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.

Waist Not, Want Not

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

My Wallet is Bulging With Money. Repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

They have me at feel the wealth.

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

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

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

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

The Day of Questionable Fate

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

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

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

Only, that last part never happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Heart Art

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of My Rope

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

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

How to Outsmart Your Opponent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Change has come to America"

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

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

"All things are possible."

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

What an incredible, fortunate time to be alive.

Forever Flirtationship: FASHION

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

Inexperience as an Asset

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