than I could every get tired of (or afford), fanTAStic restaurants and dressing fabulously. I had reached a point in my life where the place that I lived no longer offered me the type of challenges or growth that I craved. I resigned to give up my comfortable one-bedroom apartment, my garden, and a three-block walk to a mountain park for any sign of, well... grass or privacy.

What I didn't have in mind were some of the unbelievable ways I would be pushed, the insecurities and temptations that would pull me or how quickly my energies would dissipate during the course of an exhausting move while recreating my social life from scratch. It seems obvious, but on top of everything, I can't seem to get it through my head that these things don't happen overnight. THe stakes are high, the expectations higher and my self-standards are through the roof.

In times like these, its no wonder that yoga makes me cry, restless nights leave my eyes bloodshot and that I don't feel quite like myself. In honor of clearing my mind and showing myself a little love this weekend, I've resigned to give myself a damn break. It's nothing but double cappuccinos, French photographer exhibits and brownies for breakfast --if that's what will make me happy.

Au revoir! That's all for now! Mmmmmuuuuuuaaaaaa!

Come To Mama

2010-05-03T23:23:00.000-04:00

2010-04-28T12:38:00.001-04:00

Chester

2010-04-20T16:50:00.012-04:00

Today is Friday, April 23. (I've had to update the date three times since I've started...saved...re-started this post.) I've been slammed at work for four days and this is the first five minutes that I've had to check in. Since I left you, I've become obsessed with a taco stand in the East Village, Snack Dragon. I discovered a Sullivan Street Bakery in Hell's Kitchen, near my office (try the tortino di cioccolato. I diiiiie) ...I brunched at Balthazaar ...found out that Lupe's on 6th Ave serves tostadas instead of pancakes, like I thought ...I saw my first Broadway musical ...witnessed my life flash before me twice (once because I forgot my Metro card and wasn't sure that I could get to work, twice because I locked myself out of my apartment) ...made my first irritated remark to a tourist ...AND mourned the death of my grandfather: the late, great Chet Wielgos.

My grandfather passed away several weeks ago after a relatively short battle with lung cancer --the best you can hope for in a worst-case senario, and he will be missed tremendously. On the day of his funeral, we sat in the 70-degree sun and listened to a bugler play taps into the Indiana breeze. I'll never forget it.

On my way back to New York, I thought maybe my grandfather had been reincarnated as a stranger (rather, many, very friendly strangers). Anyone will tell you that my grandfather was a walking, talking Associated Press wire. Any time of day he could feed you information on the latest, greatest whatever was happening, debate politics, or tell you more about the news happening in your own town before you ever knew it happened.

The stranger-reincarnation started with the old man TSA agent who held up the airport security line for ten minutes while he embarrassingly flattered me with compliments and told that he wanted to come with me on my flight, and the New Yorker who went out of his way to wish me a good morning. Out of nowhere, people were approaching me, left and right, to say hello. It's hard to explain why these interactions were different than before, but it's easy to understand how moving to a city like New York will suddenly make you feel very invisible. Then, suddenly, I was the ONLY person that everyone noticed. And you know what? That's the way it felt when you spent time with my grandpa --like you were the only person that mattered.

(I have to quit that before I tear up. R.I.P. Chit-chat-Chet!) There's more...

Imogene & Willie

2010-04-14T14:14:00.006-04:00

This is just the sweetest, coziest website --I love it. The designers real names are Matt and Carrie. Their self-described concept is "a mix of product design, product execution, and product distribution...all in one retro-fitted gas station. It is like an artisan bakery for premium apparel." I'll take two of whatever they're cookin' up, yummm!

Photos by Aron Wright

New Friends In Unexpected Places (And A Few To Boot)

2010-03-22T13:17:00.012-04:00

OUI! So many, many things... Today is Friday, March 26. My last post was a downer. I'm not even going to reread it. In the end I was so sick of looking at my crappy sentiments that I published it unfinished, whiney and melodramatic. Ew. Today is a new day. Ready for a not-so-PC, ADD-style installment of Linda's Life? Here goes, in hot new rewind stylee...

Entertaining.
Monday night Danee and I went to Upright Citizens Brigade for my friend Oren's comedy show, Front Page Films. Despite the pouring rain, we managed to slip into some open seats a few minutes after the start of the show. My favorite segment? A candlelight ballad, sung by the group's red-haired counterpart. The song's about writing lies in your diary --your Liary. Is hillarious and brilliant and hats off to a much-needed laugh. Performing on stage looked like so much fun.

Even More Entertaining.
Being at the same party with the girl who slept with the guy I liked while they were in Thailand (GWSWTGILIT). Oh wow, that sentence has filth written all over it, I'm going to go wash my hands...

Most Entertaining.
Managing uncomfortable emotions in public places (read: rage. Though may include snot-sobbing sadness). In other words, playing a game I like to call "acting mature": saying hello to the GWSWTGILIT and giving her a hug. And by "entertaining," I mean completely fcuking excrutiating.

Crazy-making.
Let's talk about a few things that happen to me that don't seem to happen to anyone else... By the time I walk from the train to my office every morning, my skirt makes its way 180 degrees to the right, around my body. A couple times, it has even twisted my shirt along with it. I dont know which is worse: trying to akwardly readjust as I'm walking down the street or walking into the office with my clothes on sideways. Is troubling. Here's another question: what is it about the left stocking that makes every pair of tights I wear so uncomfortable on one side and not the other? I wear them a lot. I notice these things. Just saaying...

Sarah Palin is so gimmicky.

...Sorry, I got distracted by her cheerleading antics on tv right now. Blah

Refreshing.
Following a particularly harrowing week of work recently, something incredible happened. At once, the tides changed, the sea parted, and the skies cleared ...ALL...BECAUSE I PLAYED COMPETITIVE GOLF IN HIGH SCHOOL. Whaaa? Yes. Now in most situations I dont really consider this a cool thing to brag about, but when I do occassionally let the cat out of the bag, its a tremendous hit. Especially with two CBS News executives --one of whom "kidnapped" me for a field trip last Friday to the driving range at Chelsea Piers. They've nicknamed it "the most expensive driving range in the country," and if right now you can't imagine anyone classier than me, you should know one more thing. I had to kick off my heels, roll up my pants, and go barefoot!

Speaking of Fridays... I'm out of here! Have a great weekend, everyone. I'll write soon ...so many adventures, so easily distracted. xx

A Long Way From Last Year

2010-03-17T13:16:00.008-04:00

Happy St. Patty's Day, everyone! In honor of this delightful holiday I'm going to dedicate no part of this blog to beer, shamrocks, leprechauns or Irish trivia. (For the facts, see here.) I was visiting New York, however, this time last year, so it is remarkable to think of how much my life has changed since then.

This time last year I was living in Boulder, working for a financial planning and was about a week away from being unexpectedly laid off --yikes! As turmultuous as the incident was at first, the circumstances gave birth to one of the best summers of my life (in fact, my last in Colorado), prompted my "volunteership" at Warren Miller Entertainment, and was the catalyst that finally motivated me to move to New York!

Now here I am, Day 111, knowing one thing for sure: I probably would've never made this move if I knew how hard it was going to be. (Ha!) But seriously, I'm not saying that I regret moving because I don't regret it at all. I'm just surprised by how quickly (and rather naievely) I have brought myself face-to-face with some of the toughest challenges of my life. My naievite is melting away faster than you can say the word, and I'm just hoping that my positive outlook doesn't wash away with it.

One of the main reasons why I haven't written lately is because I'm afraid of what I might say (frustration is a 4-letter word?). I've been put through the wringer a bit, so I needed to put things in a little broader perspective first.

Stomach Ache

2010-03-02T13:17:00.015-05:00

Today is Tuesday, March 2 and I don't know what my problem is. I can't satisfy my craving for pizza ...and pasta...ribolita...more pizza ...french bread rolls ...chicken and sausage gumbo... I don't know what's happening to me, but I can tell you that I'm putting an end to it tomorrow! This all started two weeks ago when my boss was out of the office.

She left me specific instructions to order cupcakes for the President of CBS News and Sports, for his birthday, the day after she left. No big deal and considering I'm on the unofficial hunt for the best cupcake in nyc, I thought it would be fun to try a new place on the Upper West Side and sample one myself. FUN, that is, until that day turned out to be one of the worst, slushiest, snow-stormy days and none of the bakeries would deliver.

Knowing the answer in my heart, I decided to ask one of the other assistant's for her opinion of the sceniario. "Definitely order from a place that delivers," she suggested. Since every bakery from here to Queens told me I was out of my mind (well, one place offered to deliver for an extra $30), guess who had to drag herself outside in the slush? Yours truly, Linda Super Assistant: committed to excellence in the face of every Noreaster.

I flagged the first cab to Columbus Avenue Magnolia Bakery, picked up six cupcakes, and turned right back around. After sloshing through the lobby on a mission, I carefully composed myself and triumphantly opened the door to the President's office.

...Who had already left for the day.

My heart sank as his assistant shrugged somewhat sympathetically. "Don't tell (your boss," she said. "It's okay. He will get them tomorrow when he comes in, and will be even more excited."

But, no. To make matters worse, the next day was the start of Lent, and he had given up cupcakes for the next forty days. Which is what I'm going to have to do if I keep up with all this pizza and pasta and absolutely delicious Magnolia cupcakes!

Following Operation Hope-My-Boss-Never-Finds-Out (which, of course, she did), a box of 16 Magnolia cupcakes were delivered to our office as a thank you gift. Having your first choice (well, second choice) of 16 exquisitely-frosted, deeeelicious delights is almost too much to bear. But I managed to limit myself to one the first day and two "try" bites of reject cupcakes leftover on the second day. (Don't order the caramel-whatevers or the carrot cake ones with pasty cream-cheese frosting. Ask Jen. It tastes like glue.)

Yesterday there were birthday cupcakes from Cupcake Cafe for an executive's birthday down the hall. Let me just say that these were much easier to resist. Cupcake Cafe specializes in (admittedly, beautiful) butter cream flowers that, luckily, do nothing for me. I brought one back to my desk to be polite, but promptly threw it in the trash.

And JUST when I thought that I was in the clear... finishing off my healthy greek yogurt breakfast... in walked another coworker with a box of donuts! I'm tempted to find out from her where they came from (because the half of half of one, followed by the half of another that I tried, was amaaaazing), but I don't trust myself. By midmorning I had a stomach ache and by now it looks like Hansel and Gretel ran circles around my office all afternoon.

I rounded out the afternoon with a delicious slice of pizza from Casabianca, across the street from my office, and (gasp) half a diet coke. Is it just me or is there something about working in an office that makes you crave a crappy, diet soda? Ick. Enough of that fizz, I'm going to punish myself with a CoreFusion Yoga class tonight at Exhale. The only other time I took this class, my quads were so sore I couldn't walk right for three days. It's the only class I've ever taken where you have to wear mandatory socks to grip the ballet bar. I'm actually nervous.

FREE Cupcakes tomorrow (...will this ever end?)

No Shame Productions

2010-03-02T00:53:00.001-05:00

Send This Snow To Colorado

2010-02-24T13:07:00.007-05:00

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Today is one of those misty, overcast days in New York when people can't seem to decide whether to wear their wool coat, sleeping-bag coat or (in my case, new) trench coat to best combat the weather. One thing's for sure, though. Everyone wears rubber boots, in varying degrees of ugly.

Walking from the train to work this morning, the conditions made me feel like I was truly in the Northeast. Something about mist and fog feels very nautical to me, as cheesy as that is to admit. (Oh, COME ON, they don't have weather like this in Boulder, its been awhile!) As I walked down 57th Street, my mind wandered to thoughts of riding around in my best friend's jeep and sailing with her in Rhode Island. Ah, summer...

Then, as soon as it began, the daydream is over. Hello work. Every day, I spin around the revolving door and my day officially begins.

Things at work have loosened up quite a bit in the past two weeks, which makes my job feel much less exhausting. Its funny how mis-connecting a phone call can make you doubt your competency, but believe me, it does. I'm off and running now with a week's worth of training (after a month of learning the hard way), and a week of my boss being out of the country on top of that.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not a natural executive assistant. I've been called a lot of things in my 26 years, but I'm pretty sure none of those included, "great multi-tasker," "excellent concentration," "patient," "sits still," or "quiet." My boss thought that I could "do this job with my eyes closed" when she hired me, yet I'm fascinated by the meaning of a "really great assistant." Hmm...fascinated might be taking it a bit far.

So what else is happening? New York Fashion Week was last week, so every newspaper, magazine, subway poster and billboard was a reminder of the direction that I want to take my life .....eventually. I've decided to give myself two years here, 1. to adjust (apartment, job, friends, etc.) and 2. to do enough investigating/research to come up with a passion-for-fashion plan, before I put any pressure on myself. The hard part will be reminding myself that I have "a plan to make a plan."

I guess I'll end with the biggest news: I've found an apartment! After the Douchebag 2.0 Thailand Crisis a few weeks ago (which, btw, don't hold your breath for "Manboys of New York Part 2" since I've left that drama far behind) I was left to fend for myself apartment-wise, which turned out to be very wise, indeed. Instead of spending close to $5,000 moving into a new, two-bedroom apartment, I accepted a terrific sublet offer to live with a friend, Stephanie.

My current rommate, Danee, met Stephanie while living abroad in London and the two are pretty much best friends, from what I can tell. My delicious, pre-CBS baking and cooking must've paid off if Danee felt comfortable enough to recommend me as a roommate. Maybe comfortable isn't the word, considering how everyone's clothes may fit post Lindsey's stress-induced baking. We've all spent time together since I've moved here, and I'm really looking forward to having a closet in the city to call my own!

The apartment is a six-story walkup on Mulberry and Grand, which is absolutely perfect if you're into things like garland and garlic. Mulberry Street is one of the final remains of the neighborhood known as Little Italy (now mostly overrun by Chinatown) and I'll be living in the smack dab center of all it's gaudy glory!

Wish me luck moving this weekend in the middle of YET ANOTHER snowstorm. Photos to come!

Manboys of NYC (Part I)

2010-02-17T11:33:00.009-05:00

I just spent the morning reading about the Literary Manboys of New York City. That's right, Manboys. I've also read enough self-fulfilling apology letters in the last four days to last me a lifetime. Oh, and I've sworn off checking my blackberry before I get out of bed in the morning. So THAT'S what's new with me.

I've pulled myself from the wreckage of learning that the guy I liked slept with a girlfriend of mine in Thailand while they were traveling, and have nursed myself back to health with a little remedy I like to call wine/pasta/mom-and-sis-weekend/chocolate/friends/chat-roulette/hot-Lupa-waiter/weed. I'm feeling much better, thank you for asking. My initial shock (not at all "surprise") turned to angry indifference over the weekend, particularly after reading the vague apology letters that flooded my inbox.

Why anyone would think that it's a good idea to send a written apology to a pissed-off writer is beyond me. A phone call would've probably rendered me speechless, but an email apology is just begging for a response. So, with restraint, I critiqued. I criticized his apology's (self-serving) effectiveness, approached the actual issue from a creative angle (to make sure he was actually paying attention), and then threw in a snarky zinger for good measure (slash, for womankind).

As I predicted, writing a response didn't make me feel any better. Instead, my heart pounded out of my chest, my adrenaline surged, and I thought I was going to faint on the subway platform. His second response came almost immediately once I was outside. There were so many "so sorry's" that my blackberry looked like an SOS receiver for ships lost at sea. ...Lost is right.

There's two phenomenons happening to men in the United States between the ages of 25-36 (give or take however many years it takes to relate your own example). The first is not exclusive to men: The quarter life crisis. The second is most common amongst artsy, creative types, but I'll just call them: Manboys. Let's start with the quarter life crisis scenario, since I'm feeling a little guilty about using all caps to get my point across last night.

Quarter life Crisis (n.) [krahy-sis] [krahy-sissy] [krahy-baby] 1. You can't make any decisions because you don't know what you want. And you don't know what you want because you don't know who you are. And you don't know who you are because you're allowed to be anyone you want. Characterized by unrelenting indecision, isolation, confusion and anxiety about working, relationships and direction.

Logan sent me a great article about Crisis .25, which completely informed this post, so go read it. The author writes, "Imagine a day in the life of a couple you probably know. He's 27 years old, she's 26. They wake up beside each other in his downtown bachelor apartment and have sx that neither of them particularly enjoys. They've been sort-of dating for a while now, but they're not willing to commit to each other: he likes her, but doesn't know if he always will. She can't decide if she likes him more or less than the other two guys she's dating. ...He doesn't really hate his job, but feels as if his skin is crawling with vermin most of the time that he's there, so he has a plan to move to Thailand..." STOP. Thailand....really?? How many of you have actually been to Thailand? It's a dirty, catch-all cesspool for people between the ages of 18-36 who are trying to find themselves while masquerading as backpackers. What's with all the hype? Hasn't anyone seen Brokedown Palace??

"...He goes to the bar after work to meet up with some university friends, where they talk about their jobs and make ironic jokes about people. ...She clicks through Facebook photos of girls she knew in high school posing with their husbands and babies ...'When did this happen for them?' she wonders. ...They both eventually fall asleep ...wondering what it is that's wrong with them that they can't quite seem to understand."

If, at any point in your late twenties, you find yourself wondering 'When did this all happen,' or you suddenly feel a deep sense of regret about the unconscious way you've been living the last 5 years of your life, its safe to assume that you've entered Crisis .25. Sit down. IT WILL ALL BE OKAY (says the 26 year old).

Its true that to most of the guys that I've known, the quarter life crisis is triggered by "a kind of malaise that the end of youth is really the end of fun. And that you're never going to have any fun again, because you have to work. You're never going to have sx again, because you're going to get married. Your life is over." COME ON. This slew of misconceptions brings two things to mind: All women (especially not the career-driven urbanites of nyc) are not out for the same 1950's style, one-size-fits-all commitment level from day 1, and you can redefine "working" or "grown up" or "age appropriate" in whatever way you want. There are no rules that say wearing makeup or heels will make you a grown-up, just ask 4-yr old Libby Fraser. Those fears are phony. I also think women of my generation have more experience evolving, redefining, in this way. (As Alanna summed it up last night: Women are more evolved.)

...Where did the time go? It's already time to leave. Part II tomorrow...

xoxo Goodnight!

Tired of This Black and Blue

2010-02-15T23:22:00.006-05:00

Monday, February 15.

I can't decide whether "things are never as they seem," or if "things are always as they seem." What I can tell you is that the difference depends on how well you listen to your intuition, your gut.

Have you ever told someone who was asking you for advice that they already know the answer? I might even argue that the more a person asks others for advice, the more certain they are of the outcome. They just don't like it.

One thing is certain: being in tune with your intuition really sucks. At the times when you need it most, it hardly ever sends the message that you want to hear (which is why it's easy to ignore). One's intuition is clearly guided by something of a much higher power than ourselves, god, fate, or some other omniscient, gray-space life force we can't quite put our finger on, making it even harder to take seriously. But none of that matters at the end of the day. Do you know why not?

Because after 26 years, facts are facts. I can ignore the deep, aching something's-suspicious-here feeling in my gut, but when it turns out to be true 99% of the time, intuition wins. There's just no messing with statistics, friends. Math is math. I know this because I failed Calculus twice in high school. Forreals.

I know this is a pretty bullshit-vague post that's not the least bit insightful, but the truth is that I'm tired and I feel like shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit about some whorey news that I heard over the weekend. The second I get over the disturbing fact that "things are always as they seem," I'll write about a topic that's mildly uplifting. I promise.

Zzzzzzzzz....

It's Saturday!

2010-02-06T11:18:00.002-05:00

It's Saturday February 6, and I can't sleep in past 9am. Things like that might matter on a hot, sunny summer day, but when there's snow on the ground and freezing temperatures outside, I'd rather be cozied up in bed for the better part of the afternoon. Tough luck. I'm going to change into some spandex and head uptown to my favorite yoga class. It's a 90-minute heated vinyasa at noon today, yikes. Wish me luck!

2010-02-06T09:57:00.006-05:00

Grace Hotel

2010-02-04T19:05:00.001-05:00

Crap. These posts are getting lazier and lazier. There's really no excuse, except tonight I have a good one. My good friend Katie Lime has just gone full-time jewelry designer and she's hosting a party tonight to celebrate in Brooklyn. As it turns out, my boss left early today and I can scoot before 7pm. With a 45 min train ride ahead of me, I need all the time I can get!

Real quick, though. I had an amazing adventure last night! Possibly the best since I've been in nyc. It all began with the text, "pool party?" from my friend Oren at 6:30pm. Did I mention it was 34-degrees last night? Intrigued, and understanding how rare pools are in manhattan, I said yes.

After that I went home, collapsed on the couch for twenty minutes, made some broccoli pasta, and managed to find a second wind. When he told me to meet him at 11 in Times Square, it crossed my mind that maybe the whole thing was be some kind of hillarious, initiation joke. Times Square? Really? Images of myself, bikini-clad in a trench coat, bathing in the bright-as-day lights, alone in Times Square flashed through my head before I brushed them away and hopped on the 1 train.

We met up at Oren's apartment in Chelsea and took a cab uptown to the Grace Hotel on West 45th Street. "It's really amazing," Oren told me as we walked through a deserted Times Square. I could tell he was excited by the way he jumped from one description to another, from tall, black swimsuit models to the best way to sneak three friends in for the price of one.

When we got there, the pool was deserted. It sits at eye level in a room off the front lobby of this tiny, boutique hotel. You'd never even notice the Grace Hotel unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. I'm not even sure we would've found it were it not for the round, orange sign illuminating the sidewalk outside.

By the time we got there, whatever sort of Wednesday night "party" was happening was pretty much over, but the bartender let us have free reign for the rest of the night.

Pink and yellow lights illuminate the seductive-looking pool as soon as you enter through the bar. There is a flat wall behind the pool, used to project movies on the weekends, and a stadium-style lounge area with neat towel pyramids and oversized pillows. At the top of the lounge area are three glass rooms; a steam room, an open shower room, and a sauna. Since the sauna was barely warm, we turned the steam up as high as it would go in the first room and spread our towels out facing one another. Within two minutes, the steam was so thick that the whole room was a cloud and I couldn't see a thing.

I'll let the photos speak for themselves, but the place is terrific. I think it only cost $5 to get in the pool and though the drinks aren't cheap, it's more than worth it for a couple hours of swim time, dance beats, and sauna soak in the middle of December. Who knew Times Square could be so relaxing?

Check Your Head & Cash Your Paycheck, ITS FRIDAY!

2010-01-29T17:43:00.001-05:00

Today is Thursday, January 27, 2009.

I'll be the first to admit that I think I know all about a lot of things that I don't know shit about. Still, the concept amazes me. Quite obviously, there's nothing like moving to nyc to understand how little, in fact, you actually know.

"It's so expensive there."

"Yeah, I know."

"You're going to have to start at the bottom, career-wise"

"Yeah, I know."

"Don't expect to fall perfectly into a new group of friends, and dont expect _______ to become your best friend just because you're living there."

(Ouch) "Yeaah, I know."

...And on and on went the warnings. From friends, from relatives, from coworkers, from strangers, and basically from everyone. Before I left Colorado, one or two of my friends quietly pulled me aside to "tell it to me like it is." "Listen..." they'd say, "I don't want to sugarcoat this for you..." Then, they'd start in about the hard knocks of life.

The truth is that taking a leap of faith in your life, of moving to the next level, phase, chapter, place --whatever you want to call it, is mostly about facing your fears. At the last minute, when you've planned all you can plan and you've saved all you're capable of saving, you say in your head "Ah, fuck it," and jump into the unknown. As a wise woman I know once said, no matter what happens, "It IS better to live your life, rather than sitting on the sidelines." Happy Friday, everyone! I'll leave you with this note I got recently from a friend:

Linds,

So, I am sitting here wishing that I did not have to disconnect earlier so I thought I would make you a list of things that we would have talked about had that conversation been longer ...or you were here to slurp maragritas (oops, maybe I have had a few already!) and hash it all out. Plus, I like to preface things and I thought you might enjoy some frank, writing for a change. Anywhooooo, I was thinking about all of the things that are going on with your move, and imagining how you are processing it (and knowing in the way that I do). So there's my preface in a nutshell.

See, it was a survival mechanism to try and create, if you will, your life in NY before you went. With that comes expectation and suppositions about what will unfold. ...Well, essentially NY was like, "Nope- I am wiping the slate clean to create it for you. And its my way or the highway," pretty much. I mean, life is what me make of it, but this is the BIG APPLE, for reals. So enjoy the ride babe, cause the creativity falls in the process and you need every ounce of creativity you posses right now.

Also, remember how capable YOU ARE of handling the worst kind of bosses, financial insecurities, and all of the other curve-balls that life throws you at the same time. I mean all of this prep that you have done has just been gearing you up for the biggest juggling act of your life! So go ahead-take a picture of your crappy day, wallow in the miserable weather, make blueberry muffins from scratch and swear they were the best ones you have ever had (even if they arent). This is YOUR NY and YOUR time. its the stuff that lets you know you are alive, in case you forgot, lol.

Love you,
Nicole

Faux Snow Day

2010-01-28T10:00:00.003-05:00

Thursday, January 28, 2010

I decided this morning, as I peered out my third-story window, that snow in nyc doesn't know what to do with itself. It whips through narrow alleyways with a sense of urgency only to fall short of its
mission against the side of the next building. It swirls so much like a snowglobe that I'm not sure it ever lands -just purposeless, beautiful circles outside my window, several stories high. Only someone living in Colorado for the past eight years would call ny snow purposeless, I suppose, though it is romantic. I fell in love once on a first snow in ny, so it reminds me of flirtatious, sidewalk snowball fights and kissing in the street. Also cozying up to a hot cup of soup or a strong cappuccino. Mmm, if I hurry, maybe I can stop and get one today before work. The coffee in my double-walled stainless to-go mug is somehow cold this morning and too weak to work its morning magic. Eew. Bad weather in this city makes me laugh because of the wrenched expressions it puts on everyone's faces. I feel a strange comraderie with other ppl who similarly snicker at the scene. Happy snow day ny!

Cracked Up

2010-01-26T18:49:00.002-05:00

Aghh, so much to tell you and I've made a horrible waste of blog time today (considering my boss was out, I have no excuse).

Today is Tuesday, January 26, 2010 and day 28 in New York. First off, I have a couple of strange sightings to report. I'm going to try to remember to report a few of these every time that I post, considering this city seems to be full of them! I was feeling really burnt-out exhausted last Wednesday as I left the office after work. With my head down and my scarf wrapped tight, I approached the intersection of 57th Street and 9th Avenue, as usual, and filed neatly in the back of the two-by-two line. ...WHAT?!! Two-by-two line? I snapped to my senses, looking around. As it would seem, a group of 30 Asian women were on an evening tour, lined up neatly at the corner of the intersection, stretching down the sidewalk. How polite.

The second strange thing that I saw happened on Sunday morning as I was in a cab on my way from my friend Oren's in Chelsea to SoHo, driving down Broadway. A woman, who appeared to be holding a child, was trying to hail a cab (not strange). As we drove closer, it looked as though she was holding him by the neck, with one arm scooped under his armpit effortlessly and her other hand waving wildly at the passing cabs while he hung limp over the front of her body. The kid had to have been at least 10-years old which makes her the strongest woman alive. Or it was a fake kid. I'm going to go with strongest woman alive, but that kid might need an ambulance.

That's all of the strange sightings for now. Undoubtedly, more to come. I am slowly beginning to feel less pressure on myself here as the days go by, and I can't believe I have almost been living here for a month! I got an email from my friend Lorraine yesterday about getting together while she's visiting family here in early February, which is right around the corner! Lorraine is a friend of mine from Boulder who is basically having the same moving experience as me, only 180-degrees opposite. She grew up in New York and had only recently moved to Colorado when we met. About a month ago, as we sat at the base of the mountain enjoying the first apres-ski beers of the season, we discussed plans to meet in the city while she's here. It seems like a lifetime has passed since then, and will be incredible to see the city through her eyes next week.

Last weekend I spent time with my roommate, Danee (da-nay. If anyone knows the keyboard shortcut for an accent, let me know), and her two friends who are visiting from California. Danee grew up in a small farm town in the central valley, called Visalia, and her friends are a charming blend of homegrown hilarious. Kevin and Scott are obsessed with rap/hip-hop music, and have been all their lives, from what I can tell. Growing up, they've always dreamt of visiting New York together and taking the train up to Harlem ("the birthplace of Jay-Z," they'll tell you in unison). They walk around the city with backpacks on, listening to whatever rap music corresponds to the neighborhood where they are headed. Jay-Z for Harlem, Wu-Tang for Brooklyn, A Tribe Called Quest for Queens, and so on. Apart from being hilarious, their well-researched enthusiasm reignites the excitement of living here.

Saturday night I went to dinner at Toloache Mexican Bistro with a few of my girlfriends and to a comedy show at Caroline's starring Jeffrey Ross, the Roastmaster General, from Comedy Central. It was a great night that ended on the Lower East Side making up cheesy dance moves with my friend, Oren and burning the roof of my mouth on the BEST PIZZA I'VE EVER HAD. (It was only a matter of time, right?) Everyone knows the place, it's called Artichoke, on 14th Street, I think. The only way I can think to tell you about how good it was is to say that I felt like I had never eaten pizza before in my life. I've also never burnt my mouth so badly. Eeeeeeeouch! ...Still suffering.

Aghh, I forgot to tell you about the Bumble&Bumble model project and Art Night at Courtney's in Brooklyn. Don't let me forget... and on that note, I'm off to YogaWorks to wrap up my new-student trial!

Fancy Things For Free

2010-01-24T11:52:00.001-05:00

Wednesday, January 20
I needed to blow off some steam after work today and the aftershock of returning from a three-day weekend, so I called up my friend Nicole to catch up and perused the merch at the Time Warner shopping center on Columbus Circle. I've really taken to pretend shopping since I moved here, which, sadly, has nothing to do with a new, more financially-responsible me. My new habit of aimlessly walking around the Gap on 57th and 7th Ave, for instance, has everything to do with avoiding frostbite while talking on the phone. I've stopped in more stores to stay warm since I moved here than ever before in my life! Luckily, its also a good way get to know the city. One of my favorite parts of the new pretend-shopping game is stopping for free product samples at Sephora. (Note: If you haven't tried the Ole Hendriksen red tea antioxidant face mask, make yourself a phone date immediately. You can call me if you need an excuse.) Nothing makes you feel fancy like expensive skin-care products for free! ...how very Breakfast at Tiffany's, no?

Like Calamari

2010-01-24T11:16:00.001-05:00

One of the reasons New York is perfect for me is because I've been in a constant state of motion since I got here. While exhilerating, it's also made blogging a bit problematic. And a little strange. I've realized that the best time for me to write is during the 15 minute train ride to and from work every day. As painful as it is to compose anything lengthy on a blackberry, I've decided that its better than nothing (problematic). I also feel most inspired to write in the morning and based on the nature of my current (2 roomates + 2 houseguests + 1 Linda ÷ tiny SoHo apartment = disasterous) living situation I'm never sure where I might wake up. For instance, coming to you live from my friend's roommate's who-slept-over-at-his-girlfriends-apt bed (a little strange). It feels like college all over again, but, trust me, after walking all across town and dancing until 4 am, you'd snooze wherever you landed, too!

The program is that I'll save my musings in a my "Idea File" and post them later when I have the chance. Sorry about the delay, but I've got some material from early last week. I'll try bringing it to you live-feed as soon as I iron out the kinks... Besos, enjoy!

Today is Tuesday, January 19 and my FIRST, first day back to work after a long weekend. ...Which was terrific! Saturday and Monday were two of the most gorgeous 45-degree days since I've arrived in the city and the sunshine has made all the difference. Unfortunately, Sat/Mon sandwiched an equally-miserable, hypothermic, rainy day. The gusty winds around Columbus circle made fools of umbrella holders and resulted in hundreds of disgarded umbrellas in various mangled calamari shapes lying in the streets and gutters --wounded soldiers in the wake of the storm. I wish I had had my camera to make a photo essay as I'm sure these things will soon seem ordinary. With so many millions of people living in Manhattan, the sheer reoccurance of mundane things (throwing broken umbrellas onthe ground) seem to make them extraordinary.

Big Apple, Baby!

2010-01-15T10:00:00.000-05:00

HELLO FROM THE BIG APPLE!!!

First of all, I hope this update finds you all in high spirits and good health for the new year. I have hit the ground running for 2010 in reconnecting with many of my old friends, moving to New York City, and starting a new job this week at CBS News. I know it sounds cheesy, but I feel so blessed this year, already, with good fortune in many ways. A friend recently told me that he noticed a different energy about the way I carry myself and I can tell you that I feel different, too.

For those of you who witnessed my panicked, late-night phone calls, stress-induced hysteria, or tear-stricken moments of self-doubt lately: thank you for your unwavering confidence and (more importantly) THAT NEVER HAPPENED. For those of you who are hearing about my move to New York for the first time: know that I made this life-changing transition with nothing less than grace, poise, and style! And to my microloan financier: thanks (mom) for believing in me. Your support means the most, and I will pay you back.

Okay, so New York...

After thinking/wishing/dreaming about moving here for 3 years, I sat down at my computer in early October and bought a one-way ticket for December 30. After that, I put the word out in my professional network that I was looking for a job. I planned two "networking" trips here for informational interviews and landed a contract gig working for Ralph Lauren, but still no full-time job. I continued volunteership-ing for Warren Miller Entertainment in Boulder until one day I received an urgent message from a friend in New York requesting my resume. To make a long story short, she knew of an inside hiring and thought I would be perfect. I emailed my resume on Friday, flew to New York on Tuesday, met Barbara Fedida (CBS News Executive Vice President of Talent and Development) on Wednesday, and here I am wrapping up my first week of work with CBS News.

I spent my first week here uncertain of their decision on whether or not to hire me and, if any of you know me well at all, you know that when I'm stressed, I bake. That week I baked three quiches, mussels fra diavolo, coffee cake, macaroni and cheese, brownies, and red lentil curry (to name a few). To prevent draining the rest of my dwindling savings, I slept in as much as possible. (I call this the Jon Doolan Effect, after a friend of mine who used to run out of his monthly college allowance in the first two weeks, then sleep as much as possible until the first of the month.) I was also completely exhausted. I made it my mission to test out as many yoga studios as possible that week, which also helped me learn my way around the different neighborhoods.

As you can imagine, there are so many things to adjust to in moving from Colorado to New York. Some things are obvious, for instance, not having a car, tiny restaurants, inflated prices, or navigating the train system. Other differences are more subtle, and have been harder to adjust to, such as the way longer work hours and a faster pace of life affect your friendships. In New York, every person is racing at 500mph toward a different version of success, and I would describe most of my friends here as either "paying their dues," proving themselves within a company, generating buzz, or getting their first break (the rest are addicted to great pay at jobs they hate). What does this mean for friendships? All I'm saying is that it seems that getting together with friends falls a long way down the list of priorities when your career is utmost important.

The upside is that when people do find the time to get together here, the result can be a combination of the most interesting, creative, eclectic, motivated bunch of people in the history of dinner parties. (Sidenote: I remember reading a description Bob Colacello wrote about the dinner parties he used to attend with Any Warhol in New York in the 1960's. Remind me to come back to that another time.) Its these type of people who are attracted to living in New York and that made me want to move here in the first place. This city has a pressure cooker-like affect on people's talent, personalities, careers, inspiration, drive and everything else. There are literally millions of people sucking, feeding, thriving, pulsing, living, and breathing in the same place and amplifying, condensing everything that happens. Accomplishing everything from meeting a friend uptown to finding a new apartment seem to require
so much more effort that these actions become all the more significant. At least it seems that way now.

Right now I'm living with my friend Danee in SoHo (through February). What a dream! Who would've thought that my first "residence" in nyc would be in such a wonderful neighborhood? Her apartment is on the second floor of a small, 6-story building at the corner of 6th Avenue and Watts Street (which is a crooked little half-street at the west end of Broome). Danee's bedroom mimics the flatiron shape of the building's east side, which lends an interesting, angular layout to the rest of the space, as you can imagine. So interesting, in fact, that the bathroom is at the end of an absurdly long, narrow hallway and the shower is in the kitchen. Not exactly eggs while you're conditioning, but pretty close! The best part about it is smelling the coffee brewing on the stove while I'm waking up to a hot shower.

The streets surrounding her apartment are cobblestone, and (for those of you who don't know) the area was made famous by its boutique-y shopping and beautiful (outrageously-priced) loft spaces --most of which have romantic, floor-to-ceiling windows. I've been in a few that would truly make your jaw drop, including one of the most gorgeous yoga studios I've ever practiced in. I'm three blocks from two of my favorite stores, Topshop and Madewell, which is much like a disaster waiting to happen. I'm proud to say that I haven't set foot inside either store in the three weeks since I've been living here. I can't promise anything once I get my first paycheck at the end of the month ...!

Grenwich Village is further up Thompson Street from Danee's apartment. This neighborhood was made famous by its proximity to Washington Square Park, wide array of vintage shops, and New York University, among other things. I haven't explored the area much, partly because it's been so cold and partly because I'd rather buy vintage clothing than eat some days and THATS JUST NOT RIGHT.

I'm wrapping up what has been a very loooooooooooong week of working 9:30-7 with a slow Friday and a 21-year old's excitement for the weekend! Tonight a few of my friends have arranged a "Welcome/Farewell" party to welcome me to New York and bid farewell to a friend who is leaving. What's more is that after dinner we're headed to an all-night dance party in Brooklyn! ...And what could be better than that? !!!!

Love and miss you all! Much more (in shorter bits) to come!

2010-01-12T00:04:00.000-05:00

Dear Angela ..er, Ang Pang,

I owe you. BIG TIME. I'm dedicating tomorrow's blog to you. Stay tuned... I have no idea what time zone it is in AFRICA right now, but in 6 hours I will write you the catch-up blog of a lifetime. PROMISE...

LOVING yous

I Forget To Breathe

2009-11-19T12:50:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-09T12:09:00.003-05:00

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?

2009-10-20T13:54:00.000-04:00

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

2009-10-06T12:26:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-09-22T18:33:00.010-04:00

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

2009-09-21T03:16:00.011-04:00

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

2009-06-04T20:47:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-01T23:41:00.007-04:00

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

2009-03-27T11:35:00.008-04:00

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

2009-03-25T21:56:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-03-22T15:29:00.006-04:00

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

2009-03-20T17:40:00.002-04:00

‘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]

2009-03-11T18:11:00.006-04:00

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.

2009-03-04T19:10:00.007-05:00

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

2009-02-26T19:32:00.009-05:00

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

2009-02-25T18:05:00.003-05:00

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?

2009-02-17T19:17:00.006-05:00

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

2009-02-17T11:33:00.001-05:00

Whatever Melts Your Butter

2009-02-11T18:19:00.008-05:00

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.

The Benefit of Just Showing Up

2009-02-10T18:54:00.009-05:00

Never mind the fact that I have sixteen half-written blogs to choose from this morning, running across any article about the creative process warrants a stop at the lemonade stand.

(Eat, Love, Pray Author on How We Kill Geniuses by Kim Zetter)

Over the years, I’ve read a couple of really great books about the creative process by writers, dancers, choreographers, photographers, painters, designer, and ever a few actresses thrown in for good measure. Most of these books end up as best sellers. For one, people like me can’t walk past one in a bookstore without marching to the register. Granted I’m biased, but I think creativity captivates people because it has no formula. Beyond sitting at your desk to write everyday, or showing up at the studio to dance, there’s no guarantee that brilliance will come.

In fact, it rarely does.

According to the United Nations Educational and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), there are 175,000 books published in the United States each year on average. Of those, less than 5% ever sell more than 5,000 copies, and the odds of winding up on the New York Times Best Seller list are 220:1. If my Times measuring stick doesn’t convert to your standard, consider this: On any given best seller list, more than five spots might be occupied by unbeatable bestsellers which have been on that list for years!

The point is that a million writers are putting thoughts to paper at any given moment, half of them have the intention of being published, a quarter of them will convince themselves that they deserve to be published, less than that will convince someone else (who can actually make that happen), 795 lucky writers have a shot at a Times best seller, and in the end, the one who strikes any of us as the creative genius wont even be able to tell us how they did it.

Whether it’s all just smoke and mirrors, divine intervention, hard work, or dumb luck, we'll never really know where creativity blurs to genius. Neither will the artist. Which is why I love this article I ran across yesterday.

If you haven’t already (Ali, Theresa…), read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I’m not going to get into any selling points since 99.9% of you have read it. The real story is what happened after it became a huge success. With its success, Gilbert achieved unexpected attention, which she says, was all very nice until people began to wonder how she would ever top her achievement.

“Everywhere I go now people treat me like I’m doomed,” she said.

Following her tremendous success, Gilbert watched as her peers set her smack dab in the middle of their concocted “downhill dilemma.” It was not the way she saw it at all.

Last Thursday, Gilbert gave a speech in California entitled, “How We Kill Our Geniuses.” The idea is that American society kills its geniuses (aka best selling authors, and all types of artists) by demanding super-human powers from them. Gilbert argues that “…instead of seeing the individual as a genius, we should view the brilliance as a gift from an unknowable outside source –some might call it a muse, others a fairy or god force—that visits us on occasion to participate in an act of creation, and then leaves to help someone else.”

She received a full standing ovation for her talk from an audience of people who, according to Kim Zetter at Wired, “generally don’t give in to beliefs about muses, fairies and god forces.”

I’ve absolutely heard this theory before. In fact, I’m sure that it’s a mindset prescribed to artists for the same reason doctors prescribe Ambien. This type of thinking takes some of the pressure off someone trying to put everything they have into a creative endeavor. Renowned choreographer Twyla Tharp says that you can walk around every day hoping to get hit by a bolt of lightning (metaphorically speaking), but unless you hike up to the top of a hill, it’s less likely to happen. Okay, I’m sure her metaphor is a bit less gruesome, but she describes it as lightning, nonetheless.

It’s all about the legwork on our “mortal” end of things (if we’re talking divine intervention, that is). Gilbert said in her speech that she ran into a severe case of writer’s block while writing Eat, Pray, Love and resolved that if the book didn’t turn out to be as good, it wasn’t going to be entirely her fault. “So if you want [the book] to be better,” she said aloud to whatever entity it was that usually helped her, “then you’ve got to show up and do your part of the deal. But I’ll keep writing anyway, because that’s my job. And I’d like the record to report today that I showed up.”

Just do your job, Gilbert says. Show up everyday. Hike to the top of the highest point for inspiration –whatever it may be that positions you in the right place every day so that when the lightning/god force/220:1 probability/transcendent state/muse/fairy/inspiration decides to bless you, it will know exactly where you are.

I read Stephen King’s book On Writing when I was in high school, so I’ll end with my favorite quote:

“Put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.”

$3.75 Advice

2009-02-05T18:11:00.005-05:00

I'm definately not one of those people who searches for inspiration on the side of every bus, keychain, and cardboard cup in sight. I'm more the type of person who needs a capuccino just to see straight and communicate in the morning. Really, nothing can explain why I stopped to read The Way I See It #76 this morning on my way to the recycling bin, but it was worth $3, .75 cents, and ten seconds.

The Way I See It #76
The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating --in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.

Now, if I could only figure out how to remove my head...

...Awaiting Vermillion

2009-01-26T19:38:00.009-05:00

Nothing makes me lose my voice faster than pouring my passionate little heart out to a near stranger over a lousy brass band.

Someone made the mistake of telling me that James is a writer. Not just any writer, James is a techno-terrified writer who reminded me so much of my pre-blogging-days self that I decided to convert him. Don’t worry, I said, blogging is easy. Then before I knew what was happening, I placed my hand on his shoulder, looked my newfound friend (of a friend) square in the eyes, and told him that someone out there cares about what he has to say.

I realized after our conversation that I may be responsible for giving birth to the world’s ten millionth sports blogger –and for that I will be very sorry.

That night I saw a touch of my own once-upon-a-writer's insecurity in James. When I’m not out shamelessly promoting Flirtationships at my new book club, or jotting notes down on Pearl Street Pub cocktail napkins, or mass-polling my friends across the country on g-chat, I sometimes wonder if I have anything worth saying at all. In these second-guessing moments I take comfort in a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson said that, “Every artist was once an amateur.” Simply put, you’ve got to start somewhere and it may not be pretty.

As in many quests for guidance, my musings led to the Google search bar in the upper corner of my computer screen. I thought to myself, James and I can't possibly be the only writers in history to have felt this way. (I realize I’m putting words into James’ mouth at this point, but let’s just call it a hunch). Discouragingly, my search for “writers + insecurity” turned up little more than ten sites with the same article. Worthless as it may be, I found a diamond in the rough(ly edited advice):

“Advice Tip Number 5: Ignore the Rules. Rules can be intimidating; intimidation a shortcut to insecurity. You may not know precisely when to use a comma and when to use parentheses, but that decision will never equal the importance of a good idea. We first need broad strokes to lend foundation. We wash our world in red, blue, yellow, and green. Chartreuse and vermillion come later.”

The advice is not nearly as succinct as my man Emerson, but still a valuable gem.

Speaking of treasures, one Christmas a friend of mine gave me a book so full of gems that Queen Elizabeth might have mistaken it for a crown. The book is Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life. For those of you who don’t know Twyla, she is a world-class choreographer, and a disciplined soldier of the arts. She has choreographed more than 135 dances, five Hollywood movies, directed and choreographed three Broadway shows, written two books, and won so many awards you’d be warranted to stand up, quit reading this blog, and swear off potato chips forever.

I can honestly say that I’ve never read a book as slowly as that spring of 2008. When I opened to the first page I felt like a dry sponge sitting next to a kitchen faucet, and once I started, I could hardly get through two pages before I could absorb no more. I probably read The Creative Habit in 271 three-page sessions over the course of a year --I loved that book so much. Now whenever I think of my own creative process (or stick on a hang-up), her graceful wisdom comes to mind.

The exercises sprinkles throughout The Creative Habit are designed to sharpen one's creative process, from movement to perception,or any medium from dance to oil-on-canvas. True to “Anonymous Tip Number 5,” I started practicing the following exercise verbatim, until only recently discovering its vermillion, so to speak. It's simple. Twyla suggests sitting somewhere where you can observe another person from a distance, and making a list of their first 30 movements. The exercise draws your attention to the details and focuses your descriptive skills.

To put it lightly, my own “exercise” strays from the example. For instance, I’ve collected six 1” scraps of paper and four cocktail napkins in the past two weeks, each with its own blog idea scribbled to varyious degrees of legibility. I think to myself, this will make a really [insert adjective] blog tomorrow, but the funny part is that I haven’t written about a single one of those scribbles.

When I look at the scrap of paper the next day, I end up writing about something to my left from the night before, something that happened off screen, but never what happened right in front of me. Either way, my habit of writing something down, or as it turns out writing anything down, sharpens my attention to the setting ...if not the right scene. I'm clearly on to something here, but like a toddler putting her shoes on the wrong feet, I've got a few kinks to work out.

The moral of the story? If every artist was once an amateur, then who’s to say a quirk won’t make yourmethod work?

Dedicated to James.

Farewell To A Few Old Friends

2009-01-06T18:36:00.009-05:00

2008 was the best of times, and it was the worst of times. For me, it was a year of ironies. Life alternately ransacked my sensitivity and held me tightly in its arms, high above the late '08 wreckage.

I felt comforted in ways unimaginable, then red-faced and embarrassed in front of those I love. I felt betrayed, and forgiven. Near the end, and starting over. Then after a stomach-wrecking week of "skiing" with my old college friends, I somersaulted down the steep hill of recovery and lied on my back with stars spinning around my head for another couple of days.

When I emerged from my self-inflicted transitional haze, 2009 seemed to taste a heck of a lot like 2008. The only differences so far are the lack of parking spaces at Flatirons Athletic Club, and a vague feeling of job-security with tax season right around the corner. Se la vie!

For a week and a half after Christmas, I agonized about writing a Year-End Self Criticism blog. I thought, what better way to wrap up last year's mistakes than in a hankerchief little hobo pack tied to the end of a stick? That way I could easily catapulted it through the air so that it would sink to the bottom of the river forever. But then I remembered that a) I am no Huck Finn and b) the only bottomless river in Boulder is the foot deep, smelly Boulder creek, and a year's worth of mistakes wouldn't make it very far down that stream.

After much thought, I decided to ignore the age old literary tradition of retrospection. Instead, I followed in the footsteps my critic-hero, NY Times columnist Maureen Dowd, and I took the entire month of December and half of January off (unlike Ms. Dowd, however, I did not write the cover story for Vanity Fair during this time).

This is not to say that my time during the holiday spent unproductively. Even the three lecherous nights of drinking and, well, more drinking with old college friends gave me a much-needed pep of camaraderie and belonging that I've been missing since our days of theme parties and final exams. Neither was my time off all sweet things and Christmas cookies. By far, the most painful part was coming to terms with my new year's resolution.

This year I have vowed to increase my financial stability. I knew that after having visions in my head of strangling my super-saver, penny-pinching friend who recently quit her job and moved to Argentina, the problem was clearly mine. So, in a smooth intervention move, my best friend Jess offered to take me out to brunch at the St. Julien Hotel on the condition that I bring my bank statements and any other pertinent clues to determine where my money has gone. I am (un)happy to say that her sharp detective skills led her straight to the culprit: overdraft fees.

So with the new year under way and my guilty confession behind me, I've begun to focus on exciting new ways to manage my money. You can probably look forward to such riveting blog topics such as "shopping in my own closet" and "getting rich slowly." Practically the only good thing about the current financial crisis is blending in. My brown bag may not stand out as much this year, and no one will care that I've colored my scuffed patent-leather Mary Jane's with a Sharpie.

In closing, it just wouldn't feel like 2009 without a quick peek back over my shoulder. So in light of my resolution, I'd like to bid farewell to a few of my favorite 2008 indulgences... Farewell to the frequent Brasserie brunch, Rodney Strong 2006 Pinot Noir, after-work snacks at Radda Trattoria, and dining out four times a week. Farewell to new Mac lipstick, last-minute plane tickets, and premium bottles of tequila. Farewell to (fake) mink stoles, gold chains, Anthropologie shopping sprees, and white-blonde hair appointments. You will be missed.

All I have to say is that the only thing better than saving money, eliminating overdraft fees, and moving to New York this year is an article that I read recently entitled, "How to Keep Your New Year's Resolution." According to statistics, the average American restarts his or her resolution 8 times throughout the year before sticking to it.

I'm at three and counting...

Is Owning A Dog The New Promise Ring?

2008-12-18T11:49:00.005-05:00

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

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

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

"And they have three children, right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My State of Being Convinced

2008-12-15T21:09:00.007-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waist Not, Want Not

2008-12-15T12:42:00.004-05:00

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

My Wallet is Bulging With Money. Repeat.

2008-11-26T14:01:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

They have me at feel the wealth.

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

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

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

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

The Day of Questionable Fate

2008-11-21T01:15:00.007-05:00

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

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

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

Only, that last part never happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Heart Art

2008-11-12T01:19:00.017-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of My Rope

2008-11-10T14:16:00.006-05:00

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

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

How to Outsmart Your Opponent

2008-11-07T17:44:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Change has come to America"

2008-11-04T23:45:00.006-05:00

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

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

"All things are possible."

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

What an incredible, fortunate time to be alive.

Forever Flirtationship: FASHION

2008-10-31T16:45:00.005-04:00

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

Inexperience as an Asset

2008-10-29T01:00:00.004-04:00

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

Wishful Thinking

2008-10-28T19:24:00.011-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laundry Mat Soliloquy

2008-10-25T18:30:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Circumstances make it difficult to avoid everyone today

2008-10-21T22:42:00.012-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2008-10-17T17:17:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

McCain's going to need a lot more than yoga

2008-10-16T18:50:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every great relationship starts with a flirtationship

2008-10-15T13:51:00.008-04:00

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

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

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