Law & Order

Today marks the six month anniversary of my father’s death. In Serbia, while ancient customs such as exhuming the interred and performing a double-burial have long been unobserved, it is still customary for family and friends to gather and remember. Nothing was planned, but I took the day off and came up with a number of things to do to commemorate the day. All of which were making me tremendously depressed. After a while, I started doing homework as a distraction.

How would I know my assignment would be relevant to my father’s life?

I am studying financial statements, a banal topic. More specifically how to analyze them, how to identify inconsistencies, and the impact of certain attributes or transactions on a company's health and ability to grow.

What does this have to do with my father? He was a successful businessman at one point in his career, working in an industry that dealt in large, frequent cash transactions. He was a generous man and trusting of his business partners - to a fault. He became lax about monitoring employees, making the mistake of thinking that if he treated people well they would extend similar courtesies. He was unaware that opportunists lurked, waiting for the best time to strike.

And strike they did.

I won’t go into detail, but what resulted in my father’s business was a cash crisis. His operations were fraudulently mismanaged to the point where his payable and receivable cycles no longer matched; meaning when bills came due, the money that was owed wasn’t coming for several more months.

My professor cautioned our class with a well-known business maxim, “Always remember that cash flow is king, inability to generate cash will cause your business to fail.”

This is true for any business (internet start-ups take heed; you can’t live off of credit alone.) By the time my father realized what was happening, he couldn’t reverse the dramatic impact on his trade cycle. As a result, he unknowingly bounced a check to the government, raising red flags and he couldn't afford future errors.

Despite selling hard assets to make ends meet, the cash flow crunch continued to cause a meltdown in his operations. The strength of his company relied upon his ability to deliver goods in a timely manner and he needed to stretch his cycles, causing suppliers and customers alike to get pissed at him and withhold goods and payment. Because of the inability of his business to catch up to the disruption in cash flows and subsequent reluctance of banks to lend to him due to questionable credit, he went bankrupt. It was a massive and miserable domino effect.

I believe it was the decline of his business, dreams, and hopes that led to the physical and emotional deterioration that marked him over the last 18 years. Don’t get me wrong, my father was a fighter, he built a new business, but was unable to achieve the type of peak performance he’d once enjoyed due to setbacks that seemed to mount endlessly.

This has been one of the strangest weeks in my life. I don't often talk about the ineffable, but I do believe in a Divine Order to life and death which is coming together in ways I’d never anticipated, like learning about cash flow statements and unlocking one of the mysteries of my father’s life. I never understood the mechanics of what had happened to his business. It has haunted me for a long time.

A Defense of Love Like Ours

This was inspired by my cousin, who wrote a post asking readers to tell her what they are grateful for.

I’ll give it a shot.

My husband.

He’s an honest, obvious choice.

Friday we were driving home from a date and I said, “Mike, I’m so glad we’re together.”

“Yeah, what would you do if you were still single?" He challenged, joking, "You’d have no one to yell at…and no one to yell back.”

Anyone who is unmatched knows the din of their own voice faintly echoed back when there is no one to receive it. Whether it’s an empty room, the wrong partner, or someone whose shouting drowns yours.

Mike and I have the perfect volley.

And while I could end this post and leave readers musing “aw, how sweet”, I’m compelled to palpate the subject further. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it fairly clinical.

I found the pleasure of Mike’s audience and companionship so satisfying, that I got to the point where I couldn’t fathom doing a thing without telling him about it or wishing he had been there. Unlike the familiar stupid ache of obsession, or vanity of not wanting to be alone (that which kept me close to other men) such idiocy was happily absent from our interactions. There was simple, pure, mutual adoration. Our relationship lined up in that which is logical, unavoidable.

Last week he said, "We're made for each other. It's an inevitability." This came after a morning of benign bickering, seated at a deli, sharing a plate of cheese, olives, and salami. A few tears were rolling down my face; I had just seen a man with a moustache like my father’s. Mike offered me his drink as a distraction.

"I don't like grape soda." I grumbled.

"Okay, what's your favorite flavor?"

"I don't have one."

"What's your favorite fruit?"

"Raspberry."

"That's what this is, they mislabeled it."

Weeks before our wedding, Mike offered me G.K. Chesterton’s essay, A Defence of Rash Vows, as an argument for our pending nuptials. Chesterton says, “The man who makes a vow makes an appointment with himself at some distant time or place. The danger of it is that himself should not keep the appointment.”

I thought how most women would have retreated from the seemingly unromantic sentiment. But the essay continues,

“A modern man refrains from swearing to count the leaves on every third tree in Holland Walk, not because it is silly to do so (he does many sillier things), but because he has a profound conviction that before he had got to the three hundred and seventy-ninth leaf on the first tree he would be excessively tired of the subject and want to go home to tea. In other words, we fear that by that time he will be, in the common but hideously significant phrase, another man.”

We faced the extraordinary as ordinary people, uncertain of our capacities to love, walking the edge of what might be considered insanity. But instead of hiding from our insecurities alone, we climbed into the same foxhole.

“And if we consider seriously and correctly the nature of vows, we shall, unless I am much mistaken, come to the conclusion that it is perfectly sane, and even sensible, to swear to chain mountains together, and that, if insanity is involved at all, it is a little insane not to do so.”

Mike supplied the logic of Chesteron’s position, the chaining together of two mountains, as perfectly rational. That he could touch the seriousness of marriage with irreverent yet profound musings from a fat old philosopher assured me I wasn’t dealing with “another man.” Though it felt a little like a grade school boyfriend vowing lifelong love after seeing his girl on the swing-set, it was his best and most honest expression.

And I accepted, more certain than ever.

“The man who made a vow, however wild, gave a healthy and natural expression to the greatness of a great moment. He vowed, for example, to chain two mountains together, perhaps a symbol of some great relief of love, or aspiration…The modern aesthetic man would, of course, easily see the emotional opportunity; he would vow to chain two mountains together. But, then, he would quite as cheerfully vow to chain the earth to the moon. And the withering consciousness that he did not mean what he said, that he was, in truth, saying nothing of any great import, would take from him exactly that sense of daring actuality which is the excitement of a vow.”

I’m grateful that doubt doesn’t long cloud our minds after a fight, that death’s fierceness cannot cause us to withdraw from each other, and that having won a logical, not whimsical, arguement for love rules our hearts and vows.

Here Comes the Judge

My day began at 6am, preparing for an 8am court date. I needed to budget time to drive the vast stretch of 55mph highway where I was awarded my speeding ticket a few weeks earlier. Cars zoomed past, drivers shot angry looks my way. I smiled, “May a similar fate befall you.”

Self-righteous, smug, empty inside, I trolled along.

I was pissed I needed to appear in court. They’d rejected a stunning letter I’d crafted in lieu of a hearing. Dear Sir or Madame, my opener, peppered with zingers like, if it please the court, for finesse. I indicated my willingness to accept responsibility, yet signaled open-mindedness towards paying court costs.

They wanted none of my verbal shenanigans. They wanted reckoning. Their flimsy postcard summons a mocking response to my heavy stock paper and matching envelope.

Reckon I would. I donned cowboy boots, wide leg sailor pants, a striped shirt and sweater vest. Possibly one of my better ideas. When I feel like shit, an unconventional outfit makes me feel like I’m still doing something right. The ability to pair odd patterns and textures soothes me.

The courtroom waiting area felt like a casting call for a reality show. There was a woman who, tragically, took styling cues from Hillary Clinton. She was outfitted in a deadly combination of pale pink blazer, black tapered pants, off-black pumps with a wilted leather rosette, and a red purse. Her face expressed tempered shock, she wanted to say, “I don’t belong here.”

An Indian-Brit sauntered around, his pug nose and superb color coordination giving him away. He wore light-brown check pants, slightly worn-in deep brown polo, argyle socks, and knock-off Prada driving loafers. He peered over wire-rimmed glasses at me. I began to unsubtly fiddle with my wedding ring to help him get a clue.

There was an attorney with a disastrous dye job, as if he had dipped the ends in black ink. He waved papers and flailed his briefcase around in an effort to evade the metal detector with his importance. Didn’t work. He rushed towards his client, alternating between talking loudly, then leaning closer to whisper strategy, as if their plan was to tackle the judge.

Then there was the impossibly sexy older foreigner. She may have been Eastern European judging by the spelling of her last name which the officer didn’t attempt to pronounce. Like our Hillary clone she carried a red purse, but it, along with her face said something different.

And who was I? The hesitant 20-something peering behind her bangs, branding each person with personal pre-judgement. She was thinking of something sad, staring out the skylight, holding back tears because that’s what she does when she’s alone.

Secrets for Looking Great in a Publicity Shot

Penelope Trunk recently twittered that she felt she looked “fat” and “structurally ugly” in a New York Times photo. First, not true; second, there are many people who feel they are simply not photogenic.

As an opera singer, I’ve had to do a lot of headshots and photo ops, and I used to design hair and makeup for theatre productions during my undergrad. I thought I’d compile some of my favorite “secrets” for a great photo shoot. Please keep in mind photography and its subject matter is a highly developed art form, this list is non-exhaustive, and doesn’t apply to fashion or artistic photography.

1. Don’t Sweat It. I’m sure microderm abrasion is doing wonders for you – but a matte face is best for your high-profile appearance. Save the dewy look for the beach or nightclub, it reads as grease or sweat in a photo. Men, I’m talking to you too. There are near-invisible powders and lotions that can instantly de-grease a face. Two of my favorites are Paula’s Choice Mattifying Concentrate and Origins Zero Oil. Everyone’s skin is different, so the best idea is to gather a bunch of samples from cosmetics counters, then test them out before committing.

2. Don’t Look Up. If a bandit with a camera tells you to look up at your ceiling and takes your photo from this angle, politely decline. This asinine pose is often recommended in attempts to make the subject look "fun" or "approachable." Be assured, this shot is only appropriate for 9 year old girls vying for Orphan Annie in the community musical, or ironically, Playboy models. Nothing says “Don’t take me seriously” like this pose, akin to begging for table scraps. Plus, an upward angled chin only serves to spread your face out. Go ahead, try it in a mirror. Now, try tilting your head slightly downward. If you don’t overdo it, this should be a perfect angle for a photo. If you are worried about a double chin, that’s what make-up shading is for, trust me.

3. Listen to the Voices in Your Head. "A picture is worth a thousand words." Well, make sure you've rehearsed your lines. A great photographer may pull a story out of you, but don't rely on it. Create a story to go along with the image or personality you are trying to convey, then repeat it to yourself as you sit for the photo. It will come across on your face. If you don't have a personality, make one up!

For example, when I played a Russian prince for Strauss’ opera, Die Fledermaus, I spent a lot of time imagining what a young man would talk like, act like, walk like. I taped down my boobs and shoved socks down my pants. For a photo shoot I don’t suggest such theatrics unless you are appearing in drag, but the point still stands: I was more of a “man” when I rehearsed the story and kept it in mind. So, you have to be thinking of something besides, “I’m uncomfortable and I’m going to look so fat in this photo.” Because then you will.

4. Become a Narcissist. Having confidence is an important trait that shows through in a photo. Not all people are born with an innate sense of self-worth, but it is a skill that can be learned. There is no way you can be in the public eye and not at least pretend you love yourself. I've struggled with low self-esteem my whole life, but I have learned to transform my thinking when I’m performing or speaking in public. If I can’t at least feign confidence, no one is going to take me seriously.

5. Observe and Mimic the Best. Make sure to ongoing-ly people-watch and imitate those who you are attracted to. I’m not talking about people who are good-looking, but people who carry themselves well, and look confident, comfortable, approachable. You can learn so much by observing successful people in their element. Then, observe yourself in a mirror or practice run-through with a helpful friend willing to take some snapshots. Most people don't realize how awkward they look because they don't rehearse ahead of time.

The best part of following my advice is that one day you might hope to look like this...

How To Instantly Make Everyone Love You and Lose 10 Pounds by Tomorrow and Make 1 Million Dollars in One Month

Alternate Title: I, Not Robot

The dread. I’m trying to learn more about making my blog searchable and web-friendly. The number one tip is: Get rid of your cutesy titles.

I like my cutesy titles, even if most of the time they are an inside joke with myself. That’s why I started this blog, for entirely selfish reasons. I needed to sort out the heavy emotions of the past year, I needed some time out, I needed to feel like 5 to 10 people a day I didn’t know thought I was kind of cool. Eventually I started writing somewhat coherently which is why I think BrazenCareerist picked me up.

Then I noticed they kept changing my blog titles for their site. “It’s cool…” I thought, “otherwise the robots won’t find me.” It’s saying stuff like “otherwise the robots won’t find me” that make a blog completely unsearchable, but I suppose it makes a blog more recognizeable to humans.

Steve Pavlina, a straight talking (yet frustratingly long-winded) author who focuses on what he calls Personal Developement for Smart People, talks about congruency all the time. His article about monetizing and optimizing your blog is pretty forthright. He makes a great point, don’t be half-assed about it. You wanna make money with your blog? Then be balls to the walls. Write great content. And learn SEO. And learn enough HTML/CSS to be dangerous, and all the other things that make your blog searchable. In other words, let the robots find you.

I'm not so much looking to make money from my blog, but the article made me think: Would it be incongruent to ditch my cute titles, awkward word pairings, and oft-meandering babble for more clean and concise language and focus? It would certainly make for a more internet friendly site. To most, it would not be such a major issue, SEO or flail, but I’m suffering some minor trauma over this.

I submitted a few of my blog posts to StumbleUpon the other day. I had roughly 200 hits in the next hour.

I wailed to Mike, “Oh no! I’ve got fake traffic, I hate it!”

Mike was puzzled, “Why is that bad?”

“Because I didn’t earn it, those people don’t actually want to read my blog!”

Still confused he said, “Why would it matter? Doesn’t that just count as advertising? Does someone who puts up a billboard where 10,000 people drive past every day a fake for doing it? You’re just displaying what you’re selling, that’s all. Out of those 200, you might get someone who genuinely does like it.”

“Oh.”

So – there you go. There is no crime in monetizing, optimizing, publicizing, or otherwise improving your blog to share it with more people or make a buck. If you don’t make it easy for them – your voice won’t be heard, and isn’t that the whole point?

Night Moves: Going to Grad School While Working Full Time

Going to grad school while working full time is one of the most challenging undertakings I've attempted. Since my course work gets harder as I delve deeper into my degree, my levels of tension and panic also increase. However, this is not meant to scare people, but offer my own personal experience.

I would still say that if you have even the slightest inkling that graduate school may be something you are interested in - take action today. Don't wait two years to realize, Oh yeah, if I'd only started my degree two years ago...

Follow the advice that I foist on others who ask me what they should know about going to grad school while working full time:

1. Order Your College Transcripts. It's a banal administrative step, but painless to complete. Reminding yourself of your undergrad accomplishments might have you pining for bookstores and bleary-eyed study sessions in coffee shops. If you didn’t do so well, it will serve as a reminder why you perhaps should give things a second try. Plus, you'll need it to talk to an advisor, who will want to review your prior coursework.

2. Run, Don't Walk, To Your Nearest Academic Advisor. It doesn't really matter what school or major. Find someone in your general area of interest who knows more than you do about applying to begin pointing you in the right direction. You can hone in on schools or majors later once you get serious about applying. Getting information from a human is critical. They will more easily tell you where to go next. Wrong answers eliminates those choices, getting the right ones helps you approach your goal faster.

3. Don’t Sign Up for Qualifying Exams. You might be able to snake past these. I did. I rushed out and bought a GMAT book, started listening to LSAT strategy podcasts, then realized my college would let me apply for an MSF without an entrace exam. All the flavor of an MBA without the extra fat. Plus, down the line if I want an MBA, I just add a few more classes, and viola, I’m done!

Even if your school of choice says you must take a standardized test, double-check with a human in charge of admissions for evening classes, who might say differently. They are aware of the realities of the business world. A standardized test can be a barrier to entry, and hence, their tuition dollars.

4. No Matter How Much You Love Learning, You Will Hate Grad School. Realize that working full time and going to school will suck, then do it anyway. Unless you have a financial support system that would allow you to quit your day job, you will experience misery unparalleled. There is no way around this. All I can say is apply zen concepts. I’m not kidding. Turning your study sessions into meditation training is very useful. For more on this, read a great little book called, “Dancing With Your Books.”

5. No Matter How Much You Love Your Job, You Will Love Grad School More. Your job offers you a small slice of exposure in whatever industry you choose to work in, with your specific duties being afforded an even smaller sliver. You will get bored. Grad school is a smorgasbord of intellectual delights. You will be tantalized in new directions, strengths you never knew you had exploited, and your accomplishments will give you tremendous personal satisfaction. You can then translate these into serious job skills for your current or future employer.

6. Think Creatively About Costs. I don't give people a hard time when they tell me they can't afford the time or money investment in grad school. I have the same concerns. You can weigh the decision all day long and never come up with a satisfactory answer. I'd go with your gut, if you are suspicious you want a higher education; figure out a way to get it. If your employer doesn't pay for school or you missed the box when requesting your trust fund after college graduation (don't worry, I did too), consider going to a lower tier school whose rates are less, could offer scholarship, or would require less time committment, or consider going every other semester. Find a way to make it happen.

All I can say is that through all the anxiety of going to grad school, I'm still extremely grateful I'm going through the process. I am finding ways to make it work, improve my focus and organization skills and face adversity with grace. Now - who wouldn't want that?

Honor Thy Tiredness

I am starting to believe the term “mid-afternoon slump” is a fairy tale phrase devised by marketing execs for energy bar and beverage companies alike to get you to buy their crap for a sugar or caffeine high to make it through your grueling day. Similar to how the word cellulite didn’t exist until the 1970’s so companies could begin hawking thigh creams and exercise regimens; the mid-afternoon slump didn’t truly exist either. It had a perfectly good name when you were a child: naptime.

I’m sitting at work, my breathing pattern slowing, my eyelids fighting for the glow of fluorescent lights. Unnerved I think, “Oh no! I’m tired!” As if there is something wrong with me, not my lifestyle. The mid-afternoon slump is natural and should be heeded. It’s your body’s unmistakable way of telling you you do too much. You need renewal, not a Red Bull. When you feel those lids getting heavy, it’s time to get busy – siesta anyone?

There is no concoction out there that can substitute for a healthy, balanced life. No level of electrolytes and vitamins that will truly perk you up. All you’ll get is the equivalent of an old, shlumping woman who’s been propped up with plastic surgery – a disturbing and obvious fake. You know what I’m talking about. That person in your office who is always alarmingly alert as if they are a character on 24: walking fast, talking louder than necessary, hair slightly disheveled, puffy eyes. I’ve been there.

You can also tell the real deal, someone who is rested, satisfied, without the requisite Diet Coke in hand. They are pleasant, calm, and somewhat mysterious in their lack of constant panic. Or maybe they've got prescription drugs. Who knows.

But, I’m beginning to think that people who have a freakish natural ability to sustain long work hours, become envigorated by it, and remain healthy are the work/life balance counterparts of modeling's Giselle Bundchen. God gave her a body that is truly a genetic mistake, beautiful, but a rare occurrence to be sure. One glance at the average body will inform you – not everyone is meant to wear only lingerie to work. Likewise, the average worker is not meant to sustain constant levels of stress over long hours and still feel enlivened by it.

Workers are not all alike. One look at Giselle Bundchen proves it. If you feel stressed and tired, recognize that you've reached your personal setpoint, no matter what all the other cool kids in the office are doing. In the longrun you'll be more productive and healthy.

How Being a Maid Helped Me Become a Book Editor

Penelope Trunk’s recent article about aiming high in your job search reminded me of my own career trajectory. We often undervalue our skills and aim equal to or lower than our abilities, which used to be my tactic, or lack of one. While I doubt this story would make it in How'd You Score That Gig?, it's one of my favorites.

When I was 15, one of the first jobs I got was cleaning the home of a Grande Dame in the affluent Bloomfield Hills, Michigan suburbs. Her husband had done business in Japan and their home was a fascinating collection of Italian and Japanese paraphernalia and hand-sewn walls. That’s right, padded, lush Italian fabric panels perfectly lining their walls.

She had me iron and precisely fold her fine linens which she stored in a separate refrigerator while still damp from the dryer to produce the perfect stiffness. I’d wax and polish her floors on my hands and knees, sparkle her silver, and begin wrapping her Christmas presents in October. They would be stacked in procession down the halls and stuffing guest rooms by December, each identified by a name and numbering system applied to the bottom corner of each gift. Then I would deliver many of them door-to-door. I felt like a character in a Dickens novel. She paid me $6.50 an hour, along with apple juice, and cookies.

It was a good gig. I could set my own hours, work overtime if I needed, and I enjoyed the beautiful environment. This type of solitary, honest work suited me and I stuck with it throughout college.

One of my employers was a British professor researching biological warfare who suffered severe allergies and couldn’t clean her own home, which was spotless to begin with. I’d indulge her neuroses with weekly scourings of her floors, multiple dustings under the bed, washing her hypo-allergenic bed sheets in scalding water, and flipping her organic latex and cotton stuffed mattresses. I’d cook her organic vegetarian meals while I listened to Car Talk on NPR, and discovered the bliss that is a Newman’s Organic Fig Cookie. I always wondered what all the files marked CONFIDENTIAL held, but never peeked.

Then there was the child psychologist, a single woman from the south who lived with her curtains perpetually drawn and her two large and very dirty dogs. I’d walk and entertain her pets, and clean up the piles of hair, dirt, and food that accumulated in astonishing amounts over the previous week. Her home always smelled of animal fat and Comet scrub. Her walls were lined with fascinating books, but the one I’d peruse weekly was, How to Marry the Man of Your Choice with scintillating hints like wearing soft, button down tops because they appear easy to take off!

I worked for a few families here and there, but once I neared graduation I had difficulty getting hired in my trade of choice. Wives knew an educated girl like me wasn’t likely to stick around long.

The last woman I ended up interviewing with happened to be a former attorney from New York who was getting her Master’s in English Composition and was writing a second edition of a book her father had originally published. She took one look at my resume and said, “Why are you applying to be my cleaning lady? Would you like to be my assistant editor instead?”

I jumped at the chance, and it was just the two of us producing entertainment guides to theatres in New York and Chicago. I was able to write a few blurbs, took a few trips to Chicago, and even scored a photo of myself performing on stage to flesh out some of the pages. I worked with her part-time for over a year and learned about research, writing, marketing, and formatting a small-production book. It was a fascinating experience.

It just goes to show, you might think you are only qualified to clean someone’s floors, but perhaps you should give yourself a little credit.

Sane Spending

I know I tend to beat people over the head about saving their money, and I'm starting to lighten up a bit. My father-in-law called today and bellowed "Whatcha doin'?" without annoucing himself. I asked, annoyed, "Who is this?"

He laughed and gave up his identity, which he's not used to doing because his son has always had caller ID. I recently switched phone companies for a better rate and gave it up. He groused jokingly, “Oh, you making $2 more a month on your new savings plan?”

“Well…yeah…”

Okay – spending the $2 a month is probably worth the sanity afforded by knowing what lies on the other end when you pick up.

Later, I stumbled upon an interesting article about Frugality Burnout. I didn’t have to read on to identify myself as one of its erstwhile victims. I have been burned by saving too much, to be sure. There is a certain point where the benefits of leading a frugal lifestyle don’t outweigh the negatives.

Recognizing symptoms of burnout is crucial, here are some warning signs gleaned from personal experience:

• When you are deathly afraid of the occasional cappuccino because every personal finance guru tells you you'd be a millionaire if you'd only stop going to Starbucks.
• When you shudder at the cost of a night out with friends citing Cosmopolitans as uncecessary expenses, opting for water with lemon and leaving a $2 tip for the waitress' trouble. (Hint: you aren't fun to hang out with at this point.)
• When you shop at thrift stores and settle for items that aren't vintage in an ironic or cool way, but just old and worn out.
• When you refuse to buy groceries because you've got a perfectly good ingredients like tuna in a can, crackers, and ketchup.
• When your dear husband reachs out for a $9 bottle of wine on sale, and you malevolently question if he knows what your bank account balance is, hmmm?

Stop stop stop. Stop the insanity. There is a healthy balance. Don't get weird and start sewing your own clothes and living off the land to save money. Just figure out what you love and spend your money on that. Then prioritize and cut way down on other things. I drive what co-workers laughingly refer to as a teenager's car because I simply don't care what I drive as long as it's safe and economical.

What you spend your money on can make you happy to a point, you just need to find out what those things are. A perfect illustration of what this looks like is a conversation I had a few years back with a jewelry-loving friend. She was eagerly awaiting a new bauble for her wedding anniversary. I said I would be furious if my husband bought me a diamond ring and said I'd rather be surprised with a weeklong vacation for the amount of money that would be spent...she unflinchinly replied, "But it's not like experiences have any value!"

Though my jaw dropped, I realized that she's not wrong, we just have different value systems. Her rings are expensive, and they may even appreciate in price. She loves to look at them and feels good wearing them. She may pass them on, along with their stories to her children one day, and they will cherish these golden treasures. That's valuable for her, I just don't happen to feel the same way. I'd rather be whisked to Italy, only be able to afford the food and photos, and pass on those experiences.

To each their own.

Six Months to Live

I read an alarmist article in The New York Times yesterday about how blogging is bad for your health. Though I approached it with a wary eye, I raced to the finish to make certain I wasn’t in the category of blogger waiting in line for the reaper.

It’s not that I really had an inkling that blogging would kill me, but that my lifestyle would; which I think was the crux of this author’s misplaced thesis. He was trying to get to the point that high strung people can have a tendency to work themselves to death, and that happens to include people who blog for a living. His argument was mistaking correlation with causation. But that’s neither here nor there…the point is: chasing goals at the expense of a balanced life (whether you are a blogger, an attorney, or a prairie dog farmer) is not good for your well-being.

In what I would consider my formative work years, I had a mentor who would often encourage me to keep my eyes on the prize and proclaim, “You’ll sleep in six months!” Meaning, when I complained of being tired, she reminded me of my deadlines and the day I could finally rest and enjoy the fruits of my labors as a reward. Only six months never, ever came. I’m still waiting. Like waiting for a signal from a lover that you think you’ve finally won over, each time you get a call, a knock on the door, you think your dozen roses has arrived.

So, I’ve been working hard, harder still, and wondering why I'm so tired all the time. All my goals I set out six months more, the problem is, I’ve never stopped to enjoy myself, to sit back and say, “Now that’s a job well done.” With each accomplishment I’ve only perceived marginal success and said, “Well, that’s done…what now?” My frenzy to finish lines all over my life has led me to seek the high of exertion, not the bliss of recovery. I have been chasing dreams, and fantasies of better days, which have limited usefulness if you never complete them by enjoying them.

I have a suspicion that you must become the kind of person who can appreciate themselves, their accomplishments and stop fantasizing that constant work will get you anywhere faster or happier.

In my own experience, it’s led to a world of regret. I know that my relationship with my father is too profound for splitting hairs like, “Well, he missed my high school choir concerts, so it’s okay that I went to work while he had his chemo treatments.” But I do it. Silently in the back of my mind I do it. And I regret it. Big regret. My father lived and worked hard too, I always envied his ability to work, concentrate, achieve. And perhaps he's so much a part of me that it led to me distancing myself during times of tragedy and diving into work when life got tough. This is a reaction many people have. But. I regret it. And perhaps he regretted missing those concerts.

There is an interesting rule of propriety that I recently learned. A manner’s expert said that when you’ve committed a faux pas or major gaffe, the appropriate course of action is to briefly acknowledge and apologize for it, then move on as if everything is normal. Continuing to address your problem with the person you’ve offended will only cause them to feel the need to further comfort you for your mistake, thereby shifting the burden of your impropriety onto them. This is terribly bad taste, she indicates. She accurately points out that everyone feels better when they can just move on with things.

I see a parallel with regret. No one truly sets out to do their worst, that's why we call things "mistakes." And by recognizing where we’ve f-ed up along the way, we can apologize to people or to the Gods, and then set out to correct our life's course. I can sit around and continue to ruminate on my bad choices, but it does my father’s memory a disservice. The appropriate thing is to recognize my mistakes, learn from them, and change. No one wants to hear me apologize and return to business as usual. So, I choose change. Painful, life-renewing change. That’s all we have to live for. My six months is coming. And I mean it this time.

Hey Big Government, Can I Have My $20 Back?

I eagerly awaited my last paycheck, as Mike and I are experimenting with living off of one income and experiencing a bit of a crunch lately. I think it's fun to double-check computer generated math and was surprised to find that 40% was withheld for taxes and social security, and I hadn't made any changes. I checked a few other stubs to find that this figure is usually 32%. Then I realized my most recent check included a bonus, probably reaching some income threshold allowing the government to take more. Of course, silly me! I should have known I'd be penalized for working harder.

I grasp and wholly accept that paying a portion of my income out in taxes is necessary to sustain large-scale ventures for the common good that could not otherwise be accomplished. However, I have my own ideas about what "fair and reasonable" is, and it's not 40%. Having control over my earnings allows me to allocate to things that are important to me. When my calculator tells me a whopping 40% of my work week was as a volunteer for the US government, I feel cheated for not having been given a choice.

My 40% sacrificed for the greater good might even be acceptable if I was offered a selection of activities to partake in or donate to. If anyone had bothered to ask, I'd tell them I'd like that money to go to the arts or to job training programs. If they actually let me volunteer, I would tell them I'd like to give free singing lessons to underprivileged youth. Even if they let me check boxes on a form to allot my funds the way I would see fit, they might win me over. But no. All I know is that my 40% was pilfered to fund a war I didn't vote for, social security whose performance and prospects are miserable, and pet projects that I will neither be able to take part in nor do I care about.

It might be gauche to fixate on this, but money is critically important to everything you do. Not because it's money, but because it's the simplest medium for trade and communicating your values. Your level of desire to make money, save it, and where you spend it is truly how you vote. You shop organic or at a Save-A-Lot-Mart, you buy a Hummer or a Prius, you'll pay a premium for cruelty-free clothing or opt for the cheapest t-shirts you can find. You educate yourself for a higher paying job, or take what comes in the door. All are valid choices. Your money talks, and it says, "I will show you what matters to me."

As voters, a potential candidate's policies do matter. I'm baffled when I hear people say that they don't. We are not voting for buddies or motivational speakers, we are voting for people who have the power to dramatically alter the scope of our life's accomplishments by taking 40% of it away at their discretion. I don't care how cute and cuddly or fierce and ball-cracking a candidate is. Don't fall for the hype. If their policies take away more of your rights, by taking more of your dollars and you'll be told in a 700 page bill what it's been spent on, think again. You should be able to decide.

So I'm turning to you: other rational people with a mind, a heart, and a calculator. Go look at your paychecks and tax returns. Do the math. Then go look at what your money is spent on. Whatever your political party, I'd challenge you to tell me you love their plans for your 40% and you'd have it no other way. Don't give me a song and dance about how you don't mind spending on pointless or failing social programs because at least it's not the war in Iraq. Don't settle for paltry negotiations, that's how we got this writhing behemoth of spending on both sides, "I'll pay for your project if you pay for mine." Wink wink, nudge nudge. Tell me how you feel to know your precious time and money is being wasted on things you don't care about and didn't authorize. Then tell me what you do care about. Tell me where you'd like your money to be spent. Or tell initiatives like Sam Davidson's Cool People Care. Go to this site and see the lists of sponsors and partners, many of them are private donors who are trying to get the message out about what they think is important.

Tell the government to give you your money back and you'll happily and easily show them what is important. It's proven that when taxes are reduced, and therefore individual income restored, private donation and spending increase. Whether that spending is a donation to science (finding cures for diseases) or buying a bigger house (profits and job creation), your private dollar gets the vote as to what you think is most important. The best part about this is that you have a personal stake and oversight in how and where your money is spent, meaning it's done more efficiently than when a government doles it out here and there through systems where accountability and effeciency processes are near-impossible to track.

I'm just sayin'...give us a chance.

Bluebird on My Shoulder

In a feigned attempt at spring preparedness, I paint my first two toes a light pearlescent pink. As they peep-through my peep-toed shoes, I feel a major strut coming on. It’s spring! I can’t hide my joy about this. It’s f-ing wonderful. After a fall and winter of sadness and more days of sheer misery than I can count I can say, “f-ing wonderful” and mean it.

The latest husband and wife joke around the house is that we look so cute and happy it’s like living with another person. I flirt, “Hey there new husband” as Mike grimaces and announces he’s on the prowl for a new girlfriend, So There. Our mock fight is just another sign that spring, and love, is once again, blooming.

Runners emerge from their wintry cocoons. You can see the pride on their faces as they stretch their limbs like panthers after sleep, as if their personal body heat is warming the walkways. Dogs too, take part in the parade of fancy.

Spring was the first sign the school year was coming to a close, a boy would ask you to the prom, or like my date, ditch the prom and whisk me to the opera instead. It meant water fights on the bus, forgetting your homework, your troubles.

Spring strikes me as a hopeful time. A trusting time. A time when there is faith required that the sun will indeed shine and grow new things. Crocuses conquer frost and fall’s remnant dead leaves. They are small yet stalwart, laughing at the wind. My shouting is turning to laughter too. I’m reminded of Ecclesiastes, and you don’t have to be religious to love this poem, which even toking hippies adopted to express universal truths.

All things have their season, and in their times all things pass under heaven.

A time to be born and a time to die.

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.

A time to kill, and a time to heal.

A time to destroy, and a time to build.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh.

A time to mourn, and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather.

A time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.

A time to get, and a time to lose.

A time to keep, and a time to cast away.

A time to rend, and a time to sew.

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak.

A time of love, and a time of hatred.

A time of war and a time of peace.
...And I have known that there was no better thing than to rejoice, and to do well in this life.

Amen to that.

What I Like About You

Since October of last year I've been a "blogger." I cringe a bit at the word, but I love the activity. I also love reading other people's blogs. At least the good ones where they attempt to drum up new content other than banal self-analysis or angry ranting (which I'm guilty of, to be sure, but I try to keep a reasonable mix going). So, I thought I'd write a little list of what about your blog will make me like you:

1. Show Your Personality in Pictures. I really like pictures on blogs. Not stock photos and not tired images of young things on their supposed-crazy saturday night, glass lifted, chin down, eyes up, "whoo-hoos" spurting forth. I like the honest shots that are like "windows to the soul." A great example is Rebecca Thorman's simple, thought-provoking photography. She can make a pile of papers look interesting. My sister posts images of her favorite places and things on earth, which are so her. While my photos are nowhere near their quality - I try to showcase the things I like. Being crazy is one of them. A blog is such a personal medium, it's hard to connect to an author I can't imagine knowing personally, and photos help.

2. Great Writing. You don't need to be a journalist to write a great story or present your position well. Be as honest as you can and don't worry about being everything to everyone. While I enjoy musings about politics, religion, and metaphysics, I want to feel like I'm in the same galaxy as the person writing, if you get too out there, I start to phone home. Similarly, I find writers who always feel the need to say something precious or profound wear me out with their emotional heft. Also, general attention to sentence structure, spelling, and grammar is important, but unless you are doing something majorly wrong, is not crucial for me.

3. Tell the Truth. If you don't know something, don't posture as if you do. Ryan Paugh writes about blogs needing to gain their reader’s trust. It’s true. Like bugs in a burning haystack, you’ll be smoked out as soon as one person catches on. (Atrocious metaphor, sorry.) I appreciate the moxy and gumption it takes to stick your neck out and fumble around in search of answers. Reading about other people blaze new trails without the answers is interesting and informative if done well.

4. Have a Heart. If you have dedicated your life to a subject, you'll certainly have a lot to offer. But try to be open to opinions and help me learn why I'm wrong. Don’t use your authority against me. You’ve lost a possible ally. I like a good debate, but don't just chastize me and make me feel stupid. I might be coming from a place a fear, and you might have a perfectly good point, let’s meet in between. I appreciate when an author takes the time to listen and sometimes even help me come to new realizations.

5. Rinse, then Repeat. Sometimes I'll love something a blogger wrote, only to find they never bring up the topic again. Perhaps I should comment more to make my opinions known, but I enjoy when a blogger focuses on a topic, expanding, re-visiting, or even rescinding. That's why I've been a huge P-Trunk fan...some things she says over and over, but presents a new angle or twist, and sometimes something that makes my blood boil, and hence, coming back for more.

There you have it. Your own personal market study in what can attract a Milena to your blog’s doorstep. That is, if you want one.

Money Talks and It Says, "Save Me!"

Something I'm seeing pop up lately is that Gen Y doesn't tend to worry about saving for retirement. Savings are passé, following your bliss into the variegated sunset and working well into your 70’s is en vogue. I can’t argue against that entirely. There is research suggesting that Baby Boomers aren’t retiring like previous generations. Many begin second careers late in life and have a “work till I die” attitude. Some realize their dreams later and want a second shot at whatever star they thought had faded. Gen Y, seeing this example, has decided they won’t let that happen, they want to find ways to be happy now, so that they don’t sit around and dream for when days will be better.

That’s all fine and good, but I wonder, why would it follow that it’s smart to eschew a savings plan? It doesn't, that's why. Does squirreling away 10-12% of your income cramp your lifestyle all that much? Do you have a full comprehension of what Albert Einstein is rumored to have called “the miracle of compounding interest”? Yes, even though this angry guy may rail against the statement’s validity and properly pegs compounding interest as a "social construct"...the fact of the matter is, like other "social constructs" such as reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic, it’s useful, it's here to stay, and it’s here to help you grow your money – and that’s a good thing.

Seriously. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Save your damn money. It’s not hard to do. Small amounts add up over time and can be used for something other than retirement. Heck, let’s not even call it “retirement savings,” instead, opt for a more fun, kitschy name like The FU Fund, via BUST magazine. This was an idea I caught off one of my favorite angry-ranting-about-personal-finance blogs: Escape Brooklyn. For anyone who is simply fed up with their job, goldfish, mailman…whatever. An FU Fund is the ultimate rainy day stash. It will give you the hutspa to day “I’m not gonna take it anymore” AC/DC style and ride off into that sunset.

And if you are so gloriously happy you can’t imagine what you’d do with your stockpile of money – then consider saving it for a cause you care about. The benefit of doling it out 50 years from now is that you maintain control over it for your lifetime, can use it if you need it, and can then direct its use more wisely in the future.

Fear in the Blank

Have you ever found yourself staring listlessly into a blank void?

Have you ever encountered too many choices, that you select none?

Have you ever convinced yourself that even one small step in the right direction was useless?

This is such a common enemy, there are many like you out there, rest assured. I'm talking about the fear of a blank form.

My husband meets sheer terror in our mailbox - oft piled with duplicate copies of things to complete, provide verification of, or pay for. He happily forwent making any financial decisions if it meant he'd never have to complete another form. I simply tell him where to sign these days.

I'm like a blank form renegade.

I can grill a customer service representative to complete perfection.

“Office Use Only” you say? I’ll show you.

Believe it or not, this is a common problem. And believe it or not, I think there is an art to filling out blank forms accurately and completely. They are made by engineers or people whose job it is to cram as much into as little space as possible with total disregard for sentence formation or how the human mind perceives things. These puzzles of the mind are meant to be decoded.

For anyone who refuses to fund their 401K’s because the paperwork is “scary,” this post is for you:

How to Fill in a Blank Form

1. Give Yourself Ample Time. Even a one page form could require you to hunt down obscure info like where your father went to college.

2. Identify, then Circle, the Customer Service Number. If provided, make sure you attempt to call if you get confused. Once you have a human on the line (which is why number 1 is so crucial) do not let them off the phone until you understand everything. Even if you have to restate things multiple times, slowly. That’s their job. And don't let them bully you with the "I have a time limit for my calls, ma'am" trick.

3. Read EVERY word, Grade-school Style. Take a pen, your finger, or other pointing device and go word by word, line by line. You will miss something if you don’t.

4. Once Complete, Repeat. Make sure you’ve done it right. If you want to get dangerous, have a friend check it. Also, watch for tricky things like signature instructions. Sometimes they have to be witnessed or notorized!

5. Make a Copy. Of everything. The form, the address, who you spoke to, or if you really want to get ruthless, their employee ID. Dating, copying, and documenting each step of the way can reduce future hassles. This is particularly crucial if the form is of a legal or financial nature.

You are now armed with an arsenal of tactics to get your paperwork done! Enjoy!

Best April Fool's Joke

Leave it to this hilarious blog.
Stuff White People Like, Bought by Target