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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today’s horoscope just about sums it up:

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

The Unspeak[or text]able

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter: the stupids.

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

“You work around here?” he asked.

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

Snow Day Savings Plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Th-th-three uh-uh-Oh

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

I Dream of Jacobs ...Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Heavy Hand at The Open Bar of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lesson #1: You will learn to speak Spanish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Career Blogger Named Penelope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so do I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chew On This

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

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


The Crisis of Credit Visualized from Jonathan Jarvis on Vimeo.

Did Someone Say Silver Lining?

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

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

Here is how a number of sources are weighing in:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obama Change-O-Meter

Whatever Melts Your Butter

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happened a little differently.

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

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

The Benefit of Just Showing Up

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

"And they have three children, right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My State of Being Convinced

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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