All I Want Is Everything

When I am feeling particularly altruistic it’s easy to think about how lucky we all are, and how much we have compared to less fortunate individuals in our communities, and in the world. But, I can’t help thinking that it would be a disservice to all that many of us are blessed with to simply feel guilty or lucky, and do nothing with it. In the interest of best serving fate, it is our responsibility as intelligent, classy, beautiful, compassionate women to fulfill our every potential.

Sadly, putting this sort of thinking into practice is not simple or easy. For some reason it’s perfectly alright to want one thing, and to work towards getting that one thing is admirable. But this thing must, of course, be attainable and within reason. And your desires must be limited to this one thing or you are being greedy. Or crazy. About a thing that doesn’t even exist yet. Evidently “Dream Big” looks great sewn on a pillow, but to actually practice it is to insult those who don’t want more or dream of what you already have.

I call bullshit.

Ambition and drive and confidence and dedication have not historically been considered very feminine qualities, but we know that to be a fallacy, and it’s time to start acting like it. If Natalie Portman can represent Dior, pick and choose the best acting jobs, graduate from Harvard, make perfect Jewish babies, speak three languages, and live part time in Paris with her hot ballerina lover man then we can certainly go after the job, apartment, car, and lover man that we want. Awareness of reality should definitely hang in the balance, but it shouldn’t hold veto power, and you should never feel guilty for wanting more than you have. It is human nature to strive, and setting goals is healthy. This doesn’t mean that you stop living until you achieve everything that you want, or invest your ability to be happy in attaining these goals. The journey is the fun part, and wanting something slightly beyond the realm of what you think you can have makes you that much more invested in trying to get it.

You are going to have critics. Especially from those who come from another generation, and operate from a very “happy with what you have” standpoint. And they’re not wrong. You should be happy with what you have, and appreciate how fortunate you are in the grand scheme of the universe. And then you can plot your non-hostile, and gracefully executed takeover.

I want my cake, I want to eat it, and then I want an ice cream chaser.

Falling with Grace

When I was thinking about writing this, I wanted to make sure I made it clear that I was talking about literal falling. That was until I realized that the advice you need to survive an actual fall is not greatly different from that which will serve you well in an emotional, professional, or metaphoric one.

I had the not-entirely-unforeseeable experience of falling right off of my five inch wedges and onto the grass in the middle of the memorial park of a Presidential library. I knew better than to walk on uneven surfaces in precarious footwear, given my weak ankles, having just completed a forty-five minute tour in said shoes, and my overall natural tendency to fall. However, I was in the middle of talking to a colleague, and most importantly, part of me was ready for it.

The scene of the crime

The first thing you need to do to fall well is to expect to fall. If you fall on purpose, people will rightly assume something is wrong with you. But if you know falling is a possibility, then think about the best way to fall given what you’re wearing, what surface you’re falling on, and ways to limit the carnage. Before I set foot on the grass I knew I was wearing dark jeans, carrying a beverage, and had a bag weighing approximately forty pounds over my shoulder. When my shoe found the one divot in the otherwise perfect lawn I fell gently to my knees, balanced my drink, and stood back up in one fluid motion without pausing; my companion would never have noticed if the security guard hadn’t started laughing.

Remembering the benefit of a calm demeanor, and the motto of the women in my family, “Panic Later”, got me back on my feet in the pavilion, but more importantly back on an even keel emotionally when an opportunity did not go the way I wanted it to. I knew that the outcome may be unfavorable, despite the elaborate fantasy scenarios I had already constructed in accordance with a positive result. When things didn’t go my way there was already a plan in place. Physical or mental, you can’t fight the fall; it makes it so much worse- be upset and hit the ground- then stand right back up. In the latter case I also threw in cake, for therapeutic purposes.

Falling with grace does not mean that you should never fall at all. Making mistakes, whether the world media is present or just a bored security guard, is part of being human and relatable; perfection is sterile. Handling those hiccups with the right combination of composure, preparation, and humor is what determines the standard of grace.

A Tide Pen is also not a bad idea.

Boston, I Love You

Marathon Monday is a Boston institution. No matter where you originally hail from, as soon as you become a student at BU, BC, Northeastern, Tufts, Emerson, MIT, Harvard, Mass Art, New England School of Photography, or one of the other 40 colleges and universities within the Boston city limits, you are immediately inducted to the fraternity of Bostonians and a series of social norms that exist nowhere else in the world.

When walking around lost, do not bother looking for the North Star; look for the Citgo sign and find your way home accordingly.

You are now a Boston sports fan, regardless of whether you’re a sports fan. If you want to avoid public verbal abuse, your wardrobe and general demeanor will express your love and excitement for the Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Patriots on all game days. You will watch these games, and like it.

And, the third Monday in April is a holiday. The state finally got around to declaring it Patriots Day, but everyone in Boston was forgoing work, school, and sports to watch the Marathon long before that. It was a day to revel in the first rays of Spring sunshine, come together with the entire Boston community to support charities and friends, and to start drinking mimosas at 7 am.

Cheering on the marathon runners is part of what it means to live in Boston. On April 15^th2013 that joy, and the perfect memories that day is meant to create, were shred apart by the malicious will of those too cowardly and evil to take responsibility for the destruction they have wrought. Boston is not known for its even temperament, or its ability to forgive.

Boston gets even. Boston comes back stronger. With an indomitable spirit, Boston will recover its role as a place of happiness, adventure, and safety for the students and families who live there.

As an alumna who no longer resides on the banks of the Charles River, I can only say that my heart and my hopes are with my second hometown. We must honor the victims of senseless violence by remembering them; including those killed in Newtown, CT, and recently in Texas, but also move forward with a deeper understanding of what it means to live.

Indulging your dreams and passions, living with your whole heart, is the best way to honor those that are gone. To overcome that which cannot be understood, we should strive to know ourselves better, and be the best version of that person we can, all of the time.

Boston, I love you.

Readers, I love you.

Be kind.

The Superbowl for Girls

Since this year’s Superbowl was obviously orchestrated with girls in mind- all we know is Beyonce wins – I was inspired to remind the ladies why we are still sitting in front of the TV for the last two quarters. The only things I know, and the only things I need to know about the 49ers and the Ravens are as follows:

1. The Ravens clearly have the most modern and on trend uniform color and design. The 49ers clearly took photogenicism into consideration in their fabric choice.

2. The Ravens quarterback, Joe Flacco, has a much cuter face; while 49ers quarterback, Colin Kaepernick has pretty insane abs, but you have to be into tattoos.

3. Ray Rice and his daughter Rayven on the field before the game. I mean, really.

4. Downton Abbey is on right after.

Lit Crush

It turns out that there are many things that I thought were so universal and obvious that they didn’t need to be discussed, but in this particular instance, and many others, I am wrong. Given the general trend among people to be willfully illiterate I suppose it is not surprising that Literary Crushes are not as common a phenomenon as I thought. As the name suggests, a Literary Crush is a romantic infatuation with a fictional character. This is not to be confused with the insanity associated with Twilight characters which I can only term as emotional cultdom. I am talking about a normal, healthy, I-really-wish-this-was-a-real-person-so-we-could-meet-and-fall-in-love-and-be-happy-forever crush. What may not be quite so healthy is that I have considerably more literary crushes than real person crushes, but I’m going to attribute that to spending more time with books than people.

It was also recently brought to my attention that there are far more crush options available to women than men- varying of course depending on the kind of person you are into. Assuming you are into dynamic character-people you really can’t get invested in traditional romance novel characters and for some reason the women in fiction tend to be accessories to the story, and not nearly so confident, strong and sexy as their fictional male counterparts. Of course there are exceptions, otherwise guys would have no idea what I’m talking about (I hear Daisy Buchanan is popular) but I get their point overall.

Ladies on the other hand, we get to take our pick from the likes of Mr. Darcy, Rhett Butler, Matthew Clairmont et cie(which is only the tip of a very large iceberg). And while there will always be criticism of taking fiction too seriously, I highly value and encourage a nice literary crush. It can help you figure out what you like and don’t like without the messy fallout of actually experiencing it and hurting some very non-fictional feelings. It can help you assemble a blueprint, as it were, to match real people up against when looking for specific traits you know you adore (though this can definitely be taken too far). Best of all, your literary crush is always there in your head when you want to spend time with them- which is also the worst of all, since they can’t actually exist outside of your head.

There are some very clear pros and cons to any crush, but I can’t recommend a good Lit Crush enough. The nature of that crush is entirely up to you, and you don’t have to tell anyone how serious you are about them… until the wedding and/or hysterical pregnancy.

How To Get Ready for (Almost) Anything While Driving

There are some basic requirements for accomplishing effective and productive activities, in the car, while driving, without murdering yourself and others. These directions are meant for situations where you are alone in your car, otherwise, make your passenger useful.

First, you must do them without the use of the mirrors. While it may seem as though rear and side view mirrors were designed to check your makeup in, they are for death prevention, and this is never more true than when you plan to use one or more hands for alternate activities.

Second, you must have a plan. You do not suddenly decide to change into skinny jeans and a turtleneck top at a red light and go for it. The guy in the car next will be very entertained when he sees you half-naked, with your bun trapped in the neck hole and a pant leg slung over your shoulder when the lights turn green, but other than that nothing good will happen.

Third, your plan will change entirely depending on whether you are traversing city blocks or highways. If you’re going to be stopping at lights and signs then that is the best moment to do anything that temporarily blinds you or otherwise occupies your sight, and the time to do anything that requires large motions (i.e. diving behind the driver’s seat). If you are on the freeway then these things must be timed in accordance with the moments of most predictable traffic speed and movement. NOT when everyone is changing lanes to get on the right freeway. NOT on the curvy parts. And, just generally, NOT when it is raining. Also, don’t touch your cell phone.

Since I brought it up, lets start with Changing Clothes in the car.

Step One is to get the clothes you would like to be wearing into the passenger seat. Depending on the length of the light you may also have time for step two, pile them face down in the order you are going to put them on. Put cardigan on the bottom, then dress, etc. It’s up to you, but in the case of a jeans/top combo I tend to do pants after shirt.

Step Three, undo everything you are currently wearing. I am not terribly coordinated but can usually manage to unbutton and zip while in motion without a problem. Please keep one hand on the wheel though.

Step Four, take it off. Not everything, just the first thing you’re going to change, even if you’re changing into a dress, you can put it on over pants and still take them off after. If you’re switching dress to dress, go fast. Now, you are taking your clothes off while surrounded by windows so there’s a fair chance someone is going to see you partially dressed for a moment. Since life is not a romantic comedy though, you will not know them and no one will care. Generally you’re only going down to underwear, and worst case scenario someone honks appreciatively. Do not be so freaked out that you don’t have a shirt on for two seconds that you stop important driving things, like stopping. Not dying comes first.

Step Five, put some clothes on! It can be very freeing to drive around in your bra, but you probably have a mission, or you wouldn’t be changing while driving. Once safety is assured, whip the neck hole of the shirt over your head. You can deal with sleeves later, but not blinding yourself is most important. If there are tricky strappy thingies then arrange these over your wrists, slowly, before the whipping. Then put your arms in their proper places. With turtlenecks you want to stick both hands through the top and let the shirt fall inside out over your arms before popping over your head at the opportune moment.

Step Six(maybe) is for pants. Pants must be done in stages, both on and off, or you will die. First, off the butt, then, off the knees- using a wriggling motion and one hand. Ideally, take off one foot at a time when the car is stopped (do NOT forget that one foot needs to remain on the brake), you may be able to manage both, but don’t attempt if wearing skinny jeans. Anything you take off should then be tossed into the backseat to avoid tangling and confusion. To put pants on, it’s helpful if you’re flexible so that you can bring your foot to you and keep your eyes on the road. Good news about this is that if you find you could get your pants off, but suck at putting them on people can’t tell and there will eventually be a good time to pop your foot in there. One feet are in, it’s just a reverse of the wriggling process. And remember, only use one hand to help, even if it takes longer. Rushing will not help you.

Step Seven is for shoes. Use a hand to take them off and put them on. It seems like a great idea to kick them off, or toss them down by your feet until one gets stuck on a pedal. Try to get heels on before you reach the valet. Make sure your ass is covered before you get out of the car, but otherwise wait to check yourself out until exiting the car and checking the reflection in the window.

It seems complicated, but it’s not if you take your time. Please don’t die half-naked.

Now, Makeup.

Step One, put the makeup you want to use in a cup holder or your lip gloss will escape into the black void between the seat and the center console.

Step Two, only apply mascara at red lights. Otherwise, wait until you’re parked. You are never going to get the depth perception right without a mirror and you are going to poke yourself in the eye and crash into me. Everything else can be done the way you normally do, while moving, without looking at a mirror. If a fork can find your lips so can a lip gloss wand. Even eyeliner can be done – but only after lots of practice, don’t attempt that for the first time before a job interview unless you have a really great lie about babysitting ready.

Generally makeup is not so vital that you need to be doing it in your car; the guys at work are ugly and not worth it. But before being interviewed, seeing family, or otherwise brutally judged please do it safely.

Lastly, Eating (without wearing your lunch).

Step One, do not order soup. Some foods are not meant to be eaten while driving, you must accept this. That said, I keep goldfish crackers, granola bars, and fruit snacks stashed all over my car at all times. Along with a bottle of water, mini-lotion, hand sanitizer, a hair brush (I ALWAYS forget one when I go anywhere), a tire gauge, and a spoon. I like to be ready. To prepare for car eating, I always put my hair up. Everything else is against you, don’t make it harder.

Step Two, napkins. Unless it is one of the above foods which you do not need directions to eat, and you don’t want people to think you have the motor skills of a toddler, cover anything that might get dribbled on with napkins. Never assume everything will be fine. When eating burgers and sandwiches it’s best to get no sauce (and your cheeseburger really doesn’t need mayo). Good to put the fries in the cup holder because taking them out of the bag individually seems to precipitate a fling all over the car motion when you’re not looking. If you have a passenger, just make them feed you. If fries do end up in the void, send Barbie. For some reason Barbie’s hair will attach to the french fries and retrieve them, thus saving you from old fry smell.

Remember to always pay more attention to the road than your food. Be willing to toss whatever is in your hand to react to emergency situations; that is why God made Windex.

Please practice safe multitasking! I am out there driving, too, and if you hit me because you were trying to save your fro-yo, I will end you.

Monday Night Football for Girls

I was suddenly inspired by tonight’s uber fascinating Bears vs. Cowboys game when some brilliant stats person put up some quarterback info that I was paying a whole lot of attention to. Or maybe I only looked at the TV to confirm that all the guys were wearing bright pink in support of boobs, and was struck by the love rhombus going on, that I’m pretty sure not enough people know about.

Some of you might be wondering what a “love rhombus” is, but it’s really not that complicated. You all know what love triangles are. Use your imagination.

Now, we have Tony Romo who used to date Jessica Simpson until all of Dallas thought she was a football curse and he broke up with her on her birthday. Then he met Chace Crawford (from Gossip Girl) ‘s sister Candace and they fell in love and had a baby named Hawkins.

Jessica Simpson went on to get knocked up by her surprisingly smart boyfriend Eric Johnson, who also played football on TV, while they were waiting for his divorce to finalize. They named their baby girl Maxwell Drew. If you’re lost, don’t worry, this comes full circle.

Jessica Simpson used to be married to Nick Lachey, but now they’re not after they had an MTV reality show, which is ironically the same company that used to employ Vanessa Minnillo, who Nick is married to now. They also just had a baby together, named Camden John.

And even though that is kind of a stupid name, Jay Cutler, our other quarterback man, and his wife Kristen Cavallari (from Laguna Beach and The Hills) just named their newborn son Camden Jack. There’s some discussion of whether she got pregnant on purpose so that he would stop leaving her, but this rhombus has enough issues. As do all of these children. Could make for a really interesting play date though.

I may have just succeeded in making football interesting for girls. There’s even a chance I would accidentally glance at another game. Next issue will be an in depth discussion of the best biceps on the field.

Nobody Likes You When You’re 24

As much evidence as there is to the contrary, I do actually make an effort to not make this blog full of whining and complaining. Generally, the last thing anyone wants to read is someone else bitching, so today you have fair warning. There is going to be lots of privileged white girl complaining, but I’ll try to make it cool.

I have always taken issue with the phrase “supposed to”. It is applied far too liberally, encourages pigeon-holing and stereotyping, and limits thinking, which probably bothers me the most. I am a big fan of thinking. If society, or your school, or your boss, or your mom tells you that you are “supposed to” respond and behave in pre-determined ways then there is no need figure those things out for yourself; and too many people, when given the opportunity, will choose not to think or make decisions. Perhaps it’s ridiculous, but I believe that even if what you do ends up being the same as if you’d simply done what you were told, motivation matters. You should always be able to answer the question – why did you do that? Maybe it’s because I’m a control freak and over-thinking everything gives me a sense of ownership over my sad life, but let’s over-analyse that later.

I have been dealing with some stress and tension in relation to the fact that I am doing my life wrong. For some reason the “supposed to” list I made for myself has far more hold over my psyche than any and all others. Judge as you will. Everyone has expectations for their life – even the assholes who hit on me claiming they live in the moment and would like to offer me the distinct privilege of fucking them silly – or so I have to assume to preserve what little faith I have in humanity. And inevitably there are things on that list that are subject to change, and elements you are bound to give up due to circumstance (I accept that I will never ride a Pegasus – really, I do) but there are some that you count on, that if you satisfy all of the pre-requisites for, you expect to happen in accordance with the laws of logic and your tiny universe. For me, this included employment after graduating from a very expensive private university. Granted I got a taste of my dream job, which is more than most people can say, ever, but the vision for the year I turn twenty-five had a house in it that only I lived in. With a room with words all over the walls for me to write in, an extra car in the garage just for weekends, and a puppy. Maybe a little much, depending on what you’re comparing it to, but I’ve never lacked confidence.

It’s all well and good to wax internet poetic with your take what you want/seize the day/kick the world’s ass memes, but in my experience all of those require money (or maybe that’s only the things I want – not that I want to be a dragon with a pile of money, though a dragon would make all the travelling I do want to do more cost-effective). And because of…oh let’s just blame the world and you can apply whatever spiritual/ political/ financial/ etc. nuances you like to it… so, because of the world I mostly write things that no one reads in the back bedroom of my parents house, working as a mildly inappropriate substitute teacher, desperately trying to show my gratitude for all of those things by being polite and accommodating and helpful, when really I can’t stop mentally re-evaluating how I ended up here, with no puppy. And it’s no one’s fault, not even mine. I send out more resumes than I’m going to admit to, and interview for jobs with health insurance (some of which I actually want), and I’m super nice, so I just have to tell myself that they are only hiring inter-galactic alien robots and thus I have no reason to feel inadequate and panicky about not meeting their criteria. This existence simply is. For no reason.

Everyone’s go-to comforting comment is that “You’re so young!”, or at least it was. I try not to talk about depressing topics with people, so I don’t talk about myself much lately thus making the placating comments less necessary. But the reality is I am very quickly coming to the transition from “you’re so young”, barreling straight into “God, you’re no spring chicken, get your shit together”. Even if I do all the things I wanted to have done by now, no one will be nearly as impressed by them as they would have been. Alexander conquered the known world by the time he was 25, everyone is going to remember that; Hillary paid off her Corolla by age 24 simply does not have the same ring to it.

This means that my real problem is chilling the fuck out. And acknowledging the need for frolicking in perfect joy over parents who semi-enjoy me living in their back bedroom (despite how much more together their shit was at my age). And to continue sending resumes to everyone and begging people to read things (and mentioning my future plans for space travel and a bionic arm) and making strange phone calls because that’s all there is for an over-educated group babysitter to do combat this “world” problem we’re having. I also get to tell my recently college graduated sister that her new life choices are graduate school forever or the beautiful example of bitter hagdom I have set while making any money you can doing whatever someone will pay you for that won’t make it necessary to stop using forks. No one cares what you majored in. Or she can get married and have babies and get food stamps – it’s totally on trend again. I also reserve the right to hate her and her entire graduating class forever if things actually work out for the little bastards.

Of course I’m not quite so jaded that I don’t still harbor a tiny pearly, shiny, sparkle of delusion that one day soon I will be the exception to all this crap and get everything I want all at once. At which point I will deny I ever wrote this. And fly away on my Pegasus. Just like Lena Dunham.

Dating Your Boss

Interviews and dating are exactly the same. You get a call, and someone would like to see you at a predetermined time, preferably looking slightly better than you usually do, to ask you a bunch of personal questions before deciding whether or not they want to commit to spending any more time with you. And you show up and smile and try not to sweat too much while being witty and charming and memorable, concentrating on not accidentally flinging a pen and/or fork at your interrogator. Then you go home, change your shirt, and eat a cake. While you wait for a call that maybe, hopefully they want a second date. Or, dare to dream, they ask you to go steady! And then you have five days a week of repetitive phone calls to look forward to. But then it could all go the other way. No call at all and you just sit there, with your hands clenched, planning alternate futures that all hinge on this one virtual stranger calling you, until you finally consider the one that’s already happening and regret having suppressed that fork flinging impulse. Or, in the rare, mature case you get an email full of lies about how much they like you that ends with “I didn’t pick you”.

If you’re really lucky it’s a blind date and someone who claims to care about you goes out of their way to do you a “favor” by setting you up with their friend, or more likely, some random person they met, and you are now obligated to follow through with this extra strange stranger on pain of ruining your friendship. Now there’s the stress of alienating someone you already decided you like as well as this new goober that you didn’t even get the opportunity to vet for mildly acceptable taste and manners. In all likelihood he does not possess either of those things and now you not only have to extricate yourself from having to talk to this person more than once, but have to deal with the issue of why your friend hates you so much that they wanted to torture you psychologically with the penultimate socially awkward scenario. Now you’re mad, and you feel trapped, and you’re wearing heels for no reason.

Absolutely no part of these scenarios are different when dealing with a potential employer, except (with few exemptions- I hope) the sexpectations. When finally leaving the office I’ve personally never had an interviewer try to stick their tongue down my throat just in case I was into it. Hopefully you want something different from a date than an interviewer, but I’m not one to judge. I don’t have any suggestions for improvement when it comes to dating or interviews, especially since I’m really not very good at either of them, but I’d be lying if I hadn’t considered the advantages of selling crocheted blankets out of my parents back room and exclusively making out with drunk guys.

And people wonder how I could possibly be single and unemployed.

Nothing to do With Ships

It is way past time for me to explain the seemingly narcissistic title of my blog. I’m good for a free dessert and a tire change now and then, but I don’t go around claiming to inspire the launch of a thousand ships with my face. I leave that to Helen and her passionate philandering. It also has nothing to do with any kind of Orlando Bloom fan scenario.

It all started one balmy September night on the streets of Boston. I had just moved to the city and was walking with a group of strangers in an awkward meet and greet situation. There was a very nice, but not entirely fortunate looking Asian man in the group, and in the interest of not being a bitchy, lonely hag we were having a perfectly pleasant conversation. Now, I do need to mention that while there may not be wars fought in my honor (or for someone else’s honor, based on their misogynistic ownership of me as a sex object) I am extremely good at giving any and all people the wrong idea about my intentions and expectations by simply smiling at them. Not like a lingerie model, rip-this-lace-off-my-nipples smile, just my normal hey-life-makes-me-giggle smile. Apparently it comes with an addendum of please-treat-me-like-a-slut that I was mostly unaware of until college. Something about the one dimple, I’m sure.

So he starts flirting and I stop smiling, while trying to enact some anti-flirting maneuvers. And his final ploy is putting my name into his phone as Hillary of Troy, which I have to say is both creative and flattering (if odd, since I did not give him my phone number). Not so flattering that I am going to indulge the mixed messages of my smiling by throwing myself on the first mildly creepy Asian gentleman I meet. But nice enough to name my blog after, certainly. So it is that the compilation of my most clever observances and interesting happenings rests under a title I stole. I don’t feel bad about it when I consider it’s conception came from the honest place of wanting to have sex with me.

This is not nearly as good a reward for him, especially considering he doesn’t know about this blog, but it’s all he’s going to get. Which is more than I can say for the contributors of complimentary tiramisu in my life. And to be fair, the last time I saw him was when he attempted to accost me in a glass elevator, so maybe he managed a boob graze or something that makes up for my blatant plagiarism of his seduction techniques.

I feel much better now that I can stop imagining all of you angrily assuming that my lack of recent posts is due to getting lost in my own eyes while staring at my reflection. And smiling.