ColumnNeed to look good on Facebook? Ask an editor.

Presenting yourself as the envy of everyone’s Facebook wall comes down to editing (that we’d want to do this is a foregone conclusion). As a colleague said recently, “Editing is the skill of the century.” Your digital life, unedited? So MySpace. This is Facebook, where the savvy Eye of social discernment is a requisite. You’ve got walls. Subscriptions. Integrated tweets. Photo albums. Friends tagging god-knows-what (probably your arm from the fat side). It’s a borg on there, and you’ll need to practice some serious curation of your life to be perceived like-ably. You want the highs to be high, the lows to be slightly less high, and the ex to know your arms are still skinny. As every good editor knows, the product is all in the packaging. Present your life from the most pleasing angle, and don’t forget the witty caption! Here’s how.

Lolcats

IRL: You’ve got guests in town. Your cat cannot handle the den of estrogen that your flat has become and meows – bleats, really – all night long, keeping both you and your guests in the other room miserably half-asleep well into sunrise. The cat settles in for slumber, of course, right at the time you all have to wake up for work on Monday morning. You find yourself wondering if your cat would even notice if you gave it away.

How to Facebook it: Cheezburger it up and put a caption on it. Lol all the way to the likes. Cats are hilarious, always! Suggested captions:

IM IN UR SLEEP, DISRUPTIN UR ZZZ

MEOWS-ON-REPEAT: EVEN MORE ANNOYING THAN DUBSTEP

HOSTESS KITTEH: TEH GUESTS HAZ OVERSTAYED TEH WELCOMEZ

Workaday Wonderful

IRL: You’re stuck in the worst-of-the-worst conference on earth, the kind for corporate types in need of the downlow, or lowdown, on how to do the Twitter. You sneak out of the “You Need a Social Media Strategy!” session with the Arial Powerpoint slides about engagement and channels delivered by the woman decked in menopausal jewelry wearing highwater gabardine trousers. You race to catch the de Kooning exhibit at MoMA for 30 life-giving minutes before heading back in for the rest of the sessions. At the break, you’re fed stale grocery store bagels slathered in Kraft cream cheese, and hi, you are allergic to gluten and also really prefer organic dairy. You’ll have to catch up on all your work that night where you’ll eat string cheese, also not organic, and alternate cans of Illy and Freixenet from the corner deli because you don’t have time to go to dinner. And, you did not bring enough pairs of underwear, because it’s suddenly your time of the month.

How to Facebook it: Snap and post a shot of the de Kooning sign in the lobby (angle: casually askew; interest point: allow single corner pop of color). Prepare for the “You have such a fabulous jet-setting life!” comments. You’ll need that validation to retain consciousness through “Is Your Website Sticky?”

Being Informed

IRL: Your teetering stack of unread New Yorkers threatens to knock a tooth out in your sleep any night now, you’re only halfway into the novel your best friend gave you for Christmas (and neither one of you even celebrates the holidays!), your bookmarks are so clogged you’re getting warning emails from Xmarks, and you still haven’t finished the latest Seth Godin bestseller.

How to Facebook it: Post the Portlandia “Did You Read?” clip below and caption as follows: “Funny because it’s so true!” You need to outsource your reading at this point. You just need to look like you read, except not so much that it looks like your career isn’t on fire.

Dining Out

IRL: The bread is a burnt offering, the hipster waiters do not approve of your lack of facial hair and you’re pretty sure there was just a shooting outside the vintage Ray Ban and ski sweater shop.

How to Facebook it: Just post a picture of the mussels and Cava, cropping out the bread and beards. Appropriate caption: “Just another night of foodie fun in the Mission!” #nofilter (#liar #andyouliveinPacificHeights #byachurch #notthecoolchurch #becausethatsintheMission)

Being Popular and Successful

IRL: No one shows up to your event except your staff and that one weird guy who always comes to your events. Your dad.

How to Facebook it: The bartender and most attractive bar patrons will never notice you’re taking pictures of them and claiming them as your own. Jen, right? She looks like a Jen.

Your Love Life

IRL: You’re being pestered by no less than six suitors you could care less about and the one you want (the cute one, of course) is totes noncommits. Or, you haven’t had sex in over a year and you’re 28 and even your mother who waited until marriage thinks there is something unhealthy about this. Or you’re using Facebook to stalk your ex. When he finally blocks you, you resort to pleading with your friends to let you comb his photos for signs of a new girlfriend via their accounts. So, you’re still stalking your ex. Any way you work it, the picture isn’t pretty. Or is it? No need for the cutting room floor: we can so save this content!

How to Facebook: Go out to dinner every night with a string of your 100%-just-friends male friends and check in to the restaurants anyway. “Lisa has checked into Gary Danko with Joe.” That’ll learn those pestering suitors, all right. To alleviate Mom’s concerns, post updates like “Yet another crazy night! Can’t wait to get some sleep tonight!” and let her find relief in her own conclusions. For everything else, post a humble brag about the neighbor spotting you naked through the kitchen window, tee-hee! Leave out the part about him being 99. Or gay. Or blind.

Family Fun

IRL: Your grandmother dies on Christmas Day, a cousin reveals the Alice-in-Wonderland extent of his mental illness to you over too many eggnogs, your aunt announces she is getting divorced because she’s actually lesbian and your uncle is also out – of work (again). You develop a raging yeast infection. On your face. Probably from all the bourbon you’re drinking to cope.

How to Facebook it: “Feeling so grateful despite life’s challenges this holiday season!” and bask in the approving likes.

Simply leave off the “to be alive…I guess” part.

Conclusion to Column

IRL: Love, loss, hipsters, hashtags. We’ve covered it all.

How I’ll Facebook it: As if I’d post this to Facebook!

This is the latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life.

Image: Francisco Vargas

ColumnThe precious practice.

As a girl, I once read a book where the main character would frown with great purpose every time she saw a smiley face sign. I can’t recall the book, but you know the sign: those cheery yellow faces that blithely instruct you with just one word. Smile! “How do they know I’m not already smiling?” the girl character fumed. Yes, yes, yes! My eleven-year-old self shouted in her loudest inside voice. Finally, someone who gets it! In a good mood already, as a matter of fact, and you have ruined it, smiley. Where’s the humility, you piece of paper? What do you even know? Nothing.

Which brings me to yoga and yesterday.

On Sunday nights, when I can, I like to take myself to dinner, notebook in hand, for the express purpose of eavesdropping on humanity. The key is not to go anywhere so cool you’ll only overhear boring bits about things he should have texted, nor to go anywhere so sad you’ll want to die.

Last night, a woman at dinner with her three friends was in a total tizz over being dumped by her yoga partner.

“She says I’m too loud!” said the woman, loudly. “Too loud! Can you believe that?” It appeared her friends could believe it. “I explained, Claire, the entire point of yoga is to breathe! If you’re not really breathing, if you are not really sounding out the breath, it doesn’t work!” Here, she paused to shake her head in disbelief.

“But she says she won’t go. She won’t do it. She’s done with how loud I breathe.” The three friends nodded in silent unison.

“I don’t get it. I just can’t believe it,” the woman continued. “You’re supposed to chant, to breathe, with intention! She isn’t even doing it right. Most people aren’t, which is such a shame! Ommmmmmm” – sucking in a huge breath for the demonstration – “You know?”

My ears sharpened. Could it be? Was it she? The Loudest Lady in Yoga Class? Before she could notice me staring a little too long, I buried myself. Don’t mind me, just nerdy girl with notebook, probably a grad student. (Note to the novice: Bun that hair and wear a hoodie to dinner. You want free pearls, not free drinks.)

Sweet Jesus, I thought, this is the obnoxious Om-er right here, in the flesh, alive and explaining herself to the rest of us. Earthly understanding shall be ours! We have all experienced this woman, and sometimes man, in their terrifically varied but consistently exasperating varieties.

There is the Orgasmic Omer, belonging to the woman who has apparently never had her pelvis opened up the old-fashioned way, who also seems to experience the miracle of revirgination just in time for next class. If her Oms could talk, they would say, “I need to get la-la-laaaaaid more.”

There is the Male variant. He chants so smoothly. He really gets deep. He smiles at you with intention, all right. And, after class, he stares at you as if he’s just given you the greatest gift, because he’s pretty sure he has: your first orgasm. Shall we hold clammy hands over bowls of carrot ginger puree with primrose oil? We can discuss our alimentary tracts. He is wise in the ways of wheatgrass, say his Oms.

There is the Shamer Omer, the bald one who lets you all think she went through chemo even though she didn’t just because she likes the attention of it, as well as the attention that comes from hurtling her chants across the room like a bull moose in rut, and when confronted at last, accuses you of being the angry one, to which you burst out, “I was fine until you got all Om Shanti Shanti on us at 120 decibels!” and you never go back to that yoga class again. You don’t want to know what her Oms say, but they’re a true story.

There is the Quantum Omer, who ascribes spiritual glory to our shared celestial chemistry with stardust, whereas I find it scientific. Hers is a very special knowledge. Her Oms say, “I eat powdered placenta.”

There is Suzy Super Omer, who rolls up in her Range Rover, sporting her Lululemon. She has changed her email signature to Namaste. This is worse than anything that could have happened to yoga, including Portlandia. Her Oms say, “I’m the easy target. But be nice to me. I’m trying.”

My spiraling notebook taxonomy was interrupted by another protest about Claire, and I looked up to see the woman’s friends nodding once more. Two insights came to mind there in that restaurant. First, that woman needs better dinner friends.

Second, while I have loved yoga for years, I’m not sure I’m loving it the way others who love yoga seem to love it. I feel like a fraud, a phony, a huckster. After all, my inspirations are Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde and H.L. Mencken and House and Hitchens, not the Dalai Lama and Eckhart Tolle and goji berries. I like Dorothy Parker and contemporary art and high fashion and alcohol (the last, preferably with rich food). I like comedy and code. The History of World War II was one of my favorite courses in graduate school. I genuinely feel nothing after a superfood smoothie. My years as a vegetarian were, literally, a gas. I am unmoved in the face of granola. Anything to do with groups of women makes me feel like I have a pending case of hives instead of a pending case of empowerment.

Something is definitely wrong with me. But no matter how many times I resolve to try, I find afresh that I must stand by my principles: I just don’t feel the need to get in touch with my inner anus. I don’t want to communicate nonviolently about my two-days-late class bill, I just want to give you my new debit card number because I’m fine, I haven’t lost my job, I just got sent a new card, no I’m really fine, no I’m not being resistant or defensive, if you’ll just let me explain, I…Oh God! Please just let me give you the new number!

Does a cat care? I want to stretch like a cat. Does the cat ask his cat friend, respectfully, lovingly, compassionately, for some room on the cushion?

I breathe, even if you can’t hear it. I breathe because sometimes it makes me cry trickles of relief and sometimes it makes me grow pent up with joy. But sometimes it feels like a job, and sometimes I go through the motions and I smile, knowing I actually just need the old-fashioned way.

And sometimes instead of Ommmmmm, I just say, Oh.

This is the latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life.

Image: Christian Parreira

The shoppy ones? Check, please.

As if to match the excess of cakes and cookies and champagne of the holidays, the run up to the new year has been a media glut of roundups, predictions, trend pieces, and years-in-review – and not just at EcoSalon. Today is the first day of 2012, and while our managing editor has reminded me it’s better late than never for my own take on all the things, I’m not sure it’s better on the whole, on account of what I’ve learned in the process of writing this article.

I’ve learned that if you Google “culture trends 2012″ to research ideas for this article, you will turn up all sorts of trend forecasts, pages and pages of them, only they will not have anything at all to do with culture: not the kind of culture you wrote thirty pages about in graduate school that in hindsight seems so much less annoying than Powerpoint, not the hipster-meets-highbrow culture of McSweeney’s and Harper’s and the New Yorker of which you are so publicly fond, not even the pop culture slizzurp of “Last Friday Night” and dubstep of which you are merely privately fond in your car at extremely loud volumes until you pull up to a stop sign.

No, if you search for anything about cultural trends to attempt to pull together a thoughtful few paragraphs, you will instead be directed to all things consumer. Specifically, what consumers are going to want. And how to sell it to them more. You don’t even need to search “consumer trends” to learn about consumer trends. “Cultural trends 2012″ gets you the same ample linkbelly of commercial conflation:

Business News Daily ranks second in the first page of Google search results returned for my search on “cultural trends” despite having nothing at all to do with culture and everything to do with, I see what you did there, consumption. And this goes on and on for pages, for any number of culture trend related searches, on multiple engines. It would appear the most important cultural trends to watch in 2012 are the ones that make people shop, or help us understand how and why and where and when they shop or what they’re going to expect from their shop experience as they shop. And, shopping.

Has my Latin grown so rusty I’ve forgotten “culture” and “consumption” are one in the same? No, just my American.

The trouble with digging up meaningful ideas as societal guideposts for the coming year is that the sort of people and publications discussing these things aren’t about to do it in an easy-to-glean listicle for our ADHD-in-an-app convenience. The listicle, then, is the baby of the Marketing Firm PDF and FaceHuffBeastTwit.

There are the tech topics: screens, apps, mobile, are-we-or-are-we-not-doing-QR, all of which kind of makes me want to hurl my iPad at the next kid with a beard and a flannel shirt that is supported (crucially) by an arm band. The internet is the greatest thing, and the most important thing, of our lives. Think Wikileaks and the Arab Spring; think mass reorganization of production and the coming end of The Job; think information at your fingertips and GPS when you get lost. That doesn’t make me want to hurl my magical, revolutionary device. What does? That if they censor the internet, we will simply build a new one. That we shouldn’t just make more internet, but better internet.

There are the color trends of Pantone, where mugs help remind you that orange is for so much more than just annual squash slaughter. It’s for your stuff in your house, too! There are the 10 consumer trends of JWT, key among them: food as the defining eco issue to watch, the engineering of randomness for delight and discovery, and marriage? Optional. (Which would seem rather more like culture and less like consumer.)

Style, you’re going to need a cocktail (ring). There are Coolhunter, Coolhunting, Polyvore, PSFK. There are the glossy fashion predictions and Tumblr trendhunters and street style bloggers ad infinitum.

There are the inevitable, but inevitably useful, portmanteaus. Flawsome: Grow up, angry customer, and adore ye slightly imperfect but authentic brands, you’ll feel more human. Aw. Recommerce: One woman’s remorse purchase is another woman’s Craigslist score. Maturialism: Because we’re grownups and we can talk about sex without referring to it as “riding the ride.”

There are the gems.

The excellent curation of Paola DeLuca for IED Firenze, whose Trend Book is filled with exceptional insights into four distinctive cultural personality types: the Alter-Eco (nature, localized, junk to funk), the Lessential (transparency, cutting edge, all in one), the Youniverse (androgyny, moi, je joue), the Showstopper (electrofied, geomatrix, stating your status). They speak to the continuing importance of design in our lives, the electric vitality in indulging a superficial yet essential joy that is playful and exuberant over narcissistic and…Kardashian.

A pop lyric I caught on the radio months ago still pings in my skull: “La, la, la, whatever!” is the chorus from “Tonight, Tonight.” Song writing of this kind should be grounds for a visit to the shrink, yet it isn’t. We can all, for the love of god, lighten up now: A burst of innocence is hardly exclusive to an inner life. We’re going to want, and need, both.

Gaping Void: Hugh MacLeod’s prescient insights into mediocrity (including Kathy Sierra!) and millionaires.

There are the rising cultural trends. Some poised to burst, some nascent, some redux, some radical, some required, some holistic: cities, mobile, populism, intuition, connection that allows for silence, integrity in every sense. (We’ll explore all of these in 2012.)

There are the new definitions. It’s going to be good to be gay, and not just for our voyeuristic decorating pleasure on a cable television show. How about them genders? Men are far from over (really, really, really), but women are hot, hot, hot (so nevermind the TechCrunch games, which will soon be an embarrassment). What is an American, anyway? Rick Perry and his ilk are on the wrong side of history.

There are new roles for us all, and we’ll be talking about it a lot.

A word about green. There will be the arguments in environmentalism, from consumption and media to marketing and energy policy. We must learn that “borrowing a page” – modeling – is no recipe for innovation but is simply doing the same old thing with a green sticker slapped on it; we must understand that no end justifies any means, for the means are ends themselves. We must learn that myopic sacrifice is asking people to participate in cult, not culture. We must accept that luxury can be our word. Luxury is simplicity and sustainability, it is living well and doing well, it is intent and heart over letter and law.

There are the messy bits to get through first. I fear reality television will only get worse before we all get better. Teen moms? Toddler beauty pageants? There will be so many apps, we will have apps just to organize our apps, and “There’s an app for that” will become the new “That’s what she said,” if it hasn’t already. And let’s not forget the Election. Obama will win, but not before the politicians and pundits execute their special mission to exhaust us by March with the exact same black/white, red/blue “thinking” they’ve traded in for the last twenty years. This time, we won’t just change the channel – we’ll create different ones. (Moveon.org 2008? Only the beginning.)

Messy. But we’ll begin to appreciate this, gradually finding confidence and inspiration – even laughter – in the emergence of real argument. I suspect that in place of Maturialism in the trend forecasts for 2013, we may just see Maturity.

And on the other side, men and women will begin to breathe – or at least text – a little easier around each other. We’ll learn that people do give a damn about the planet (nearly every major American city will work to ban the plastic bag, we’ll finally catch on to the fish problem, and everyone will want companies to recycle their used products).

And most important, Grandpa will finally learn to Google it himself.

Image: Patrick Hoesly

ColumnResolutions: Just like to-do lists, only impossible!

The season of cocktail parties and last-minute dinners with friends before we all trek back to our respective homesteads (or wing like hell in the opposite direction) is upon us. Inevitably, someone will ask what your New Year’s resolutions are. You will have already thought about how you are going to perfect your life ever further in the coming year, perfect it compassionately and positively and joyously, in explicit detail in both your new moleskine purchased for just this purpose (drunken scrawls), as well as in Excel which you hate but admit is kind of useful sometimes (alphabetized goals), but all this you will keep to yourself, because in response you’ll laugh with the loveliest measured nonchalance and murmur something mindful Meryl Streep or a person who has found her bliss would murmur, something about slow food or slow presents. “Conscious resolution is revelatory in a way that regular old resolutions could simply never be!” your organic milk-fed countenance will say without saying a thing.

Resolutions are fine things if they are extraordinarily selfish, one-off, low dose, so easy a Kardashian could do it, or recklessly nice just because. For instance: You should resolve to have more sex. To eat some very fresh food. To save an animal. To save a friend. To leave the house clad in real shoes always, because sneakers are for the gym. To write down all the things you want to accomplish in the next decade, and choose just two for this year. To let the smile show in your eyes. To stop saying “totes.” To find a yoga class without a woman who moans her ohms like her mat is equipped in a way yours isn’t. All lovely things to achieve in this grand new annum.

Then there are all the other things.

Resolutions Not to Make in 2012

1. Lose weight.

Just stop right there. Not going to happen. You know how I know? This was your resolution last year. And the year before that. In fact, every single year for as long as you can remember being aware of your weight, or, third grade for girls, age 45 for boys. Personal trainers and lifestyle coaches will recommend that you get more specific to get results. Aim for dropping a dress size, or 10 pounds, or 5% of your body fat, they say. I say success starts with setting the bar so low you could trip on it. Consider three pounds. Three pounds is a week of no carbs. Three pounds is walking around your town for three hours, thrice. Maybe just twice. Three pounds can even be a satisfying bowel movement after a fibrous dinner of zesty uncaloric nightshades. Three pounds: You can do this.

No one else will notice, but you sure will, and since all your friends really want is for you to stop talking about how skinny you used to be that one time before they ever knew you, everyone wins.

2. Pay off your debts.

I always say that if I had real money I’d buy all the landfills in the world, because someone is going to figure out how to turn dirty trash into clean energy and get, well, filthy rich. Perhaps our debt-burdened world will strike upon some similar Eureka formula whereby all debt becomes highly valuable to the people owing it instead of the people gaming it. In the meantime, resolve to drink. Kidding! Resolve to get real. The student loans, the mortgage, the car, the second mortgage, the second car, the credit cards, the stray bank charge on the account you opened on Maui three years ago because they don’t have Wells Fargo and you forgot about it: Forgive yourself. We are a nation of forgivers. We forgive Wall Street, we forgive television, we forgive Donald Trump his hair and Newt Gingrich his head, we can forgive you.

Choose the smallest debt, divide by 12, automate checking transfers to your savings account you’ve set up just for this, and get back to work on banishing the use of “totes” from your life.

4. Learn to/take up/get into/go to classes for those seventeen things you’ve always thought you would be good at and should be good at because that guy you can’t stand but can’t unfollow on Twitter is.

Painting, singing, the Barre method, skiing, kayaking, bouldering (it’s harder than rock climbing), raising your Klout score, the art of tea, HTML5, Mandarin, never again needing to look up the meaning of sui generis, artistic welding, knitting in a hipster way not a housewife way, riding, hey how about a Century?, pasta from scratch, finally understanding and enjoying Brahms, ikat upholstery, poker, why not a tournament?, curing pork products at home, paintball, sky-diving, Tantric sex, coed club baseball, writing a novel, plus all the other things that in fact require years of practice and learning to approach basic proficiency, nevermind professional status. Definitely at least 17.

In 2012, resolve to: Take one, lone “class.” Attend one, new “thing.” Visit one, other “place”. If you can manage all that in the space of 12 short months while working, living, loving and doing, I’ll know you’re also the one who lost three pounds. Gold star.

5. Sign up for the gym.

A time-honored tradition in our country, a whale of a deal, practically a steal! Just $49 a month forever. Propping up the gym bubble adds millions to the GDP, while deducting nothing from the BMI. Do you dream about the gym? Do you miss the ritual of wiping down the handles of the Stairmaster with Pine Sol spray because the guy on it before you left a flash flood of sweat in the cup holder? Do you find yourself just hanging around the gym at 5 a.m. on a Saturday in August, wishing it were open? No? Don’t sign up for the gym.

6. Drink less.

If you have to say it, it’s not going to happen. How about worry less and drink more…of other things? Drinking is a sign of boredom. (Unless you are an alcoholic, in which case, doctor, now.) Change up friends, change up activities, change up how you spend your evenings, just change up some old thing. The drinking will change itself. No resolution required.

7. Find true love.

“You should really date more.” “So, have you tried online dating?” People. I know of a handful of happy marriages – not perfect marriages, but really happy ones, the ones that don’t make me fear marriage, the ones that don’t come like a box set of Barbie Never Orgasms But Gave Up on It Years Ago So Her Face Is Set to Permafreeze and Ken Makes Joking Digs About Balls and Chains But Boy Is He an Amazing Dad to Get Back at Barbie. Anyway. The happy ones, to the last, all happened instantly: boy met girl or girl met boy or boy met boy or what have you, and that was that. There was no trying in any case. I’m not saying we shouldn’t work at finding true love like some people garden their resumes, I’m just saying we shouldn’t work at finding true love. You’re a whole hunk of lovely love. A rock, if you will, and someone will soon turn it over and find the adorable creeping and crawling flaws underneath, and hug them and squeeze them (but not too hard), and name it Love. It’ll happen. I promise.

(Although I’m not going to make a resolution about it for you. Like I want to be responsible for dooming your chance at love in 2012.)

This is the latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life.

Image: brain salad surgery

P.S. A special hello to one Starre Vartan. We love you.

ColumnWhat defines the new chic? Grit and glimmer in conscious measure.

Over dinner recently, a colleague and I abandoned a hot and heavy discussion about the political zeitgeist for something decidedly more dessert-appropriate: women. The End of Men, the death of the the Death of Marriage myth, Lady Gaga, gay marriage, the endless debates about women getting funded in Silicon Valley – XX as cultural object is too hot to handle right now, but it’s less What Women Want and more What Women Are (and fools who confuse the two shall soon be parted from their money). If Superwoman is mercifully out, so is Single Girl. Women no longer fit into neat boxes, if they ever did: Wife. Mother. Career Woman. Bohemian. Twentysomething. Fortysomething. Old. Nope. Not your .xls, not your funnel, not your category. An extremely palpable swirl of chutzpah and quirk, charm and cojones, rock solid and rock star? Yep. And just in time. “It’s like there’s a new chic going on,” started my creme brulee compadre.

“She’s cool like confident.”

“She’s not afraid to say she wants a relationship.”

“But only if she wants one. Which she might not.” This, with a wink.

“She thinks ‘feminist’ is a pretty word.”

“Aw. Because it is.”

How to spot The New Chic? It’s motorcycle boots in your minivan. It’s courage, it’s eschewing Christmas if you feel like it, it’s not being afraid to be less liked and more respected, it’s borrowing the best traits from the boys and making us all more human in the process.

The New Chic means dropping the fear of fat. Bring on the butter. It’s good for your brain.

The New Chic likes girls, or boys, or both, and sometimes out of order, and don’t worry so much about it.

It’s breaking rules in accordance with her limits, which she knows intimately.

It’s leading the conversation in mixed company; something that can still stun a man. Try it, it’s fun!

Also? The New Chic doesn’t consider singledom a thorny brambles of broken GPS on the proper path to the soul’s completion, formerly known as a wedding day.

“This could go on all night!”

The New Chic often does.

The New Chic doesn’t go gaga over babies by default; in fact, she may not even notice them.

Did you hear? She brags and delivers.

She tells The Nagging Voice to fuck off so fast it scurries.

You’ll never catch her judging another woman with her eyes in group company.

She hasn’t done it all. She hasn’t seen it all. She isn’t everything and everyone.

She might have a hot pink stripe in her hair. Over 40? She still wears it long.

The New Chic is a forever fan of chivalry and that means: she extends it to others including and especially men.

Fact: a good thick moisturizer beats caking on the foundation any day.

The New Chic means walking out the door looking good; not made up, good.

She wouldn’t be caught dead in fast fashion.

She can drive a stick shift but prefers to bike in her heels instead. Because she wears heels. Sneakers. Are. For. Running.

She doesn’t prefer to text with the men she sees.

She is scrupulously honest because it just feels wonderful.

She is on time, every time.

She blurs the lines and doesn’t look back because she has nothing to hide on Facebook.

Two words: black coffee.

The New Chic does not drink Diet Coke. Does not diet (exception: the three hours before a date).

You can spot her because she stands up straight, sucks in her tummy tight, squares her shoulders and doesn’t pad the living daylights out of her nipples.

To err is human, to never brush your teeth in front of him, divine.

The New Chic is loving what you own to the greatest degree but letting it all go just as readily. Think of it as If the Buddha Consumed (and hey, he did). Example: A friend’s grandmother, who is something like a bonus grandma to me, has built a vast fortune in her life, and she has the personal drapery of diamonds to prove it. I’m talking the kind so big, they slide to the sides of her fingers whether she wants them to or not. Not bad for a girl from Oklahoma whose first crib was a drawer. “We never have insured these old things,” she drawled to me over brunch one cold Dallas day. “If a piece gets lost or stolen: eh, so what? I’ve enjoyed it.”

On that note: celebrates old people.

It’s being inspired by men rather than finding them merely useful. (We are all going to be better off for that one.)

It’s having the courage to build towards the best.

The New Chic has better things to do and hires people to help.

The most timely thing about The New Chic, though, is the sheer fun of it.

Your turn.

This is the latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life.

Image: Whatshername?

ColumnDo jeggings make the list? Read on to find out.

You say judgment, I say intuition, or, in the words of one of our editors: “It’s just marketing!”

Few things feel as gratifying as judgment. If, like me, you are saddened by the lack of respect judgment gets these days, is this post ever for you. Getting away with being judgmental anymore is really just a matter of finding the right things to be judgmental about. I’ve learned a lot about this lately, what with inadvertently enraging video gamers and cyclists and fans of the Apostle Paul and people who cannot stir. There are acceptable things you can judge these days, like the Housewives of Beverly Hills and augmented breasts and hair extensions, but maybe I’m being redundant. And then there are all the unacceptable things you can judge, or rather, the things you cannot judge, and the danger mainly lies in not knowing what these things are until the people who are great fans of these things let you know. Here you thought you were safe in judging canned cold spaghetti, but you’ve actually revealed yourself to be a pasta elitist with no appreciation for the common canned-spaghetti-eater’s reality.

Judgment may be all right for hosts on Bravo or Simon Cowell in spite of his awful haircut or the Supreme Court (but only during some administrations), but how dare you, mere fellow human, exercise any hint of intelligence and experience and wisdom and insight and taste and perspective. Everything is equal and wonderful and good and moral and beautiful, because someone else said so. Their judgment is not a judgment the way your judgment is a judgment. One word: Buddha. He really clears things up.

Anyway! Here is a list of acceptable things to judge no matter what, because the truth is that we all need to judge and with the current judgment against judgment, it’s getting harder to find things we can all judge together equally in correct fairness and unconditional acceptance and comprehensive agreement and inoffensive unanimity, safely.

Think of this as judgment with a condom on. We’ll start with judging the homes of others, because that’s where the heart is, and move on from there.

Fake Fruit.

We, the people, are going to judge your fake fruit. I am not talking about the handmade blown glass pear on the mantle. It’s not my style, but it might be yours. Besides, I have a glass bird on my mantle, so who am I to judge? Fake fruit in bowls that could serve actual fruit, on the other hand? You’re just leaving yourself wide open for judgment. How would you feel about someone’s kitchen island being anointed with bowls of fake cottage cheese? You’d think it was pretty dumb. That’s because it is. And so is your fake fruit.

Fake Christmas trees.

Fake Christmas trees. On second thought, possibly not okay to judge. Probably not best to take the niche approach to judgment of others’ holiday decor choices, at least in this case. As a child, I felt sorry for the families that had fake Christmas trees, until I learned it was because some people are allergic to trees but not to pliable byproducts of the crude industry. As an adult, I am not sure which is less green and therefore more offensive: chopping down trees for a holiday or making them out of plastic. You know what? The Christmas tree is actually the worst possible thing to attempt to judge that I could ever come up with. We’re not judging them, plastic or living, we’re just not. Let’s move along from this entirely before we’re accused of being in favor of the Christmas Tree Tax.

Fake flowers.

The 80s were filled with them because the 80s were filled with two things: bouquets of iris and crafting. If you lived through the 80s, you might remember that they were mostly about wreaths. Crafting, especially the crafting of wreaths, evolved to using real preserved flowers around 1989, but for a time, fake flowers were more abundant than the real thing, and it wasn’t until 1994 when everyone became allergic to dust en masse (this was pre-gluten) that fake flowers fell out of vogue. Sadly, they are still present in many healthcare waiting rooms, but we don’t judge the people who save our teeth or our lives because it’s a little rich asking them to be good decorators. Your neighbor, however? Free game.

Lawn flamingos.

Stick squarely to strongly disliking fake flora and fauna, and you can sleep the deep, safe sleep of completely irrelevant judgment. Absolutely okay to judge. The only person on earth who will take umbrage at your judgment is Jonathan Adler, and?

Anything sort of old but not too old.

Can you believe we all used to like [insert any activity, hobby, show, celebrity, fashion item, personal accessory, gadget, scientific inaccuracy, religious belief except you'll still want to leave the Ark thing alone, the witch drowning is completely okay grounds for judgment though, pain reliever, tennis shoe, brand slogan, movie, jewelry trend, haircut, one hit wonder, music subgenre, political sound bite, other things and stuff most people had and did but don't anymore between 9 and 14 years ago]? So ridiculous.

Now that’s what I call a list. It’s the kind of list they’ll make movies about. The kind of list children will study in textbooks. You might have been expecting a longer list, but the beauty of perfection is that it is simple.

Celebrations in the streets. Rain. Art. World Peace. Kumbayah. The Future. Go forth and judge.

This is the latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life.

Image: Keith Trice

Just look at what we are giving away this week because we love you.

“What are you, some kind of trustafarian?” your friend demands. But no. You just read EcoSalon.

This week and this week only, at least until we do this again, we’re giving away gorgeous green gear to you, Susty Spice. Five one-of-a-kind designs, one for each day, five lucky winners.

It’s easy to enter. Just sign up for our newsletter and then like us on Facebook. We’ll take care of the rest! Before the orchestra starts up, I’d better get to showing you the goods:

Exhibit A of our temporary insanity is this exclusively designed Pendleton poncho from VivaTerra. They are limited. They are stunning. You could win one. Isn’t our sister company VivaTerra nice to do this? We explained how hot this look is this fall and they completely understood. (If you want to make sure to get one instead of waiting to see if you’ve won, I recommend moving fast because these won’t last.) $395 value.

Nope, not kidding, not even a little. We’re giving this bad boy away. This gorgeous recycled leather tote is used by a number of girls on the EcoSalon team and we can’t get enough. At $279 it’s hardly a ho-hum handbag, yet I can report that it’s really rather a steal considering the superb quality. Let’s just say I wish I’d dropped for this instead of wasting $400 on a Kooba bag that spends more custody time with my tailor than with me.

Regal flash. NYC-based Bright Young Things designer and fierce girl-about-town Eliza Starbuck loves her handmade, fair trade Mirabai necklace. You could win one, too. Please note Ms. Starbuck not included. $214 value.

Now we come to the warm and fuzzy part of the story known as Hug Me. We’re giving you the blanket, the pillow, even the organic pillow insert. How hipster happily-ever-after can it get? For best results, just add a him. Or a her. Or a Pomeranian.  $187 total value.

At $89 per sheet, this is possibly the most fabulous eco-friendly toweling in existence. It’s the kind of oversized, plush luxury you’d steal from a hotel if it were at a hotel. And because we are extra-extra nice, and because one is never enough, we’re giving you two of these bath sheets, along with a hand towel and wash cloth. No need to thank us. Just promise to use paraben-free shampoo on those strands. And don’t steal. That’s wrong. Total value $226.

Winners will be informed next Monday. Good luck! We love you.

The fine print: You can only sign up for the newsletter once; multiple entries will be removed. We keep your information 100% private. In the unlikely event an item is unavailable or out of stock, a comparable replacement gift option will be made available. EcoSalon staff and family are excluded from this offer. If you have already subscribed to our newsletter and are friends with us on Facebook, you are already automatically entered in our weekly giveaways. This one here is for the newbies, sug.

All goods are available exclusively at VivaTerra.

ColumnWhen trolls invade real life.

Last week, I answered my cell phone while pulling up to a stop sign in my car. I will be the second or third to admit using your cell phone while driving is irresponsible; that’s why I don’t do it. I use a hands-free set. But I hadn’t even had the chance to reach for my set when two cyclists pulled in front of my car and began berating me. It took me a moment to realize this was what was happening, because one was taking a photograph of me with his camera. Flash-blinded, I slowly registered that the other cyclist was actually yelling with a level of smug approaching orgasmic: “What you are doing is ILLEGAL and DISTRACTING! You are BREAKING THE LAW! Do you understand how dangerous this is?” I appreciated the careful enunciation, but it was that last dollop of condescension I found the most delicious. It’s just one more reason to date a cyclist! So I can run him over.

It was true. I’d driven all of one block in a residential neighborhood – mine, and this is important – at the feckless speed of 20 miles per hour whilst on my phone. Even though I hung up the phone (more out of incredulity than guilt), the two cyclists continued behind me for two more blocks, deeply enjoying their special mission. Which is why I can report firsthand that being yelled at for nothing much in particular for two blocks is DISTRACTING. So distracting, I temporarily got disoriented in my own neighborhood and drove blindly for several minutes, pedestrians be damned.

Trolling happens all day online. It’s par for the virtual course. The internet is just full of uptight cyclists with cameras ready to reprimand naughty girls in shiny cars on cell phones. You never know what That Guy from High School will attempt on Facebook, or what angry email may come seething into your inbox ranting about some post of which the sender of said angry clearly missed the entire topic, not to mention point. A lot of times, they don’t even have the right site.

No big deal. But trolling in real life, by which I mean the one that doesn’t give you carpal tunnel? People, it’s time to get on down out of each others’ grills. I am concerned to find that trolling is finding its way even into the social habits of our noble cycling brethren. Perhaps they are an indicator species for the rest of humanity. The weak link, if you will.

I don’t think I’m the only one experiencing this. Our managing editor’s daughter was recently lectured by her school principal – this is elementary school – for having the nonconformist audacity to sport a single feather in her hair. It’s distracting! says the principal. No, it’s personality, and you don’t have to like it, but it’s none of your business.

The world is not out to offend us. Sadly, it is indifferent to us. And it turns out, other people are not just figments of our reality. They move and stuff. Unexpectedly, even!

Continuing in the automotive theme of trolling, because we couldn’t be more American right now: Last week I was at a dinner. I came out to find my car had quite literally been sandwiched bumper to bumper between two cars. Har, har. I marched into the corner cafe and asked around for the owners of both vehicles. No dice, just lattes. Forty minutes later, I was beginning to get annoyed. I called the police, and together we knocked on doors. At last, one hipster came darting out to move the geriatric green sedan backed up against my car’s nose. As he passed me, he preemptively put up his hands in such exaggerated fashion I thought he was crunking and was jealous because I don’t know how to. But no, he was just manning the defense. You’d think I had plans to eat his face. Now, maybe this kid has a habit of blocking other motorists and has developed this defensive mechanism to deflect violence to his person, but I’m going to venture he expected a big can of bitching out.

And then there’s the woman in the minivan who gave me the bird when I actually saved her from a fender-bender today. No good deed goes unflipped.

There have been enough of these incidents lately to give me pause before I go tweet and like some more. I started thinking about all the times I’ve snorted in derision at that one SUV that is the first on the hill to sign up for a crooked parking job. The times I’ve barely held my tongue, wanting to chide a child at the market for acting, unoriginally, childish. The moments where I have raised a fist, imagining what it might feel like to lift just the one finger. Pity it requires lifting a finger.

Maybe that woman on her cell phone needs to be on her cell phone. Maybe the guy who turned like an idiot isn’t such an idiot, just having an idiot moment. Maybe one day you need to be the idiot, and that’s okay. We actually don’t know why people are doing the stupid things they’re doing, and unless they’re putting us in harm’s way, we could care less so we should care less. People are limited, like furniture. Stupidity is as reliable as death and taxes, and more so in some places. Live and let live and live some more before perfection freaks us all out and we need plastic slipcovers.

By the way, the proper retort to all this is not, “But people really are that dumb and selfish. This is why I hate them.” The proper retort is: “I can’t believe you are knocking cycling, Sara. So not green. You obviously hate the planet.”

Let’s keep the trolling online where it belongs. This is practically what the internet was made for. Take that world, I have a blog!

tl;dr Be nice.

This is the latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life.

Image: cinnamon_girl

ColumnI ♥ you.

As I write these words, I’m sitting in a cafe in Pacific Palisades, Calif., a place that in a way is my forever home. My heart is full to breaking with gratitude for the women in my life. And I have to say that here, in the presence of our readers, because while I believe you must know if you’re here in the first place, I want to make certain you do: the women behind the words at EcoSalon are extraordinary. They’re the women you want to know, and should. Some days I can’t believe my luck that I do.

They are a glowing collage of oddball refinement, complexity and consciousness, beauty and such beautiful scars. Color, fire, humor, creativity, verve, style, yes; yet something else distinct runs throughout. That thing is love.

Recently, while in Los Angeles for the EMAs with two of our team, Johanna Bjork and Rowena Ritchie, we were able to meet up with another of our editors based in Los Angeles, Katherine Butler, along with beloved former senior editor Kim Derby. After a chatter-filled brunch, we stopped by Kim’s house to meet her puppy, Blue. Kim and Rowena discussed Byron Katie, marriage, love, and other topics as I sat listening. Back in the car, I told Rowena how blessed I feel to have such wise women in my life, not only as colleagues but as friends. “It’s quite a group you’ve got here, Sara,” she remarked. I practically ran away from her when she dropped me at the cafe moments later so I could burst into tears of happiness in solitude. Sometimes, the good in women is almost too much.

To the one who ordered me that book because I was too busy to get around to ordering it myself; to the one who saved me thousands in therapy in a single Zinfandel-fueled night; to the one I’m only beginning to know, lucky me, who is always up for an adventure, road trip detours included; to the one who got me through more than two years (you know who you are); to the beautiful soul who grows with me year after year; to the brave one who gave it all up to try something new; you amaze me.

When EcoSalon began, I didn’t yet have an idea of just what it would become. I was a driven, imaginative kid with a sponge where a brain usually is. What do I want to do with my life? Ha! It’s nice if you know, but for me? Not my M.O. Instead, I just go do the thing. So I just about wanted to marry Mike Rowe when I read his piece about passion and “following it” as an artist. He says to stop worrying about what “it” is and just show up. Just bring the passion; don’t wait to find the thing, bring your passion to the thing and it becomes your thing. It almost doesn’t matter what it is we’re doing – just that we do it. EcoSalon is a work in progress because we are each a work in progress – editors, readers, writers. We should never forget we are each changing every moment.

At dinner once with one of our investors, we were talking about the future of EcoSalon and what we might be capable of. “The answer’s in you,” he said, matter-of-fact.

But with all due respect, he was wrong.

The answer is in us.

This is the latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life.

ColumnThe Blue Angels and the Blue Asses who love them.

I’ll say it: I hate the Blue Angels.

I don’t hate the pilots, especially since one in 10 dies in these shows. Their skill is impressive, but so is ibuprofen’s power to eliminate the headache I had all weekend.

What I hate is the hypocrisy and denial from otherwise educated, progressive folk, or what those outside of San Francisco like to call elitists. How can a typically, or at least stereotypically, intelligent and engaged population possibly think the annual Fleet Week celebration culminating in a fuel-guzzling spectacle of mind-melting noise and nostalgic military might is cool?

Every year, the local media love to report on the inevitable controversy. There are those who adore the Blue Angels (the majority), the hippies who hate them (the minority) and the people who know they shouldn’t go in for such things but mumble about “civic pride” and “feat of engineering” before dashing down to the Embarcadero. Reliably, some outlet, usually a small weekly, will publish a complaint about this celebrated collective embarrassment – with politically-correct emphasis on the noise, never the navy! God no! – and the controversy flares up in the comment box.

This time around, when SF Weekly had the commie audacity to grumble about the deafening 150 decibel levels of the jets whizzing by their offices (“deafening” as the categorization for 150 happens to be an actual scientific fact), a keyboard-enabled denizen of San Francisco promptly attributed such grumbling to “carpetbagging transplants” who would dare deprive children of the fabulous experience of having class interrupted by the noise of the jets. No child of the Bay Area should grow up without that experience, he railed. I think it’s reasonable to venture someone still takes his PB&J without the crusts when no one’s looking.

This isn’t a video game. You can’t check into the Blue Angels on Foursquare. If you want to honor a great American marvel of technology, go bike across the Golden Gate Bridge. Fart all you like along the way, while you’re at it – you’ll put out far less toxic gas than the jets scorching overhead.

In short, I’m disappointed in my Berkeley-marching, Marin hot-tubbing, Haight-Ashbury pot-smoking brethren. (I’m also disappointed that sistren is not a word, but more on that another time.) Not because I out-smug them. Quite the contrary. I don’t attend rallies, I’ve never marched in protest, I wouldn’t wear Birkenstocks even if Birkenstock paid me in Manolos to do it, I eat meat and – wait for it – I don’t believe in sacrifice as a strategy. This hardly endears me to many a resident treehugger, but then I’m hardly enamored of an otherwise green population that mindlessly shows up once a year at the pier to cheer an outlandish and outdated display of sky-high dick swinging. Why must patriotism and pride always come wrapped around a weapon?

No one’s arguing that what the Blue Angels do isn’t enormously impressive. It is. The atom bomb was impressive. The many dams that have upended vital ecosystems are impressive. American feats of engineering, all. And you can argue for their necessity quite convincingly to many people and for many decades we have.

We are living in precarious times – thrilling times, to be sure. Our economy and our environment are in shabby shape, and that’s being generous. So for me, getting excited about a jet show is about as mature as getting excited about sandwich crusts. It’s just so entirely out of touch, and I have yet to hear a coherent defense.

I suppose this makes me a carpetbagging transplant and possibly a commie and definitely a curmudgeon, but in my opinion it’s time to put the Blue Angels on the shelf next to Formica, meatloaf TV dinners and Mommy’s Little Helper. We have much more fascinating “feats of engineering” going on, ones that might save us here and now, in the real world, in the true time and space we are all actually in and must face whether we want to or not. Escapism can be fun, but that doesn’t make it right.

The Insider’s Guide to Life is your editor’s weekly column exploring topics such as media, culture, sex, living, and anything else, including high decibel ranting. Cheers and spellcheck!

Image: (matt)