Column“Do you know where you’re going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you?” – Diana Ross

After four luxuriously stupid days off – an epoch for an editor, really – wherein I spent much time, energy and money hurling myself down snowy mountainsides doing what other people call “Tahoe” and I call “please don’t look at me, no seriously, please go over to that other slope,” and less than zero time doing anything of intellectual merit, summoning the synapses has been something of a hurdle. Use it or lose, the saying goes, and is it ever true. When I found myself actually watching The Last of the Mohicans and meaning it this weekend, I decided to seek help.

I found solace in Rush Limbaugh. Rush, issuer of the hilarious little tirade meant to poke some good old fun, has been losing advertisers left and right. As usual, the liberal media, but now I’m being redundant, is having a field day with a couple silly words that Rush used merely to demonstrate absurdity by being absurd. Or is that illustrate? I can never keep it straight.

After initially refusing to say those two magic words (no, not those words), Rush caved and apologized for his use of the infamous two words (in case you’ve been living under a rock, or perhaps lying unconscious on a ski slope, they were “slut” and “prostitute”), presumably because he could no longer say it with flowers. He did not, however, apologize for the 53 associated insults or the tirade generally, which only made things worse, so then he really had to apologize, for real this time, for all of it, sweetheart, if you’ll just listen to me, I can change, I promise:

“This is the mistake I made – in fighting them on this issue last week I became like them, against my own instincts, against my own knowledge, against everything I know to be right or wrong,” Limbaugh said. “I descended to their level when I used those two words to attack Sandra Fluke. That was my error and I became like them. And I feel very badly about that. I always try to maintain a very high degree of integrity and independence on this program.”

“What has your cult done for you lately?” Tina admonished me from the pages of Bossypants, after describing how devoting her life to the cult of comedy has resulted in such things as a loving husband, fame, fortune, and creative fulfillment.

It’s a good question. What has your cult done for you, lately? For Limbaugh’s Dittoheads, the withered fruits are a conservative cornucopia: Stubborn irrelevance, delusional insecurity, and so much more! Nuclear marriage to a mean streak. The delightfully jarring pitter patter of screaming slurs. Fear in the garage, desperation in every pot.

Something tells me Tina’s no Dittohead, unless I missed that 30 Rock, but her question is the best one I’ve heard since before I didn’t have snow between my ears because it applies equally to everyone. “What has your cult done for you lately?”

We all have a cult (or two, or even three, if we’re extra slutty), be it politics, sex, sexual politics, food, health, religion, tech, work, fashion.

Green.

And while it’s always easy to point fingers at the colicky cult that is the Grand Old Party, we should also look at our own. Because what has the green cult done for us, lately?

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

Image: Daveybot

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ColumnHigh fives, ladies, we’re the fixer-upper gender!

In light of the recent release of the Tush Tickler, your guide to “analplay adventures for everybooty,” you might be tempted to think there’s no personal development book under the sun left to be published, what with books being published where the sun don’t shine. You would think wrong. There are mines, rich veins, whole mountaintops of self help publishing left to be penetrated for our betterment. And isn’t that what it’s all about, ladies? Less thinking wrong, less thinking generally, more betterment?

They say print is dead. This simply isn’t true, because we have women, and as long as we have women, we will think of new books to improve them. Just check out these hot new self help titles for 2012!*

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned From My Dental Hygienist. Everything

“Some people say cleanliness is next to godliness. Some people also say pearly whites are next to pearly gates.” – Fox News

Raising Self Esteem by Broadcasting Everything Wrong With Yourself in Social Media

“Stunningly original approach to self help. Guaranteed to be a smash hit. Step aside, 7 Habits of Highly Successful People. Move over, The Secret. Sure to be an instant classic.” – Kirkus Book Reviews

Life Without Contraception in This Country

“A brilliant guide for the suddenly lesbian.” –  San Francisco Chronicle

Just Keep Telling Yourself It’s Not Personal, and Other Coping Techniques for Losers

“Denial is not to be stamped out, but amplified, explains this sage and insightful personal development primer that is the best thing I’ve seen yet at this low paying self help book review job I absolutely adore and vastly prefer to writing my novel.” – Internet Book Reviews Reviews of Books Best Book Reviews Online Internet Resource for Book Reviews Win Free Money, a subsidiary of Demand Media

If You Could Only Be Perfect!

“For the adult child who longs for the odd comfort of daily remonstrations at the hands of a tyrannical parent, this cruel, critical, fault-finding, nagging book is a lifeline nearly as judgmental as Mom herself, and certainly as disappointed as the Baby Jesus. The accompanying photo album for holding embarrassing childhood photographs to show prospective suitors is a thoughtful touch from the publisher, which clearly spared no expense in the creative development and packaging of this timely title. Now, more than ever, we need self-loathing.” – Brigham Young University Press

So He Left You for a 25-Year-Old She Probably Squeaks, and Other Crass Koans to Help You Feel Less Bitter About Being 50 and Divorced with a Credit Rating Shot to Hell Thanks to That Jerk Who Is So Immature Even the Therapist Despises Him Especially After She Slept with Him Because He’s Not Even Good in Bed! I Know!

“The author holds a canny grasp on the marriage zeitgeist, which is to say, the divorce zeitgeist.” – the Guardian

The Art of the Fake Orgasm

“A helpful how-to for pretending to reach climax during sexual intercourse, this delightful guide is full of creative tips for faking orgasm, along with dozens of real stories from women – and men – of all walks of life. This work would have been enhanced by the inclusion of expert insights from health professionals instead of the author’s friends. Still, a useful book for those interested in mastery of fake orgasms.” – Publishers Weekly

Is It Just Me or Does Nonviolent Communication Feel Like Suffocating Inside Sweaty Flannel Sheets?

“That’s not the actual title, but it should be! The NVC Myth: My Years of Suffering Through the Most Annoying Form of Communication on Earth really nails it. I knew exactly what the author meant the second I saw the book. For the stage five clinger not wanting the relationship to end and therefore having difficulty accepting the other party’s lack of interest, NVC must be a thrilling godsend, a therapeutically validated method for maintaining the connection for as long as humanly possible. For the party who isn’t the control freak endowed with epic levels of neurotic insecurity, NVC feels pretty much like you’re still dating the person only this time completely against your will.” – Amazon buyer itsworsethanherpes

How to Stop Beating Yourself Up for Misplacing the Keys for the Seven Millionth Time Today in One Easy Step Which We’ll Just Put in the Title: Anytime You Lose Something It Will Always Be Wherever You Left It, Except if There’s an Earthquake Then It Might Not Be Right Exactly Where You Left It But Probably Still Pretty Close By

“Though the entire contents of the book are on the cover, the intrepid reader or average New Yorker will soon grasp the many layers of this fundamental truism of life resting poetically within a simplistic single line. At once simple and nuanced, by turns pithy and existential, at once hilarious and brutal, by turns banal and profound, at once postmodern and tragic, by turns brisk and solemn, at once boring and random, by turns witty and frank, at once silly and bold, by turns like a girl wrote it and intelligent, at once riveting and poignant, by turns refreshing and compelling, this book is a triumph, an opus, a masterpiece, a tour de force. Deeply present. Deeply personal. Deeply provocative. Deeply shallow, while being deep in a shallow way. A Midwestern sensibility delicately permeates this experimental title, which is paradoxical in a richly ironic sense, reminiscent of the very best early work of Dave Eggars but also the biting disgust of a slightly older, slightly puffier Jonathan Franzen; both quiet like DeLillo and noisy like Safran Foer, if they were beverages. The book for the times, the book of the times, the book and the times.” –  The New York Times Book Review

What To Do About Your Wide Set Cleavage

“Wide set cleavage is a problem most women have, though many simply don’t realize it. This step-by-step guide takes the reader from DIY all the way to surgery, with scaffolding diagrams, resources, and plenty of tips for each stage of the journey to more attractive breasts.” – Allure

We need so much help. So much.

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

*Note: These are not actual books nor actual reviews.

Image: quinn.anya

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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

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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

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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.

The post The Insider’s Guide to Life: The Essential List of Resolutions Not to Make in 2012 appeared first on EcoSalon.

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?

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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

The post The Insider’s Guide to Life: The Official List of Things You Can Safely Judge appeared first on EcoSalon.

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

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ColumnThis could be your reader. She deserves better.

Did you hear a funny sound or see smoke trickling out of your computer last week? That was the sound of lady website XOJane blowing up the internet by publishing a post by said site’s health editor on how using birth control such as condoms or the pill is, like, totes the pits, which caused just about the entire int-her-net to clutch our pearls and foam at the mouth.

I’m not so terribly offended that an adult woman writing for a professional website in the capacity of health editor would claim that only fat goody-goodies take the pill. What really offends me is that apparently this is what passes for good writing on the internet these days. THIS.

“Yup, on my bad days I am the glowering, self-critical too-much-eyeliner-on nightmare that terrorizes every workplace setting I choose to inhabitate with the kind of toxic insecurity that destroys … well, it’s not particularly compelling to anyone else or powerful in any way, so it doesn’t destroy much except my own self-worth and happiness, from hour to hour, until I hang out with a friend or something and the self-obsession and negativity recedes and I feel normal again!

(Does this stuff ever end? Do I have to hurl myself into a mirror? Why didn’t I watch that movie more carefully so I can reference it better? Jesus, mang. I’m so BORED of being UNHAPPY.)”

Is this good writing? Jane Pratt – she of Sassy and Jane – says it is and that it’s why her website is awesome. She says it’s “riveting and raw.” But really, is it good? I’m asking honestly. I’d form an opinion myself, but I have no goddamn clue what’s going on in that paragraph.  It was supposed to be about eye liner, and I’m confused.

As those of us who do it for a living know, writing for the internet can be challenging. We contend with a lot of prejudice, both from people who assume we’re not good enough to get into print (not the case) and from those who assume we’ve never heard of spell-checking (sometimes the case). But in our defense, online articles go from pitch to publish really fast, and humans make typos and mistakes. Very few websites have the leisurely pace or the proofreading staff of The New Yorker, is what I’m saying. We already have a bad rap, so writing professional stories like a teenager scribbling in a diary Does Not Help. Not to mention the fact – you read it here first – that readers don’t read dishy, confessional blogginess and think, “Wow, what a raw and edgy personality!” They read it and think, “Wow, that girl should book some extra therapy sessions.”

There’s wonderful writing on the internet, and it’s not all about the quote-unquote important stuff. I’ve read slideshows on the Top 10 Celeb Booby Shots and captions to cat videos that were so hysterical they made my eyes bleed. Great writing has nothing to do with being formal or stuffy or serious or even appropriate. But I think it’s fair to say that to be called “good writing,” something should meet a basic standard of mechanical proficiency, readability, and clarity. To call this kind of sub-grammatical apunctuated word salad “riveting and raw”… well that kind of chaps my ass on behalf of all of us who try every day to form complete and coherent sentences – maybe even good ones that make you laugh or make you think.  Because we do try. Very hard. “Inhabitate”? I mean, really. Come on, now. Just because it’s the internet doesn’t mean you get to make up words.

Lo, our beloved English language, it changeth even as we speak. And that’s natural. But it’s under enough siege already, what with the all the textin n stuf. Must we now consider this acceptable, nay, better-than-average? Is this the future? A lazy future in which every professionally-written sentence sounds like a text from a thirteen-year-old girl who got hold of some Ritalin and marabou heels? (OMG you guys it’s SO awesome! Like, FOR REALS! HAHAHAHAHAHA I’M SO EDGY!)

As much as I feel bad for English-speaking humanity, I also feel bad for the writer herself. Because that’s another tough thing about the web: when you have a bad day, an uninspired day, and you churn out some junk because you’re on deadline and you have other stuff to get done (which happens to all of us), it lives forever. A clunker story doesn’t just disappear into the ether as soon as the next issue of the magazine hits newsstands. Nowadays, it’s always just a Google away, and that writer will forevermore be known as That Girl Who Wrote the Ridiculous Thing. It’s rough.

But maybe the joke’s on us. Maybe in twenty years we’ll be analyzing the sub-grammatical apunctuated word salad the way we analyze ee cummings or James Joyce or David Foster Wallace, even though now it seems like the unholy love child of LOLcats and Twitter. And if that happens, I think I speak for all of us when I say, “I can haz cynanide?”

Editor’s note: This latest installment in your editor’s column, The Insider’s Guide to Life, is penned by the fabulous Ms. Ford.

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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)

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