Check Your Head & Cash Your Paycheck, ITS FRIDAY!

Today is Thursday, January 27, 2009.

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

"It's so expensive there."

"Yeah, I know."

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

"Yeah, I know."

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

(Ouch) "Yeaah, I know."

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

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

Linds,

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

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

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

Love you,
Nicole

Faux Snow Day

Thursday, January 28, 2010

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

Cracked Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fancy Things For Free

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

Like Calamari

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

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

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

Big Apple, Baby!

HELLO FROM THE BIG APPLE!!!

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

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

Okay, so New York...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Angela ..er, Ang Pang,

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

LOVING yous

I Forget To Breathe

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writer Anne Lamott describes a similar momentum like this,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really Fast Halloween Recap

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo Besos!

Why me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, love to all of you today! Mmmmuuuuuuaaaaaaaa!

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Same As It Ever Was

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


I absolutely love her, as always.




1960's French model, Charlotte Martin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today’s horoscope just about sums it up:

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

The Unspeak[or text]able

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter: the stupids.

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

“You work around here?” he asked.

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

Snow Day Savings Plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Th-th-three uh-uh-Oh

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

I Dream of Jacobs ...Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Heavy Hand at The Open Bar of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lesson #1: You will learn to speak Spanish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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