New cleaner, environmentally friendly website

If you're still reading this and by god, I applaud you for sticking with an inactive website, then mosey on over to www.winewillfixit.com where Wine Wine Fix It has migrated.  Thank you for all of your support.

Jenni

Shameful High School Celebrity Crushes

 Because I was nerdy cool before nerdy cool was a thing, I spent my high school years believing no one could relate to me in terms of what I was wearing, or reading or listening to on my Sony Discman.  BTW – we’ve all forgotten about those handy devices.  Or atleast I had until my friend had the brilliant idea that she was going to buy one before we embark on our motorcycle camping trip next weekend.  She wanted to play music in the forest and felt a discman and portable stereos were a brilliant solution.  And then it dawned her that Ipods can do the same thing.  While she may be living in the hear and now, her heart and soul would like the remain firmly in the 90s.  And while I have been begging for a Nirvana coverband for years, I recognize that some things that you used to cherish should remain in the past, undisturbed, and never talked about again.

On that note, I give you the list of men I lusted after in high school who I should not have (for various , surprising reasons)

1) Pedro Zamora (of “Real World” fame) 

I'm staring directly into your soul

If you’re not familiar with the “Real World San Francisco” let me catch you up to speed on three very important facts about Pedro: (1) He was openly gay (2) He had AIDs and (3) he died.  Those three facts did not stop me from developing a fantasy life in my head where Pedro and I could be together forever.  He was an AIDS awareness advocate who joined the cast of The Real World to get his message about HIV and AIDs across to a wider audience.  And much more important to me at the time – he was handsome, articulate and bilingual.  These three things combined were enough to set off a fire of desire in my belly.  I crushed on Pedro the way my grandmother crushed on Elvis, well past his death and to an unnerving degree.  The crush was so embarrassingly obvious that my step dad gave me a comic book about Pedro as a Christmas gift when I was in college, 6 years after Pedro’s death.  I laughed it off and then ran to the bathroom to read it in its entirety.  Death and disease cannot keep soul mates apart, people.  

2) Liam and Noel Gallagher (Singer/Guitarist, Oasis) 

Look at my face, ignore my music

What. The. Fuck.  This is a horrible band.  And not Creed or Nickleback horrible but offensively horrible.  If you’re an attractive male pop singer looking for massive audience appeal, I will nod in acceptance that you and I both know you have made shitty music (cough cough Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20).  But if you claim to be bigger than the Beatles (as Oasis did in the 90s), there should be some immediate and swift John Lennon style karma that falls in your lap and squeezes your testicles.  And not only should this HAPPEN, I should be the first person in line at British Airways to get on a plane and kick you in the junk.  Ziggy Marley proclaimed “Love is my religion” and I stand here letting you know that THE BEATLES are MY RELIGION.  And Michael Stipe should have called me out because as soon as I decided to become obsessed with Oasis, that was me in the corner, losing my religion.  At one point I owned every. single. album. Oasis had.  I even had Noel Gallagher collaborations with The Chemical Brothers (those songs are actually good).  And I went to Towers Records in pursuit of British music magazines with Noel and Liam on the cover so that I could stare at them before I went to sleep. I had Oasis geocities fan pages book marked on my browser.   It was embarrassing   Now, if you are pro-Oasis (and I’m not sure why you would be) you will argue that their first album Definitely, Maybe is actually a good solid garage rock sound.  But then when you bring a date home and you’re sharing a bottle of wine on the couch, I’m going to sneak into your apartment and play Champagne Supernova on repeat.  I dare you defend your love of Oasis now. 

3) Luke Perry (Beverly Hills 90210 years) 

I will never. ever. wear a condom

The 90s were a divisive decade.  You were a Pearl Jam or a Nirvana fan.  A Chicago Bulls or a New York Knicks Fan.  And you were a Luke Perry girl or a Jason Priestley girl.  And despite the fact that I prided myself on going against the grain and not giving into horrible pop cultures whims, I became victim to the superstorm that was Beverly Hills, 90210.  Despite wanting to keep my trashy tv virginity for as long as humanly possible, I could not be chaste when confronted with a man who made you wonder if James Dean and Matt Dillon had a hot son. Luke Perry as Dylan McKay was my ultimate bad boy.  He had drinking problems, gambling problems, fidelity problems and if we’re fair, acting problems.  But I loved him nonetheless.  My love of Luke Perry speaks directly to my low self esteem and vulnerability at that age.  If I loved myself then I would love Jason Priestley for all of his preppy, soon to be CEO looks and charm.  But the teenage heart wants to make up for a crippling sense of self worth and a fear that you are not good enough for the boy with dimples who has a future.  So you seek out the man who outwardly represents the chaos that is in your inner life – Luke Perry on a motorcycle   I rest my case.   

Shit I Loved In High School

In the suburbs of Chicago in the 90s, the word “hipster” wasn’t part of the vernacular.  The cool people in my family were going to Lollapalooza, hiding pot in their bed frames (true story) and having sex.  I was spending eons at the Palatine library reading weird little short stories from Native American authors and getting dropped off at Tower Records to listen to BritPop from the 60s on oversized head phones (The Kinks anyone?).  My parents attempted to make me a normal teenager by driving me ALL THE WAY TO LINCOLN PARK to get cool clothes at Urban Outfitters.  But looking cool was way too fucking oppressive for me.  And besides, I had a secret love of gingham.  So I adorned myself in wool sweaters from J Crew that aged me about 20 years and got horrible red highlights.  Take that, society!

Fast forward to “adulthood” where all of my useless knowledge of writing, music and (recently) food has made me someone that people want to talk while drinking craft beers.  For years, my parents insisted that one day I’d be cool enough to rule the world and it did not matter than no one was trying to finger bang me before prom.  And as long as patient, tortured, awkwardly intellectual teenagers hold out for 12 years, they will one day be cool (as long as you live in Venice Beach).   So to you children, I say REMAIN A SNOB.  Do not waiver on your disgust of your peers who love Britney Spears and think that Stephanie Myers counts as literature.  Hold out a few more years and you will be banging bearded dudes in Portland and waxing poetic about Intelligentsia coffee. Your snobbiness and inability to connect with your peers is a gift I tell you!

And in the spirit of understanding that geeky things you used to love will one day turn cool … I give you the highly edited list of things I loved in high school:

Supergrass “Alright”

This song came on at a french restaurant last week in Omaha, Nebraksa and I about fell off of my chair.  I told the chef “I love this song” to which he replied “It’s Supergrass” like he was dropping some knowledge on me.  Jokes on him when I sang the entire song to him from memory. Also, didn’t Fun. just rip off these lyrics?  Thank god Supergrass was cool before Flight of the Conchords ruined sideburns and long hair.  I forgive them, however, as nothing screams hipster like loving New Zealand comedians. 

Christian Bale

Did you know who Christian Bale was in 1994?  Be honest.  If you saw Newsies, I’ll give you that but then you completely forgot about him when you started crushing Jonathan Taylor Thomas from Home Improvement.  I, however, never doubted that Christian Bale was the greatest thing that ever happened to me because he was (a) British (b) beautiful (c) appeared to have talent and (d) seemed like  if you ever dated him he’d make good on the promise to ruin you completely.  I decided I loved him again in 1994 because “Little Women” came out – which appealed to so many of my synapses I almost exploded.  Well known female author.  Movie Adaptation.  Characters with a fuck load of feelings.  And Gabriel Byrne.  Enter Christian Bale as “Laurie” and you can bet that all of my future romantic fantasies would involve dapper wool coats.

Ben Folds Five

I went to a Ben Folds concert in Los Angeles a few years ago.  I struggled to decide whether or not I should mention that the place next door to that concert venue serves gourmet sausages and craft beers, but why not.  Go knock yourselves out kids.  But back to the story – I looked around at the audience assuming the theater would be full of people my age that loved navy cardigans and went to liberal arts colleges.  But no.  I was shocked to find actual TEENAGERS jamming out to Ben Folds.  Like people half my age, who thought there were actually five members of Ben Folds Five.  I went through the twelve stages of grief upon learning that one of my fave high school bands was relevant and cool.  For the record, if you look at my senior year book you will see that my favorite song was listed as “Kate” from Ben Folds Five.  90% of my high school class wrote “Time of Your Life” by Green Day.  If you really hate me, figure out a way to play that Green Day song at my funeral.

Costa Rica

There was a time and a place when if you told people you were heading to Costa Rica, they assumed you were part of a missionary trip or you were building houses.  My high school hosted a study abroad trip to Costa Rica that my parents paid for me to attend as a graduation present.  So that meant I got to study abroad, with my high school, two weeks after I stopped being a student.  For those of you who haven’t done the math yet, that meant that if I drank and slept my way through Central America, I had absolutely no one to answer to (except my primary care physician).  So imagine my surprise when I arrived, not in the third world wasteland that I was told about, but in fucking paradise, surrounded by monkeys, active volcanoes, pina coladas and famous soccer players.  And tree frogs.  Real poisonous tree frogs.  Not the stuffed ones you buy while eating sliders at The Rain Forest Cafe at Woodfield.  The trip expanded my horizons and opened my eyes and all of that bullshit, but more importantly it gave me the most BADASS STORY of my entire life.  I nearly died on a white water rafting trip, people.  I was knocked off the raft and dragged over boulders for miles as I struggled to stay alive.  THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED.  You cannot remain uncool with this kind of reality.

Wes Anderson

While you were tearin’ up your heart with N’Sync I was watching weird independent movies.  When I was a little girl, my dad would take me to Facets in Chicago for an international childrens film festival where you’d see women breast feeding 9 year olds on screen.  This to me felt like a normal day at the movies.  Subsequently, I missed the boat on the movies you are supposed to love as a 14 year old girl … basically anything that involves Meg Ryan.  Romantic comedies confuse and anger me.  And I call them comedies out of midwestern politeness, not because I believe that they are funny in any way (next up: my hatred of Tosh.O).  Do you know what is hilarious?  Wes Anderson’s 1994 film “Bottle Rocket.”  It’s the first time audiences saw the powerhouse trio of The Wilsons + Wes Anderson.  It’s fucking hilarious.  It’s so amazing, even Martin Scorsese named it one of his top 10 films of the 90s.  It left such an impression on me, that I forced my dad to take me to see Rushmore the day it came out.  That puts me in the same league as Portlanders who wear smoking jackets and eat macaroons.  And to think – you were watching City of Angels, trying to cop a feel on Tracy from remedial math.

Dear reader, a foreward

****This is stuff for the memoir******

When children are born I assume all parents share the same vague dreams for their future offspring.  When you are an in the womb, mothers and fathers worry mightily about your physical health.  Once it’s determined that you are not predisposed to a genetic illness they can safely go on hoping that one day you will lead a “happy life.”  Then when there are financial and emotional struggles between the two parents during the infant through toddler years, they pray that your neophyte brain has not picked up on the turmoil and that you will, in fact, not turn out to be a junkie.  You start kindergarten and they wish deeply in the middle of the night, that children will not punch you and tell you that you are ugly.  And then at some point, when they realize that you seem to be a well adjusted child who has not is not a moving target for the sharp arrows of bullies – they believe that perhaps this is the time to breathe a sigh of relief.  That is until, the day that school officials tell them that their child is gifted. 

Getting into the gifted program is one of the most destructive things that can ever happen to a child.  I suppose that some people revel in the opportunity to consider themselves “special” and “above average.”  But when you are me, this is not the case.  To be told that you are gifted is not only an evaluation of your intellectual capacity and aptitude for academic success.  It is indeed also (more importantly) an albatross that one must carry in the hallways of grade school as mightily as other children carry primary colored lunch boxes and oversized pencils. 

My grade school revealed their evaluation of my giftedness to my parents as dramatically and vaguely as an 11 year girl might announce she has a crush on “a certain boy” to her 6th grade class.   My parents - penniless college students in education and psychology – were probably better equipped to receive the news than most.  They had an understanding that children adjust to labels like Floridians adjust to the news that a hurricane will eventually destroy their home. That is to say, Floridians and children assume that everything will be exactly the same until the day that they see that everything they believed to be secure and absolute has been pushed through an industrial paper shredder.    Armed with the fear that I might turn into a giant parental nightmare, they decided to deliver the information as swiftly and cryptically as possible. 

My mom announced to me, in the kitchen after school, that she had received a letter from my school.  Next to a wooden napkin holder and a set of keys, there was an off white envelope resting on the built in table with my full name on the front.  I knew two things to be true in that moment at the age of 7.  One – that everything that I ever needed to know about myself was printed on beige paper and two – that my mom was never going to let me look inside.  She said she had just received the results of my IQ score and she had to talk to me about them.  And in a moment of cosmic lucidity she explained “the results suggest you are very intelligent.  Much more intelligent than most.  But if I tell you what your score is, it will change your life forever.  So I won’t.”  Her brevity on the subject was alarming.  My mother has never been short of speech on anything in her entire life and certainly has never let my obvious levels of discomfort sway her from proceeding in embarrassing conversations.  To date – she had already trapped me (during an innocuous ride to the library) in a conversation about the dirty details of intercourse and the strict definition of homosexuality.  These were subjects she insisted I should ask more questions about if I ever felt curious.  There was an absolute open door policy when it came to sex.  But my confusion and fear about the envelope and the test score did not provoke more discussion.  The entire conversation died the second after she declared “So I won’t.”  And then that particular fact was never brought up again.  

Not a Travis

Author's note: I'm working on a memoir so I'm going to throw out some of the excerpts.  Your feedback is appreciated.  And now you can stop telling me you're sad I'm not writing anymore.

The Travis' had a lot of money.  This I was certain of. The front room of the Travis home displayed oversized paintings with neon streaks on severe metallic backgrounds.  There were soulless glass decorative bowls.  Theirs was a house of cats.  There were probably 6 of them but you only ever saw one - who would meow "fuck you little girl" as it walked over your face when you were sitting on the leather couch. Even at the age of 7, I understood that interior decoration and unfriendly pets were the accessories of the wealthy.  

I was best friends with the daughter - Nicole.  Nicole rarely spoke and spent a lot of time painting dolphins and playing piano.  I spent my free time inhaling books at the library, creating inoperable inventions and writing long winded plays.  She often invited me to sleepover at her palace where her parents Bill and Hinda Travis and the alleged 6 cats lived.

Her mom worked at a bank.  She was very serious.  You could ascertain the seriousness of her personality by the short length of her hair cut and her inability to smile.  It was at this age that I decided that either women who worked could not have feelings or that banks are a very cruel place to spend your time.  Her dad Bill sold dental equipment and was the kind of man who looked undernourished regardless of his food intake.  He wore faded blue jeans with white tennis shoes and composed new age jazz music on the side.

Their daughter was a burgeoning pianist and had done actual things with her life.  Real accomplishments before her breasts had formed.  There were medals and concertos and strict piano teachers who insisted on keeping their appointments in odd minute increments - Nicole always left for a37 minute piano lesson and sometimes if she had behaved - they stretched it to 45.

I had no interest in the piano.  Perhaps because I'm not gifted musically and perhaps because it was the kind of thing that my parents couldn't afford.  Having hobbies that required more than your imagination led a child down a dangerously expensive path - first there is the purchasing of the baby grand piano, then the weekly checks written to an 80 year old music teacher, then the gas used to watch the young daughter perform 2 hours away in a concert for the melodically and financially gifted.  No no.  I was not a Travis.  My only hobby was my mind.

Hinda Travis took a vested interest in my self invented theatrical career.  Hinda said she had a friend growing up who ended up on Who's The Boss.  "She was just like you" - Hinda said. "A lot of personality and no fear."  This woman had convinced me that I had what it took to succeed. It was hard to disagree with her authority.  This was a woman who had a treadmill in her bedroom.

Once while eating string cheese at their kitchen counter, Hinda asked politely where my dad lived.  "The city" I said and kept munching.  "What kind of place does he live in?" she inquired.  "A studio" I replied.  Nicole asked what a studio was.  Hinda explained -- "it's a room as big as where we stayed when we went to visit Nana in Florida." "That small?" Nicole said.  "That small," Hinda replied.

The day I realized I had two good friends in California

It was a six hour drive to Mammoth.  In the “perfect for road trips” kind of car.  A large SUV with big open windows where one could watch the land change from urban sprawl to snow.  The car was lived in enough to contain treasures – happy meal toys, scratched cds of bands we hadn’t heard from since the 90s, sun faded magazines and smashed granola bars. 

We left Los Angeles as early as we could force ourselves to get up on a Friday.  The “we” was Ashley, Mike and I.  Although we never call him Mike, he’s a last name only kind of guy.  Ashley and Mike lived together in college in New Hampshire.  In some kind of enginerd uber house.  Ashley is sharp and no nonsense.  Mike is funny and for lack of a better word, laid back.  All of us had left the East Coast for some reason or another for California.  We had bumped into each other’s lives like buoys in the ocean.  Rising and sinking together against new tides. 

On the way to Mammoth, we stopped at Costco to pick up food and beverage.  With churros and hot dogs in hand, we grabbed everything we saw.   How many peanuts can hungry skiers eat throughout a weekend?  Despite three masters degrees between us, we couldn’t figure it out.  So we just kept buying.  Large bags of meat balls.  12 cans of green beans.  5 carbon tubes of parmesan.  Beer.  More beer and liquor.  And a case of wine.  It’s better to be starving than suddenly become thirsty. 

We were giddy and playful when we couldn’t fit our purchases in the trunk of Mike’s car. It’s fun to play Tetris with ski poles, overnight bags and the ingredients for ham sandwiches.  And after we failed to pack everything, I happily sat in my seat with a case of beer on my lap, clutching bags of snacks with my sweaty palms.

Yep.  This is actually what we bought for the weekend.

While on the road to Mammoth you may discover that you’re thirsty, perhaps for a bottle of beer that’s warming in the case stuck on your lap.  The problem with smart people who are incapable of planning is that they tend not to remember beer openers for the car. Ashley got desperate enough to attempt to open beer bottles with seat belts.  I considered smashing the bottles open against oncoming cars.  Finally Mike pulled over to a gas station where we could purchase an opener.  Inside the station, I saw a craft beer in the refrigerator case that caught my eye from Mammoth Brewing Company.  There were two styles – “Epic” and “Paranoid” ale.  I grabbed the Paranoid.  Mike found me at the cashier and said “wait a minute, this could be an omen for the weekend – you should really grab the Epic instead.”  Ashley and I popped open the Epic beers in the car.  Mike’s hipster tunes circulated our vehicle.  His grins could be detected behind his wayfarers.

When people commit to spending a weekend with you then you can safely assume they like you.  That or they really think you are fun when you’re drunk.  Sometimes a friend and a drinking buddy are the same thing.  And long road trips up the coast solidify that bond.

The only IPA for an EPIC weekend.

The most delicious of miracles

There’s only one place to wash away your sins when you’ve abandoned your holier self. And that is Chipotle.  Never has one restaurant been more of a comfort to me in the bowels of the worst hangovers of my life.

It was there for me after my 22^nd birthday.  That night three friends, a bouncer and a cabbie had to put me down while I was shouted at hot boys and waived my princess wand. Then there were uncomfortable levels of nausea in my friends’ converted one bedroom apartment and eventually the glorious sleep of a woman who should have been declared dead.  The only thing that motivated me to leave the couch the next day (besides relief from the putrid odor of vomit) was that there was a Chipotle down the street from my friends.

When you are dragging from the previous night of heavy drinking, entering Chipotle is like crawling back into the womb.  You know you’ve failed as an adult and it’s time to give up.  Grab a barbacoa burrito and hang your head in shame.  Don’t attempt to shower.  Don’t even put on pants.  Your mother’s womb and Chipotle serve the same purpose – to feed you at your most vulnerable.  And whether you are covered in glitter or embryonic fluid – you will be filled with love in your state of nakedness and disgrace.

I consumed too much rum and beer this past Friday.  Or maybe the rum and the beer consumed me.  And so I slept until well after most of the living world had finished their triathlon practice and  I drove myself to the walkable Chipotle.  I stared at the board of delicious choices and resigned myself to a 1,500 calorie solution to a 2,000 calorie mojito problem.  And I hid in a shady spot in an outdoor courtyard and consumed my tortilla of humiliation.  And ever so slowly, with forkfuls of chipotle lime rice – I felt like Lazarus.  I found my powers of speech, color returned to the landscape around me and my body could move in predictable ways.

That is to say – Chipotle is my Jesus.  As it has the power to raise the dead.  

We're all really just beginning

I like to take beginner's yoga.  It might seem strange considering that I've been at this whole yoga thing for a little while.  Besides me, everyone in the class is new.  They're usually scared and confused.  They don't want to look stupid.  They're really afraid to fail.  The teacher takes things slowly and thoroughly explain each asana.  She is patient and never scolds.  Beginner's classes require a lot of acceptance - about yourself and where you're really at.  You're encouraged to take breaks when your body reminds you that you need them.  You're often encouraged to smile.

I like beginner's classes because it reminds me from where I started.  A girl who could barely touch her toes.  A girl who thought sanskrit was useless.  A girl whose chakras were pretty closed.  I'm always surprised when I stumble in beginner's class and my instinct is to chastise myself.  Haven't I been at this for five days a week for months?  Shouldn't I have mastered everything there is to learn about yoga's first steps?  But unfortunately even master guitar players stumble on a few chords.  And there will be tree poses that I won't hold.

In life there is always room for you in the beginner's class.  Circumstances may force you back to the starting block.  And that's not the time to panic.  Just start at the beginning with the basics.  Figure out if you need to be where you are currently living.  Decide if the relationships in your life are genuine.  Find a job that doesn't choke you.  Breathe.  Give up the need to control.


And one more thing - I highly suggest you try smiling.

The magic timer that lives inside of every man

I spent a good two years trying not to care anymore that my college boyfriend cheated on me and subsequently broke my heart.  The first six months post break up, I tried to ignore the feelings of utter despair and madness through drinking heavily and flinging myself at every available man roaming Lake Shore Drive.  I also buried myself in my grad student work.  This led to some low moments, such as falling drunk in a guy's bathroom and inadvertently peeing in his bath tub and high moments like kicking every single person's ass in class.  It was during this time that I kept telling myself that it was a great thing that College Boyfriend had run away with his student and I was now single and alone.  I even made a mental list of the positives in case reality sunk in on the train and I had nowhere to hide and cry.

1. I didn't have to worry about the frequency of which I had to shave my legs 
2. I would never have to hang out with his evil friend Charlton 
3. I would never again be forced to go snowboarding
4. I no longer had to admit I was dating a Republican
5. I was free to revenge sex his old roommate (I never claimed to be a saint)

 But regardless of the clear and evident perks, I still spent every night wishing he would magically appear in my sleep and all of the sadness would evaporate.  Some nights he would call but nothing would ever materialize.  Every conversation led to one of us remembering why there was an end.  And then the calls became less frequent, my drunken escapades calmed down and I took an awesome job.  I used the one trump I have for getting over failed relationships - I moved to a state my ex didn't live in.  I started building my career, forming new friendships, figuring out what my hobbies looked like when they weren't shared with someone else.  I attempted running and knitting.  I spent far too much money at the mall.  And somewhere between expensive denim purchases and long car rides listening to Ben Folds, my attachment to that old relationship melted.  And I started to see myself as independent from the "we" that we used to have.

And one day, whilst living in HIS dream city of Boston I got a call from College Boyfriend.  He was coming in town on a business trip.  He asked if he could see me for dinner.  I think I gave him all of 4 minutes to talk to me on the phone.  I had friends to see that weekend.  I didn't have time for him.  But the plans with friends fell through and I thought, what the fuck might as well see him.  I knew the heart strings he once monopolized could no longer be pulled.  And we spent all evening out in the city together.  We went from cocktail bar to wine bar, to late night hot dogs in the South End.  And at the end of the night he stayed over.  Sleeping on the cold side of my bed while I was curled up on the other side and refused to touch him.  I was finally immune to his charms.

That was the last time that I ever saw him.  And in two short years times had really changed.  I went from a needy girl who missed him to a woman who didn't think he deserved the time of day.  And yes - to answer your next question he kept calling.  And I stopped answering.

There is a magical device that lets men know to the second the day that you no longer care about him.  This also marks day one of when he typically decides to come back into your life.   Women also have a timer - it's the day that they give up on you and decide to move on and live their dream life.  And if you're lucky, really lucky - you may make it before the buzzer goes off and find some space still in her heart that she's willing to share.

Life's little checklists

I'm not sure who was watching and who was taking score, but for a significant portion of my life I wanted to impress the judges.  I wanted to hit those major life milestones by all of the appropriate ages.  I wanted to hit my career stride by 25.  I wanted to live in New York and have a nice rent controlled apartment.   I wanted a boyfriend with a serious financial type job.  I wanted to like jazz and get invited to exclusive parties.  I've always been a good student.  And in life, I don't like turning in incomplete assignments.

But this year I've realized that none of the deadlines that I've imposed on my life are real.  Where I'm at is pretty much where I'm going to be and since I don't want to measure myself against the usual statistics I'm trying to figure out a new way to measure my growth. 

There are things I've done this year that are probably pretty impressive professionally.  And things that I've done this year that are disappointing personally.  And when I look at the changes that I've made in my life I can't help but remember that I used to fucking hate mustard.  Mustard was the enemy.  It appeared everywhere on all of my favorite foods, even when I didn't ask for it.  There is a pro-mustard agenda in this country.  There is only one brand of ketchup and literally thousands of mustard companies.  It is everywhere, infiltrating our picnics and our company barbecues. And one day they will figure out a way to preserve our dead bodies with it.  Just to spite me for a lifetime of hating the yellow goo the rest of you seem to fucking love.

But the universe has a sense of humor.  And one day this year I was at a nice beer bar with friends and ordered a plate of delicious sausage.  And it came with an accoutrement of mustards.  And I thought since I'm abandoning some old views of who I am I might as well go ahead and give the old bastard a try.  And I shit you not, it's delicious.  And I can't really explain why I hated it my whole life.

There have been so many changes in my life this year.  And there are areas where I continue to stumble.  And I'm not married and I don't have kids.  I don't live in New York and I'm not that cool.  But the fact that I've learned to like mustard after all of these years must mean something.  Because I think I'm starting to look at the world with fresh eyes.

Anatomy of a friendship

I have a friend Matt who is both younger and smarter than me.  We met in high school. We weren’t supposed to be friends.   I was an ambitious future East Coaster and Matt liked to write plays.  I believed in the promise of a better life in Cambridge or New Haven.  Matt believed in the power of his words.  The only thing we shared was a love of debate.  At 16, in an inarticulate suburb of Chicago, that was reason enough to become friends.

It isn’t easy to be friends with Matt.  Mainly because if you really want to get a hold of him there is no reason to call.    He is someone who has managed to live his entire life without picking up the phone.  So I’ve recognized that if there’s anything important to discuss with him, its best done in person.  He’s the oldest young person that I know.

 

I often worry that I am a bad friend to Matt.  Bad because once when I visited him, I told him that he needed to grow up and realize that life is about money and staying one step ahead of your peers.  Matt was directing plays in North Carolina and taking care of prop pigeons on the side.  I was drowning in the weight of my ego in Boston, anchored to the idea of corporate success.

Sometimes I can be a good friend to Matt.  Like when he dated the vessel of a girl which contained a body but not a soul.  He relied on me for direct communication with her after the break up.  When delivering painful feedback, it’s best to send in a heartless East Coast representative.

Matt and I spend the majority of our time together arguing.  We always argue about the same thing.  I am cynical about everything.  He believes in the power of man.  When I visit Matt I show him the scars on my heart and ask him to examine them.  I want him to see what the world has done.  I want him to show him evidence that the game of thinking positively is a sham.  The problem is that when you’re around Matt the scars seem shallower, the wounds start to heal over and your evidence disappears.

It seems profoundly simple to say that I have someone in my life who believes in me.  And it seems crazy to suggest that having him in my life helps me become better at who I am.  But that’s the thing about friendships. They’re rarely measured by phone calls or birthdays.  But by the intent of the person sitting across from you when you’re there.  

Into The Tea Leaves

I taste cinnamon.

          Oh yes, there’s cinnamon.

Anise?

          Hmmm.  I don’t think so.

It tastes like black pepper.

           You may be getting close.

Syed stared at a powder blue cup through the lens of his reading glasses.  Each time his mind settled into steady concentration she’d ask another question.

Did you know that coriander is the seed of cilantro?

          

            Yes, I knew that.  I’m surprised you know so much about spices.

Well, I like to cook.

            I don’t know if I’d be able to pick them out after all this time.

Syed didn’t move his gaze when he answered the questions.  He was tired.  Eight months of living in California and his bones had not adjusted. His muscle memory knew the humidity of India.  His skin was cracking in the dry heat of LA.

            You know California is not America, Jennifer.

What’s America?

          

            Michigan.  The Midwest.  This is not America.  Chicago.  That’s the greatest city in the US.  Los Angeles is something different.  I don’t think I will ever get used to it.

Syed lived in India until he was 17.  A month before he moved to the US an older cousin coerced him into borrowing the family Jeep.  He had told white lies to his parents to escape for the afternoon.  Syed and his cousin went joy riding on a muggy road, dirt and gravel jumping like frogs in the path behind them.  Muffled American songs playing on their rusty radio.   Behind his silver sunglasses, Syed watched the moving land in the rear view mirror. 

 

            I think maybe when you grow up with this food you begin to lose perspective on it.  To me, it tastes like chai.

It tastes complex to me.  Each sip and I catch something different. India is so lucky to have their spices. 

Syed tasted his drink.  The sweet silk liquid trickled over his tongue.  With more years of road in his rear view mirror, it had been a long time since he’d had to think about Indian food.  He wondered how one can see a familiar world with babe eyes.

 

            Jennifer, did you know the British promoted chai in India?  To compete with Chinese tea.

I didn’t know that.  How much of Indian food is influenced by the Brits? 

          

            It’s hard to tell.  It’s hard to know what is Indian anymore.

Syed tightened his face and tried to look inward.

          You know I made my parents very angry right before I left India.

Why?

          

            I was with my cousin.  He was the cool one.  He asked me to drive him somewhere.  So I took my dad’s car.    

That doesn’t sound like you.

            My cousin was always taking chances.  Once we got about 10 miles down the road he asked if he could drive.  I think that made me sick to my stomach.  But he was older so I could not say no.

How did your parents find out?

            He was driving like crazy.  He was so dangerous.  I asked him to slow down but he crashed the car.  I was surprised that I didn’t die.

Why did you think he was so cool?

            I don’t remember.  Your mind changes things when you look back.  Now that I think about it I may have been wrong.

Wrong about what?

            I think he was jealous that I was moving to the US.  I think he was angry that he would be left behind.

            Syed opened his eyes and smiled.

            Cardamom.  That’s what you taste, Jennifer.   Cardamom.

A thing or two about fine arts camp

I learned some special things about life when I was 11.  That year I met a boy at fine arts camp.   I think he played trombone.  He had a nice smile and a head full of bushy hair.  Which made him an objectively attractive 12 year old. And somehow he had big enough balls to ask me out.

Getting asked out when you are 11 is a big deal. 

1) Because everyone envies the girls that get asked out and 
2) because none of the kids going on dates have any idea what’s going on 

At 11, I quickly learned that dating meant you had to constantly remind the world that you were taken.  When girls get boyfriends at summer camp they are required to turn their name badge upside down.  And when you are one of the badge upside down girls – everyone expects that you are a girl who makes out.

The easiest way to traumatize a little girl is to ask her if she has French kissed.  And if you’re never met catty 13 year olds – know that they revel in making you feel like shit. So they pestered me every day about which base I had gotten to with the Boy with the Trombone. At that time the thought of making out had me breathing heavily into brown paper bags and flinching at the sight of brass instruments. 

I spent most of the summer paralyzed with fear that my new boyfriend might try to kiss me.  But I was equally worried that I would be an old lady before I ever made out.  So a part of me wanted the bushy haired 12 year old to seduce me. 

Growing up involves a lot of small terrifying decisions where you wonder if you’re really ready.  And you’re also concerned that saying “no” means that you’re far behind.   As an adult you watch your friends get married and buy condos.   And you’re worried that if you don’t jump in, life will pass you by.

www.nataliedee.com

There's a couple things that I took from my summer at fine arts camp.  Life doesn’t punish you if you don’t make out at 11 or don’t get married by 35. And it’s important to recognize when you’re not
"there" yet. And a fear of a "big deal" type kiss corrects itself over time.

Playgrounds, work crushes and accountability

My friends get cringing reflexes whenever I tell them that a guy I work with his hot.  And more specifically when he is both hot and married.  Despite the fact that my life has significantly improved since leaving my old job – they’re worried about recidivism.  I understand that alcoholics stay away from bars to make it easier to resist temptation.   But it is very difficult to avoid hot married men when you have to go to work. And the problem is two fold.  On the one hand I have an affinity for older, powerful men.  On the other hand, they have an affinity for young, ball busting women.  And given my line of work, the powder keg and the match have frequent interactions.   Thus the “here we go again” look in my friends eyes whenever I mention an interaction.

Last year I was driving a good friend to the airport and I told him “it was starting again” with guy at my new job and that I could see where things were headed.  My friend told me I had to own up to my own decisions. And I told him he didn’t understand – that this just KEPT HAPPENING to me.  And he was concerned that I’d have to quit my job again.  I spent the whole car ride trying to get him to understand how hard this was for me.  How the men who were my intellectual equals I tended to meet at work.  And the men that I spent the most of my time with tended to fall head over heels for me.  These attractions felt like an engine on a runaway train where no one could find the breaks. And he shook his head in frustration and got on a plane. I'm not the easiest person to try to help.  

He came back to me a few weeks later and told me to be careful when I was alone with the new coworker.  I told him I’d be fine because he was "just a friend."  And then he said – well if he’s truly your friend you won’t make it hard for him to stay faithful.  And I argued that faithful husbands aren’t tempted. And he said “trust me; just make sure you’re acting like a friend.”

I used to tell a story about my kindergarten years to male executives.  When I was 5, I paid a boy to kick me.  And then I ratted him out to the teacher for kicking me and got him in trouble.  When a boy kicks a girl after she’s asked him – who is to blame?  Deep down inside shouldn’t he know that kicking little girls is wrong?  On the other hand – asking a boy to kick you isn’t being a very good friend.

I’m starting to learn that very few things in life “just happen.”  It’s easier to veer off onto the wrong roads when they’re well paved.  And as a counter measure – whenever I find myself being too attracted to said coworker I pick on him.  Because truly I’ve evolved very little after 1st grade. 

What to do when you’re ready to leave (your job)

Don’t let anyone convince you that your reasons for leaving are stupid.  Whenever you’re thinking about jumping ship at your current company remember that everyone around you has made the decision to stay.  If you tell people at work why you’re fed up this will piss off most and irritate some.  This is like trying to tell a room full of Catholics that you’ve stopped believing in Jesus.  Don’t expect a lot of sympathy from them.  They will try to guilt you into staying. 

www.nataliedee.com

Take some time off.  I prided myself on working weekends until the day I left my job.  This was stupid.  I wanted to prove to everyone that I was still loyal to the cause until the bitter end.  And in the end I handed over my badge and got my last week’s pay check just like everyone else who had ever left.  My company got the better part of that deal.  They squeezed more work out of me and the last piece of my soul.  I lost valuable time that I should have spent with family and friends.  And in the trade off between the people you care about, your soul, and a Fortune 100 corporation you should think long and hard about which choice you make. 

www.nataliedee.com

Don’t take the first thing that you’re offered.  When you’re in a shitty work situation you’re like a starving man at a buffet.  You’re going to run for whatever will fill the hunger void, no matter how delicious it is.  Naturally you’re not going to want to wait in line for the prime rib because you’re freaking starving.   But once you’ve got a mouthful of soggy grilled cheese regret will settle in.  Recognize that literally anything is going to sound better to you when your work sucks.  I had moments before I quit my company where I would dream of packing up my car, driving back to Chicago and working at Starbucks.  It seemed like a fantasy but it wasn’t a bad idea.  Instead of giving myself some time to figure out what the hell I wanted, I dove head first into a nicely titled job.  Never mind that it wasn’t the industry I wanted to get into and it wasn’t the type of environment I typically thrive in. It was an escape from my current shitty situation.  Now I realize that if I packed up my civic and headed home the world wouldn’t have ended.  Time would have marched on.  People would have helped me get my life back together.  And my mind would have benefited from a month unplugged from a blackberry, a boss and a deadline.

http://explodingdog.tumblr.com/

Tell your mentors how much they meant to you because you’ll probably never see them again.  The one smart thing I did on my exit was set up a face to face with anyone who had ever given me sound advice.  And for those that weren’t in the area – I sent them a card or an e-mail.  I wanted to make sure that they knew just how much they had helped me in my career and how much they had shaped me as a professional.  Some person from Monster.com or Yahoo! Hot Jobs will tell you to do this because it’s smart networking.  I’m telling you to do this because it shouldn’t be optional.  People get rewarded in their careers for all kinds of crazy crap.  Rarely do people get recognized for the work they did on building the next generation.  Take the time to let people know the value of their wisdom and while you’re at it send emails to old teachers that you loved as well. 

Figure out what you did wrong.  Because nothing is ever one sides’ fault.  Allowing myself to get to a point where I was well beyond miserable meant that I was a participant in my own demise.  For a long time I had refused any help from anyone.  And in the end my friends and mentors rushed to get me what I wanted to stay at the company but it was too late.  Had I let them help me much earlier in the game, things may have improved.  When you’re miserable, recognize that you were involved in some choices along the way. 

My very own Buddha belly

I have spent a significant amount of time hiding from my own body.  I don’t shriek in horror after every mirror I pass.  I do, however, think about how to distract you from my burgeoning midsection when I’m out in public.  I have (for better or for worse) an hourglass shape.  This comes with some genetic gifts (hooray boobs!).  But with my child bearing physique came the hard cold truth that the universe has blessed me with a tummy. 

I have had a flat stomach thrice in my life.  Once when I was Illinois’ (and the world’s) worst female water polo player.  The second time was when I had lost the will to eat (the key to the perfect body is having the love of your life fly off to Argentina for the summer).  And the third time was when I had a maniacal obsession with everything that I ate.  And as my water polo career ended, boyfriends moved on and my relationship with food improved I learned a thing or two about the trade offs that come with life.

I believe that learning to love yourself the way you are is a life long goal.  And not an easy one considering the constant pressure on both genders to look a certain way to achieve happiness.  And as a one woman experiment – I can tell you that I have not been happiest at my skinniest.  Back then I was a miserable person to be around.  I was the girl at the fancy restaurant in Vegas pushing mixed greens and balsamic vinegar around my plate as my friends happily chowed down on beef and guzzled beer.  It was a skinny life but it wasn’t life at all.

I’m generally happy somewhere in the middle of the depravation/gluttony spectrum.  The middle is where I have the general health to move around in the ways that I want (i.e. downward dogs, high kicks on the dance floor, long walks around Santa Monica) and the emotional freedom to enjoy the food and beverages that I like. 

This past weekend I found myself living “in the middle” at a yoga work shop.  The teacher had the class start off by rubbing their stomachs in a circular motion.  For what felt like 20 minutes. Halfway through the process I realized that I almost never touch this part of my body.  Not only that but I try not to even look at it. So I decided that this was not the time to launch into a self induced “you are fat and ugly attack.”  It was probably the time that I had to grow up and put things in perspective.

So I decided to rub my damn buddha belly and meditate on a few things ....

Flat stomachs don’t define you.

Body parts don’t disappear if you avoid them. 

And the body you have is the body you take to the grave so now is as good a time as any to be grateful for it.   

   

The year of “The Crazy”

Psychology undergrads shouldn't enter into therapy.  Especially if they’re undergraduates like me.  My junior year of college I started to feel crazy.  Crazy because all of the people who used to make me happy were starting to irritate me.  Irritate me to the point that all of the sudden I started to hate them.

So enters into my life, my poor grad school therapist. Let’s call him Dan.  Dan the therapist was a graduate student at my university (working in the exact department I spent most of my time).  He came free with the student health package.  It’s hard to reveal your soul to Dan when you’re consciously aware that he’s only a few courses of study away from you.  This is the attitude I had in talking to Dan which is why therapy with Dan didn’t really work.  

Dan wanted to talk about why I was feeling crazy.  I wanted to talk about everything I knew about psychology.  I wanted to talk about how much I wanted to be a therapist.  And so I talked a lot about my research on sexual abuse in kids.  And I blurted out that all of the sudden I was starting to see male/female interactions through the lens of abuse.  And that I was becoming hyper aware of the guys that would use alcohol and pressure to get girls to sleep with them on campus.  And laughable fraternity traditions my boyfriend engaged in, weren’t really so laughable anymore. And that when I tried to talk to my boyfriend about the things I saw that bothered me, he didn’t have the language or emotional capacity to understand.   

I told Dan that I was starting to hate the boyfriend that I loved.  And that I wanted to stop that because he was perfect for me.  And also that I was starting to hate all of my boyfriend’s fraternity pals. And how that wasn’t going to work because if I hated them AND my boyfriend, things were going to fall apart.  And that I was starting to care a lot about the guys in my psych classes who were sensitive to emotional pain.  And since I’m a nice loyal girlfriend, this was also making me feel crazy. 

One evening a boy from psych class told me that he was starting to care about me as much as I was starting (but trying not to) care about him.   And then I ran straight to my boyfriend, crying, telling him I was starting to fall in love with someone else.  And he looked at me and said “ok.”  I told him I loved him and I didn’t want to fall for anyone else.  And he said “ok.” And then the boyfriend never brought it up again.  And I had to tell Dan because these are the things you tell therapist.  He wanted to know why I had feelings for one boy over my boyfriend.  And I kept getting angry because he was focusing on the wrong thing.   

The funny thing about therapists you don’t respect is that you tend to end up unannounced in their office when your boyfriend breaks up with you.  Which is what happened a few months into therapy after telling my boyfriend I had feelings for someone else.  I wanted to get advice from Dan on proper methods for winning back boyfriends.  I told Dan technically it was a “break.” My (newly) ex boyfriend explained that a “break” meant we could both “hook up” with whomever we liked.  And that if I hooked up with anyone it was ok and he didn’t care.  To which Dan, the barely a therapist blurted out “he’s fucking lying.”  And when your therapist says “fucking” and “lying” in one sentence it is very jarring.  Jarring enough that I said “Hey Dan, aren’t you NOT supposed to say things like that.”  Dan shook his head and said “why don’t you go back to him tomorrow and tell him you slept with someone else and see his reaction.” And this was the first time that I ever really listened to Dan.

 I’d like to tell you that the sun parted that day and all of the Dan wisdom seeped into my brain.  I’d like to tell you that I didn’t continue to chase after the wrong boyfriend for another two years after the year of crazy.  I’d like to tell you that I became a therapist.  But I didn’t.  I can only tell you is it’s really hard to get anything out of therapy when you don’t want anything to change.