No Yesterdays on the Road

Happy Christmas War is Over

2011-12-15T10:27:00.004-05:00

Is it real? Is Obama for real going to bring everyone home? I feel like we've heard this a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like every few months since 2008 in his campaign. I'm happy to have the troops home.

I'm happy to know that my friends who have siblings, parents and friends over there can now know that in a short amount of time, they will all be home and safe (ignoring the mental and physical scars that war undoubtedly leave), but is this a good thing? Is leaving a part of the world that will always be fighting to save our own butts the right move? Is this going to make America look stronger or weaker? Iraqis already seem to hate us, will the few who have welcomed our presence hate us more for abandoning them? Just giving up on nations of people who can't fight on their own? Or is it the right move to let people solve their own problems in their own ways? Is it right to let people kill each other? Can we ever persuade them to stop killing each other and hating each other? Will we save money now we are no longer funding a war we could never win? Or are hundreds maybe thousands of military contractors going to lose their jobs? War is always good for a recession. It boosts production, consumption, industry. It also costs a lot and leaves America begging for loans. It costs a lot to produce those ridiculous machines that kill hundreds of thousands of humans (and prairie dogs).

So am I really happy? Is it really going to be a happy Christmas? Or is this just another attempt of Obama trying to win the re-election? (Let's be honest, with the baboons that keep ping-ponging to the top of the Republican race, and then saying dumb shit about homosexuals being bad people or molesting co-workers or just being plain stupid... Obama or any Democrat for that matter doesn't have to fight hard for the seat in the casa di blanco.)

I know this is a commentary painted in very large strokes. And that without any real evidence supporting any of these questions, I sound pretty wishy-washy, but the simple question still stands: Is war ever good?

Yes Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus

2011-12-13T10:50:00.000-05:00

I love the holidays. I love the music and the smells and the lights and the decorations, but most of all I love the feeling. Yes it's stressful trying to find gifts, budgeting bank accounts, managing schedules and sending cards etc... but all of that is minor compared to the general holiday mood that makes everyone smile, young and old. More importantly is the carrying out of time-honored traditions. The small traditions which we quietly revive each year connects us with our past and with our family and friends.

One of my family's traditions is watching movies and holiday specials. From Holiday Inn to Frosty Returns, as kids we seemed to always find time to watch those classic holiday films. Even though we're growing up and living apart and gaining new traditions, I still find time to watch those classics and incorporate new holiday specials - perhaps adding to old traditions? Even the non-Christmas shows like Jeopardy seem to incorporate holiday cheer! (Is it just me or does champion Drew Bayer look remarkably like Hermey the elf/wanna be dentist?)

Recently I watched The Elf on the Shelf which quite frankly, sucks. But I also endured 30 minutes of Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus which does no justice to the classic true story. Watching these specials, the ridiculous lifetime and hallmark holiday movies just reminds me how much, even at the age of 24, I wish there was a santa claus. Not because I want someone to bring my presents, but because of what he represents. Not the commercial side of thing, but the happiness, the cheer, the giving and the overall joviality. I want there to be someone whose sole goal in his everlasting life is to make other people happy and spread cheer and smiles.... and to only expect cookies and warm milk in return.

Is that really so much to ask??

Cars and Calories

2011-11-08T16:54:00.001-05:00

I am nostalgic to a fault. I love all things reminiscent, especially memories triggered by smells and sounds. It's exciting to smell an old shampoo and go back to showering in a dirty campground when I was 13 in Bar Harbor singing "Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady" or hearing a random song and being transported back to an earlier time when life was easier and breezier and I didn't understand the lyrics.

Driving around doing errands today for work, Saves the Day pooped up on my iPhone and suddenly I was no longer arguing with a Child Support Enforcement Officer in CT about percentages and garnishments for an employee and I was back to being 15 and 16, wearing band t-shirts and black eye-shadow, drinking stolen beers and Zhenka, making out in random people's pools and smoking weed in cars, basements... pretty much everywhere. My hair was super blonde, my skin was super tanned and my summers were endless nights of fun and long days by the pool. And I was completely ignorant of what the lyrics I was jamming out to actually meant.

What I would give to be that carefree, that stupid and that skinny and tan again!! Halfway through the song I was brought back to reality by my inability to understand Spanglish and the horrible reality that my confusion might lead to a child not having dinner one night. My life really has become full of cars and calories. Full of Vineyard Vines, Martha Stewart and Nieman Marcus catalogues. I'm worried soon I'll end up turning into a hollow shell. A hollow shell with a library card, a responsible lifestyle and far too many pairs of leather boots.

Timelines

2011-10-26T10:44:00.000-04:00

End of August, my biggest concern which kept me up at nights and nervous all day was executing back-to-back high-maintenance weddings at Harbour Place. I created timeline after timeline trying to relieve my anxiety. If I could manage every second of those 4 days, then everything would be alright. If I followed through with every action from 8am on that Friday morning to 5pm Sunday evening, then everything would be alright again in my world. Timelines fix everything.

But three weeks ago, everything in my world seemed to fall apart. As my dad got more and more sick and eventually ended up in the hospital with a team of doctor's doing multiple tests, enduring 5 pints of a strangers blood and being hooked up to oxygen and IV's 24/7, I frantically tried to take control of something that was completely out of my hands. I was constantly asking questions of when certain medicines were being administered, when certain tests were being done, how long transfusions would take, when he could eat lunch. I called anyone I knew who could potentially help us out (and those who did help were amazing!) in some attempt to feel like I had some control over what was going on.

If I edified myself on what was going on and knew that I had secured someone to oversee the whole ordeal, if I could create a timeline of events, then I felt like it was being ok. But as he stayed in that hospital room longer, as more tests came back negative and more questions were left unanswered, as I returned to work and was left to only receive information through my dad and my mom, I felt my slim attempt at managing this 'event' slipping away until finally driving home from work one day, I broke down after listening to a "For Good" from Wicked. As I full on sobbed down 95, I'm sure the EZPass people got an amazing picture of a sobbing girl trying to hold her EZPass up to the window backwards going through the lane at an expeditious 45 mph.

I'm a control freak who lives by her calendar. I clock out my day with end times and start times whether it's a project at work, or running to Target during my lunch break. Knowing when things start and end makes life more manageable and digestible. My first week of college, I created a timeline of classes I needed by certain years to graduate. Then I could go out to parties. At the beginning of each event, I create a timeline of what needs to get done prior to the event and exactly how the event will run the day of. When I have a day of errands, I plan out my wake-up time, coffee, shower, car, more coffee... it's OCD, but it makes me feel like I can get through this. I can get this done.

But my timelines always have an end. There comes a point when I can throw that timeline away and move on to the next order of events. When my Dad got sick, I faced the reality that his struggle with his diagnosis is something that might never end, and that their are some timelines that you never want to see completed.

No one wants to think about losing their parents or loved ones, but as I saw my Dad in the hospital or lying on the couch and looking nothing like the man I have idolized to be invincible, I realized for the first time really in 24 years, that at some point, his timeline would end and that I had absolutely no control over when this would happen.

Chunky Spice

2011-10-06T15:11:00.000-04:00

Last week, exactly 7 days from today, I was victim of a horrendous crime. A personal foul if you will. It was something so terrible, so destructive that it's taken me a week to even write about it. Thinking back to how I felt last week still makes my eyes sting. My tale goes something like this...

I'm naturally a nasty mouse-y dirty blonde, but I pretend to be blonder by getting my hair highlighted. But last Thursday I noticed that my mouse-y roots were peeking out and decided that instead of spending $250 (I know!!) on my hair color every 2 months for the rest of eternity, I'll tone it back down to more of a blonder-reddish-brownish hue. For this drastic change I decided to head back to my staple hairdresser as she has done my hair since forever and knows my style - something I'd call modest and fun. One word I would never use to describe myself? Spicy.

I plopped down in the chair and asked for 'vibrant red lowlights' which to me meant 'tone down the blonde and add a pop of red' which I'm cool with. I've had my hair red a bunch (it's usually my 'i don't want to come back from Europe' rebellious act) and I've had red lowlights and highlights. Easy peasy nice and easy.

heck. no.

After having enough foils in my head to receive a strong radio signal and sitting under a dryer long enough to read two People magazines back to back, I flagged down my hairdresser to tell her the dryer shut-off about 15 minutes ago. When I touched a lock of hair that came loose from the foil, my finger turned a weird purple...

"Omg, did you dye my hair purple?" I jokingly asked... since my dye has always been more of a brown color.

She laughed. I laughed... but only for 4 more minutes.

As I walked back to my chair ready to check out the new 'fall hair' Kelly I gasped. Choked. And then started to silently sob.

There in the mirror wasn't a chic fall-ready Kelly.

There... in the mirror... was something I have equated to Chunky Spice.

You know what looks bad with an Oxford and Sperrys? That hair color.
You know what looks bad with pearls and JCrew cardigans? That hair color.
You know what looks best standing outside the Sad Cafe back in 8th grade smoking a forbidden cigarette and wearing pleather pants? That hair color.

I never understood how people on What Not to Wear and ANTM could cry at their hair. It's just hair right?

No. It's not. It's YOUR hair.

I resisted the urge to drive from the hairdresser to wal-mart and dye it back to a dark red or brown or black. Anything that would take away the circus tent on my head. But instead, I went home. Cried. Tried on 55 hats (one being the gigantic conical Asian hat I got in Beijing... that would help me blend in. I even tried my Guinness cap from Dublin..) and then planned to book a corrective appointment the next day. Hair be damned, I'd rather have it fall out from over-coloring than walk around like a sun-burnt zebra for more than 24 hrs.

The next day I counted down the hours to my 4:30 appointment at a reputable salon and tried as much as possible to hide in my office and cover up my garish locks. I rushed out of my office early at 4 (which meant I would be late to the appointment) and sped as fast as I could to my savior. In traffic, I took this one other photo to document the worst day of my life.

Note the worry in my face and the ugly red hair framing that worry.

You'd think my tale ended there? But no... it continues.

After pulling off the highway with another 10 minutes to the hair dresser and only 8 on my clock, I noticed my gas light was on and my pointer-thingy was almost going back around.

Here I was, trying to not show society what people would think I willingly did to my hair, but desperately terrified my car would die enroute to the salon and then I'd miss my appointment AND have more people see the haircut.

Eff it. I stopped to get gas.

I'm a courteous person. If I notice people are in a rush in line, I let them go ahead. If they have screaming children, less items, or just seem busy, I let them step ahead. Karma Kelly.

So here I am trying to get gas and I pull up to the one pump that won't read my card. I run in and I see a line of two people. Thinking that what goes around comes around and I'm in a rush, I very very very very nicely tapped the old lady in front of me.

"I'm late for a very important appointment M'am," I say. "Would you mind letting me hop in front of you?"

She stares at me, looks me up and down, stops at my hair for a bit longer than I'd like, mumbles and steps aside. As I run my card, thank her profusely, and dash out of the gas station I hear the crazy lady mutter "stupid punk kids" as if my hair meant I was punk.

Guess what I would never ever call myself?

Punk.

I made it to the appointment. She spent 2.5 hours trying to figure out the massacre that sat atop my head, and ended up making me beautiful once more. After thanking her profusely, hugging her and offering her my first born, I left no longer striped, but just casually highlighted.

What did I learn from this? Trust no one.

And always bring a picture.

La Repubblica at its finest

2011-10-04T16:14:00.000-04:00

Upon my daily brief review of La Repubblica to brush up on my Italian and check in on the Foxy Knoxy scandal, I stumbled upon this gem which can only be the work of Berlusconi's attempt to draw the world's attention away from his renowned Bunga Bunga parties...

My favorite is their declaration of Ashton as a 'toy-boy' and their awkward description of a cougar...

"LUI, il trentatreenne Ashton Kutcher, è il padre di tutti i toy-boy. Lei, la quarantottenne Demi Moore, è la regina delle cougar: nome che indica le donne non più giovanissime, così sicure del loro fascino da puntare sempre prede più giovani..."

"He, a thirty three your old Ashton Kutcher, the father of all boy toys. She, a forty year old Demi Moore, a known Cougar - a name which indicates that a woman who is no longer young is attracted to younger prey..."

The article goes on to discuss how this social network power couple is now being taken down by the medium that pushed them to the top. Demi with her twitter posts, Ashton with his rendezvous's posting pics and anecdotes about their hook-ups... I mean this is truly journalism at it's finest. I don't even know why I bother to scan the Times, the Post or the Journal. All I ever need is right here.

....I miss Italy...

3 AM

2011-10-03T12:33:00.000-04:00

Certain times of the night/early morning hold special importance to me. Such as 2:30 Truth Time.

While editing our epic short on the world of muggle Quidditch, around hour 10 of editing at 2:30am in the Berg, the three of us decided to pour our hearts out. The truth behind our short lives came tumbling out and amidst constant replays of Gavin's "certainly" no rock was left unturned. Hence, 2:30 truth time. This magical hour constantly seems to the opportune time for humans to discuss their secret hopes and dreams.

But more recently, 3 am holds the most importance to me. My body has a hard time staying asleep if anything is on my mind. During my previous year of employment, even if I was black-out drunk off of Boone's Farm in St Louis, I woke up at exactly 3am with some NGO's acronym on my mind. IMOW, Rare, GP, MLK.... why couldn't I find these people to fill these rolls? Did I send out that second round of e-blasts? Did I confirm that 9am interview? Will my boss even be in at 9am for the interview?? Did I record the responses? Did I email my boss the responses? Did I even get any responses? OMG, what if no one responded... that means I must have effed up the e-blast... was my grammar incorrect? A link broken? An email address wrong?? I'll just get-up and check my outbox.....

But since my switch in jobs and general decrease in life stress, my 3ams have come and gone without a blink of the eye - unless it was REM. Even if I went to be at 2:45am, 3am was just a dreamy memory. No wake-ups, no freak outs, no acronyms.

But recently my 3am wake-up calls have returned. Except instead of my mind screaming an acronym or pushing me to recall if I had completed a task I most usually did complete, I just wake up blank. There's no reason in my mind to be staring out my window or convincing myself that the ghostly white blob near my door is my bathrobe. My brain can't logically determine why I am awake, although I'm pretty sure it knows and just won't share its secret.

So I have once again fallen into the pattern... asleep, awake at 3am, fitful sleep for 3 hours, awake for the day... repeat.

Why have a recommenced waking up again? Why can't I figure out why I'm waking up? Why 3am??

I must be lonely...

Airplane Limbo

2011-09-26T14:47:00.000-04:00

I've never had a fear of flying. My mom has been terrified of getting on a plane since my earliest memories and thanks to her nerves, I was introduced at a young age to the disgusting taste of a Bloody Mary and was convinced they were the reason behind the sickness bags in all of the seat backs.

I get anxious before a flight, but only because a flight means I am no longer going to be where I currently am and within 3, 6, or 13 hours, I will be somewhere new and exciting. That's worth a few jitters. But after you pass through the body scans and the watchful eyes of Minos, only then can you proceed to those coveted mid-air moments of airplane limbo.

But during those hours mid-flight, I am uncommonly relaxed yet confident. Flying is this wonderful hanging suspension from real life. For those hours in that seat, you are completely separated from your phone, your computer, your life and who you are to all those people 30,000 feet below you. For those hours you can leave behind all of your responsibilities and requirements and just enjoy being in that scratchy seat, slowly eating your mini pretzels and the endless horizon of clouds.

But something else happens up in the air. Some strange overhead compartment of the heart opens up and critical judgment grabs its flotational seat cushion and follows the lighted pathway to the big, yellow slide. All emotions let loose. For me? I become more self-protective. On land, I consider the feelings and cramped legs of others. I offer a hand if needed and give out free smiles and assistance. On an airplane? I guard my seat with my life, hoarding the armrest, reclining to the fullest extent, nabbing the aisle seat and popping 2 sleeping pills. Oh I'm sorry window-seater, you needed to pee at hour 5 and you couldn't get by my passed-out body? Not my problem, I'll never see you again.

What turns me into a mean girl? Perhaps it's the infantile stage an airplane reverts you to. Here you are, a confident, successful human being and you are locked into a metal tube with filtered air blowing right into your eyes, shown to a small seat, given a blanket, a pillow, a sippy cup and a meal carefully compartmentalized so nothing touches anything else. Only when are you told, are you able to go to the bathroom or stretch your legs or even open your shade. As you leave behind one place for another, you also seem to give up your basic rights as a human being. What else are you to do?

Airplane limbo - not quite the green pastures and seven castles of the first circle all Christians are taught to fear - but rather just a moratorium of real life. With a definitive beginning and end, flying should be a comforting respite from the gravitational pull of responsibility and commitment, not a harrowing experience of fearful crashes and unidentified bumps and creaks.

5 Reasons Why Living Alone Sucks

2011-09-21T09:02:00.000-04:00

1. If you can't open the pickle jar, then you don't get to eat pickles.

2. You have to make your own tea even when you're super comfy on the couch and it's right at the good part in the movie.

3. There isn't someone to monitor the escape route of the large bug you saw in the living room as you run into the kitchen to get a paper towel, cup and potato masher, therefore risking the ungodly possibility of losing sight of the bug and letting it roam free until once again you meet in the dark.

4. It takes you two weeks to eat all of the gigantic lasagna you cooked, and that's eating it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

5. No one is there to help zip the back of your dress up those 5 millimeters that you can't reach without doing yoga or getting a hand cramp.

The DefEcho

2011-09-19T12:00:00.000-04:00

For my entire college career (when I wasn't traveling, drinking, making pancake hats, playing racko, balance boarding or playing old-school Nintendo games... among other frivolous activities) I was working for/at/on our school 'media' publications. We had to write articles every week for 2 years, then we had to be on staff for one of the two for a semester and at that point, you're so sucked into all things Defender/Echo that it's hard to divorce yourself so I found my senior yr was peppered with random articles and opinion pieces for the publication I loathed only a semester earlier.

But it's something I devoted more time to than I think most college students did. There were a few of us - the proud and the dorky - who loved to hate the Echo. We hated the article writing, the fact-checking, the late night pushes to publish, the photo credits, managing idiots who couldn't write and goddamn copy-editing for hours on end. But we would put ANTM on the big screen, jam out to Journey and secretly loved the high-pressure. More often than not, we would write two articles a week, submit photos to the Naked Opinion and attend events just for moral support. Addiction doesn't begin to describe how we felt for The Echo and all things Bergeron. And honestly, I don't think this love could have been as deep without our amazing and intelligent advisor MB who made the most monotonous and tedious evenings fun. Not to mention, she knew a good story when she saw one, and how to handle lazy editors as well as General-esque managing editors. She made it fun! She made us obsessed. She helped guide is to make The Echo the amazing (in our eyes) publication that it was.

And to step away from it upon graduation was kinda sad. I mean, it was great to know we never had to trudge home to our townhouses at 1am on a Sunday after a push to publish. That we didn't have to dig our cars out after the snowstorm to drive back to North Campus. That our Monday's weren't devoted to fixing run-ons, verifying quotes and explaining what STET means. It felt good to say goodbye to the Echo.... for a brief moment.

But today, when I wanted to check to see what SMC was up to, I was beyond appalled to see what I found. Black and white decor, no moving images, a BLANK multimedia page, effed up formatting, literally titles that said "caption and credit" on the front page and absolutely no Naked Opinion. What happened? After all those hours, to see something which secretly meant so much to us to just fall apart, it actually hurts. The Echo merged with The Defender (our print publication) and with the merge begin the quick descent into the destruction of our medium.

It's hard to let go. I know it's no longer ours and we have no business to judge, but it hurts to see something that meant so much to us just fall apart. I understand change is good, but this change is for the worse. I feel like they've reversed instead of progressing, and I'm not sure who to point fingers at. With the merge of The Echo and The Defender and the creation of the online DefEcho, I feel like SMC needs to know their journalism department is portraying an image that is far less than what it once was. Perhaps our professors should be a little less concerned with college kids tuning out the media and tune in to the fact that how their department is being portrayed to the public is an embarrassment.

Foto Friday/Wedding

2011-09-16T11:34:00.000-04:00

Oh hey two birds... watch out! Here come's one stone which will kill both of you!

Yes, I am combining my photo Friday with a wedding post from Labor Day weekend. Get excited!

Location: Harbour Place, Portsmouth, NH
Wedding Planner: moi
Tents, Flooring, Lighting: Sperry Tents Seacoast
Photography: Steven Fairfield Photography
Flowers/Decor: F...as in Flowers
Catering: Paddy's American Grill
Bar: Galley Hatch
Music: Northeast DJ and watch a video of the night

Overall, this was such a fun wedding and one of the largest at HP! I don't think I've seen a larger bridal party - 22 all together. I'm glad they chose a sweetheart table over a head table :) It was wonderful working with Karen from Paddy's on her first - and expertly executed - wedding done by Paddy's (usually they're used to 500+ corporate events), Mary from the Galley Hatch was wonderful as always and Dan Bruin from Northeast DJs kept the party going all night long! Dustin and Liz are an incredible couple and an absolute pleasure to work with throughout the entire process. I don't think I could have asked for a more organized groom! All in all, a fun (and early!) wedding. Best wishes Dustin & Liz!

(all of these photos are from Steven Fairfield of stevenfairfieldphotography.com. He also brought an amazing photo booth which captured some of my favorite images of the evening. Follow him on Facebook to see the highlights of the photobooth images. Enjoy!!

Yes that is the groom break dancing...

And the bride doing the worm...

Referral??? Let's hope so!

La Fontana di Trevi

2011-09-12T15:22:00.000-04:00

I want to be back here.... just for a day....

Regrets

2011-09-06T20:54:00.000-04:00

Some mornings I wake up and remember that point in my life when I could have decided to follow everything my four years of college prepared me for, or delve down the path of responsible adulthood.

Waking up in my california king surrounded in my own home on the ocean, I think you know what I chose.

And I regret it.

Why didn't I got to Nepal? Why did I honestly shred those 50 Nepalese visa applications I filled out and shelf that Kathmandu travel book? Why did I ignore Cliff's last email full of NGO contacts and deals on flights??

I even bought a jacket to go hiking in the Himalayas. So what stopped me?

I wish I knew. I wish I could pinpoint the moment when I became more obsessed with Palau than Nepal, more obsessed with Italy than Somalia. When did I stop checking ICRC and ReliefWeb and start following fashion blogs and subscribing to GOOP?

What happened to long-haired naturally brunette Kelly with ripped jeans and sweatshirts who was determined to change the world one starving child at a time? Was that really me? Or was that just a product of my college environment? Did my professors set me up to succeed, or push me into a fantasy world where I was convinced I could do anything and everything as long as I put my mind to it?

What it comes down to, is I regret it. I regret not jumping on that plane. I regret not trying to change the world even if deep down I knew I couldn't and wouldn't. I regret being scared of that failure. I regret not helping stop the famine in Somalia or educate Sudanese children of unexploded weapons hidden underground. I regret not attending the international GNH conference in Brazil with Bill McKibbs and I regret not applying to Witness.

But I don't regret where I am now. I needed to do this event planning thing to know I could do it. But who knows, maybe 3 years from now I'll toss out my Gucci flats and VV polos and pull out that Himilayan hiking jacket and board a plane to Asia with no plan except to make a difference. Because if I can plan a wedding from beginning to end, steal away booze served to minors and make sure an 85 yr old woman makes it to the hospital post passing out mid MOB toast and STILL the bride and groom have a good time, then I guess I can do anything. And that includes changing the world.

A little kindness goes a long way...

2011-08-29T12:43:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning to no power, clear skies and news that Vermont was under water. I didn't get my coffee, I was late to work and even though I washed my hair with cold water from our dehumidiifier in the kitchen sink, I still looked greasy.

Case of the Mondays?

Hellz to the yeah.

BUT....

I found this cheery little e-mail in my inbox this morning and I couldn't have had a better way to start my day. This was from a past client. I love what I do because i love making people happy and truly thank-you notes are a reason to do what you love..

"xxx and I want to thank you for helping put on an absolutely beautiful wedding. From the planning process with xxx to the follow-through with Kelly, we couldn't have asked for a more stress-free, simple yet elegant wedding. While setting everything up, if I ever had an issue with anything (including having to check surveillance tapes for supposed missing tables) Kelly was right there the whole time to assist in any way, including helping me carry the beer and wine into the venue on Friday and pretty much taking down the chairs and tables by herself on Saturday night and Sunday. Kelly was more than we had expected to be provided to us by your facility, and we are very grateful that she was because she provided remarkable assistance. Everything was what we had imagined it to be at that venue, and the sheets actually ended up looking pretty nice (may want to offer them in the future even after the drooling shark heads are gone). Again, we can't thank you enough, but thank you again. I'd like to thank the weather too but I don't have her e-mail address."

So next time someone brightens your day or makes your job easier, think about sending a note. A little kindness can go a long way :)

I Can Never Let Go

2011-08-22T11:06:00.001-04:00

That's right, last night in my post-wedding/sprained finger coma, I was trying to kill time before picking my bf up from the airport and trying not to fall asleep. Naturally, I scanned tv to find a movie to keep me entertained. A 30 minute show was bound to put me to sleep and I came across that blockbuster classic that haunted my dreams from age 10 - 19 ... Titanic.

At first I thought I could at least watch the beginning. Watch Jack win his ticket to untimely death, watch Rose & Jack meet in that moment of dramatic attempted suicide, watch Rose get drunk and dance to jigs and reels down in steerage and after the awkward sex scene in the Model-T, I would change it. I could handle the movie to that point... until that horrible moment when I knew he would die and Rose would be sad forever.

But that was impossible because within the first 10 minutes of watching Leonardo DiCaprio bum cigarettes and flip that gorgeous blonde hair, suddenly I felt like I was 10 again. I was back in the Lawrence theaters with my friend and her mom wishing that I was Jack's best girl, freaking out as Rose jumps back onto the boat, hoping that Jack would find a boat to climb into and sobbing as she slowly lets Leonardo DiCaprio's frozen body sink to the bottom of the ocean. It was if my walls of travel photos, maps and picture windows were once again plastered with pull-outs of Leo with that sly grin and shining green eyes. And every time Jack and Rose smiled, shared a moment or expressed any sense of happiness, my eyes filled with tears because I knew they were doomed.

I had to change it. I had to watch something more up-beat and I decided on watching Steve Carrell wax his chest and paint figurines in 40 Year Old Virgin. I couldn't bear to watch Leonardo DiCaprio die once more, but I could manage to watch Paul Rudd laugh hysterically as Steve yells out expletives with each new patch of hair being ripped from his chest.

But it got me thinking about how much Titanic influenced my emotions 14 years ago... and still today. It amazes me that a film - a make believe world - can affect me that strongly. I mean I love it, but I can't watch it. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a famous movie? I can never own it. I can never watch it again in it's entirety and apparently, I can't even watch it in pieces. It's a part of my life that drums up more emotions that I care to allow it, and I'd rather let those emotions hide in secret for years and years.

Those feelings are frozen in the time when that film was released and as hard as I try, I guess I just I can't ever let go.

Going to the Harbour & You're Gonna Get Married.... (part 2)

2011-08-18T11:39:00.000-04:00

The fabulous marriage of Liz and Jeff Dyer!

Location: Harbour Place, Portsmouth, NH
Wedding Planner: the divine Melanie Voros at Blissful Beginnings
Tents, Flooring, Lighting: Sperry Tents Seacoast
Photography: Alexandra Daley-Clark Photography
Flowers/Decor: Liz at Paper Posy Designs
Catering: the delicious and elegant The White Apron
Music: The Grift

Most adorable wedding children EVER!

Heaviest benches ever from Rentals Unlimited, but excellent choice by Melanie & Liz. Loved the family-style dining feeling of the wedding.

I love this look... the first time the groom sees the bride coming down the aisle.

May I present to you... Mr. & Mrs. Dyer!

A little rain can never stop an awesome party!

Liz @ Paper Posy Design rocked at making these flowers to go on all the turquoise ball jars she collected for the wedding. She also made that awesome flower backdrop for the photo booth... a favorite of all the kids!

Jay Curcio at The White Apron has done it again... delicious food and elegant design.

Best dance crew ever! The Grift played amazing music all night long.

<3 Sailcloth tents from Sperry.

Going to the Harbour & You're Gonna Get Married.... (part 1)

2011-08-18T10:31:00.000-04:00

In case you've missed all the weddings I've done thus far in my life.... A quick review of Summer 2011 wedding by wedding.

Mr & Mrs. Albert
Location: Harbour Place, Portsmouth, NH
Flowers: not sure... but they are stunning!
Catering: Brooke Faber @ Boston Cater & Cafe
Photography: Kelly Dalke
Tents,Lighting,Flooring: Sperry Tents Seacoast

In Case You Miss Me.....

2011-08-17T14:37:00.003-04:00

I now write for my current company for their blog so in case you miss my fabulous rantings on nothing of importance... ever.... and I get too bogged down writing about grandiose events under our signature sail cloth tents... check out our blog!

http://www.sperrytentsseacoast.com/blog/

Inbox Zero

2011-08-17T11:26:00.001-04:00

During my time at my previous employer (let's call them the anxiety ridden Dark Ages...) we interviewed people for the role I eventually was promoted into. We met this lovely lady who could have been my best friend. My co-worker and I spent more time with her chatting than interviewing, but she brought something up in interview 5,000 called 'inbox zero' where you try to get your inbox to zero.

wtf? who ever has inbox zero??

The theory is that with inbox zero, you are less stressed. That an empty inbox = a happy employee. But that makes me even more nervous. Inbox zero means I must have at least 3 to-do lists floating around about 1 mile long. Or that maybe I missed something important in my email. Did I file it? Did I print it? Was it spammed?!?

I have 3 emails. Two work emails and one personal and guess who never ever has inbox zero in any of her inboxes. How is that even possible?

I'm all for categorizing emails. My gmail is labeled up the wHazoo and anyone hacking into my emails would know exactly where to go to destroy my life or my company. I'm really organized and helpful that way.

But it's always interesting for me to see how people manage their work/life. I'm obsessed with time management and efficiency and my game plan is always be as organized as possible. One of my favorite things is to meet someone who organizes how I organize. This usually means we're besties for life. But inbox zero doesn't really seem efficient to me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe inbox zero is my ticket to happiness and instead of jumping on board, I'm waiting on stand-by.... too busy rewriting my to-do list.

Mad for Madras

2011-08-15T16:05:00.000-04:00

I hate to admit it, but I love my new job. Why? Besides the fact that I work with fun people, stress isn't that stressful even when shit hits the fan, and that we bought an office scooter... I love my clients.

Last weekend, I had a wedding with a 'libations' menu for the bar. The gown was from Vera Wang and all 7 of the bridesmaids had dresses made in silk chiffon to match the bride and dyed a navy to match the linens. They had lobster tapas for appetizers, a raw bar, and two different champagnes. There were even groom and bride signature cocktails. Nevertheless, they were crazy wealthy. The best man's speech included a section regarding their brief stint living in the south of France. And I rolled my eyes at their up-turned pinkies and wall-street jibber jabber, but the truth is.... I kinda love it.

I kinda love this world. A world where people go silly for seersucker and mad for madras. A world where creme d'cassis can only be purchased in Dijon and champagne cocktails are the norm. I live for the Vineyard Vines magazine to show up on my doorstep and tie my plaid Sperry's so you can see the tag. It's scary to sometimes think about how much my outfit costs and usually (including jewelry) exceeds $200.

I HATE that I do that.

But I love that I can.

Two years ago I wanted to move to Somalia and save starving children and live in a yurt. Two years later, my co-workers all have sailboats and I can't imagine not having my straightner with me or my Tiffany's necklace and ruby/white gold earrings. What happened? How has my life morphed into a world where I rub shoulders with Rudy Giuliani and enjoy the fact that I have three homes. What's happened to me? Has mainstream media and American commercialism turned me into a vineyard vines loving, jimmy choo wearing wench?

The answer is a hard-hitting yes. And sadly.... I don't think I'm ready to change it yet.

Jorts

2011-07-27T16:20:00.000-04:00

They just. aren't. cool.

Yea, I'm talking to you big guy.

I actually don't know how jorts.com is even still functioning.

True story... NO ONE LOOKS GOOD IN JORTS!

Either wear shorts or pants. And if it's too hot for pants and you don't like your legs in shorts, then just don't go out that day.

Capris aren't acceptable man-pants either.

The only time jorts are acceptable is - wait!- they are NEVER ok to wear!

So in conclusion. Don't wear jorts. Wear skorts.

the end.

Rom-Coms

2011-07-17T16:03:00.000-04:00

I had the first weekend in forever where i had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to entertain or feed. I was excited on Saturday morning when I rolled out of bed on my own accord, made my chai tea and headed across the beach to read. But after 2 and half hours of reading, 2 hours of sleeping on a towel, 10 minutes of swimming and a sun burned chest later, I found myself bored. I came home... across the street... and decided to clean. But living alone means cleaning takes all of 15 minutes. When I was done cleaning, I made some roasted veggies, a bowl of shredded wheat and cracked open a Blue Moon summer and sat in front of the TV with the plan of watching some TV, finishing my book and then watching the fireworks on the beach.

Three romantic comedies later, I decided I had to get off the couch and made my way back to the beach to finish my romantic novel of girl empowerment with a bottle of French wine and wait for the fireworks to commence. Alone, on the beach, with an empty bottle of Chablis, a book light and only 3 pages left of a novel that would undoubtedly end up with beautiful rich women marrying beautiful rich men, I was left craving a perfect man, a perfect relationship and the perfect ending with a passionate kiss in the rain and endless forever love. And I blame my day full of romantic comedies (Rom-Coms for short), happy couples on the beach and this ridiculous Nora Roberts novel for my delusions.

Life isn't a romantic comedy. And perfect anything isn't a reality. So why do we occasionally get sucked into this vortex of craving perfection when we know that happiness and perfect love only lasts as long as the novel, the movie or the wedding day? (I'm pulling from my job for that one.) Why do women write series of novels depicting beautiful perfect women getting together with beautiful perfect men? Why do producers create movies that always end in the boy and the girl overcoming all odds to be together? (Except My Best Friend's Wedding which really annoys me.)

It's interesting that when I started this blog, I was determined that I was happiest when I had nothing holding me back, no one to know me and no path in life. I just wanted to move and travel and be completely in the moment. Romantic movies and novels confused me since I felt they created a world I never understood. How can you fall in love with the perfect man and still fulfill your professional/travel dreams? Relationships held you back. And I always felt myself lucky that the relationship I have been in forever has never held me back from whatever I wanted to do.

But sitting on the beach with my wine, my book and my iPhone watching families have bonfires, teenagers running in the water and sneaking vodka into their drinks and watching couples walk hand in hand down the beach, I realized that I would never be able to leave now. And that my weekend of absolutely nothing and no one isn't as exciting and relaxing as I thought it would be. I love having people in my house. I love coming home to see my nephew running around my couch, my mom tiding up and my sister chasing my nephew. I like to have friends down for dinner, my boyfriend shuffling around the kitchen in the early morning and my dad sitting in my 'yard' in the sun. And having no one to share that moment on the beach with, I felt kinda sad.

This doesn't mean I will never travel again, and that I don't want to move to a foreign country or try to make it somewhere crazy on my own. It also doesn't mean that I want to get married and have kids tomorrow. All it means is that all of those romantic comedies and silly novels finally made me realize that I like being around people I love. I like knowing there is something to hold me back. And I love knowing that I have yesterdays, not only todays and tomorrows, wherever I am.

Pride and Prejudice

2011-07-12T11:02:00.000-04:00

This post is actually just about pride and being proud in the sense of being proud of someone else, therefore this title doesn't really make sense, but I love the book so I'm going to use to anyway. Suck it up.

So I got a new job. An awesome new job actually. And it's totally something I've wanted to do since I was 10. Planning! I mean, I already do on-site coordination the weekend of a wedding at Harbour Place, but now I'll be working in the field of event planning full time. For someone who is obsessed with the small details, making people happy and getting free cake, this job is perfection. Will I hate going into work some days? Probably. Will I have panic attacks and freak out when I make mistakes? Most definitely. Will I soldier on because I know it's something I've wanted to do forever? Hellz. Yea.

When I graduated college, and wanted to save the world one hungry child at a time in Nepal, I also dabbled in the idea of becoming an event planner and met with the fabulous Katey Gordon of Green Mountain Celebrations to discuss how I could even get into the field. Over coffee in her garden, we chatted about life in general, the annoyances of being the eternal planner in a friend group, the difficulties of losing a pet, how she met her hunky contractor boyfriend and oh yea, how friggen hard it is to get into event planning. She told me that regardless of how good I was (and I wasn't that good) that it's all about that one big break, or that once chance someone gives you. All in all, I left that meeting with the determination to put aside of event planning dreams and go to Nepal.

I did put them aside, but I didn't go to Nepal. Instead I sold out and took a full-time job that was easy and convenient at the time. And then that fell through, so I worked my butt off to keep afloat during my unemployment days and landed a sweet gig at my current position and although some of those days were tough, and I struggled on more than one occasion, I learned a hell of a lot. And if it wasn't for someone taking a chance on me and providing me with the opportunities to grow professionally and personally, I wouldn't have been able to manage weddings at Harbour Place, and I wouldn't have made connections at Sperry and I wouldn't have been offered this new job.

I have worked for this. And although I didn't know it that Thursday morning in Vermont at Katey's house, but I was on the right path. I just needed patience and diligence and continually work extra jobs to get myself out there. And I did. And it worked!

But besides knowing that my hard work and workaholic nature has finally got my foot in the door to a job I think I'm going to really really like, it's been my friends and family who have supported me throughout the past two years which has made this new chapter so exciting. They've all put up with my whining, my breakdowns, my panic attacks and my moodiness as I overworked myself, didn't sleep and devoted every waking hour to getting ahead (or watching Little House on the Prairie). There were many many months where I just felt like an absolute failure or someone who had sold out and gone with getting a job because it was the easiest route. And now, I can't begin to count the number of times these people, my closest friends, have said the kindest words I can ever hear when I've told them the good news.

"I'm so proud of you."

Thank you!! Thank you for being proud! Thank you for honestly caring about what I'm doing and recognizing this is something pretty cool. Quite frankly, I've always been proud of my friends because each of their paths has taken courage and dedication and faith. But to know they are proud of me too? That makes all the difference.

When did life get so good?

2011-07-06T17:55:00.000-04:00

The past month has been remarkably happy. This could be due to a number of things, but when did I start really being eternally happy? Right after St. Louis and I'm convinced all I needed to make myself realize I'm not the failure I've felt like for the past year is that my friends, people who know me the best and aren't afraid to tell me like it is (can we resurrect the time in Vt when I asked BDoms if I looked like a skank in my bathing suit and instead of saying 'course not' like I expected she said 'um, yes. A huge one.' for the sake of example?) told me exactly what I needed to hear, that jobs don't matter and friends do. And a drunken night of Boone's farm, tears, free t-shirts and talking to a young silver fox for 4 hours about NPR, hotdog eating contests and the Christian Science Monitor probably did a lot for my sanity.

It's also sunny. And I'm living at the beach. And I got a new job! And the constant feeling of failure doesn't plague my every moment. I don't feel like I'm just in this blackhole of suckiness. I like that. I like not being in a black hole of suckiness.

But this time last year I was so sad. Yea I was starting my current job tomorrow a year ago, but I put my puppy, my best friend for 15 yrs, to sleep
:( I don't think I have ever been that upset. Ever. And I was worried how I would feel today knowing that a year ago I was on the floor petting her, hugging her and probably cleaning up her poop. What I did for love.

But now, although Cali has left me, I have a new bundle of energy and love in my life - my Illie :)

And she LOVES swimming in the ocean. And my family. And my boyfriend :) And she may not be as smart as Cali was and she'll never take the place of my Cali, but she's a pretty close second.

So I guess life got good when I decided to make it good. When I stopped just going home and sleeping because I thought that was the only way to ignore how confused I felt with my life path. When I decided to stop allowing my daily panic attacks to occur and when I started taking control over what makes me happy and making sure I was doing it regularly. And thank you to my biddies for reinforcing this philosophy which I once was so determined to fulfill and thank you to Miryam's grandma for reminding me that getting your hair did every Thursday is not only ok, but important, if it's what makes you happy and if that's what makes like so good.

Tender Love and Care

2011-06-27T10:28:00.000-04:00

I hate how I've lost touch with how much it meant to me to eat locally, know your farmer and eat healthy delicious food. Life really does get in the way. It's a lot easier to stop at Shaw's on the way home than it is to plan a trip to the farmer's market on Sunday morning and buy ingredients for all of your preplanned dinners for the week. What if plans change and suddenly that asparagus for Wednesday ends up going bad, or people stop by and you need more food, or you just don't feel like getting up at 8am on a Sunday to get the best beets? It's way easier to throw a pre-made chicken kiev (healthy choice!) in the oven than grill chicken and veggies. Or is it?

But this weekend, my co-workers opened my eyes to the best and most amazing local farm - Tendercrop Farm. Fresh fruit and veggies and meat and flowers and dried flowers and locally made pastries and cheese and milk and salads... it's all so delicious and everything is housed in wooden buckets. Although not all of their food is raised on-site, they have labels above every veggie telling you what's theirs and what's not. And they have the MOST delicious GRASS FED MEAT! I'm not sure if they get their cows drunk, but they must be doing something amazing because I had the most tender chicken breasts ever this Sunday (my mom and I made dinner at my house with all of my local fresh ingredients and it was just as adorable and quaint as it sounds.)

And it totally matters. I can totally taste the difference in the fresh strawberries and the crisp asparagus and the hand-picked beets and zucchini. When someone cares about the food and it's not just some ridiculously large tractor pulling up the beets and mingling them with cow feces, you can really taste the love and care.

So if you're looking for some delicious ingredients for tonight's dinner, or a fun way to spend an afternoon strawberry picking and pet Buffy the fun-loving Buffalo or one of the other animals they have on-site, head over to Tendercrop! You won't be disappointed, I promise :) And I'll probably see you there!

I know rationally in this day and age, eating locally just isn't always the easiest thing to do, but we should try if we can and especially we should be supporting our local farmers as much as we can! They are keeping our mini economies strong, our bodies healthier and our minds happier, all by providing our foods with a little extra tender love and care.

Foto Friday: N'Sync

2011-06-24T11:58:00.000-04:00

Greek Presidential guards march at the Tomb of the Unknown soldier in front of the Parliament, in central Athens.

(Photo Credit: Christian Science Monitor - Dimitri Messinis/AP)

I Married a Golfer

2011-06-24T11:46:00.000-04:00

Or at least I think I did. I dreamt I did last night. But like most dreams, I'm only inferencing that he was a golfer because at the time it made sense, but like with most dreams, as the sun rose, the details became fuzzy and the only thing left was this overwhelming sense that I never want to marry a golfer.

I'm not sure how this dream came about. Well, I can pinpoint specific thought processes leading to instances in the dream, but the overall marriage dream is a new one for me. I've had the typical naked in public dreams, the loose teeth, the pregnant and severely depressed and the ever common driving up a steep hill and terrified of falling backwards and usually end up either getting out of the car and trying to crawl up or staying in the car and rolling backwards.

I don't think we need Freud to figure that one out.

But this golfer dream? This was something else. I'm not sure how it began, but I just remember being in a gorgeous dress at the start of a wedding and running around and wishing someone would pay attention to my needs since I was unable to reach the last button on the back of my dress. I picked up a place card off of a table and it read "Please join us fore the wedding of..." and I never got past that part since I was stuck on the spelling of for. I remember thinking it was stupid of me to get married at a country club. This morphed into me standing in the middle of the wedding aisle with all of the empty chairs and the guests behind a glass door to the side. It was small and I remember thinking I didn't want it to go this way, that I wanted the flowers on the chairs, not in pots next to the chairs and I wanted to the ribbons to be cloth, not silk and suddenly the doors opened and all the guests came rushing around me. I freaked out because they were all going to see me before I walked down the aisle, but I didn't do anything. I just stood there as loads of unknown faces came pouring into the room in high socks, plaid capris and brown caps.

Next came the groom I'm assuming (I never saw his face) and his best man with a rolling caddy. I asked him why he had the caddy and he said to hold the rings. I ended up walking to the back of the chairs and the priest (yes, there was a Catholic priest in full garb marrying me and my golfer husband in what I can only presume was a country club back room) asked me to go to the altar, and the groom will walk down in my place. So essentially, the groom was the focal point and I was just an accessory, with one button undone. Then it's blurry and confusing and I don't remember how we got here, but the priest was doing the "I Do's" and I was really happy he took out the 'to obey' bit for my husband and then he got me and started in on the usual "do you promise..." bit but instead of the typical "Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and protect him, forsaking all others and holding only unto him?" he said... (this get's to be PG13)

"Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, protect him, and forever wash his balls, forsaking all others and holding only unto him?"

And I flipped. During the dream, I assumed this meant washing his golf balls. Upon waking up and further evaluating I realized how else it may seem, but at the time, it was within the realms of the ridiculous golf theme.

I started saying how much I hated the set-up and the decorations and everything I wanted was executed incorrectly. Then I woke up and pondered why the hell I just dreamed about a golf wedding.

I'm not sure what this means since no one I know golfs and perhaps that's a good thing. But clearly I have an irrational fear around sports themed weddings and marrying a golfer. I should probably stop hanging around country clubs!

True Story: I want to be a full-time wedding planner

2011-06-23T12:36:00.001-04:00

Why? I'm not sure. I don't particularly like weddings. I don't plan on having a large wedding if I ever get married (note how this has recently morphed from never wanting to get married to 'if' and I'm assuming this is because I'm older and have spent the past 4 months surrounded by young couples blissfully in love and completely ignorant to the possibility of terrible and atrocious divorce...) But I do love logistics. I love the big things to the smallest detail (do you know ho many people don't plan to put flowers or favors in the bathrooms? Or ignore that chairs should be a certain distance apart to accomodate handicap guests? Or that candy bars in the middle of august will undoubtedly melt if set-up 4 hours prior to being utilized?) and I love seeing two people with their whole lives before them and for that one day, everyone is celebrating them and their love and their story.

Even if the next day is spent sorting through favors and stacking chairs.

But one thing I am constantly grappling with with my current venue is the careful balance of nautical and classic and of course the overal theme of the wedding. I'm all for sand dollar place markers, carefully scattered starfish, flip flops and old lobster traps (cleaned and creatively stacked) and even some weathered drift wood, but when does the nautical theme go from J.Crew chic to 'Argh Ye Matey' Cabin Fever? I think it would be these.

Luckily no one I've worked with thus far is embracing this new trend to eliminate flowers and smack on a dead fish carcass, but I have to say, if someone does? I may just have to step in.

Biddies R Us

2011-06-20T22:09:00.004-04:00

Over a week ago I experienced one of the simple joys of life - reuniting with best friends. This isn't to say I don't have best friends around here, but my best of the best, the people who know me better than my own family? They're my college kids. And without them, I often lose sight of how trivial life can be, and how important it is to have support. And after over a year of wondering about where my life is going, fighting with the slow realization that perhaps I really am stupid and devoting days to trying to find a way to escape reality, I realized all I needed was a little HOPE and REST.

Why do those 3 girls mean so much to me? Because they saw me through the tumultuous 4 yrs of college. They were friendly the first day, endured my sassy drunkenness that was freshman year, they held my hair back, they held me when I cried when I missed my boyfriend, became frustrated with my roommate and when I simply missed being home and they assured me that there is no better way to make it through life than with a solid support system. Sophomore year, we accomplished nothing but being hilarious fun-loving wastey faces with an awesome quote wall and endless albums of ridiculous photos of us being assholes in public and not caring. Junior year? They held me up when I returned from Italy, lived in a single across from a drug dealer who, when asked if she could borrow my bowl, I quickly replied I had just made some soup, but would happy to put it in a different container (she was actually looking to smoke a bowl, which I did not have.) and they beat me up the time I drunk drove (and then commenced to take me to wendy's and write down my apparently hilarious rantings.) And senior year, the toughest of them all, we hugged, we cried, we played RACKO, we drank champagne and hot cocoa and made egg rolls. We had family dinners and chatted about our day. We fought through the differences in cleaning a house, boyfriends and can-redemption. We provided encouragement when life decisions were made and offered a shoulder to cry on when life felt like it was falling apart. We became a dysfunctional family that no one outside of our nucleus could truly understand. Mainly because we were weirdos.

But moving home, moving away from those pillars in my life, and embarking on this journey alone, I forgot what it was like to have them around. A phone call, an email, a text... those are all well and good. But nothing compares to coming off a plane bleary-eyed and sweaty to see a gigantic sign welcoming Pornia Domingo and Smelly-Anne Buttner to St. Louis. And that first hug, that first moment of realizing we were all together again? It's a moment unlike any other.

Most interesting though, is how different we all are and how each of my friend's possess a quality which I strive to conquer and acquire. One of them is the most selfless, amazing, caring young ladies I have ever known. If I possessed merely an ounce of her compassion and devotion and confidence, I feel that I could excel in the world. Another has more drive and commitment and a ridiculous ability to execute. Whether it's a documentary, a job, a boyfriend or a friend, that girl puts 110% into what she believes in. I wish I had that level of commitment in some shape or form. And my girl in Indiana? She will never know how she has changed me. Beyond her intelligence, dedication, unfailing confidence and endless compassion, that girl's faith in the church is probably the only reason why I even still consider religion a remotely ok concept. She is so steadfast in her faith and her convictions, and yet, she is so open and accepting and loving to all. I feel she embodies what christianity has spent centuries trying to prove, that one can love God and the church and still have a mind of their own.

An entire freakin week with these girls was heaven. We did nothing of importance, but the smallest moments were what mattered. Whether we were hanging out in bed, making mimosas and yogurt parfait in the hotel, talking about sex, riding turtles, shopping, climbing in airplanes or making a drunk rugby team wear the epic hat, the simple moments are what mattered. Although we could have done without the Boone's Farm.

They're my biddies. My girls to the end. The people in my life who have seen me run programs and execute marketing strategies, and have also seen me curled up on my bedroom floor having a panic attack. They've let me out of the house dressed as Luigi and carrying a plunger, and they've curled my hair and fixed my dress so I would look good enough to go to a frat formal.

I wish I could thank them all, but I don't think my cards, my flowers or my chocolate covered strawberries could ever convey the love and admiration and gratitude I have for my biddies. I do know that I will await that one week each year when we reunite in true asshole form and act like annoying college kids in incredibly public and inappropriate settings. But when people ask me what a biddy is, I don't relate some definition about old ladies knitting hats, or annoying sorority sisters, to me a biddy is someone who knows you better than you, and is willing to be at your side in a second in times of hardship. Someone who isn't afraid to tell you knot to make out with that guy or to stop dating that jerk. Someone who will humpy hug you till the end of time, spoon in bed watching Frasier after a night out, or sneak attack tickle bear you.

A biddy is your salvation amidst the chaotic whirlwind of life.

Foto Friday: Dunhuang, Gansu province, China

2011-06-17T09:55:00.000-04:00

There is no better way to illustrate how small we all are in this world than to juxtapose humans and the infinite expanse of nature.

(Taken from the Christian Science Monitor - Photos of the Day June 10th)

If you were a Broadway musical, people would be humming your face.

2011-06-17T09:25:00.000-04:00

Have you ever fallen in love with a movie? No, more like infatuation. Have you ever fallen infatuation with a movie? It's a weird feeling. To watch a movie on repeat until you know every line, every cue, every seemingly unnoticeable nuance. You get to know the characters on a level that the Director probably never intended.

But once you spend so much time with a piece of art, staring at it and studying it and learning it's every quirk, it kind of loses its magic. Kind of like squinting at a piece of toast until the face of Jesus materializes. It's risky to centralize all your efforts on only one thing because truthfully, there’s no going back to plain toast after Jesus. There's no going back to watching a movie you know in and out, or a book or a photo or a person. Once you've seen the light, there's no going back. (Insert cliche reference to Plato's cave.)

I have an addictive nature so this happens to me often. I read a book until the pages are worn, or listen to a song until I know every lyric or watch a movie (which was 'The Goodbye Girl' in this case) or hang out with friends or family until I can stand them no more, and need to move on. It's very unhealthy to lack this balance. I'm just so obsessed with getting to know everything about one thing that I lose sight of everything else and for a fleeting moment, I am happy knowing everything about one thing, but soon the happiness wears off and I need to move on.

I always find it interesting in today's culture that no one seems to pursue one subject or area of knowledge. Instead, it is more valuable to know a little bit about everything (enter my useless liberal arts degree) and in doing so, no one really takes the time to completely understand sociology or politics or religion or even a friend! We are obsessed with the amount of knowledge we can say we have, but not about the quality. No one wants to take the time to search for Jesus in their toast and whether this is because they don't want to destroy the mystery that comes with not truly fully understanding a concept or whether they are just lazy or whether they are too busy googling and linking and connecting to something else, I do not know.

But one things for sure, if you do happen to find one of those rare specimens, someone who is infinitely knowledgable about something, take the time to pick their brain and learn everything you can from them.

Become obsessed.

Java Jivved

2011-06-16T15:53:00.000-04:00

This term derived from my senior year of college, or perhaps my junior, but my crazy jo/mass comm/global studies partner in crime needed a way to describe the intense rush of caffeine after 5 cups of coffee, massive sleep deprivation and an undying desire to be with the carefree drunken college students lumbering past the lab during the wee hours of Sunday mornings. The result? The term - Java Jivved (adj) The feeling of complete and utter submission to the intense amount of caffeine coursing through your veins. See also - Bloodshot eyes, moments of brilliance, cocaine side affects.

I thought this addiction to caffeine would subside after college, because to me, no time in my life could be more intense than those sleepless nights and random schedules. It was nearly impossible to think about dragging myself to an internship in the morning, a class in the afternoon and complete a documentary in the evening following a raging Tuesday night without IV caffeine, but I assumed once I walked away with my diploma that I would leave behind my addiction to the bean.

I was just as wrong about that assumption as I was about everything else about life post-college.

Here I am today, more than just addicted, more than just dependent, but absolutely non-functioning without caffeine. Ever. A morning without caffeine is a day from hell not just for me, but for those around me who have to endure bleary-eyed bitchy Kelly. If I can't manage to shove a little of the stuff down my throat in liquid form sometime within 2 hours of waking up, my day is ruined. I accomplish nothing and I make sure no one around me accomplishes anything either. It's kind of a rule.

And luckily I have surrounded myself with people who both are more addicted than myself (so yes, they are more high-strung, OCD and workaholic-y than myself!) and those who could give a care about the stuff. And having people yell at me for dragging my butt to a coffee machine each morning and having people pull me to the starbucks line at 9am has kept me on a good balance. At least I feel ok with my addiction enough to continue it, but also understand that it has to stop at some point or else I will have no stomach lining.

But at the moment, I am crazy java-jivved. Work recently purchased all of us portable reusable personalizable starbucks cold cups so now i can't use the excuse of needing a cover for my iced coffee and my sheer laziness to walk to starbucks to keep from from getting an afternoon pick-me-up. And that coupled with our sweet coffee machine and our new ice making machine (Avanti!) I have nothing stopping me from making a full pot of super-di-duper strong coffee, chilled, and consuming a consistant stream of high-functioning juice.

So today, I am beyond java-jivved, I am freakin java-jacked. And as I delve farther into wedding season, start working my 3 jobs and find myself staying out later and later, I'm worried about what this constant stream of caffeine will do to my body.

But the real question working all of these jobs, particularly the 16+ hours the day of a wedding, is how can I make sure that at my next wedding, they install an iced coffee fountain?

Foto Sunday

2011-05-22T20:39:00.000-04:00

Doesn't sound as good as photo Friday, but my Friday at work was heinous. My friend sent me an awesome site with a bunch of photos we needed to see before we were raptured (surprise surprise, I was not) and below is the most important one.

An ugly white kitten who is permanently sporting a tiny top hat... Enjoy!

Raisin' Kids

2011-05-21T21:46:00.001-04:00

Someday I might be a Mom. But for now, I really enjoy hanging out with the kids I babysit, and then being able to leave. I like reading them a book, snuggling with 3 of them in the king bed and falling asleep talking about first grade and toads we caught and which is better, pickles or pudding?

But if I knew I had to wake up the next morning before I determined and make breakfast and think of things for them to do all day so they aren't sitting in front of the TV, I would go crazy. What brings this on you ask? Since I've spent the past day on the beach with my dog for 4 hours, watching Lifetime movies and getting work done for my part-time job. And to top of my night after taking a long bubble bath, reading in the tub and snuggling up on the couch with my pup, I watched one of my absolute FAVORITE movies, Mr. Mom. And that link is to my favorite moment of the movie, the loss of the sacred woobie.

"I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great... and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket, or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads Ken. That's serious."

And all of this makes me think I should wait a long time before even thinking of kids. Kids don't let you fly to st. louis for a week to go to free museums and get drunk on a Tuesday. Kids don't let you sit on the couch for 9 hours just because you had a horrible week at work. Kids are sticky, stinky and all too often annoying.

But they're cute. And there is nothing I love more than going over and hanging with those 4 kids, even if it is just for 2 hours. Because they make you feel so special and loved and fun.

But for now, I'm going to stick to my dog. And sleeping in late on Saturdays, and staying at work until 8pm if I have to. I'm ok with waiting another 10 years before i feel the need to read this hilarious book to my kids. Because you bet this will be in my library!

How could I forget about my little nephew!! Perhaps it's because he's still at the age when he doesn't really seem to have any connection to me besides that I am there to make him laugh when he's on the verge of a meltdown, or help him push his popcorn popper or rolling woody ducky. I'm really looking forward to being able to catch toads, make ice cream sundaes and snuggle on the couch after a massive tickle attack. But I'm not looking forward to those long nights of trying to get him to fall asleep after 5 books, 3 glasses of water and 2 hours of sitting in the dark pretending to snore. But who really ever looks forward to that?

Dah Duh. Dah Duh.

2011-05-12T09:14:00.000-04:00

My irrational fear of sharks is irrational no more. No longer do I have to fear the unknown ocean, the creepy large flake in the plaster at the bottom of my pool that could be a trapdoor to a shark nest or the flimsy net separating me and the dolphin I'm riding from the deep, dark, salty unknown of the Gulf. Yesterday, my irrational fear turned real as a gigantic, fluorescent shark with his teeth baring and a combination of foam and spit and undigested bits of Gepetto clinging to his sharp over-sized incisors appeared in my life. Yesterday I discovered that the quaint New England port town venue I am trying to manage for weddings this summer had a very surprise visit from street artist Shark Toof.

I'm sure this is beautiful art and perhaps if this didn't upset the brides and grooms and their families, I could truly appreciate the artistry and creativity behind this display. But for me, I am shocked because so many weddings are orchestrated around the exact placement of this street art that now adorns the brick walls until September 11th. Not the mention the exact placement of the gift tables, cocktail bars and altars that is now directly in the mouth of the shark. This may be an awesome photo op around hour 8 of the wedding when the drinks are flowing and the timeless wedding album photos are complete, but for the majority of the evening, this not-so-little guy is an unwelcome wedding crasher.

And this would only happen to me. 3 months ago when I landed this side gig as a way to make some extra cash and be a part of making these magical days full of love and timeless beauty a reality for so many brides, I expected some bumps along the way with permits and last minute wilting flowers and perhaps a short extension cord or two, but never in my life did I expect for my plus one to be a large aquatic painted fish.

And never in my life did I expect him to bring along his wedding crasher friend to the gig.

That's right, there's more than one.

I can't begin to describe the anxiety that fills my every waking moment. Luckily, I am not the one who has to calm down the rightfully angry bridal parties, but I do have to make sure the covering we have to use to hide these artistic displays of large ravenous fish are in place during each wedding.

There was always the worry of wedding crashers in the back of my mind when I agreed to do this. But I kept thinking that wedding crashers are in movies and this is real life, so of course that wouldn't actually happen because situations that extreme and unmanageable don't actually happen. Ever.

All I can say is Dorothy Mantooth may be a saint, but for me, Shark Toof has become a pain in my butt.

(This is in no way a comment on the artistry of the piece nor the exhibit itself, more a complete lack of understanding as to why Larry David and I haven't collaborated for a sitcom yet.)

I'm all hand and no fingers

2011-05-11T09:00:00.002-04:00

I have been a chronic nail biter since the age of 0 and it's probably due to some ridiculous sense of anxiety, but all I know is that for me, biting my nails brings this weird sense of catharsis. It relaxes me for some reason. But now that I am coordinating these crazy expensive weddings, my years of throwing on some polish and fake nails for certain occasions is no longer viable. No one wants their wedding manager to show up and point to a sign with bitten nails. It totally distracts the guest from the Hawaiian Luau themed-wedding set in a New England port town.

And I would never want to be the one who popped that bubble.

So I got a manicure. And it was totally worth it! It's this new 'technology' that keeps the nail polish on for weeks so now I feel like I'm actually getting my $40 worth because the nail polish isn't just flaking off in 3 days. It's been almost two weeks and my only complaint is that my nails are growing so there's that awkward gap between cuticle and polish, but I'm just gonna hold off until the next wedding.

But this leads me into my realization. As I was staring at my hands yesterday trying to determine how much longer I could let this gap grow I had a horrible realization, my hands are mad ugly. I'm all hand, and no finger. It's like this catcher's mitt of a hand and these stubby protrusions with beautiful nail polish that seem to make picking shit up impossible. How can I even get my hand around a whopper? I haven't tried in a long time, but maybe that was because my subconscious didn't like the unease of always worrying I would drop my burger of death. I'm literally embarrassed to grab things in front of people now.

How did this happen? And how has it been this long since I realized I had disproportionate hands?

I feel like I need to stretch out my digits ala Gonzo in Muppet Treasure Island.

But until I find a way to gain more fingers and lose some of my hands, I will have to avoid grabbing large items in front of people so they can't see my little fingers struggle to hold on. Guess I'm gonna have to downgrade town to a tall at Starbucks.

Humanity at its finest

2011-05-09T10:38:00.003-04:00

An amazing photograph, but an even more amazing story.

Foto Friday

2011-05-06T14:15:00.000-04:00

Nikolous Poulin, 5, sits in the lap of his aunt Jennifer Poulin while holding an American flag presented to him at the funeral of his father, National Guard Spc. Dennis Poulin, at Saint Ann's Cemetery in Cranston, R.I. April 14. Poulin died March 31 of injuries he received when his armored vehicle rolled over in Afghanistan. (Steven Senne/AP)

RLS

2011-05-04T13:22:00.002-04:00

In Medical dictionaries (I'm assuming) the world over, these three little letters mean something which I believe is bogus - Restless Leg Syndrome. Plain and simple, you're a fidgeter. If you can't stop moving your legs, try just to stop moving your legs. Don't label it as a disease or a syndrome because it's not. It's just your inability to quit dancing. Back in college, I think I had restless leg syndrome. But instead of going to a doctor, I tried to work it out at parties and on tables (not the stripper variety) and now I'm cured! But I have come up with a legit explanation for this acronym which I think is totally diagnosable the world over - Restless Life Syndrome.

And I have it.

I'm not sure why, but being in one spot drives me cah-raze-ay. Recently my desire to not be where I am has been insurmountable, which is intriguing, because for once things seem to be falling into place. I used to figure that when things got too tough, I would want to bounce to someplace foreign. I'm a runner, not a confronter. I'd rather leave a note on my whiteboard to Life "Sorry, got too tough. Left for a bit" than deal with issues at hand. It's really surprising I'm not more destructible with substances. But now, I seem to have a slight handle on life and here I am craving to be anywhere but here more than ever.

So what gives? I wish I could seriously tunnel to the core of this obsession and just calm it for a bit. Tell it to hold off. But I can't and I don't get why. So all I can do is longingly look at blogs telling me how, why and when to move abroad and remember that moving anywhere where I make less money and enjoy life has now been made impossible by co-owning a home, owning a car, having student loans, a cell phone, insurance etc... Part of me sincerely regrets getting on that plane when I was 16 because if I had stayed home, I would have never understood the world I was missing. Instead I long for what was in the past and hope to recreate it in the future and if that means reading Italian newspapers, watching foreign films and living vicariously through international sections of media outlets, then so be it.

Just like Restless Leg Syndrome, this Restless Life Syndrome is just as hard to diagnose, but even harder to treat.

A decade of terror

2011-05-02T14:03:00.006-04:00

On 9/11, Americans were attacked and violated in a way that is beyond one's imagination. Al-Qaeda attacked Americans in a way that not only destroyed buildings, families, and lives, but destroyed any chance of us feeling the smallest ounce of sympathy or decency toward Al-Qaeda, and rightfully so. They tore us down at our core, when we felt invincible and proud and strong. They humiliated as on a global scale. They are horrible, ruthless and terrifying puppets of destruction and fear and embody the destructive nature of evil. And Al-Qaeda's determination to cut our Achilles heel incited the exact reaction they were probing for.

We retaliated by speaking their language of cold-blooded and blind violence. We were out for revenge.

You see, 9/11 did more than cancel the Oscars and unify a country by waving American flags above every home. When the planes flew into those twin towers, the mirror of tolerance and respect that united the reality of the similar cultures of Americans and the Middle East splintered in millions of sharp and dangerous pieces. As Patriotism soared, our tolerance for others sharply vanished. Because on the flip side of nationalism runs rampant racism. You can't truly and selfishly love yourself or a country, without degrading those around you. Nationalism is all about self-exaltation. And America's nationalism soared, and so did our hatred towards all things Muslim.

It goes without saying that the majority of the Muslim world was just as horrified by 9/11 as we were, if not more so. But Americans determined that no Muslim was a good Muslim and all had ties to a very small amount of extremists. The majority of Muslims had been terrorized for years by Al-Qaeda and sympathized with our loss. We ignored their plight unless it served our hunger and desire to eliminate and destroy the organization that humiliated us. We brought down Saddam in an effort to find his alleged WMD, under the guise that we were freeing Iraqis. How well did that work out? And instead of working with these people, using shared technology and culture centric solutions to our and their problems, we bull-dozed into their space, their homes and their families like the true empire hungry, military charged extremists that we are. We wanted to teach them a lesson.

In actuality, I believe they taught us a larger one.

How many years have we been there? How many wars are we fighting? How many sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, friends, family have we had return home missing limbs, suffering emotionally or packaged in a box draped with a flag? How many deaths have we incurred on both sides? These wars have taught us a lesson we as Americans seem to ignore more and more. Invading a country under the title of liberating others is merely going to result in fostering more enemies. When they once praised our presence, we were unstoppable. But now they are experiencing the horror of what we truly did back then, we invaded their lives. And now we are so far embedded in this twisted war, that to remain only incites the anger civilians, soldiers and extremists feel towards the American flag, and to leave solidifies the downfall of the American empire.

To wake up this morning and find out Osama Bin Laden was dead amazed me. One part of me was exhilarated for our nation had conquered the one universal face of terror and suddenly Obama's pompous attack on Trump was less of a comedy routine and more of a sly way of reminding Trump that he is President and he has the power. But we had destroyed the puppet-master behind the violence. And I was actually happy to learn that regardless of the horror that Bin Laden caused for decades, we still provided him an honorable Muslim send-off. But I feared for what this will now cause. We have rocked the boat of Al-Qaeda and you can most definitely bet that the reaction will not be one of dissipation. These are people who wholeheartedly believe that suicide bombings are the path to salvation. That violence is the answer to all evils. That only death will incite change. And where did they learn this? We blame the misinterpretation of holy documents, but mankind is the cause of this destruction and America has played a large role in the orchestration of military violence as the answer to peace.

During WWII we dropped the bombs to teach the world a lesson. And then we wonder why we are attacked just the same. The problem with teaching the world a lesson, is that all too often, that lesson is learned. And emulated.

Empiralism is a disease that travels as far back as Thucydides. With each surge of power and domination, there is always an equal or greater fall. And with the rise of an empire there is always the disintegration of another. Historically, every dominate empire has fallen in a cloud of violence, humiliation and utter lack of humanity. And yet, we never seem to learn these lessons. Instead, the cyclical spiral of hatred and racism and violence.

The death of Bin Laden is a joyous occasion because finally we have destroyed what the world sees as the core of terrorism. 9/11 victims can feel a sense of much needed closure and for a day, Americans can rejoice in the notion that it was our intelligence, our dogged commitment and our military that brought this extremist and violent terrorist group to its knees, even just for a day. But I can only fear what this means for the future. For in actuality we are no longer going to be fighting a faceless organization scattered in pockets across the globe. In reality, our extreme Patriotism has not resulted in an assault on terrorism. No, instead we are fighting the enemy we created. We are fighting the mirror image of ourselves.

Priorities

2011-04-27T09:27:00.002-04:00

Let's take a moment and discuss shifting priorities. Like right now, I have like 35 things I want to write about, but I'm prioritizing by writing about this one first. This morning I came into work with a to-do list 50 items long, so I organized them by priority. I have my end of the month bills coming up. I just bought Easter gifts and mother's day gifts and plane tickets so I need to prioritize which bills go out the door first so I don't overdraft, because I hate moving money from savings into checking.

Priorities. You always have to look at something with a bird's eye view and think, what is most important?

You know what is not important? Getting Obama's long birth form.

In 7 minutes Obama is going to make a statement about the long form which was just released. Happy Trump? Now your toupee can rest comfortably knowing he was born in the US. Screw the three wars, the deficit, the starving children, the unemployment, the prostitution and welfare and medicare and immigration etc... let's spend a gigantic chunk of time and energy producing a long form of birth authentication. Because that makes sense.

I understand it's unconstitutional to be born outside of the US, but he wasn't. Just because he's black, doesn't mean he didn't come from amber waves of grain. More like the sandy shores of Hawaii.

Can we move on now? Can we focus on what really matters for the future of America as we slowly evolve from the world super power to the world's bad joke? I'm ready. Obama is ready.

Are you?

The rights and wrongs of photography

2011-04-19T14:51:00.007-04:00

I remember the first red camera I got, where you had to hand crank the film to move it forward, and I remember the 25,000 roles of film I ruined by opening up the back and exposing the film to light.

I remember the second camera I got that had an automatic rewinder doo-hickey. My sister and I had matching ones and I took photos of everything, from my dog to my barbie's "house" built of of magazines and encyclopedias with my mom's gravy dish as her whirlpool bath. And I remember the year I got my first digital camera, and was amazed by the way the lens zoomed out and zoomed in with the touch of a button. I spent 3 hours one night at my house in Florida on the balcony overlooking the ocean trying to capture the perfect shot of heat lightning. I finally got the shot, but have somehow lost the picture over the past 6 years.

And my digital cameras have been fleeting moments in my life since then. I can't even tell you how many I've broken, dropped, spilled beer on, cracked and just got rid of due to it no longer being what I needed... I am a camera waster.

I don't take good photographs. I have some nice pictures but that's only because I was photographing something beautiful. Unlike my awesome friend Cailey (hearts) who has the photographers eye of Carol Guzy, I don't know what frames a picture, how to play with exposure or really anything besides point and click. And if I do have any artistic talent then it's completely by accident. My theory is if you take 200 photos, at least one of them should becoming a postcard. Odds are in your favor, right?

In college, I had a professor who doubled as a NYTimes photographer. He has an unbelievable eye for all things graphic. And I clearly do not. I could tell he struggled when we showed photos we had taken in class and he saw mine, trying to find words to compliment and constructively criticize when there was an overwhelming desire to simply just take it off the screen. There is such a thing as horrible photography! But he was good. He is an amazing photographer, an incredible teacher and a credible reporter in the real world.

Freshmen year we all had to take a class on general media knowledge and criticize what was good photography, what was bad photography. We discussed how much you can edit and fudge a photo before it becomes a different picture. We explored the Kent state picture where the pole had been moved. The Iraq soldier with his gun pointed at a victim, which was actually two pictures spliced together. We looked at a ton of good photos and a ton of bad.

Well, his ardent disdain for horrible photography hasn't left my side since that JO 101 class in the Berg. And although I still can't manage to internalize those tips and tricks and general rules for good photography, I do now have a tendency to pick out bad photos and mock them for the composition, mainly when there seem to be objects protruding from one's head. So here are a few I've recently happened upon... Enjoy!!

Yup, that's Greg Mortenson with a gigantic zig-zaggy hairdo. I think defending his memoir should be the least of his worries when he has hair like that.

And hear we have the future queen of England growing a hand out of her head. Maybe it will help hold he crown on?

And then we have this little gem, taken by me with my friend growing a Washington Monument horn out of her head. I'm sad to say this was completely accidental and totally horrific. Even better, I didn't let them take another one.

PS. Miss you ladies!!

When do symbols go too far?

2011-04-18T16:07:00.004-04:00

Symbolism is so intriguing in literature. I love combing through novels and hitting a small, minute detail and trying to decipher what the author meant by that detail, whether it's an object like an armadillo, or a dip in the pool or a single word. Symbolism allows us to dive one, two or even three levels deeper than the surface definition and that ability to explore uncharted waters and connect experiences with one's knowledge makes reading or watching or listening such an engaging and stimulating act.

And symbolism isn't just in our books or media, it's in our culture.

My question is, when does symbolism go to far? When and why do we get so caught up with the ideals of a symbolic gesture, that we lose what the essence of that action or object once truly meant?

It's silly why this thought crossed my mind, but I have been shamelessly semi-obsessed with Prince William and Kate's upcoming nuptials thanks to watching too much Lifetime and viewing previews for their 'behind the scenes' movie of William and Kate's attempt to maintain a private relationship in the public eye. Also, I just discovered William is balding and that's just pretty hilarious.

So William declared this weekend I think, that he will not be adorning a wedding ring. We all know Kate is lugging around that gigantic blue diamond of the late Princess Diana's and is planning to wear an even larger wedding ring post-ceremony, but William as determined he will wear nothing and according to the palace public relations, that's simply because he doesn't wear jewelry. And women the world over are up in arms asking why he doesn't want to wear his love and devotion on his hand?!

He doesn't need a ring, he's getting married in front of the world. I don't think he's going to be going to the local pub to pick up some extra ass when Kate is at home polishing her rings.

But this does make me question the average man who decides a wedding ring isn't in his agenda. My dad doesn't wear a wedding ring, but he has a job that doesn't really allow it. That makes sense, but what about those business men who sign documents and type on the computer for a living. Why can't they wear rings? Why don't they declare to the world that they are taken? No one knows they are married. They weren't hitched in front of a global community.

What does the ring even mean? It's just a symbol of devotion, of never ending and eternal commitment to someone else. But that doesn't mean that men who wear a ring aren't cheating and men who don't aren't devoted and loving husbands. It seems angry women across the nation are very upset if men don't wear rings, but why does it even matter? The man stood in front of at least a witness and declared his love. A band on his finger doesn't guarantee he'll honor it.

I think symbols are getting slightly out of hand. We have rings for weddings, when in actuality a commitment made in the heart is the strongest promise one can make. We have a tree for Christmas, we have eggs on Easter, we have crosses and white doves and probably a catrillion more I can't think of because they're so intrinsically part of our lives, but if we strip away the object, we still have a core value. We have a gathering place to celebrate family, we have a rebirth of a season or a holy being, we have devout passion for the ultimate sacrifice and we have the path to peace. We don't need objects to celebrate these values, because these values should be intrinsically part of us, not just an object.

I can't say if I would freak out if I ever got married and had a husband not want to wear a wedding ring. Hopefully I would be secure enough in our relationship that it didn't matter. But one things for sure, I'm gonna need an engagement ring. Because a wedding is all about the bling bling for a lady.

Taxes Blow

2011-04-15T12:26:00.002-04:00

One could say I am an independent woman. I have solid jobs, I am financially stable, I am confident in my personal abilities and I don't rely on others to get the job done. I'm independent to a fault probably.

But that doesn't mean I don't pull out the damsel in distress card. I'm all for being a strong woman, but if I can smile and laugh and twirl my hair and get a guy to fix my car for free, I'm totally for it. I could put that Ikea bookshelf together, but if my maintenance guy is willing to do it, then it would be mean of me to say no when he offered to assemble "Billy" for me.

But most importantly, I am proud of my financial understanding. No, I don't completely get stocks or bonds, but I know how to invest wisely and budget and book freelancing gigs without losing money. My parents have infused me with so much financial know-how that I'm pretty sure I could maintain their estate if they ever decided to just give it up. Money was never a closeted issue in my family.

And for the past so many years, my dad has been doing my taxes and I've watched him sit in the middle of a sea of receipts on the dining room table every night for a month and pull his hair out and break his glasses and yell at my mom and me for not putting our dentist receipts in the designated folder on the stairs.

And then April 15th passes and all is right with the world again.

So this year I was gearing up for another month of my dad grumbling about his taxes and my taxes when during breakfast one morning at a local diner he slyly asked me, "So when are you going to start your taxes?" and I tried to hide my absolute fear.

Was this my non-confrontational dad telling me that he was not willing to take care of my taxes?? Does that mean I have to figure out my unemployment, freelancing, deductions and current employer taxes all on my own??

But I'm only 23!

It did. And I did. And I took a whole weekend surrounded by paperwork on my computer grumbling and swearing and pulling my hair out but this morning when I filed my taxes, I have never been more proud. I've done a lot on my own in all aspects of my life and I'm proud of what I've accomplished and what I'm capable of accomplishing, but today when I pressed e-file, it felt like I had finally entered adulthood.

And when I signed that tax check over to the Mass Revenue, I finally realized why my dad has such disdain for the IRS.

Taxes suck.

Rebirth of the Book

2011-04-14T13:16:00.002-04:00

For all of you out there that mock us bibliophiles, saying our crowded bookshelves are just collecting dust as paperback and hardcover books become a thing of the past, check out this awesome letter for the editor submitted to the Times.

Kids don't need Kindles and iPhones to read books. Kids like the imagination aspect of a picture book. There's something endearing and fulfilling reading a book to a child before bed and pretending the pictures are coming to life, making the sounds of the cars and trucks and the cows and pretending you can smell the fresh bread in the bakery. If we wanted our kids to watch a book come to life with the touch of a screen, we would make them watch a movie before bed.

Let's make this a picture book loving year! Put back that video game on the Wal Mart shelf and purchase a great book instead :)

Dancing with the Mediocrity of America

2011-04-05T09:20:00.002-04:00

Mondays and Tuesdays have only one highlight for me. Dancing with the Stars.

This show sucks, but I can't stop watching Kirstie Alley's tree-trunk legs dare I say 'glide' across that varnished floor. This show requires talented dancers to dance with untalented d-list stars not even worthy of Pop Sugar. By gluing myself for the 1 hour episodes two nights in a row (or 2 hours for one night if I have to DVR it), I feel like I'm dancing on the third rail of American mediocrity.

And I love it.

My job requires 156% of my brain power from the moment I wake up at 7am to the moment I shut off my phone (to watch DWTS) at 8pm, and that's not counting the nights I work my extra jobs. By the time I fall asleep or come down from panic attack number 4 of the week, I am exhausted and my brain is so muddled that even watching Law and Order takes too much effort. But DWTS? I can handle that. I can watch people do things I can never do and make fools of themselves and feel ok because I don't have to think.

Maybe this is why Americans love TV. We are one of the countries that offer the least amount of vacation time (we're third behind Austria and Brazil) and that's not counting the hours we are out of the office but glued to technology. A few years ago I heard a story on NPR about a man who required all technology in his house to be shut off on the weekends. This doesn't mean the TV and the videogames were gone, but computers and cell phones and any ways to do work at home were eliminated and at first it was hard, but he said something that resonated with me. The peace he gained from his tech-free weekends made him enjoy his job more. By telling co-workers he wouldn't be available after 5 on Friday and before 9 on Monday, they didn't hound them. He set the expectations and his co-workers accommodated him. Mondays were less horrible because he had a full 2 days of relaxation.

But this man's endeavor is only a small portion of society. Most of us working 60+ hours a week and only in the office for 40, so when we get home, we don't want to watch PBS or CNN, we want to not think. We want to veg and what better way to veg than to watch mindless tv? (or during repeat season, you can always read a Nora Roberts book!)

But since DWTS just started again, that means that for a bunch of weeks I can come home on Monday and Tuesday and know that for at least an hour, I will be able to laugh and relax and sit on the proverbial couch with the rest of America and watch Kirstie Alley fall on her face.

I hate snakes

2011-03-31T15:17:00.002-04:00

But this one is freakin' hilarious.

The Reporter's Dilemma

2011-03-30T14:31:00.003-04:00

Before I dive into this, did anyone else know that the Times actually highlighted Corky Pollan's Turnip and Pear pure in 2009? Talk about dilemma...

But to circle up on the statement I made yesterday regarding the reporter's greatest dilemma (and for this I am referring to reporting in actual dire situations and not just covering the African Drumming presentation in Hoehl), but it's something that always crossed my mind and made me think that what I really thought I wanted to do was something I could never actually do well.

Like I mentioned before, the Newseum solidified my life choice to not become a reporter was a good one. Mainly because I wasn't interested on the inverted triangle news story. I was interested in hard-hitting mind-blowing human interest reports. I wanted to rock my reader's worlds with an image or a sentence, not tell them when and where they can go to meet the mayor this week during his venture to VPTV for a press conference. But I also recognized that my desire to help and share might be my greatest strength as a reporter, but also my greatest weakness. I would become connected to stories I was truly engaged in and felt involved even if it was just a story about a letter writing campaign for soliders in Iraq. What if I had a starving child in front of me? Someone drowning in flood waters? A monk burning himself in protest? The hanged corpse of a Thai student being beaten with a folding chair?

When do you put down the pencil or the camera and involve yourself?

I don't think I would ever be able to make that distinction. I was always told never to get involved, always be a bystander. Play a role, but so minor a role that your existence is never really noted. In other words, report.

But I never got that distinction. How can you really convey a message or a story without seeing the world through this person's eyes? How can you describe their emotions without feeling them? How can you gain their trust without at first befriending them?

We were told that to put down the camera or the pen would mean that you and you alone would see this instance and if you don't record it, no one else will never know. Reporter first. Human second.

I never had to come across this, because those lovely stories in Vermont never were that poignant, or at least we made them that way. But it all comes down to ethics. Morally, you are devoted to saving a life. But ethically, you are devoted to telling a story and sharing this moment that so few will ever know.

There have been so many stories of reporters who took a photo, walked away, and never felt the same. Reporters who committed suicide, became depressed, or just left the scene and sobbed in their vehicle. There are plays about reporters returning to their comfortable lifestyles and never really feeling like they belong. PTSD isn't just for soldiers these days.

My desire to become a journalist was to travel and see places most people don't see and experience cultures incredibly different from my own and then share those moments with anyone who is willing to read or watch or listen. That I would get paid to do all of this was a fabulous perk, but it was the perfect profession allowing endless movement and constant communication.

Clearly, I was having a love affair with a dream.

I'm pretty sure if someone told me to take a picture, or write down a quote, but do not extend a helping hand, I would have failed miserably. I would probably be dead from some disease in some bush village... or fired from my job. Both ends I am not ready to meet.

So once again, hats off to you reporters and good luck overcoming this dilemma. You are a strong and powerful human being who eloquently balances the art of reporting with the task of being human, and for those who weren't able to dance that fine line and lost the fight, thank you for sharing these moments and sacrificing more than I can ever imagine.

A world exposed

2011-03-29T09:46:00.007-04:00

I am a news junkie. I just love reading news, feeling informed and learning. So of course my fabulous mini-vaca to DC this weekend was focused on one museum and one museum only - the Newseum.

My friend and I saved it for the last day and thought we could also fill in some extra time with strolling by the white house, maybe lunch on the mall and perhaps a visit to the capital. Nope, we spent 7 straight hours on our feet (man were our dogs barking!) reading and reading and reading and crying and getting angry and then in sheer awe of what reporting truly does not only for America, but for the world... for humanity!

I spent 4 years of my life glued to a makeshift newsroom. Writing articles, reading articles, proofing articles, studying articles and eventually falling in love with news. I had professors surrounding me with this overflowing passion for media and I gobbled up every last bit. I became enamored with telling people's stories in a way that most people wouldn't be able to.

I felt like I was their voice.

I'll never forget the time I wrote an article about a tiny little ski area in Vermont, and had the owner call me up the day after it ran and tell me that the article brought her to tears. Reading about her family, the importance to Vermont and American history and how their dreams had come true put her over the edge. She ended the conversation with a simple, "I will never forget this."

Over the top? Incredibly. This was a college online magazine. But you know, sometimes people just feel like they aren't able to express what they want to and they need someone - anyone - to help them.

I liked being that helping hand.

Real life has made this a lot more difficult. In 2011, it's not easy to jump onto a news team and immediately start writing human interest stories. You have to work your way up and quite frankly, I just don't want to. And after the Newseum, I'm glad I didn't.

I went into this place beyond excited. I had butterflies in my stomach as I hastily opened my purse to be checked and joked with the security guard that I couldn't get my trench unbuttoned fast enough, I was so excited to get in! After taking photos on the top in front of the Capitol, my smile and excitement quickly dissipated as we walked through an exhibit on hurricane Katrina coverage. It's one thing to read your local news during an event, but when you see all of it put together? I was choking up at numerous times. I can't believe a) what happened b) how the media covered it and c) how horrible America did at fixing it (hits re-ignited the overwhelming disdain for Bush that I thought I had finally gotten past.) The carefully placed box of tissues in the exhibit didn't go unused. And the exhibit roused the biggest issue I always felt I would struggle with as a reporter, when do you stop shooting and start caring? (But that's a different story.)

The rest of the exhibits flowed nicely as I learned about the history of news, the president's photographers and some of the most influential books in history. And then I hit the 9/11 exhibit and once again, I was in sheer horror. The fact that I had a gaggle of north face adorned, ugg boot wearing teenage girls staring at scrap metal and saying "um, so what is that?" wasn't why I was upset. There was a wall - an entire wall - of front pages of the day from all over the world and I couldn't stop staring. There was an AP timeline of photos of buildings burning, people jumping and planes crashing. And there was a documentary on reporters running into the catastrophe rather than away.

Maybe I never really knew this day's importance when it happened and that's why hearing the news wasn't that shocking to me. But as I've grown and learned and experienced more, the day holds more and more importance. Watching the second plane fly in, I gasped, watching reporters comfort crying witnesses, I tensed up, watching the wife of the only reporter who died on 9/11 talk about seeing the last photo her husband took before he was suffocated by rubble, I cried. People think about the firefighters and the policemen and I am in awe of their heroism and I know much more of those amazing people perished that day. But how would we know that without these brave reporters?

We completed the museum in the Pulitzer Price exhibit. Some of the photos were joyful, but most were haunting testimonies to catastrophes and atrocities that most will never witness. I stared for 10 minutes at a photo of a starving, naked child in Sudan with a vulture hovering and couldn't understand why this was happening, who let this happen and why this photo - this one single millisecond in human history captured forever and shared with the world - hasn't caused more of an uprising.

Why aren't people more upset? Do people not see these photos? Do they not read these stories? Do they not understand??

Reporters are truly the unsung heroes. They walk into enemy fire without a gun. They walk towards the battlefield instead of away. They share the moments that the normal person could never, and should never, endure.

But we really need to stop just accepting these images and these stories for face value. They are more than just 500 word clippings, or a single frame meant to entertain us during our commute or distract us from daily life. These are stories of people who need to share their world and their experiences.

I left that museum far from the exhilarated state from when I entered. I was sad, I was shocked, and I felt helpless. It's sad to think that it took a trip to a museum to make me realize how little I know about the world, how I little I do to make it a better place and how much I should respect a profession I would never have been able to endure.

This is just a tribute

2011-03-24T18:02:00.006-04:00

Music and news make my work day bearable (and trips to Starbucks or any local coffee shop... and talking about my dog and whining about the weather and other general distractions...) but when my Ingrid Michaelson Pandora channel pops up with Staind and Nickelback, I feel that my 99cents isn't being put to good use.

Pandora, you have stolen your last almost dollar from me for I have discovered Grooveshark.

I discovered this about a year ago, but was scared to leave the comfort of my pandora box (pun intended!) but clearly Pandora is as sick of my same old channels as I am, as it tries to throw in these curveballs of Def Leppard and Aerosmith into my 'Far Away' channel.

I get it Pandora. I'm bored with our relationship too.

So grooveshark is my new music channel of choice. I get to pick my songs and I get to choose the order and I can listen to Far Away on repeat if I want! No music license issues there.

So as everyone left the office today and I was hunkering down for a massive 200+ contact of outreach for a new search, I cranked up my pandora but decided this ginormous e-blast would take more than my already saved playslists of Ben Folds, Ingrid and Buble. Oh yes, I need my Chili Peppers to endure this wave of networking. I typed in Chili Peppers and the MOST glorious result shown before me on my 72'' MAC.

RHCP has a String Quartet Tribute album.

I love me some string quartet tributes. Elliot Smith, Radiohead, Zeppelin.... the list is endless. If four strings are rocking out, I get so excited. Who knew a violin could sound so... funky?

So as I sit at my computer networking with principals all over the nation for a job probably only one of those people will take, you better believe that I am rocking out to "By The Way" performed by four presumably old men who are just trying to recapture their youth, because who else would play in a string quartet?

Our first fight

2011-03-22T09:55:00.003-04:00

There is always a moment of concern, edge and sheer worry when a relationship encounters its first big fight. Who is to blame? Did they really mean to hurt you? Will we last?!?

I encountered this last week when I had my first big fight in a relationship that has endured for almost 6 years without event a hint of unease. And I can honestly say our relationship has been changed forever. And I can honestly say, it was entirely his fault.

You see, I began my morning as normal. Working hard at a job I can never seem to excel at and drinking my organic Costa Rican large black coffee when I saw my gmail had received a new message. Perhaps a new deal from Picaboo? Another escape from SniqueAway? An awesome forward from my bestie?

Oh no, it was an email from my one of my closest friends.

The Times.

And it wasn't my ordinary update. No, it was a formal letter.

The Times is now charging for their online articles.

WTF?!

Has the last 6 years meant nothing to you? Did you really lure me in with $25 a semester for the daily? Did you really offer my 6 years of unrestricted online viewing and now you're taking it all away?

Is this what it feels like to be divorced? I saw the signs. I heard the rumors. I read the texts... but I never thought he could actually go through with it. He chose money over me? NYT, I'm disgusted.

So I will now ration my 20 articles a month, because I sure ain't shelling out 16$ every 4 weeks to look at your op eds or your modern love column. Screw you. I'm better off without you. I was ok before you, and I will be fine without you.

But I do find myself lost. Where do I turn for my news? NPR can only do so much before I get sick of their not very well written articles (I know I know, they're radio) and BBC, I would love to go limping back to you, but I am not afraid to admit the shame I feel of leaving you for so long. Will you take me back? Will you turn me away?

6 years ago I vowed to never pay attention to Mr. Murdoch and his money-grabbing news entities. I loathed him for his poor taste, his bad and biased news (only because it is completely opposite of how I lean) and his deep pockets. But perhaps your Daily is the next best thing. 40$ a year is manageable and it would feel good to spite The Times. It would kinda be like breaking up with your boyfriend and then going to a club with him the same night, getting all slut-tastic, dancing on tables and making out with a gorilla (anyone see that JS?).

Listen to me! I've gone insane with anger. Pay for a Murdoch publication.... am I crazy?

So here I stand. Alone. Lost. Confused. Angry.

And all because we had our first - and our only - fight. I guess I'll just have to go home and burn our box of memories.

I never liked that swag anyway.

I have many leather bound books...

2011-03-10T10:01:00.002-05:00

and my house smells of rich mahogany.

Books, books and more books. When I had my cable installed at my beach house, the young jaunty installer mocked my collection of books as he hooked up my HBO package and I just smiled and said yes, I do love to read and yes, I do own all these books and yes, I have read most of them.

My goal in life is to have a very large library. As a child I used to play library. Yes, I would catalogue my books and pretend people checked them out and wait a certain amount of days and if not returned on time (aka if I didn't take them from the basket where I hid them in my closet and return them to my bookshelf), I would charge them a penny a day. Them being myself and the penny would come out of my piggy bank and put right back in again.

Do I have to reiterate that I didn't have cable? And that I loved book plates?

As I was perusing my daily blog-stream, or whatever it's called, today I came across this amazing red hot furniture designer from Ireland that I regularly stalk to see what new wooden 'strength through shape' piece he has come up with and I found the most perfect piece of architectural furniture that I will never need/will always want: Library Steps.

I mean, what house filled with many leather bound books that smells of rich mahogany is complete without this piece of art? It's totally worth 900 euros, right?

I'm just saying if you are running low on birthday ideas, I wouldn't be sad to find this next to my bed on July 7th.

Sometimes bad things happen for no reason

2011-03-09T12:27:00.002-05:00

I am distraught by the resigning of NPR CEO as anyone who is a devoted listener must be this morning, and even more concerned with the reasons as to why and what this means for both public and privately funded media in the US.

But I was more distraught to here of this story this morning and more alarmed by the lack of publicity. I understand that this is a private matter, but how harrowing? These parents have lost 7 of their 8 children in a tragic accident. Why aren't more people concerned?

Please just take a moment to enjoy those around you today and not let the small things get in your way and think of those parents in PA with no home, no livelihood and only one child.

Maybe there is a better place than home

2011-03-08T08:25:00.002-05:00

I spent my college career convincing myself that after college the last place I would find myself was at home, with my parents, working a job I don't particularly enjoy. I wanted to spend my days speaking foreign languages and eating crazy food and occasionally venturing back home to drop off gifts, recount my tales and spend some time with family before jetting off again.

Needless to say, that is not the life I currently lead.

And I have been in the process of convincing myself that my current lifestyle is what I want. I want to be working 50-60 hours a week, 3 jobs and hanging out with friends occasionally. I want to spend my spare time flipping through Restoration Hardware magazines and reading travel books and worrying about if my bangs look better to the side or not.

And perhaps this is because I have been so removed from the culture which opened my eyes to this passion of mine. But this past weekend I celebrated my German Exchange Partner from Highschool's 24th birthday in Boston. We went to this amazing Brazilian restaurant which was red light, green light style. Beyond the food being amazing, the company was even better.

There were 8 of us at this small cramped table in a tiny restaurant decorated with photos of dragqueens from Carnival. My partner from Germany, her boyfriend from Cambodia, their couple friends from Thailand, another girl from Germany, a friend from Brazil, my partner's mother from Germany, my mom and my best friend. And here we were, all speaking different languages and comparing cultures and eating amazing muqueca.

This is what I miss. I love stability and I love working and I love being around my friends and family. But I miss speaking Italian and German and I miss traveling and learning about new cultures and experiencing undertaking daily tasks with a slight twist. I just miss the constant change that travel undoubtdly causes.

My thirst for travel will never be quenched, no matter how many trips abroad I take or how many tours I lead or how many vacations I plan. My desire to be anywhere but here is an inherent passion that can only be satisfied by going and moving and experiencing.

So I guess I need to take the plunge. I need to let go of what I find comfortable and jump on that plane to somewhere exotic, somewhere crazy and somewhere that isn't here. I love home. I love coming home and I love being home. But home is made more special by sometimes leaving and I think it's time for me to take my exit and explore once more.

An SMC Comedian

2011-02-23T12:54:00.001-05:00

I don't follow too many blogs. They take up too much of my time. I'd rather read the news or listen to the news or just be more news focused, although Perez Hilton does seem to pop up in my browser history a little too often...

But on blog I follow is of a SMC alumnae who turned into a comedian. Whether this is his full-time profession or where I even found this link is beyond me, but I've been reviewing his antics from time to time and the other day was a real gem. I thought I should share...

http://awesomeblogkevin.blogspot.com/2011/02/top-five-conflicting-disney-story.html

H - E - Double Hockey Sticks

2011-02-21T20:04:00.003-05:00

Do you even know how long this took me to figure out as a kid ? For three years I would laugh and act aghast when someone told me to go to "h - e - double hockey sticks" but I never understood why you wouldn't just call them a pair of hockey sticks and what was 'he' doing with them that was so alarming? And why couldn't we talk about it in front of teachers?

I blame not having cable.

But the fact of the matter is, I just didn't get the concept of hell. I didn't when I was 6 and I don't now when I'm 23. I have always had a hard time grasping this other 'world' where those who were no longer here went, and I never really could conceptualize the division of it all. Who decided who was good and who was bad? Was I bad? How did I know? How did he know? What about my Dad who isn't Catholic? Would I never see him again when I died? So if I went to heaven, and he went to hell, then my heaven wouldn't be heaven because my dad wasn't there. Wouldn't I rather just go to hell?

Elementary school Kelly was very confused.

But 23 yr old Kelly is warming back up to the concept of not hell per say, but definitely an afterlife. I have spent my entire life terrified of ghosts. Not demons or poltergeists or any of the evil spirits that are so common in movies today, but a straight up fear of the unknown. I didn't like the idea of not being alone when I thought I was. I felt it was invasive and I was defenseless to something I couldn't see or experience, but that could still be there. I was terrified of the thought of having a guardian angel around me at all times. Sometimes you just want to be alone (that includes you Guardian Angel) and the thought of never being just with me was scary because I didn't have the choice.

But this was before I started losing ones I loved. Before I found spirits and ghosts and heaven comforting. Today I find myself wishing for a heaven or at least another place to meet up. I want those I love to be with me. I really don't find fear in ghosts as much, as now I find the idea of being watched and taken care of as a respite to daily life.

I always found it slightly odd that I would often find myself having dreams with those who passed away spotlighting. They would often present themselves at various stages in their life that I knew them but we didn't talk during those dreams. If they appeared in a form I recognized, I didn't have any conversations with them and interaction was limited. They were always present, but not participating in my dreams.

But there are times when we do talk. And surprisingly enough, in those dreams they are younger and happier and healthier and appear in a form that is unknown to me except in pictures. I always credited this to either thinking about them before falling asleep or looking at old pictures. I didn't think much about these dreams except I knew I generally woke up happy, until a friend of mine told me it was bizarre to talk to dead people. I really didn't think my dreams were that bizarre. Doesn't everyone hang out with their deceased friends and relatives in their dreams and talk about current life? I was beginning to think I was crazy.

But then I my friend had a professional dead person conversationalist come to her house (a medium) and all of my questions of "what if" are suddenly alarmingly clear. I decided not to take part in this 'demonic seance' as I called it and babysat instead, but I had friends who told me stories of how this lady knew things that no one else would know. She had late parents coming to talk to their children, deceased pets were described in perfect detail and curled up at the living's feet, specific favorite drinks were discussed and particular sayings were resurrected. Dare I say it... but I honestly am beginning to believe that this lady wasn't a quack, but perhaps there is something else out there. Some place where our loved ones go and watch over us. They continue their eternal lives taking care of those they left behind.

It may just be me finally giving into Marx and using the concept of heaven and religion as a relief to my worries, but I think I am finally leaning towards the idea of an afterlife and the role religion may play in that is a very curious matter to me that I am still struggling with.

So 17 years later, although I may not really understand the concept of hell and buy into it as much as Michelangelo, I do know that my fear of never being alone has been reversed. Now, I'm not scared of constantly being watched and bothered, but rather, I'm scared of finally being alone and what that might mean when it comes to finally saying goodbye.

Oh Watson my Watson..

2011-02-15T13:17:00.002-05:00

What was Jeopardy thinking? Didn't they know they would be destroying the most romantic night of the year?

Last night, nerds all over the free-thinking technologically advanced world canceled classy restaurant reservations for their just as nerdy significant others to stay @ home and watch Ken and Brad be almost obliterated by Watson.

But I was one of the few, the very un-proud, who was determined to watch the human mind beat the machine.

Thank God the second and final round is tonight... or else all of the magic of Valentine's Day would have been lost.

Love is in the Air!

2011-02-08T08:38:00.002-05:00

Love is in the air! It’s that time of year again when guys scramble for gifts that try to signify just how much they love their significant other and girls go shopping for the perfect red dress for dinner at The Black Cow . Sadly, this year, the day falls on a Monday, which does not allow for ample prep time prior to the romantic dinner and post dinner shenanigans will be limited by the looming workday. And some girls without a special someone opt to spend their evening with two faithful men – Ben and Jerry.

But where did Valentine’s Day come from? Is it really just a holiday invented by the retail industry during a typically slow part of the season, or is there a reason for all the love and mushy poetry? V-Day traces back to St. Valentine who, when he was in jail in 269 (or 270) A.D., became enamored with a young lady who visited him in prison until his death. He wrote her love letters and signed them “From your Valentine.” The result? A sympathetic, heroic, and specifically romantic, martyr emerged and Hallmark had a new holiday to market. So we celebrate that forbidden love by celebrating our love.

So whether you’re attached or single, madly-in love or a budding romance, take this one day out of the year to turn to you boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife, and say thank-you (whether it’s with a self-written poem, expensive diamond, reading from Shakespeare or just a flower you picked) for everything they have done for you and can continue to do for you and how lucky you are to be in love with your best friend.

A Lame Saturday Afternoon

2011-02-06T12:26:00.002-05:00

Yesterday my Dad and I went shopping for my mom's birthday gift. He's been busy with work and overtime so we decided to take a ride up to Exeter, NH and journey to a tiny print and old bookstore to purchase a painting by Will Moses (who still resides on Grandma Moses' farm in Eagle Bridge, NY.) As kids, we went to Exeter all the time for dinner, or to go shopping or kayaking on the river. We saw live local bands on Wednesday nights in the park and even witness the reenactment of the Revolutionary War. One year, I won a poetry contest at Water Street Bookstore and spent a good 3 hours perusing the shelves looking for the perfect book to spend my gift certificate on. Exeter used to have the old movie theatre, the Ioka, but that was given way to just a local coffee shop

Anyways, my dad and I walked into this bookstore, A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words on 65 Water Street and my lame old soul fell in love. The tiny bookstore was filled with old maps, hundreds of old books and floor to ceiling folk art paintings. A tiny dog came jingling over and offered his broken paw up to me and began to sniff my jeans furiously. My dad spent most of the 45 minutes we were in there staring at one painting by Will Moses and trying to determine if it was the same print she fell in love with 2 years ago while I curled up in front of the old travel book section on the floor with the dog half on my lap and half on the floor. Finally, after my dad convinced himself that the $700 signed painting was the one, I put an old travel book of Florence from 1913 onto the counter, which was cluttered with pictures waiting to be framed. The very nice salesman and his wife and I began chattering about my time in Florence, the old book which they had purchased from two spinster aunts who traveled all over Europe together and the trunk which they had also bought from the aunts which was filled with photographs and maps. They showed me inside the book some of the photos of the aunts that they left behind, and the old pullout map of Florence. The book cost $10, a steal considering how much other bookstores would charge, but as my dad laid down his credit card to purchase the gorgeous Moses framed and matted by an expert eye, the owner kindly offered to throw in the book for free and a calendar of Moses' paintings for 2011. Granted the painting was very expensive, but the owner and his wife did not have to offer us more. It was this kind gesture that stuck with me for the rest of the day.

Businesses can spend thousands of dollars rolling out marketing campaigns and advertising and lame gimmicks, but really all they need to do is show a little kindness and treat their customers or vendors with respect, and that is worth far more than a new web site. I will now make a point to share the news of this amazing little bookstore/print shop. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but his kindness and generosity is priceless.

Blizzards are only good when they come from DQ

2011-02-01T15:02:00.003-05:00

As much as I love leaving work at 12pm and driving for almost an hour to get home and snuggle up on my couch with my dog on one side and my laptop on the other while doing work, I'd really prefer it if I didn't have to tunnel to my woodpile or scrape off my car anymore this winter.

Being an adult really takes the fun out of blizzards.

Unless they are covered with crumbled Butterfinger bits and come with a spoon :)

Komdu Saell!

2011-01-31T08:41:00.002-05:00

I often get caught up in the frivolous aspects of life. I worry about work... my hair... my weight... my friends being all over the country or even why the new tv my parents just bought can't get rid of close captioning. I have to remember the small things. I have to remember that at least I don't need closed captioning, at least I have my hair, at least I'm not going hungry and at least I have friends and a steady job. I don't know what it takes for me to constantly remember to think twice before getting angry at Comcast or crying because work just seems impossible. I need to think more like the Icelandic. I need to komdu saell and vertu saell a little more often.

Livin La Vida Local

2011-01-25T21:59:00.003-05:00

Oh I remember the hour when we came upon this amazing title for the local segment of our documentary. It was around 4 am in the Berg. We were exhausted, I smelled like yak poop and I'm pretty sure we had removed the headphones from my computer and our folk music was set to compete with Rihanna pop song chosen by another senior sem doc film making group. We thought we were the smartest people ever. Making an awesome doc on living local and condemning big business, living off our parents tab, going to a liberal arts college and fully believing that within a year, we would each be in our respective parts of the world, speaking a foreign language, living off the grid and making everyone at home jealous for breaking the mold and following our dreams.

Fast forward 2 years later and I still think that title is awesome, but where I am is far from my dream. Alone, in my shared home in a small coastal town in New England, working from home at 10pm because I am too incompetent to complete my job in the normal 9-5 hours I am allotted.

Le Sigh

So what do I do to bring happiness and joy into my life which seems to me slowly moving farther and farther away from where I dreamt I would be? I have started doing the things I used to love doing, that college didn't allow me to and mainly, it's art. I miss painting and drawing and just being artsy fartsy. I'm by no means good, but it's fun for me. So what's wrong with it?

Which brings me to the point of this rambling blog. I have started consistently painting pottery. A small step in the art direction, but it's calming for me and I always seem to pair this therapeutic hobby with someone I love being with and lately, it's been my mom (awwww) which is nice to just spend some time together doing something we both love to do and seem to have gotten away from in the past few years. Recently we were painting in our local pottery shop when we heard about a glass bead making glass so of course, we signed up. Fire? Molten glass? No gloves? I was sold.

It was last night... and it was awesome. I sucked and my mom sucked but it was so much fun to feel not only the power of being so in control of a medium, but having absolute freedom to make whatever I wanted. I managed to spin 9 beads, 1 which broke and another which never made it off the mandrel, but my 7 little tough guys are gorgeous (but beauty is in the eye of the beholder.)

But the most amazing part was the whole local feel of the night. I went to dinner at a local restaurant where my parents know the owner. We have a nice dinner and the owner came out to chat with us and even had the chef make me a special dish which wasn't even on the menu because I expressed interest. Then we drove 5 minutes down the road to a local pottery shop, made glass beads with people in our community and supported this great little venture, Healing Touch Pottery, which is single handedly making my little sleepy town into an artists mecca with pottery wheels, painting, glass manipulation and every other art form you can imagine. A glass blowing venue is even in the works. So for the second time that night, I got to chill with an owner of a local niche shop and learn about her experiences starting this business and her future plans.

I've had my brushes with famous people before. I've lined the red carpet at movie debuts and stood in the crowd at a press conference with Sophia Loren. I've asked governors tough questions in Vermont even though these aren't really that cool to say I've done, it was still exciting for me, and I remember the excitement in each of those moments when I felt that I was so close to stardom. But last night, chilling with Sean from Lobster Q and taking with Donna at Healing Touch Pottery, I felt part of a team. I felt like I knew the inner workings of these people who are no doubt trying to promote their business, but are also just genuinely committed to just being nice people.

So I might not be an aspiring localvore who looks down on Keurig makers and KFC anymore, but I can say I am aspiring to live local when it comes to the other aspects of my life. I want to give back more, locally. Volunteering at Our Neighbor's Table the other night made me long for the days of MOVE. Talking with Donna made me miss walking Church Street and talking to entrepreneur business owners and negotiating deals to promote their business and the general marketplace. Hanging with Sean gave me a pang of longing to be back in that tiny shack in the middle of winter at Flatbread in Waitsfield, hearing why and when and how the amazing restaurant started.

Living local doesn't mean only eating what your local farmer has made, but it means sometimes stepping back from the big picture and really take a look at those closest to you and evaluating how your life decisions through a local lens. I'm sure if everyone did this at least once a month, I think people would realize how crazy exciting living local really can be.

Penniless Eduardo

2011-01-12T11:18:00.003-05:00

My personal yogalates trainer who is cute enough to keep my ivy league doctor husband jealous, but still with a touch of ugly so I don't risk getting a divorce and losing my porsche.

We would have our husband friends get rid of our wrinkles (which we won't ever get) and fix our boobs. We would casually discuss these procedures after far too many drinks on the veranda following our Great Gatsby summer bash. Or maybe in the infinity pool one hot summer evening after returning from our weekend in Macau.

If only life truly was like the OC and I could live next to Meghan with our teacup Yorkie siblings and shop at Fred Segal every Tuesday.

These feet were made for Manola Blahniks.

An Ode to Garlic

2011-01-12T10:47:00.002-05:00

The other night my boyfriend's brother made this amazing Inner Mongolian dish. He even made the noodles from scratch like a true ex-pat infatuated with his new country. Hands down one of the most delicious dishes I have ever eaten (and I've had some amazing food around the world) and truly made me miss those nights in china eating at crazy little restaurants filled with plastic table clothes, pickled snakes in jars and jolly chinese men consuming copious amounts of baijiu. But the clincher to the dish? Before every bite, you had to take a bit out of a raw hunk of garlic, chew it twice, and then take a bite of the dish. Sounds disgusting and quite frankly it kinda was, but once you took two bites (no more, no less!) of the garlic and then shoveled in the noodles, the flavors exploded in your mouth and it was incredible. In hindsight, reeking of garlic for the next two days was kinda worth it. Although I don't think I would dig into another raw clove of garlic for a few months.

Which got me to thinking about garlic. It's such an amazing... veggie? Is it a veggie?? A spice?? Regardless, it's friggen delicious. Our home in Italy always seemed to stink of the stuff. No matter what we were making, garlic was generally an ingredient. China loves the stuff and loads up every dish with the... herb? If I could order any Chinese dish right now for the rest of my life, it would be this amazing garlic-y and green bean dish which made you repel vampires for weeks.

Garlic is a wholesome taste and scent and I can't imagine a dish being good without the slightest hint of garlic. People think cooking is difficult. My answer? Add garlic. Who needs to watch "The Worst Cooks in America" because quite frankly the show is obsolete.

Just. Add. Garlic.

So although I don't go out and reccommend to bite a hunk of garlic every night with dinner, I do recommend including it in every dish you make. Pasta, noodles... even... I can't even think of a dish that would be bad with garlic.

And in this day and age when vampires seem to be stalking around ever corner (especially in the tween section of bookstores...) garlic is doing more than making the world a more delicious space and helping our hearts, it's also doing triple duty by saving our lives by keeping those darn vampires away. And who doesn't love an overachiever?

Guilty as charged

2011-01-03T10:25:00.003-05:00

Why is guilt so powerful? Poe's tale of guilt doesn't come close to illustrating how much guilt controls my life decisions. From work, to social to even paying bills and throwing things out, I always have guilt tugging at the back of my decisions, telling me how this will affect my life forever, influence my destiny and alter my entire being. This may be a bit extreme, but you see my point.

I. Always. Feel. Guilty.

I don't know where this guilt comes from. I feel guilty throwing things out special people gave me that I will never and have never used. I feel guilty when someone else makes a mistake at work, if I even had a minor role in the overall process. I feel guilty saying no. I feel guilty if I think I let someone down. I feel guilty for not being successful or intelligent enough or pretty enough or you name it and I probably feel guilty about it. And when I decide to make a decision for my own personal well-being, it always seems to make me feel guiltier for attempting to not feel guilty. Can you imagine if I committed an actual crime? I don't know if I could even live with myself... because I'm sure my cellmate would just hate me for talking about feeling guilty all the time.

So what's the deal? How do people not feel guilty? Is this an insecurity thing or just an overall personality issue? Am I the only one? Should I feel guilty about feeling so guilty all the time??

All I know is that I am a 'Catholic' without ever being one (and yes, I feel guilty about it), so can you imagine how guilty I would actually feel if I was a practicing Catholic? I would get nothing done. I would just sit around and feel guilty.

And probably feel guilty for being so guilty.

(bonus questions: how many times did I say guilty and how guilty do I feel about being a bad writer and not finding a better word??)

Hello 2011

2010-12-30T09:36:00.002-05:00

It's weird to be sitting literally in the same place I was this time last year, and yet, being in a completely different place altogether. Last year was a bit rocky and uncertain. I was happy to know I didn't have to work next week, but altogether just as unhappy to not know when I would work again. But it worked out, the whole 6 months of unemployment thing. I got to work on my freelancing, visited some friends, went to the bahamas and ventured back to Italy. I also discovered how much I enjoy teaching and was able to nanny a lot more. It may have been uncertain, but it wasn't altogether unhappy.

Now, I have some sort of direction. I have a new position at my job for who knows how long, but at least there is some promise to it. I have a sweet new gig as an Event Planner part-time and already have some freelancing jobs lined up for the new year. And most of all, I get to ring in the new year with 4 of my favorite little people.... if they manage to stay up that late. In a day I will be reunited with one of my bests from college, in two weeks I will be venturing for a romantic weekend away and hopefully, in 2 months, I will jump on a plane to return to the city where my souls thrives to be with my best biddies. And if all things go accordingly, I will go to Chicago for a weekend to be with my Roma amica (preferably amici, but nothing is definite yet). Yes, 2011 looks promising.

So now it's resolution time, correct? Last year my resolution was to get a job. I beat it by getting 3 and finally landing the 4th full-time position. I wanted to make more time for friends and learn how to say no and set boundaries for myself. I think I completed the first part, but failed miserably at the second. So here's my ideas for 2011. I have a professor who dedicated 2010 to doing 52 new things which she chronicled in a blog. I wish I had that drive and capacity, but I don't. So maybe I will go with 5, and one of those things will be to start brainstorming 52 new things to do in 2012.

Either way, I'm not sad to see 2010 go. It was fun, but a bit too crazy for me. I'm looking forward to 2011.

Derailed

2010-12-15T08:23:00.003-05:00

I love trains. They are very nostalgic and make me foolishly long for a time when things were slower and farther apart and times seemed simpler. They remind me of casual vacations, unhurried commutes, and free boxcar rides. But I often forget the danger they caused. The hijacks and the crazy hobos and the crashes and derailments. It was easy to get caught up in their glamour and the possibilities the locomotive symbolized and forget all the negative affects it had as well.

Sometimes I have a tendency to spend so much time longing for the past or imagining the future possibilities, that I lose sense of reality. And suddenly before my very eyes, everything is derailed.

Good isn't always gold

2010-12-13T14:37:00.002-05:00

I love the New Yorker, which is slightly ironic because I hate New York.... but today I stumbled upon one of my favorite shouts and murmurs by far. It was about the misguided philanthropic. The person who is so die-hard about being a good person, that they often just aren't at all. I bet anyone who has ever done some version of community service has met the surface do-gooder. It's the person who is just SO excited to get to know the real people who eat at the soup kitchen or sleep at the shelter that they just cannot stop talking about it. When in actuality, all they care about is tweeting their good efforts or putting it on their resume or dropping it in conversation so they sound like a good person. I think all people who have done some version of community service has encountered this person and if you haven't, that probably means you are one.

But all in all, any version of philanthropy is good. I guess I just prefer to see people more involved in the missions they are funding and working towards. Any community service is good, but let's try to make our actions not just good, but golden :)

I Can't Say N_

2010-12-07T19:43:00.006-05:00

Growing up with a mother who always wished for a life upon the wicked stage, my childhood was inundated with musicals. This, no doubt, had a large impact on my lack of coolness for the majority of my adolescent years. It says something when you know all the words to "Surrey with the Fringe on Top" and choreographed "Poor Jud is Dead" on your kitchen floor with your sister, but couldn't name one Twisted Sister song or remember the dance to Genie in a Bottle. I will always remember listening to the Oklahoma classic "I Can't Say No" which was a musical number by a young girl who was essentially a ho-bag who cheated on her cowboy boyfriend. (How this was better than listening to 'Gettin Jiggy Wit It' is beyond me.) But young Kelly bopped along to this song without ever truly understanding the meaning and never thinking that this Rodger and Hammerstein classic would become my life's anthem. Yes people, I cannot say no.

All day, every day I say yes. I am a doormat. I say yes to working late, taking on extra projects, doing housechores, hanging out with people I don't want to hang out with and sometimes, doing things I have no desire to do because someone asked me and I can't say no. What I once thought to be a virtue, my desire to be helpful and please and volunteer, has become a curse. I can't stop doing things and it's ruining my life.

Like all addictions, it started out small. As a child, I often gave away my favorite pencil, traded my best pogs and never really thought twice about it. Teachers loved me for my generosity. Parents thought I was oddly considerate for my age. Children knew they could get whatever they wanted from me. As I grew older, this addiction turned into an untameable beast which is taking over my life. My inability to say no has turned me from a caring human into an angry person. I find myself trying to say no to the simplest things that I don't mind doing, just because I feel I should. But I can't so I end up doing all of these things I want to do AND all the things I don't want to do. I just do a lot of things.

And yet, as hard as I try to form that little word, those two simple letters, I can't. Because when I try, the recipient - who is usually very used to me saying yes - gets this horrible look on their face - this moment when they are incredulous that I might actually turn them down. It's a look that is a cross between smelling a dirty diaper and finding out someone spit in your cheerios. It's anger, disgust and sheer shock. Of course I can't stand this face becuase it means I'm not pleasing this person and my "no" is shortly followed by "problem" or "worries" or "no way I wouldn't do that for you!"

And now I'm in over my head. Word has gotten out that I'm a doormat and nothing can be done about it. I feel as though I will forever be walked all over, taken advantage of and forced to say yes, because it is my calling. Will I ever stop drowning in unwanted commitments? I'm pretty sure that will never happen. But what I can do is monitor and track and ration my yes's. Each week I get 25 yes's and after they're gone, they're gone, until next Sunday at 12pm.

Well now I must go to watch Charlie Brown's Christmas and even though I hate that balding cartoon, someone asked me to watch it with them and we all know, I can't say N_.

Long time no write

2010-11-30T19:55:00.002-05:00

I miss writing. Perhaps that's why my life has seemed so chaotic as of late, because I haven't had the time to organize my thoughts. I talk about them a lot. I complain, I rationalize, I ignore and finally I just accept, but nothing comes of it. Talking is so superfluous as times. Words just flying around midair with no real place to rest. But words? They're forever. You put them down and they're there for you to review, rethink, and make sense of. That's my problem, I need to write more.

Not that my writing is by any means stellar. If anything, subpar at best. I've always been criticized for writing as I speak, until I reached college when I was encouraged to have a voice so that my piece is singular to only me. Similar to Tyra Bank's usual rant on about week 4 of ANTM and the whole 'signature walk' bit. Follow the rules, but bend them enough to make them particular to you. And yes, I did just reference Tyra Banks and yes I am completely ashamed that I am obsessed with that show. It may have been the reason why I got cable at my house.... because no lonely Saturday is complete without Tyra telling some tall skinny girl she is going to change the world, then she falls off the face of the earth because none of those girls are ever going to become top models.

Regardless, to circle up, I have decided that writing will help me feel better. This time last year I was all upset about the losing of my job. In hindsight, it was stressful and I hated those 6 months, but it was so liberating in a way as well. Having time to really focus on what I wanted to do was great, but the feeling of not going anywhere was what killed me. Now, I work my butt off and I do believe I am more unhappy this year at this time than I was last year. At least there was the prospect of finding something fulfilling, now I feel that I am just.... here. Working a job that I daily find myself less interested in and realizing all the things I thought I could do 2 years ago in college, will probably never happen... powerhouse or not. I feel stuck. Stalled.

Stalemate.

I'm not sure where to go from here. Do I take hold of my life really go after what I want? But I have responsibility, so I can't. But isn't my happiness the greatest responsibility of all? Or do I lay complacent and let things just happen... and deal with it... because it's life and growing up isn't easy nor is it fun at times. So what's the next big thing now? I have a house, a job, financial security.... do I get married? have kids? get a dog?

Let's be honest, I'll probably just go out and get another degree.

And write more.

I Like it...

2010-10-06T19:53:00.003-04:00

not on facebook. Today or yesterday, it doesn't completely matter, women's facebook statuses started telling the world where they like it. The floor, the counter, the couch. I was at first confused, and then assumed it was some new rap song that I had missed since I haven't listened to music on the radio in months, so I googled "I like it on the couch" and a flurry of not rap songs filled my browser. Adding the term 'facebook' to my search exposed the results I needed. This cryptic message wasn't a slew of women on my newsfeed telling me where not to touch in their homes, but an attempt for Breast Cancer Awareness activists to promote solidarity amongst women against breast cancer. Women were encouraged to post where they like to leave their purse when they enter their homes. Because if that doesn't scream "let's raise breast cancer awareness" I don't know what does.

I get it. Women across the world are united by making all the men in the world go "huh?" or probably more accurately, "alllriiighttt" but what is this doing to really raise awareness about breast cancer? Yes, it's a pretty cheap way of marketing and it gets people to question and google the phrase and at least talking about the month, but I think the women behind this campaign could conjure up a more interactive and awareness raising campaign. Draw clicks to your site, donations to your foundation, general awareness about prevention. But getting women the world wide to make men question their facebook status? Not really that engaging. What we should be doing is inviting men into the cause. This isn't just a woman's issue, but it affects families and relationships and the men in the woman's life. Instead of isolating them, engage them, similarly to the White Ribbon Campaign (for whom I created an awesome PSA in 2009... but shameless plug aside). We should be getting men involved, instead of making them question.

How would we (the women) feel if one day, all the men decided to send around some facebook message telling them all to complete a secret status:

"Hey Dudes, I got this baller idea to confuse all the bitchez and hoes. Let's make our statuses all the places we scratch our balls and try not to let anyone notice. Like, you could say "At the altar" or "In front of your mom" and we'll just confuse the faces off of all the chicks. Oh right, by the way, this is our way of promoting our fantasy draft for this Sunday. Now send this to all your guy friends who have the itchiest balls, and let the fun begin."

If you are going to mount a campaign for any cause, make it impactful, make it memorable and please make it represent the organization you're trying to raise awareness for. We should be doing a little more than copying and pasting a facebook status. We should be educating men and women alike. We should be enabling and educating men how to help women who are going through the diagnosis, the treatment, the recovery or the defeat. Breast Cancer so deeply affects the femininity of a woman physically, that people seem to forget that their emotional distress runs just as deep, and affects those around them on an immeasurable level.

So this month, instead of writing your facebook status so that anyone breaking into your home knows exactly where to go for your wallet, why don't you congratulate someone who has survived, hug someone who is going through treatment, offer a shoulder to someone who was just diagnosed and hold the hand of a friend during her first mammogram in years. You may have 20 people like your status on facebook, but 20 likes in the virtual world, can't compare to the gratitude of a friend in the real word.

By the way, I like it on the stairs.

Happiness

2010-08-30T21:23:00.002-04:00

Some days just make me so happy and thankful and content. No passport necessary.

Today was one of those days :)

A Crack in the Curtain

2010-08-22T21:46:00.005-04:00

I’ve never really walked into a room: I have always fallen into it. I’ve never been classified as graceful by my peers, but rather as clumsy and spacially-challenged. The more I try to glide and impress others, the more I trip and embarrass myself. So why do I keep attempting to glissade my way into a graceful lifestyle? I know what the results are going to be, but I can’t help wondering that maybe this time it will be different. And I decided the place for me to reinvent myself was in college. In the fall of 2005, I headed off to college with my head held high while repeating the mantra “you are graceful” over and over again in my head.

But some things never change.

I was showering one afternoon in October on the fourth floor of Ryan Hall in a girls bathroom that somehow evolved into being co-ed. Enjoying my new found freedom in college, and embracing the liberal hippie culture of my college, I had become pretty lax in the shaving of my legs department. But shaving in those shower stalls, covered in a layer of grime and soap scum, is an uphill battle.Trying to find the perfect angle where I could keep the conditioner in my hair and the shaving cream on my legs while balancing on one leg was a degree-earning accomplishment. I decided today was the day to tackle the beasts, and I trudged down the hallway with 3 razors and a fresh can of shaving cream and a determination to discover how to shave my legs in a nasty college shower, without having to do a vertical split.

I began by lathering my long blonde hair with Sheer Blonde deep conditioner and wrapping it into a bun that day. Next, I decided to “get Skintimate” with my legs. I proceeded to contort myself into positions found only in yoga books so I could shave away. However, for some reason, today this task seemed easier. Had I done it? Had I found the perfect shaving angle? I was so excited I just had to sing and dance.

I was going about my business, shaving, singing and shaking my butt to “She Thinks my Tractor’s Sexy” when I sensed a draft. Suddenly it was alarmingly chilly, yet I couldn’t find any cracks in the wall and the vent above me was closed. Shrugging it off, I cranked up the water and the music.

One leg down, one more to go and I began sensing goose bumps all over my body. Scrutinizing every inch of that shower, but never really moving out of this perfect shaving position, and mumbling about the inadequacies of the maintenance crew, I came to a realization. I suspended my search and my eyes widened. Without turning around, I gingerly reached my hand behind me expecting to feel a sheer curtain so flimsy one may not notice when it’s brushed aside. New waves of goose bumps rippled over me as I felt nothing but air. I had found the culprit of the biting cold. In my attempt to find the perfect shaving angle, I had brushed aside the curtain with my butt, exposing my ass crack to the world.

My modest heart was pounding as I quickly wrapped the shower curtain around my exposed body and cowered in the far corner of the shower (without ever touching the walls). How could I have been so stupid? I should have known the position was too good to be true.

Slowly peeking my head out, still careful not to have the water touch my deep conditioning hair, I heaved a sigh of relief seeing that no one else’s towels were hung up. I couldn’t hear any shower heads dripping, and there weren’t any new wet foot prints. All signs led me to believe that no one had seen me, thank God.

After that incident, I have officially given up on being suave and smooth and have learned to embrace my social awkwardness with a sense of humor. No matter who I become, my awkwardness will always be a part of me. So maybe I’ll never be a model, and no matter how hard I try, my nickname will never be Grace Kelly. But even though I’m doomed to always fall, trip, and spit in the eye of the person I’m talking to, it’s all ok because no matter how horrid, or revealing, the situation, I know I can always crack a smile.

Cars and Politics

2010-08-22T17:13:00.006-04:00

The other day I was listening to my normal NPR 90.9 station on the way home from work. And as I was sitting on the Chain Bridge looking down the Merrimack and seriously taking a moment to revel in how lucky I truly am to be where I am, I heard the correspondent ragging on Obama's public speaking. I generally enjoy his style of public speaking, although Barack Obama will never be synonymous with pithy, like classy Victor Huge (who boasts the shortest correspondence on record, which was between him and his publisher Hurst & Blackett in 1862. V. Hugs was anxious to know how his new novel -- Les Mis -- was going. He wrote "?" and got a "!" for a response) but my confidence in the man has begun to wane. Through the speakers of my car I heard his lawyerly voice carefully articulate why Democrats should remain in power. "Speaking of cars," he said, "You want to go forward, what do you do? You put it in 'D.' When you go backward, what do you do? You put it in 'R. I'm just sayin', that's not a coincidence."

First thing? I don't ever want someone to run my country who thinks that comparing political parties to the gears is even remotely ok, opening joke to a speech or not. Second thing? It's saying, not sayin'. If you're gonna send troops to war, 'stimulate' the economy and reform healthcare, say your g's. And lastly? You need a new speechwriter. I think it's time to replace Jon Favreau with someone who can find some new material for you.

Almost two years ago, I remember staring at my absentee ballot on my desk in Vermont and seriously consdiering just throwing the thing out. I didn't want to vote for anyone. McCain, my studly veteran, invited that skank bitch into the mix and ruined his chance, because I know a lot of soccer moms, and I sure as hell don't think any of them could be vice president. And Obama seemed hopeful, but then he had that smile-flashin Biden behind him that that told paraplegics to stand up and applaud. I decided having a young, lawyerly 'boundary-breaking' president was the better choice of the two, and hoped that Biden would spend the majority of the term with his foot in his mouth. I even skipped my Western Callig class to watch the nation be serenaded by Aretha, as my best friend stood at attention, hand over her heart, in our living room in tears.

Because of you Obama, I can't quite master the Uppercase "D" with embellishments. Thanks.

But I'm more fearful now than I was 2 years ago, marking that little box. Is my president seriously speaking to a room full of donors and repeating a lame joke that has been recycled more times than the plastic in my polar fleece? Seriously? This isn't 1922. People can google that shit.

All this has made me do is hate politics more. I don't like claiming I am a 'jackass' or an elephant. I don't like that people categorize me for how I vote. I don't like that those who may think differently than me make me feel like I'm stupid for not agreeing with them on every issue, because clearly if I was more informed I would understand their side. I don't like that those who do agree with me think that we have this unspoken liberal bond. I don't like that people honestly think that dividing our country into parties is going to get anything accomplished.

Come to think of it, I think the only thing that cars and politics now have in common in my mind, is I could really care less about either one of them.

Bragging Rights

2010-08-19T14:47:00.002-04:00

Traveling makes me beyond happy. The idea of planning traveling, or getting ready, going, being there, returning, unpacking. All aspects of traveling are just so exciting. And I love the photographs and the special souvenirs and telling everyone about my awesome excursions, even if it was just to Indiana... or up north. But let's be honest, dropping that "When I was in Italy...." line at the beginning of any story makes the recipient do one of three things. 1) Hate you for once again bringing up where you've been and they haven't. 2)Ignore you because they're trying to think of a better place they've been to up your story. 3) Ignore the story all together and switch the topic. Or a combo of all three.

But if you're like me, you don't care, and you throw down your world adventures at any chance you get. Well, my friend, thanks to a friend of mine, the ability to brag has become a little more conspicuous and a little less vocal.

Enter... the scratch map.

Here is something a little classier than the map with tacks and a little more acceptable than casually dropping your passport to show off your visas. You also have something to look forward to coming home to after those holidays - the 3 seconds it will take to scratch off whatever corner of the world you've been to to expose the matte purple underneath that brilliant gold. This map appeals to such a large audience that I can't imagine why it hasn't been more publicly advertised. You have your scratch ticket addicts who just have to scratch away. You have your snobby trust-fund world travelers that want everyone to know they've touched every continent... and have the shavings to prove it. You have your artistic person who scratches away patterns that mimic the lines of the carpet and the couch of the room. And you have your everyday traveling hippie who can't keep track of where's he's been, and the scratch map never lies.

All in all... it's brilliant. It's classy. It's an easy way to insert how cultured you are without actually saying it.

So this leaves me with 3 questions. Why aren't they sold out? How soon can I get it? And is it possible to blow it up to the size of a wall cause I'm thinking, take down the flat screen and watch my world adventures instead.

Company is always welcome!

Feelin Broke

2010-08-18T14:58:00.002-04:00

Starting a business is a hell of a difficult process. Knowing some people who have who have both succeeded and failed in the venture, either way the emotional and physical toll of running a start-up sometimes doesn't seem worth it at times. This isn't the age of Henry Ford or Colonel Sanders. Starting a business will take a little more than a garage and a wife who you order to blend together a secret amount of herbs and spices. There are the legal hoops, the physical logistics, the technology and the human power and all of that is governed by one simple thing: money. There are many articles and books out there that try and help the lowly entrepreneur, but what it comes down to is luck. You could have the best business model in the world, and if luck has it, you'll go under in a year.

Take Feelgoodz. Now the concept of this company I'm a bit weary of. It was started by a 25-yr old guy who was teaching English in Thailand after doing a bunch of random jobs, including being a hotdog vendor in Texas. He spent the entire time in Thailand chillin' in flipflops and one day he saw a Thai vendor with a sign selling flipflops, claiming they were the most comfortable flops to flip in that your feet would ever experience. Now Ken wanted to spread the wealth and decided to create a business with a triple bottom line that would allow this little Thai man to show the world the beauty of his sandals. Are these 25$ sandals really that comfortable? I have yet to try them out, but the concept is still one that truly does make me feel good, and I'm sure wearing the flops would make me feel good too. They were given a $50,000 loan that was part of their Village Capital Funding . They had the perfect set-up established. They were on target to sell their stock of flipflops to Wholefoods prior to the summer boom and have enough time to repay their loan.

Then disaster struck. And BP spilled a ridiculous amount of oil in the ocean. Everyone feared for the animals, the human capital, the money wasted cleaning up this avoidable mess and all are legit fears, but not many people thought about how Ken Berner and how not good he was feeling. You see, his gigantic carrier of flipflops being shipped from Thailand was stuck in the Bahamas, because even though the New Orleans port wasn't closed officially, ships couldn't get in and out. The rubber flipflops sat there all summer, missing their prime wear-time and costing Ken more money than he could have imagined. Wholefoods tried to sell the shoes by the time they reached their shelves, but the summer boom had passed and they had to get rid of them to put their fall products on the shelves. The damage? Ken's business is going under because he can't pay back his loan by today. Feelgoodz is feeling pretty bad right about now.

So even though Ken did everything right. He had a great idea that came from a solid place which would touch the hearts of rich hippies the world round, because of some bad luck that no book or Wall Street or NYTimes article could predict has caused his little shop to buckle.

It's daunting, because right now we need small businesses to succeed to help boost our economy, and economists are telling small business owners to hire, because without a drop in unemployment, people won't spend. But these owners are weary of hiring anyone, in case they end up losing money. It's all a terrible cycle of bad luck and people scared of feeling broke, both financially and emotionally.

BoWine

2010-08-17T16:04:00.003-04:00

Knowing where your food comes from is insanely important. It's something far too many people worldwide take for granted, and not enough people are actively trying to investigate the source of their dinners. In one avenue, it's interesting to have the beans on your plate come from Mexico, chicken from Perdue's in Maryland, potatoes from Idaho and wash it all down with a milk from California, but most consumers don't even go that far to discern where their food is coming from. They just grab it off the shelf, as long as it's cheap or toss the fast food back to their kids as long as it will keep them quiet. Even organic doesn't mean anything anymore. Knowing farmers that grow organic industrially, the methods they use aren't in anyway better for you than Perdue's organically-raised large-caged cannibalistic chicken. Not to mention that organically grown food can still be in the path of danger, sucking up ground water which has been exposed to the human race's obsession with over-medicating. The fear of finding e.coli in our mass-grown spinach or salmonella in our peanut butter doesn't keep me up at night, but it should. This means that some animals feces mingled with my agro-business produced product. Yuck!

This isn't to say that knowing where your food is coming from will eliminate the possibility of a yak pooping on your spinach leaf or a bird relieving himself on your unwashed strawberries, but what it does mean is that once discovered, the outbreak can be squashed immediately. If Farmer Dave leaves a notice on his farm stand or calls up his clients and let's them know that little Betty has the runs and it's because of the yak that got loose in the blueberry patch on a full stomach, you can end the whole ordeal right then and there. You know he sold you the blueberries, you know not to eat them. The problem with agro-business outbreaks is that they are so large, and with so many venues to ship off the food, and from there the supply chain branches even more, that by the time the outbreak is pined down to a certain source, people are already sick. And for the time leading up to discerning the culprit, hundreds of thousands of dollars are being wasted on produce or product which is being tossed out, for safety's sake. In the case of the peanut butter scare, the peanut butter was sent to large industrious factories which used the contaminated PB in their products, setting off a whole nother round of recalls. It's a waste and a terrifying cycle!

Beyond that not nearly justified enough tirade, this issue which I am so connected to, and admittedly am not active enough about, was brought to my attention as I browsed change.org this afternoon and saw my good friend Billy McKibbs smiling back at me. And below his pearly whites, was an article about my dear old friend, grass-fed meat. But these cows weren't just munching their free-range grass solo. They were washing down their leafy greens with a glass of red wine. I'm not sure how I feel about this yet. Clearly these are either some very concerned farmers, or some really drunk cow-tippers who discovered this method and if it promotes grass-fed animals, then I can't completely hate it. But the fact is, I'm not going to be willing to pay $10 extra for my hamburger, just because my grass-fed cow spent 80% of it's life wasted off it's ass.

For now I'd rather enjoy my locally-grown, grass-fed all-beef burger with my wine on the side. As long as I know it's from Italy.

Monetary Happiness

2010-08-10T17:51:00.006-04:00

Gauging happiness and how it's caused is such an ambiguous measurement that anyone who tries to do so I find incredibly intriguing. From reading books of people who have searched the globe for it to people who have tried to create an entire year of happiness right in their living room or kings who try to rate an entire country's happiness. It's insane. The saying, "One man's junk is another man's treasure," resonates with me on this subject. What makes one man happy, may greatly depress another. So the 4 page article today in the times, on how less can really be more in the happiness department, juxtaposed with the resident of Nairobi's slum's first person account of slum tourism caused me to stop contemplating the executive search process and wondering once more, what is happiness?

Rosenbum profiled a couple in Portland, Oregon who went from living a somewhat lavish life and being moderately happy, to downsizing to a 400 sq foot apartment and loving each day. They gave away their possessions, quit jobs and went back to school. In doing so, they rediscovered life as we should know it, and relishing in experiences rather than objects. The couple didn't get rid of everything to prove a point, but rather wanted to move towards a more calculated consumption, much in the same direction as most Americans during this recession. One of the greatest statistical findings during this search of happiness and material goods, is that not surprisingly, more people are saving. But when they are spending, they're spending money on experiences more than tangibles, and if tangibles are purchased, it's usually with the intention of experiencing them. Makes sense right?

Enter the second article, written by a student at Wesleyan University who grew up in Nairobi, Kenya in a dirt hut being photographed by rich tourists who wanted to "experience" the slums. So is it true to say, that some people are now spending money on trips and experiences, but they're at the cost of humans who endure actual poverty? Is this really making us 'rich folk' happy, to swoop into a dirt hut slum, snap a shot of some dirty child pooping in the streets or use your flip camera to capture the screams of a woman giving birth without medicine? It's one thing if someone goes on one of these trips and comes back inspired to help, or if someone is trying to help out and returns with a desire to do more, but how many of those people are actually being affected, and how many are making a slideshow on their macbooks set to "Homeless"?

And this always brings me back around, to am I happy? Would I be happier in Nepal, or working for the GNH campaign for no money in hopes of potentially crossing into Bhutan, or working one-on-one in Sudan or Kenya or Haiti, seeing my actions make a difference in the lives of even just one other person, instead of sitting in my cushy ergonomic chair in my Ikea-decorated office nestled in the corner of a converted mill in the center of a picturesque hippie-chic port town in New England answering emails on my ginormous Mac and insisting my scheduling and minor role in placing candidates in non-profits is going to make a difference in the world. I guess I'll never know, and have to stop wondering if I would be happier if... and realize I am happy now. But isn't complacency the enemy of growth? Isn't complacency just a coin by the aid of which all the world can, for want of essential means, pay his club-bill in society?

The man behind the music

2010-07-27T21:01:00.003-04:00

I very rarely see films at the theater anymore. It's too expensive, they usually run late and I can't stay awake for any film anyway, so why am I going to pay $10 to sleep in an uncomfortable chair, my flip-flops sticking to the floor, one hand in a bag of nasty popcorn and the other curled around a blue raspberry icee, both far too expensive. I'd much rather rent a movie from my local library, chat a bit with my local librarian, and fall asleep 4 nights in a row watching the same film until completion.

But I did see a movie this weekend. The hype around Inception was too great to ignore. So I drove on over to the movie theater at 10 pm, hoping I wouldn't fall asleep watching a movie about dreams. And surprisingly, I was wide awake. The film was stereotypical Chris Nolan, and the ending could have been guessed within the the 10 minutes. But it wasn't so much the plot which kept me awake, but the music.

It was true that the movie was amazing, as in it captivated my attention and removed me from reality for two hours. But some of the shots were too long, too wide and too ordinary. It was the music that held me. I didn't find myself often wondering when the next action was going to occur, because the music told me when. It pushed me, pulled me, held me. I think movie score composers are all too often ignored in the world of music.

When I was first learning to play music, I had a hard time with the time aspect of it. I would rush one part, slow down the other. I never really understood the pieces, however short or long. Then I had one teacher who told me to write a story under the notes. Once I put a plot to the notes, I understood it better. I wasn't just playing notes, I was telling a story. It changed the way I played classical music altogether.

So here are people, like Hans Zimmer and Rachel Portman who take entire movies, and write notes that convey the plot. Their creations are so connected to the film, and to the emotions evoked in the film, that I've seen people cry just hearing the first few measures of the Forrest Gump soundtrack. Zimmer once said whether he's working on a film like The Holiday or Inception, he strips the plot down to the most basic element: love. From there he creates a melody singular to the film, but evoking that emotion. Then he begins to layer. He layers guilt, deception, sadness, happiness, confusion and every other possible emotion the film encapsulates and he labors hours, days, months on the perfect beat, the perfect trill, the perfect signature melody. "The premiere of any film is almost like an Irish wake," he joked during one interview with NPR.

Interestingly enough, when Zimmer wrote for Inception, he didn't see the movie. Nolan showed Zimmer some designs, and Zimmer talked with the DP, but then Nolan shoved him away to write what he thought the film should sound like, what the script should really be about. Essentially, two Inceptions were crafted. A movie, and a score.

All too often, I think people ignore the music aspect of films. They leave the theater discussing the final scene, the big chase, the brazen nudity, the amount of swearing. Rarely you hear a crowd of movie goers noting the key changes, the utilization of specific instruments to evoke certain feelings or the extraction of a 1960's french singer's vocals layered over a full-orchestra. The music is either taken for granted or so entwined with the movie itself that it is lumped into one.

The next time you see a movie, in a theater or not, imagine what the film would be like without the score or with a different sound. Or take away the script and just watch the footage and listen to the music. It's amazing how once you separate the two, you realize the important synthesis of both.

I never thought I'd get married....

2010-07-16T15:39:00.002-04:00

... until I met my Tervis Tumbler. Everyday I wake up with a smile on my face, knowing that in a few short moments after I brush my teeth and adorn myself in clothes I know he will like, me and Tervy (we have pet names) will be together, sharing a cup of coffee either iced or hot, depending upon our preference (which we always decide upon together.) We hold hands as we walk to my car (well I hold him in my hand, which is kind of the same thing) and I place him next to me during my short commute to work, where we hold hands once again before I place him on my desk. Throughout the day he is there for me, from my morning caffeine boost, to my hydrating hours mid-day, and then during my caffeine re-boost of peppermint tea around 2:00pm. He's there for me on my way home, to keep my temperature regulated as I wait in traffic on 125. The nights are the hardest, when we both take time apart. Me out with my friends. Him in my dishwasher patiently awaiting the time when we are together once more. Absence makes the heart grow fonder I guess. My favorite qualities that Tervy possesses? There's so many! He's so flexible when it comes to what to drink and when. He always let's me make the decisions and he never talks back. I love that he never sweats and at anytime if I get bored or if he doesn't meet my standards, I can just trade him in for a new one.

So I really have you to thank for bringing us together. I've never been happier, or more hydrated. Thank-you Ellen for bring Tervy into my life :)

The Perfect Spot

2010-07-13T21:48:00.004-04:00

I have a hard time with afterlives. I dance back and forth about believing in them. A large part of me wants to. A large part of me wants to know that there's more after the end, and that the more includes seeing everyone I have loved or been loved by. I want that reassurance that when they finally close their eyes on this life, that one day again they will open to gaze upon me in another. But it's so irrational. There is no scientific proof. There really is no way, right?

But regardless of what we believe, even after someone passes, there is still a strong connection and desire to be close to that person or pet. We want some way to still be able to connect with them, feel them close to our hearts. Which is why a burial place is so important. It gives us who are left behind a place to go, an area to tend, a tangible outlet for our love and grief. For most human deaths, the choice of a burial site is simple. People have family plots. These things are planned ahead. But choosing the place to bury my dog was so hard. The weight of the world seemed to be on my shoulders. I was choosing her final resting place, the spot where I would go to reconnect with my best friend.

Naturally, I ran through her favorite places. Under the tree in the backyard next to the hammock, near the woodpile in the backyard. Or in a mess of green ground cover under the shade and protection of the large oak trees. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.

And as I walked around my yard, blinking back tears trying to decide where she would be happiest, I realized something. As long as she is well remembered, if sometimes she leaps through my dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where she sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or next to a rocky cave she spent countless hours chasing chipmunks into, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to Cali, and all one to me, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost -- if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.

If I bury her in this spot, the secret of which I already have, she will come to me when I call -- come to me over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to my side again. She will bound with her tail wagging, her ears flapping, her lips curled back in a smile to my side. People may scoff at me, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by her footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. But I will smile at them then, for I know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing. Because although no stone stands over where she lies, it is on our hearts that her life is engraved.

The perfect spot to bury my best friend is in my heart.

Parrot Head

2010-07-09T20:39:00.002-04:00

The other day in the Times there was an article about how people now post their outfits online to websites and have others critique their fashion sense. One lady determined her wedding dress on this site. I found this ridiculous. Why do we constantly need other people's input to run our lives? Can't we think for ourselves??? Why must we copy and repeat everything around us like mindless parrots?

But today I was thinking about my late dog. And I was on the verge of tears and in the midst of asking myself why this happened, why I let myself get so attached, and why I couldn't be more adult about it. And I found myself asking, how do other people deal with this? And it wasn't a reach to other people for emotional support thing, it was literally, how do other people deal with the loss of their pet?

I base a lot of my life on imitating others. If I'm around certain people a lot, I adopt their habits, their manner of talking and living and their humor. I base a lot of my interactions on how I see others react and cultivate relationships. I learn by example. In my life, nurture always wins over nature, because my nature is so manipulatable. And most life lessons are laid out for you, if not by your friends and family, but by movies and television. Media teach you how to fall in love, how to fall out of love, how to deal with falling in and out of love. Media teach you how to deal with the loss of a parent, sibling, friend or significant other. They teach you how to make out, have fun at college parties, dress, sneak out and lie to your parents. But what they don't teach you? How to grieve the loss of a pet.

And this is something most people don't like to talk about, because I've learned through careful investigation, that often a loss of a pet can be worse than the loss of a family member, which can be embarrassing. It's painful, it's ugly and it's incredibly difficult to deal with. But we do it behind closed doors, because no form of media shows us how. There are movies about how we foster relationships with our pets, but they all seem to end either happy or at the moment when the pet dies. You never see the aftershock. You never see the grief.

So I sat there thinking of how I should be dealing with my grief and loss and overwhelming sadness. And I realized I may not be asking other people to critique my outfit, but I was willing to ask other people how to grieve. And ironically, I have no right to critique others who are looking for advice, because I was sitting there right alongside them, asking for their advice.

Never a Formal Goodbye

2010-07-08T07:48:00.002-04:00

You'll always forget what to say

You'll remember an hour later,

even a day.

O the ones you loved so dear,

The memories from your heart

you'll never clear.

You'll look at photos,

then cry.

You'll kiss them and whisper good-bye.

You'll think I have done nothing to deserve this.

This was all up to God and Jesus

They are the ones who are supposed to be so good.

Because of Adam and Eve

they never would

Sometimes I'll think of a loved one and then say,

the seem so far away

Then I think I see them,

and I will

I love them,

still.

I was ten when I wrote that poem (during me fleeting affair with religion) when my dog of only 5 years passed away. I remember being really upset, but at the same time, not completely understanding why I felt the way I did, and how to deal with it. I kept thinking that when I was older, it would make more sense. Here I am 13 years older, and the loss of a pet hurts even more and I feel even more confused and sad than I did before. My dog wasn't just my best friend, she was my world. Burying her caused my world to collapse, and my insides to hurt in a way I never knew was possible.

The difference was, this time I knew what was coming and I had an entire day to formally say good-bye to her. An entire day to scratch her ears and stroke her head and bury my face in her scruffy neck fur. I rubbed her paws and her nose and gave her cookies and water. And yet, when the time came, I still felt unprepared. When I wrote this poem, I literally meant that I never really said good-bye to Sammy, because I didn't really understand how. Now that I can, I know that there is no formal or proper way of saying good-bye. You're always left wanting more.

Technology and Spirituality

2010-07-05T10:53:00.003-04:00

I've discussed technology and it's rapid consumption of our everyday tasks, and I've discussed religion and it's varying roles in our modern lives, but I have yet to discuss their relationship with each other. And let's be honest, technology and spirituality are the epitome of an opposite attracts marriage.

When I landed my most recent job, i discovered I was going to be given an iPhone. How exciting! My iTouch is a blast, but the lack of internet can really put a cramp in some of my awesome apps, so I immediately checked out the potential iPhone apps and one of the most popular? This guy. An app that is literally a virtual rosary. iRosary to be exact. There's also iMissal and iConfession, which helps you greater understand confession and ask a dictionary what constitutes a confession (Did you kill someone? Take the lord's name in vain? Encourage someone to have an abortion??) And it isn't just Catholicism, Buddhism is represented by iShrine and Daily Buddhist prayers.

I have always seen religion in general, as a break from modern life. I would take refuge in a church at times just to make the world stop spinning. Within the nave everything was quiet, the cold stone calmed my nerves, the clean lines a break from the craziness of the modern world. Religion, in any form, is a break. It's something special and requires moments of solace and reflection.

But now, in 2o10, religion is only a blip in one's daily life. Forgot to pray this morning? Don't worry! You can recite the rosaries on your way to work. Can't seem to figure out what to confess this week? Check out which category your sins fall under. Can't remember when to stop and pray to Mecca? Just download the app that tells you when (it's right next to the 5:00 Somewhere alarm in iTunes.) You can even roll out your virtual prayer rug!

On one hand, technology is allowing people who once may not have had the time or effort to connect with their spirituality to incorporate it back into their routine. In other, once again technopoly is taking over yet another aspect of our lives that humans can't seem to control.

Clearly, technology and spirituality is on a collision course. But shall we be consumed by our technology interfacing with our backwards spirituality?

Time and Travel

2010-06-27T11:28:00.000-04:00

Travel. It's a beautiful thing. And it's something that holds varied meanings for different people. Travel can be a morning commute, a vacation, a required business trip or a call in basketball. Travel can be a burden, a necessity or a reprieve. Travel can be too long, too short, or just the right amount of time. Travel can be relaxing, stressful or an annoyance.

Travel is the art of moving.

For me, travel is a necessity. Without traveling, my life becomes stagnant; a breeding ground for boredom, frustration and unhappiness. I always associate happiness and relaxation with my adventures, and specific memories are tightly bound to different places. The smallest minute moments that become merely a thread in the fabric of my life back home, become monumental moments when I'm traveling. Freya Stark, a British travel write once wrote, “travel does what good novelists also do to the life of everyday, placing it like a picture in a frame or a gem in its setting, so that the intrinsic qualities are made more clear. Travel does this with the very stuff that everyday life is made of, giving to it the sharp contour and meaning of art.”

The past two weeks I was back in Italy, showing a family the beauty of Europe's boot, from top to bottom. We ventured to places were I have previously spent months and to new towns I hadn't had the pleasure to previously explore. It amazed me how quickly all of this knowledge that I hadn't used in years suddenly resurfaced by a simple glance at a building or the touch of a certain stone. It also surprised me how vividly my memories returned at certain places.

As I discussed the importance of the cathedral in Piazza San Marco in Venice, I could also see Mike pantomiming feeding pigeons, and screaming when one landed on him. As I rattled off the history of the Trevi, my view of the fountain was blocked by the photos of us being taken there for Jackie's birthday. Crossing the Ponte Vecchio, I discovered I wasn't just weaving between tourists, but all my friends, as we hurried to class a few minutes early so we could grab a pastry at Cafe Ricchi. Sitting in Giglio Rossa dining on spaghetti and clams, I glanced across the tiny restaurant to find myself with my mom and friend dining on free tiramisu and chocolate cake, courtesy of the stinky waiter.

Italy is one of the only places in the world that this occurs for me, since nearly anywhere else I have only been once. Part of me hated being back there, as if these new memories and moments would mare and cloud my previous cherished moments. Every time I return to Italy, I make new memories, and part of me fears that by going back all of my experiences will stop being so important, but begin to blend in with the rest. These moments in time that were once so precious and prevalent, will fade into the background. But on the other hand, I was revisiting moments I have forgotten all about, and it was being back there that brought them back to me, back to my life.

Everyone who has ever had a close friend endure some horrible trauma always says, while rubbing their head or holding them close, that time makes memories fade, and soon, you will forget all about whatever happened. In a way, that is true. But I venture to add an appendage to that quote. Time may make memories fade, but travel, will bring them back to life.

Ever wake up one morning and think, where did my dreams go?

2010-06-07T17:55:00.006-04:00

This happened to me this morning. Well, at 2:40 a.m. to be exact. Dreams are so rich and have such an authentic feeling that scientists have long assumed they must have a crucial psychological purpose. To Freud, dreaming provided a playground for the unconscious mind; to Jung, it was a stage where the psyche’s archetypes acted out primal themes. Newer theories hold that dreams help the brain to consolidate emotional memories or to work though current problems, like unemployment and friend and money frustrations.

I have very vivid dreams, and often they are very 'in your face' about what they mean. I have dreams where I am getting ready for a trip or a move or some big event, and I can't seem to get everything together in time. I often have dreams about academia, writing papers, researching articles. Clearly I am missing the world of education. My most frequent reoccurring dream is planning a party for my deceased grandfather (but he's alive in the dream.) Somehow I manage to unite the whole family, plan a huge shindig, make all the food and create all the invitations and just when the guest of honor is about to roll in... literally.... I realize the venue isn't handicap accessible.

But this morning I awoke filled with fear. I laid in bed for over an hour digesting what I had just dreamt about, trying to rationalize my actions and my thoughts. I tried to figure out what it meant.

Essentially, the dream involved mass death of some kind, I'm assuming from an impending snowstorm, but the cause was unclear. I was somewhere with a bunch of my friends from college. We were all hanging out per usual, playing games (Turretts and electricity to be exact) when for some reason, everyone decided to leave. There was a bizarre rush to pack, to decide who was going with whom, and how to leave. The dream went from a jovial remembrance of drinking games and passing out in bushes, to a mad rush to run from something, we just didn't know what. The majority of the dream was spent dodging and hiding from something, and some people were lost in the "escape" of sorts, until finally I reached my car with only one friend in tow. We immediately tried to leave, jumped on the highway and entered into a long line of traffic also trying to escape. I remember distinctly saying over and over, that we had to go north, it was the only way out. Soon the highway went from 4 lanes, to 3 lanes, to 2 and finally there were cones blocking it off till only one lane was passable. At this point both sides of the road were piled high with snow and ice, and there along the right side of the road appeared hundreds, more like thousands, of bodies in yellow outfits. Some were already dead, others were screaming for help. My first instinct was to keep going. That there was no use in trying to save them. In doing so, I would only kill myself. It was definite that if I stopped, I would die. However, my selfless friend in the passenger seat swung open the door and jumped from my moving car, yelling out "I've got to help them" as she became lost in the sea of yellow. I drove for a few more minutes, weighing the options and freaking out and watching the color yellow seem to envelop more and more of the road around me. The color became piercing and between the contrast of the white snow and the blinding yellow, the road was nearly impossible to navigate. Was my life worth theirs? Would sacrificing myself even help them in the least? Would my presence during their death be helpful enough for me to risk my own life? And decided I had to go back to where she was, to help her help them. I drove for another few moments, literally looking for a place to turn around. And just as I pulled back onto the highway, going south, driving towards my own end, I woke up.

Dark right? And confusing. There are explanations, such as my recent obsession with watching House marathons before bed, but what got me is why I was so diehard on finding a place to turn around, instead of just turning. I kept looking for a road, or a small driveway to make the u-turn. It was if I gave myself an out. Yes, I will go back BUT only if I can find a place to turn. Why snow? Why yellow? Why that set of friends? And where was I going to? And why did I even have to think about my decision? It's interesting which one of my friends was in my passenger seat, because she is someone who I admire for her selflessness, her devotion to help others, and an almost disregard to focus on herself when others are in need around her.She is constantly embarking on journeys that I only wish I had the confidence and courage to try. I often wish I was more like her in so many ways.

Maybe I'm overthinking it. A recent study in 2009 postulates that dreaming is physiological, not psychological. “I argue that dreaming is not a parallel state but that it is consciousness itself, in the absence of input from the senses,” said Dr. Llinás, who makes the case in the book “I of the Vortex: From Neurons to Self” (M.I.T., 2001). Once people are awake, he argued, their brain essentially revises its dream images to match what it sees, hears and feels — the dreams are “corrected” by the senses.

Maybe that's true, maybe I self-corrected in that hour I was awake, curled in the fetus position and attempting to slow my heart rate to a normal beat. But there are a few things which stood out. The color of the clothes of those on the side of the road, the whiteness of the snow, the selflessness of my friend, and my inability to turn around, except when I found a suitable place.

So I guess the question is less where did my dreams go when I awoke this morning, but more of, where do they intend to take me?

For the love of food

2010-05-28T21:06:00.000-04:00

I love food (obviously, if you look at me you'd probably figure that out). But seriously. Food is so good. I love the choosing of food. The buying of food. The making of food. The eating of food. Nope... the savoring of food. but most of all, I love the sharing of the pleasure of food.

There's something about creating a dish and watching someone bite into the lasagna, the rum cake or the guerken salat and then watching their eyes close, their jaw tighten as a slow, passionate "mmmm" emerges from their closed lips. That smile of satisfaction makes preparing food for others totally worth it.

One of my biggest fears? Making food and having someone hate it or get sick from it, similar to Mr. Costanza's fear after his incident of cooking in the army.

I am embarking on an all-expenses paid trip to Italy in a few days as the private tour guide of a family of four. I am beyond excited to venture back to a country which I consider more of a home than Germany or Ireland. To smell the smells, to let Italian flow off the tip of my tongue after a carafe or two of homemade wine. I'm beyond excited to be surrounded by the beauty and history that is each and every city the train passes through. I can't wait to stand in front of the David and revel in his exquisitely chiseled butt or sit in front of The Last Judgement and try to find the faces of Michelangelo's friends in each character returning to the tender age of 33 and enduring the trial of God's assesment.

BUT I am most excited about the food. Food in Italy is more than just a fuel to maintain the tourist's excursions. Food is a gatherer. It brings people together, whether it's families, friends, or complete strangers. In all my time in the boot-shaped country, I can't begin to count the times I have made friends at a restaurant, or at a stand-up food shack, or even in a market. If you want to really explore Italy, start with the food.

When I was living in Germany, my grandmother gave me a food journal, and every day after school, she would make me a snack. And this wasn't just some veggies and dip or cereal, I mean I would get a slab of braised meat, homemade sauerkraut and some sort of fresh veggies from their garden. And each day as I ate the "snack" she would sit down and tell me about each selection on my plate, and write it in a small journal for me. I remember her telling me "You understand a person only after they have cooked for you. You trust the person, only if the food is good. You love the person if they share the joy with you. You marry the person if you don't get sick after." ("Sie verstehen eine Person, erst nachdem sie für Sie gekocht haben. Sie vertrauen der Person, nur, wenn die Nahrung gut ist. Sie lieben die Person, wenn sie die Freude mit Ihnen teilen. Sie heiraten die Person, wenn Sie nicht nachher krank werden," auf Deutsch.)

Yet in America we want our food as fast as possible, as large as possible, and for the least amount of money. It seems that we have slowly moved away from appreciating and understanding our food to merely abusing it as a fuel source, and trying to get it for as cheap as possible. We no longer appreciate our food, where it comes from, the quality of it, and how it tastes. As long as we can cover it in butter and salt and get it in a paper bag, we seem to be satisfied.

I hope we soon learn to slow down and experience food outside our car or plastic booth like other cultures do, before it's too late. I wonder if the divorce rates would lower in America if we took my German grandmother's advice, and only marry if we don't get sick after a home cooked meal. I wonder how long it will take for us to take a step back and realize to once again love our food.

If I had a million dollahs....

2010-05-22T11:55:00.001-04:00

I was listening to my Barenaked Ladies mp3 mix the other day, as I was racing down to drop off another version of a video I had created for an event 1/2 hour before the event began. I was brimming with anger after being told so late that my video wouldn't work with their technology, racing down there, risking a speeding ticket and risking a rise in my insurance. But I had to get back to nanny by 5:45 and if I didn't do drop off this dvd, then all my work would be in vain. But more importantly, I might not get paid.

As I pulled off of 495 after passing a statey going 85, Jim Creegan crooned how rich he would be with one million dollars, how he would buy monkeys and the remains of John Merrick and I started thinking, if I did have a million dollars, what would I do?

I wouldn't even know what to do with a large amount of money. I'm so used to rationing and bargaining and constantly budgeting to make sure I save a certain percentage every month. This balancing act has morphed from a balance beam over a mat to a daring high wire feat with this whole unemployment issue. When I once just knew that a certain percentage of my reliable check would go into one account, and the rest into another, I know guesstimate my income, ration my spending money, and budget for fluctuations in savings.

So what would I do with a million dollars? I guess I'd like to build a tree house with a fridge stocked with sausage (I mean, who wouldn't?). But I'd really enjoy just a few mundane things. Like new contacts, a haircut and Aussie shampoo (instead of using walmart brand baby shampoo.) So then I would have about $1,999,875. What next? Save it? Spend it? Invest it?

Give it all away????

These thoughts were tangled up in my brain for the entire car ride and for the rest of the evening. That night I got out of nannying, which on one hand was exciting, but on the other, I kept thinking, it was one week longer I had to wait for new contacts. But the next day I went over, and before I was even half-way up the driveway, the kids were bolting out the door with their arms open yelling about their day, what we could do together, and how happy they were that I was "home." The two year old grabbed my hand when I opened my car door, and told me to "sit down, relax" and for a moment I didn't think about what I would do with a million dollars or how much better my hair would look if I wasn't using the same shampoo as the little boy who was holding my hand and bursting with excitement over my arrival. Hanging out with them makes money obsolete. It makes objects obsolete. These kids love me for me, even when I discipline them or threaten no treats when they don't clean-up their dishes. Money can't buy this adoration. Money can't buy this love, not even one million dollars.

22 going on 10

2010-03-02T10:47:00.000-05:00

Unemployment. Yes, I'm going to talk about it again because it's the only thing that is truly on my mind. Well, that and a few other things including (but not withstanding) lawyers, my aunt, money, loans, teaching, painting, freelancing, clothes, manicures, world hunger, intercultural relations, and the rising cost of good coffee. But really, these are all spurred by the constant drone of unemployment.

So yes, I am still unemployed. However, I am currently working. Confusing? I'll explain. Technically, no one person has be me on their payroll, besides the Mass Unemployment office. But, I have filled my time by nannying, substitute teaching, and freelancing. And having so many irons in the fire has made me realize, I can do anything. I'm back to my 10 year old self when I was asked to write an essay on what I'd do with my life and I just wrote a list of unconnecting, ridiculous "jobs" I thought would fulfill my life. I'm pretty sure artist, children's author and dog breeder all made the cut.

So what do I do? I have upgraded from big fat red pencils and large lined paper of my elementary ed years to bookmarking and saved documents on my mac, but I still feel the same. I scan through my "job search" tab and I see an acceptance for a job in India (to which one of the funniest people in the world responded to with a "holy cow" when I told her of the offer) and a filled-out (but not yet sent application) to Lesley University to become an elementary ed teacher. I have three requests for an au pair job in Germany, about 35 open positions with non-profits, 4 study abroad programs I want to work for, and about 15 pages on how to move to Rome or Ireland and make a living. Scattered around me on my desk are photographs from my travels (perhaps a career in photography?), paints and canvases of acrylics I have begun and yet to finish, some old calligraphy projects half-done and beginning to fade, and a visa application to Nepal, check attached. God am I confused.

Literally, I am at yet another juncture in my life where I can do anything. There is nothing to hold me back. But I can't make up my mind because there is just too much to do! I am back to looking at the world through 10 year old eyes (and some rather large-framed multi-colored glasses that were cool back in the late 90's) and seeing not a bunch of closed doors funneling me towards one goal, but a vast expanse of breezy doorways, each leading me to a different and interesting life. Which do I choose? Do I stay? Do I go? Do I play it safe or throw caution into the wind? Do I leave family and friends behind and embark on something new? Or do I remain where all things are comfortable, where everyone knows my name.

For now I'll finish what I have started, tie up old ends to the best of my ability and try to refrain from starting anything new. That way, I have no more excuses of throwing caution into the wind. That way, I can start anew. That way, I can start ignoring the fact that I'm 22 and fulfill my 10 year old dreams.

I miss it so. (translation)

2010-03-01T21:25:00.000-05:00

If you walk down until the end of Via del Tritone, you will hear the rush of angry water as it calls you to the most famous attraction in all of Rome: the spectacular Trevi Fountain.

La Fontana di Trevi was designed by Bernini, but it was built a hundred years later by a man named Niccolo Salvi. Upon completion of the spectacular fountain, Salvi committed suicide.

The composition of the fountain is what draws hundreds of thousand of visitors to its crowded steps. Neptune stands triumphantly on his horses, while the rocky landscape and waterfall are at the heart of the fountain, whose name derives from its position of intersection of three roads.

Neptune on his horses surrounded by rushing water and commanding the small amphitheater, was a secret pleasure for years for Roman citizens, until Italian Cinema turned the majestic fountain into a national icon.

The Fellini film "La Dolce Vita," shows an American woman and a young man, who indulge in the “sweet life” and selfishly bathe in the fountain. This famous scene is what has led many tourists to this work of art, each secretly craving to jump in and douse themselves in the holy water rushing around Neptune and his cavalli. Day and night, tourists fill the square, rejecting the trinkets sold by the men on the streets, just to have a chance to turn their backs and throw a coin in the fountain wishing to return to Rome.

Sitting with your back to the street watching this watery stage, you lose touch with reality. While your eyes focus on the streams of water pouring over the expert sculptures, you succumb to the baroque theater and you surrender to the illusion, never to be distracted from the spectacle you have in front of the eyes; Neptune leading his horses into watery battle amidst his minions strongly blowing their trumpets. His gaze proudly promising to those who offer a coin to la Fontana to once again return to the Eternal City.

Lo manco così tanto.

2010-02-28T15:37:00.000-05:00

Cammina giu’ fino alla fine di Via del Tritone e ascolterai l’acqua “arrabbiata” che ti chiama verso la più famosa attrazione di tutta Roma: la spettacolare Fontana di Trevi.

La Fontana di Trevi è stata disegnata dal Bernini, ma non fu costruita che cento anni più tardi da un uomo di nome Niccolò Salvi. Lui si è ucciso dopo averla costruita. Nettuno, che sta in piedi trionfante sui cavalli, il paesaggio roccioso e la cascata, sono il fulcro della fontana, il cui nome deriva dalla sua posizione di incrocio delle tre strade.

La posizione grandiosa di Nettuno che domina sta comandando il piccolo anfiteatro era un gioia segreto per anni, fino a che il cinema italiano ne ha fatto un’icona nazionale.

Il film di Fellini, “La Dolce Vita,” mostra una donna americana, giovane, che indulge nella dolce vita e si bagna nella fontana, cosa che ha portato molti turisti verso questa opera d’arte. Di giorno e di notte i turisti riempiono la piazza, rifiutando i ninnoli venduti dagli uomini sulle strade, solo per avere una possibilità fanno testa o croce sulla loro spalla per ritornare a Roma.

Seduto con la schiena alla strada guardando questo spettacolo “palco acquoso”, tu perdi il contatto con la realtà, mentre i tuoi occhi guardano da un ruscello d’acqua al successivo. Soccombi al teatro barocco e ti arrendi all’illusione. Non ti può distrarre niente dallo spettacolo che hai di fronte agli occhi, mentre Nettuno guida i suoi cavalli “arrabbiati” e i suoi servi soffiano le loro trombe molto forte.

Il suo sguardo fiero promette a chi offre una moneta alla Fontana: ci troveremo ancora una volta a Roma.

A lack of intimacy; the death of written discourse

2010-01-26T10:27:00.000-05:00

In this age of instant messaging, email, and cell phones, we often think of communication as an immediate priority. We lose some of the intimacy and finesse of the writers of years gone by. Ornate letters describing emotions, devotions and occasions have fallen away to "quick texts, t9word and abbrevs. Msgs tend to be choppy, full of acronyms and mispelings. There is no grace to our correspondence anymore.

As a child, receiving mail was the most exciting part of my day. Getting letters from my grandpa or great aunts was so enthralling. I'd pour over the card, the stationary or the lined paper, running my fingers over the individual letters, imagining my relatives sitting there relating their lives to me stroke by stroke. A typed letter can never provide the entire picture, with each letter, a laser copy of each other letter, so perfect in form. Typed letters can not convey the emotional warmth that comes from imperfect handwriting, where a difference in style could signal an uplifting feeling, or deepest despair. I loved comparing the different scripts of my authors, adopting my favorite aspects of each person's handwriting contriving my own individual and unique pencraft.

My love for hand written notes has only grown with age. Throughout college I would anxiously open my mailbox hoping for a letter from a friend, a family member, or even a professor or mentor. I even wrote articles on the magic of letters and how they affect people, especially soldiers at war. While abroad I think I sent around 50 postcards to friends, family and my boyfriend. Although this cost me way more than it would to shoot an email, the purchasing of the post cards from every city i visited, sitting at cafes crafting the messages and the purchasing of stamps from the tiny shops were part of the adventure. I admit, writing them was probably a selfish act, as I believe I gained more joy from the creation of the postcards than those who received them.

A letter, even a short one, can be symbolic of dedication. It shows commitment because it takes a little more time and care to organize ones thoughts and put them on paper. In addition, the written word is permanent and physical, two things that are a big part of committed relationships. A letter forces you to state your feelings with permanence and, if you are practiced and take your time, clarity. It is a lot harder to deny what we have written than it is to deny what we've said.

Not to mention the privacy which is a part of the letter. Once written, unless carelessly taken care of, they are for one person's eyes only. They are secure. Abigail Adams never meant for her letters to John to reach the public. Keats never wrote a word thinking that one day, it would be reprinted all over the media. There is no letter footprint, if you don't want there to be. If the words are too scandalous to be seen by others, a simple match erases their existence.

In the past year, the incrimination that has come along with digital professions of love have gotten two "celebrities" knee deep. In Woods’s case the key digital footprint was a voice-mail message left for Jaimee (“mistress No. 2”) Grubbs warning her that his wife was getting suspicious. Back in the day, if you wrote to a girl what Mark Sanford wrote to his mistress — “I love the curves of your hips, the erotic beauty of you holding yourself (or two magnificent parts of yourself) in the faded glow of night’s light” — you’d write the message on paper, which doesn’t fly up into the “cloud” where somebody can hack into your lover’s e-mail account, steal your rhapsody and share it with a South Carolina newspaper. How different the world would be if only Woods and Sanford were true romantics looking for intimacy on a deeper level than just the physical.

Even today, as exciting as it is to receive a phone call, writing letters to my friends from Indiana to Florida to Germany, is a part of my weekly regiment. Updates on my life and my stationary are carefully documented in a 4x5 card, sealed with my own lips and mailed by my own hands. And then I wait in anticipation of one of them putting their hands into their mailboxes, sighing as they pull out bill upon bill and amidst the Bank of America charges and the utility bills, there will be my slim hand written letter divulging my most recent happenings and my future plans. My intimate hopes, my dreams, my emotions. And that's only if you don't read between the lines.

Is this real life?

2010-01-21T10:10:00.000-05:00

Last year that phrase become synonymous with a viral video of a young boy reacting to dental surgery, unable to deal with the drugs that they used to knock him out. This year, that phrase inundates every one of my thoughts as I look around myself and and wonder, is this my real life?

Unemployed, watching Little House on the Prairie, cooking incessantly, and decoupaging. Is this what life is all about? Is this real? I don't mean in the "are our dreams real and real life our dreams" or in "the matrix" sense. I mean, it just doesn't feel real. I feel like I'm just pretending. Like I'm just existing until the next big thing happens, something exciting and monumental which will launch me into the next adventure of my life.

I guess I justify real life as in what my sister is doing. She's married, she's having a kid, she's buying a house, building a fence and buying a dog. That makes life real, right? But what if I don't want any of those things, besides the dog. Does that mean my life will never be real?

I constantly question my life choices, wondering if I made the right choices, said the right things, responded in the right way, and usually being busy limits this pondering to only about 15 minutes of my day, right before I fall asleep. But all of this extra time to think and talk out loud to my dog, I've begun to question everything in my life. If it's my fault I've lost people, lost my job, lost faith etc. I've begun questioning who I really am. What my real likes and dislikes are and how much I've created in order to fit in with certain people. But if it's something I've conjured within myself, then perhaps it has really become a part of me.

Sometimes I wish I could just strip down and start anew, a bare naked personality with the ability to truly discover me. To find out the real me. So that I could rebuild, and confidently go out and embark on my real life, whatever that may be

It Takes a Village

2009-12-31T02:00:00.000-05:00

My favorite game as a child was one my sister and I invented and it was a simple name for a not so simple game.

We called it Village (with a capital V) and essentially we would take all of our figurines collected from ventures to Disney World, make them into "families" and build houses for each family. Within each village we would have a rich end, a "dodgy" area and doctors and restaurants and car salesmen. All of these places were created by lining up magazines on the dining room floor, making streets. Then, we used tons of pennies as currency which doubled as money. People had jobs at the establishments, and every night everyone in the household had to be able to "eat" a penny. If someone couldn't eat (it was always the youngest in the household) then they had to go to jail. 3 times in jail (we kept a log of everyone in the town) then they died. On top of this, there were required vaccinations for outbreaks, certain parts of town only accessible by cars, entertainment nights at the restaurants, sales and resales of expensive homes, vet appointments... everything. And it would last for weeks on end. My mom would hate it because it meant she couldn't clean for those weeks, in case she would disturb the village.

But we did this all without any technology. We created a world of logic and reason, of death and rebirth, of medical crises and entertaining ways to spend the evening. Relationships budded, families grew, old people died, and the poor were killed off until their family was small enough to survive. We logged jail sentences.

I'm surprised we weren't tested for being autistic. Looking back, what kind of freaks were we? While everyone else was watching cable and Nick at Nite, we were advertising the great dance routine of Shamu downtown at the old Wolf Howl pub, One Night Only!

But we learned so much along the way. Since the day we started, to the last village we deconstructed (I can remember the day and what I was wearing the last time we resurrected that great village) we were constantly learning, and we facilitated everything. From the spacial construction, to the emotional connections between families... everything! I may have lacked some social skills when I was younger due to not having all the things the "cool" kids had, but spending hours and hours playing with my sister taught me a lot more valuable lessons to be taken through life. It literally took a Village.

My favorite things

2009-12-22T18:44:00.000-05:00

2 days until Christmas. Can you feel the excitement?? Also, two days of being unemployed. Can you feel the depression?

I've decided to try and keep my thoughts positive by drowning out the negatives with Christmas music... and lots of it. And do you know how frequently "My Favorite Things" plays on the radio? How is that even a Christmas song? The only winter lyrics is something about cream-colored mittens. Or is that kittens? Regardless, it got me thinking about my top ten favorite things. So here goes (in no particular order.)

1) Traveling. Is this really a surprise? A life without traveling is like reading a book without ever opening the cover. It's not possible.

2) My dog. That furry beast is the best thing in my life, period. She means more to me than most of my friends do and I only hope one day that if I ever spawn a child, I love it half as much as I love my dog.

3) The Holidays. I can't say I love Christmas because the actual day is alright, but that month in between Thanksgiving and Christmas with everyone being cheery and the music and the snow and the sparkles.... love it!

4) Sleeping. I really really like my bed and it's pretty much the comfiest bed in the history of beds. But I also really enjoy sleeping... anywhere. I'll sleep on hearths, I'll sleep on sidewalks, couches, floors, plywood, steps... really if I get the urge, I can do it just about anywhere. I should probably get tested for narcolepsy.

5) My biddies. Good God do I love my biddies. From SMC, to Rome, to Home, love them all to death.

6) Playing Wii Mario Party hungover drinking cream soda and eating oreos.... with my biddies.

7) Reading. My room is cluttered with novels. I love reading books, I love writing in books about how i feel about what I'm reading, and I love collecting those books and looking back years later to see what I wrote. I like even better to lend those books out and have someone else mark them up, give them back to me, and read what they wrote. I think I just like finding out what other people are thinking. I love Hemingway. I love terse sentences. I like disjointed paragraphs, hanging clauses. Witty remarks, puns and word play. Jane Austen is my hero. (Note: I hate punny names for hair salons though)

8) Volunteering and global issues. I lump these two together because I feel that the only real way to understand global issues is to volunteer there (a book can only take you so far) and this is something in my life I would really like to do. It's on my bucket list (thank you Jack Nicholson)

9) Daffodils. I don't know where my obsession with daffodils originates, but I love them. They're so beautiful and happy and you can only get them a certain time of year. Very rarely can you get them in bouquets. I like that about them.

10) Wolves. It's so cliche, so ridiculous and so 3rd grade, but I love wolves. I won't bow my head and pray to always protect them, but I think they are a very interesting creature, and look a lot like my dog. So that probably is a reason why I like them so much.

So there you have it folks. A few of my favorite things this Christmas season. Enjoy these last two days!!! Happy Holidays!

Loving the Logic

2009-12-15T14:11:00.000-05:00

Logic Puzzles. They are little pages chock full of squares and charts and clues and you have to determine who goes with who and brought what to the party. It's hard to explain, but it's like a crossword puzzle, except with x's and checks instead of words.... sorta.

Anyways, these dorky puzzles hold a dear place in my heart. I remember this quizzical joy from my elementary school windpant-wearing days. Friday would roll around and Mrs. Bean would be exhausted from trying to keep us in line for the week and she'd hand out these logic puzzles and tell us to spend the afternoon trying to work them out. Most of the kids would use this time to hide under the table and play mash (omg I'm going to live in a mansion with Tyler?? GROSS!) but me, being the dork that my parents groomed me to be, would push up my huge glasses, tuck my Zach Hanson hair behind my ears and hunker down, trying to solve this puzzle. More often than not, I'd finish it, and ask for another one.

Since I graduated from that little academy, logic puzzles have slowly slipped out of my life, being replaced by Friday afternoon algebra, and then eventually naps, then dates, then drinking and now they've been replaced by friday evenings on the couch with my dog and Frasier marathons. BUT one day at work, as I wrangled my way through another financing mess, trying to backtrack and discern who did what when and how it can be fixed, i realized, I was completing a real-life logic puzzle.

Of course I immediately google-searched free-online logic puzzles and there they were, an unlimited amount of logic, boxes, x's and clues and suddenly, as I sat there in my office, I swore I could hear the faint "swish-swish" of my wind pants as I walked up to Mrs. Bean's desk and politely asked "please miss, I'd like some more."

So if you find yourself bored on a friday, or a wednesday for that matter, and you don't feel like adding up numbers in Sudoku or knowing obscure words in crosswords, then try out some of these logic puzzles and exercise your brain. Your 85 year old self will thank-you.

Do I?

2009-12-14T15:26:00.000-05:00

Today is the start of my last week officially working. I don't even know what to do with myself. I am excited for the future, but depressed about no longer being employed. Leaving this establishment may be one of the saddest moments of my life. I began here 5 years ago with a book, wearing heels and spent the majority of that summer reading and making files. I barely talked to anyone and abused the company fax to send hilarious messages back and forth to a friend who also had an almost as boring job. Today, I'm marketing for 5 different venues, I manage a/r and a/p for a networking company. I am trusted to take on some of the most difficult and intricate tasks, simply because the employees have the confidence in me to do it not just well, but perfectly. I have built a rapport I don't think I will ever have anywhere else. Some of my closest friends work here. But Friday at 5, when I walk out these doors, it will all be over. I sign-up for unemployment in less than a week and my life literally becomes a blur of hours job searching and sending resumes and cover letters.

Or does it? One good thing about having close friends in a large office, is how many people are trying to pull strings for me to find a job. Whether it's trying to hire me in their own business or calling friends from their old places of work or contacting family members, everyone seems to know someone who is willing to help.

But that's the next big task, what do I choose? Everything has always been so comfortable here. Now everything is so uncertain. Do I want to take an internship for a pay cut at a fast-growing PR firm? Therefore by May, do I get offered a full-time position or am I thrown back into the influx of recent college grads looking for a job? Do I hold out and hope my connections at Feld Entertainment follow through and I land a job with Disney? Do I keep hoping that the separate PR firm who is trying to find ways to financially support a new hire, find a way financially to hire me? Do I move back to my old college town and support a cause I have always been passionate about and make no money? Do I stay at home and just job search all day and watch Martha Stewart discuss the importances of cheese? Do I travel around Europe for a bit and waste more money? DO I?

I feel like this juncture in my life is so important and will determine how I spend the next 10 years.

As depressed and confused as I have been as of late due to this lack of somewhere to go each day, I have kept trying to make myself think of the positives. I have a loving family and people trying to help me. I have a roof over my head and food and enough savings to survive for quite awhile without getting worried about money. I have wonderful friends and family, an awesome puppy and a nephew on the way. What's a job anyway?

Things will work out, I keep telling myself, and someday soon (hopefully) I'll discover where I should be going with my life...

But one thing for certain is, if I don't find this under my Christmas Tree on Christmas morning, I will be very very upset.

Paycheck to Paycheck

2009-12-04T15:06:00.000-05:00

The way Americans define themselves are by their jobs.

If you meet someone at a cocktail party the second thing they ask you (after, how are you?) is what you do. And your reply will undoubtedly decide whether or not that person will stick around for the conversation. It can go one of four ways.

"I'm an executive for xyz" -- the person will probably stick around because they'll assume you're wealthy and motivated and good in bed.

"I'm an trashman" -- intrigued, they might continue the conversation or might leave, depending upon how far the stick is up their ass

"I'm a stay-at-home-mom/dad" -- this will bring on a slew of questions about your kids. This one works pretty well

"I'm in between jobs" -- read: I am unemployed, poor and probably hungry. Usually a polite smile and a long drink is what follows this declaration as well as a silent ring from their turned-off cellphone that they just have to answer.

Why do we rely so heavily on the title on our business card (if we even have one?) Who cares what we do? How much we earn? If we wear a suit or the color of our collar? Let's judge people on what really matters. The size of their heart, the authenticity of their laughter, the warmth of their hugs. Landing a job is luck.

It's who you know, not who you are.

In two weeks I will be in this same spot. As everyone gathers at my parent's Christmas party I will have to politely remark when they ask me what I'm doing for work, that I am currently looking for a job and I dread those long faces when they act sad for me and mumble something about the economy being the way it is.

So the next time you meet someone or meet-up with an old friend, don't ask them what they're doing for a job or what they're doing in general (because that usually implies a work situation) instead ask them about their hobbies, what they did last weekend, their kids, their dog, when they got their haircut. Because if you really care about them and want to know them, ask about what matters. Not who cuts their paycheck.

A forest of friendship

2009-12-02T13:59:00.000-05:00

Webster defines family as: any group of persons closely related by blood, as parents, children, uncles, aunts, and cousins.

That's one way of looking at it.

But for me, growing up in a very very small family, I have a bit of a skewed definition I guess. For me, family isn't a blood relation, it's someone who I love and trust and would do anything for. This very often includes close friends and in some situations, excludes those who are related by blood. But is this so wrong? Is it wrong to have a family friend be more of an aunt than your mother's sister? Is it wrong for a best friend to be your sister from another mister?

Sesame Street never addressed these issues. They focused on the single parent, the grandparents as guardians, the orphan, the racially confused, but never the family circle full of friends instead of blood relations. Just because they might not be able to give me a blood transfusion doesn't mean I can't love them like a family member. I grew up very confused and scared of large yellow birds. (One of those issues still haunts me today)

While other families gather for the holidays, my small pod of 4 beings (mom, dad, sister and dog) were used to uniting over an extravagant dinner and relaxing in front of the television surrounded by Christmas cards or Easter cards or thanksgiving cards sent from friends. No relatives swung by, no Aunt Dolores falling asleep in the chair or Grandpa Joseph rehashing his war stories. Just us. Simply us, and all our friends who sent us their blessings.

Perhaps that is why today my friends mean so much to me, since growing up, it was demonstrated to me how important friendships truly are (sometimes more important than relatives). I know that when/if I ever have kids, they will have more than my one sister as their aunt. They will have a broad network of relatives around the world because of regardless of family trees, my friends will adore them and treat them as a relative.

So, perhaps my family tree is a bit puny. But it grew and flowered amongst a forest of friendship.

It's not the giving or the getting, it's the loving

2009-12-01T12:42:00.000-05:00

Anyone remember the 1987 Garfield Christmas special aired on NBC?

I do only because my wonderful parents taped it for me. And every Christmas season (and July) I watch this special and remember the magic of Christmas.

Here's a quick synopsis. Garfield, Odie and John go to John's parents house in the woods for Christmas. Shenanigans ensue including Garfield eating way too much, a cranky brother of John's wearing hideous overalls, John's grandmother doing too many sit-ups and Garfield finding an old stack of Grandma's love letters from her husband while Odie is in the garage making a special back scratcher for Garfield. Garfield loves lasagna.

And yes, this 30 minute special encapsulates the reason why I love Christmas so much. Because here there is an unfortunate gaggle of people gathering for the holiday season. Tempers flare, the right gifts are pondered, things go wrong, Binky the clown appears and too much food is eaten. But in the end, it isn't the gifts that matter, how much presents cost, who gave what and who got what, it's the love that is shared. Garfield -- the oh so wise Tabby cat -- concludes the special with this simple phrase:

"It's not the giving, it's not the getting. It's the loving."

For me, the holiday season is about showing others how much you love them, whether it's with a gift that costs 100$ or 5$ or nothing at all. Which is why I hate Christmas lists. When I get a gift, I want it to be from the heart. It's something i know that person (or persons) will adore because it shows how much I know and love them and want them to enjoy the magic of this day for 2 hours at a day spa or all year round with a new itouch or for 2 weeks when they watch the old episodes of their favorite tv show in the 80's.

The magic of Christmas has something to do with the excitement of opening gifts (I won't lie) BUT the really happiness derives from the smile within as that person realizes how much they mean to me, and forever will, regardless of the day, month or season.

So this year, even though your budget may be small, think about the people around you. What would make them happiest. If it's a $200 a night stay at a swanky hotel, then maybe money will be tight for a month. If it's a personal collection of classic crossword puzzles bound together, then great. This time of year isn't about you and money, it's about others and what they love.

Remember, it's not the giving, it's not the getting, it's the loving.