The IKEA Effect

Since there has been such a clamor for me to return to my regular scheduled blogging program (ok, just from Neetu, but still), I think it’s time for me to get back on track. The only excuse for my posting hiatus is that moving, decorating and starting a new job sucked up way more of my creative energy than I anticipated, besides leaving me Internetless, cableless and generally cut off from the world for the past three weeks.

The biggest problem with being a nomad for the first half of your twenties is that when you finally settle on a place where you plan to stay for a while you find that the only things you’ve managed to accumulate in the last four years are a bed and a toaster. And eight boxes of VHS movies your significant other has been collecting since he was ten and refuses to part with.

So most of my time has been occupied with how to fill an 800-square-foot apartment on a 400-square-foot budget. This project can be pretty much summed up in two words: Target and IKEA.

These twin titans of moderately priced home furnishings have become my second home over the past few weeks. And while Target remains my favorite one-stop shopping destination, I’ve recently discovered that IKEA might actually be the unhappiest place on earth. Some could probably make an argument for Iraq, Guantanamo Bay or the Department of Motor Vehicles. I say it’s a toss-up.

I grant you that IKEA is, in theory, an inspired idea. Those crafty Swedes sought to create a big box Xanadu of affordable faux-wood furniture that even the most boneheaded among us can assemble with relative ease. The reality is that IKEA is actually some kind of brain fever-inducing Hell mouth.

Think I’m exaggerating? Spend a Saturday afternoon wandering around their cavernous showroom and you’ll observe hundreds of hitherto completely sane people screaming at each other over items with elfish names like “Mumsig” and “Ektorp.” I witnessed no less than three couples descend into outright name-calling, and Matt and I barely avoided a brawl of our own when we realized we had left the room measurements back at the apartment. I wonder how many relationships have been destroyed over whether the extra-wide bookshelf will look unwieldy in the living room.

Fighting your way through the hordes of would-be bargain decorators and screaming children, you can actually feel your sense of decency and order disintegrate into a kind of primal survival instinct. Suddenly, your desire to pick out a damn coffee table already and get the F out of there overrides any other consideration. You find yourself grabbing at the first things you can get a hold of and wandering aimlessly through Media and Storage for the fifth time because Bedrooms seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

And finally--once you’ve made it through the unending labyrinth of furniture and home décor--you grab a cart and lumber through a giant warehouse stacking up large boxes of unassembled wood like a little worker ant. You wait in line to pay, and then push your laden-down cart to the loading area where one of you guards the haul while the other pulls the car around. The most horrifying moment of all comes when you realize that you’d gladly back your car over a family of four if it meant they’d get out of the loading zone faster.

Then you get back home, hoping to banish all thoughts of the previous four hours of your life, and realize that the birch veneer you thought would complement the couch perfectly is all wrong and that those fire engine-colored curtains that you grabbed in a frenzied haze not only don’t match your lovely dark red accent pillows, but they make the entire room look like a giant stop sign.

So, this weekend we're going back into the fray armed with receipts and a new mental toughness. Furnishing our apartment with the perfect combination of style and thrift has become my white whale, and I remain undeterred in my quest.

Call me Mumsig.

L.A. Story

Some places, you immediately fall in love with.

The moment I arrived in Boston as a freshman in college, I was smitten. I fell head-over-heels for the city’s charm and history, the noble brownstones lining its crooked streets, the omnipresence of tricycle guy, whose incomprehensible bellows could guide you through the darkest of nights. When I left the summer after my senior year, it broke my heart. I cried all the way to the New York state line.

And then, like many an unemployed and directionless soul before me, I washed up on the shores of the Pacific. My relationship to Los Angeles could probably be best described as a creeping affection. Arriving in Southern California was like touching down on the face of an unknown planet—a planet of garishly colored Mediterranean architecture and incessantly blinding sunlight. It was intriguing, but it seemed too unreal of a place to imagine myself actually living here for any extended period of time.

Now, more than three years later as I’m preparing to become an official resident of Los Angeles, I find there are things about this foreign land that have started to feel like home. Things like late night Astroburger runs, Saturday afternoons at the West Hollywood Farmer’s Market and movies at the Arclight (where they have assigned seating and kindly allow you to bring your cocktail into the theater, which makes it totally worth the $14 price of admission). Searching for an actual home, however, has been a bit of an odyssey.

In the past couple of weeks, we’ve looked at apartments that are--in L.A. real estate speak--Culver City adjacent, West Hollywood adjacent and Beverly Hills adjacent ( and a couple that are actually in Beverly Hills—I know, aren’t we posh). Where some of these buildings were actually located, I’d be hard pressed to tell you. But I know exactly which desirable neighborhood they are within spitting distance from.

In L.A., you’re always adjacent to something. Adjacent to celebrity, to the ocean, to a Coffee Bean franchise. Which perhaps makes sense in a city where everybody is trying to be something else. It’s a philosophy based on the utter rejection of the idea that wherever you go, there you are. Because here, it’s not about where you are, but where you’re going.

Today, you may be a paid-by-the-day production assistant eeking out a meager existence in an unglamorous part of West L.A. But one turn of the screw and you’re a high powered producer with major square footage in Brentwood. Mobility here isn’t just upward, it can be stratospheric. So isn’t it more affirming to think of yourself as “Brentwood-adjacent?”

I think this is both the magic and the curse of Los Angeles. It can be painfully image-obsessed and as disingenuous as the non-native palm trees that define its topography. But, as corny as it sounds, it’s still a place that draws people with big dreams.

During the countless Friday night drives I’ve made from my bucolic suburban domicile to my boyfriend’s Santa Monica adjacent apartment, my favorite part of the drive always comes when I’m maneuvering around a twisty hill on the I-10. At one specific point, if the smog’s not too heavy, you get a glimpse of downtown L.A. rising up in the distance. From this particular vantage point, the city’s usually pitiful-looking skyline appears to be floating on a cloud above the earth—sort of like the first image of the Emerald City in "The Wizard of Oz.”

I guess this is kind of how I have affectionately come to think of my new home. A poorly conceived, sprawling, carcinogen-infested Land of Oz. Run by an actor pretending to be a wizard.

When a Donkey Becomes an Ass

Democrats have been ticking me off lately.

First off, there was that ridiculous controversy a couple of weeks ago over Bush referring to the “Democrat majority” during the State of the Union address. Apparently, some Democrats found this horribly offensive. Why, I don’t know. Maybe Bush did mean it as an intentional dig, but come on. This is a guy who has access to all the nuclear launch codes, but can’t pronounce the word “nuclear.” I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt since it seems like we should have slightly more important matters to worry about.

And anyway, who cares if Bush neglected to put the “ic” in Democratic when we’ve got the fellows mentioned below to do it for him:

Let's start with Joseph Biden's comments about Barack Obama. Just in case you missed it, the Delaware Senator announced he was running for President last week and then proceeded to describe his rival for the Democratic nomination as “the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.”

Now, sometimes—maybe because we pride ourselves on being the party of inclusion or because of our need to feel everybody’s pain--I think we liberals can be a tad oversensitive. This is not one of those times.

I’ve seen Biden appear on The Daily Show a couple of times, and previously found his frankness and candor rather refreshing. But what the hell? You think Barack Obama is such an impressive candidate because he manages to be both black AND clean—is that what we’re supposed to take from your comments? This is how you choose to introduce yourself to the nation?

I thought no prospective presidential candidate could commit a bigger gaffe than accidentally calling American soldiers stupid, but clearly I was wrong. To quote Billy Madison (and the recent Kazzie awards): “I award you no points, may God have mercy on your soul.”

And, finally, Gavin Newsom. Gavin, Gavin, Gavin. I left my heart in San Francisco back in 2004 when you opened city hall to all those happy same-sex couples seeking marriage licenses. And while your bold act of civil disobedience may have contributed to a heap of reactionary anti-gay laws being passed a few months later, I adored you for being a man of principle. You’re still much better eye-candy than, say, Ted Kennedy, but get it together, man!

Still, I haven’t lost faith. I believe that this will be a banner year for the Democrat-ic Party, and that the 2008 election is ours to lose. But perhaps our venerable leaders need a gentle reminder that with great power comes great…something.

These Vagabond Shoes...

My favorite times at my house are Taco Tuesdays. The best thing about Taco Tuesdays is that they can actually occur spontaneously on pretty much any night of the week. One of the roommates will come home from work, and instead of a throwing together a hastily prepared meal eaten at the counter, will declare “I feel like tacos tonight.”

Then there is great jubilation over the inspired idea. Plans to go to the gym, do laundry or run errands are abandoned. Sufjan Stevens, or something equally soothing, is played on the stereo. Erin will start cooking the meat (real for us, soy for the metro-sexual men of the house), I’ll chop the vegetables, Nick purees the avocados, and Corey brings out the chips and salsa for pre-dinner snacking. When the feast is prepared, we all sit down at the table like the bizarre pseudo-suburban family that we have become.

The last such night was especially significant, because we all knew there was a good chance it would be one of the last. Change is always a little bittersweet even when it’s welcome or even sought after. This week, I accepted a job offer in Los Angeles and will be moving there in few weeks. By the end of the summer, the three delightful people I’ve shared a home with for the past year-and-a-half will likely be scattered around the globe when they leave to teach overseas.

I’m rejoicing at no longer being an urban snob trapped in the suburbs. No more will I be stranded miles from a Nordstroms and good Indian take-out. After three years of living 60 miles apart and mutual shuttling back and forth on weekends, I’m leaving tract-home Hell for the relative civilization of Los Angeles and domestic bliss with Matt.

It’s incredibly exciting, and long overdue, but it also closes a chapter in my life. With the exception of the nine months I lived in a one-bedroom apartment alone, I’ve always had roommates.

There’ve been the Good (the current roomies, my 1601 girls from senior year of college), the Bad (my freshman year roommate who sold drugs and kept her stash hidden in the cereal bar box) and the Ugly. (My former housemate, Jen, who listened to rap full blast in the morning and actually thought she should only have to pay half the rent one month because she was going to be out of town for two weeks. Also, my other freshman year roommate who went to bed at 10:30 every night and at 12 a.m. would inevitably march into the floor lounge and tell everyone to “go to bed, idiots!”)

Now, that part of life that is spent shuffling from place to place, essentially rootless and able to pack my life into a few boxes on short notice, is over. Matt and I will purchase furniture and hang framed pictures on the wall. I will spend an inordinate amount of time drooling over Pottery Barn catalogues. My books will be displayed on shelves instead of shoved under my bed in shopping bags.

If things go according to plan, I will be somewhat settled and Matt will be the last roommate I ever have. That is unless somewhere down the line, in my golden years, I end up sharing a house in Miami with a ditzy blond from St. Olaf, a slutty aging Southern belle, and a sassy elderly woman who starts every sentence with “Sicily, 1952…” (I guess in this scenario I would be Dorothy.)

The next stage of my life is sure to be a journey fraught with adventure and some peril. Can a slob and a neatnik co-habitate without turning into characters from a Neil Simon play? Who will emerge as the ultimate master of the remote, and how many televised Red Sox games can one woman endure?

I can’t wait to find out.

TiVo Is Life, The Rest Is Just Details

All the buzz last week may have been about the Oscar nominations, but I was so excited about the mid-season return of my two favorite shows (Veronica Mars and Battlestar Galactica) that I thought this was a good time to take stock of my television viewing to date. Part of the last few weeks has been devoted to catching up on Heroes. I refused to allow another pop-culture juggernaut (like Lost) pass by while I watched forlornly from the sidelines. It’s too much like a Jr. High School dance. I won’t have it.

So I started in on Heroes during the hiatus and have pretty much caught up on the characters and the backstory. It’s a really clever concept with great twists and cliffhangers. But with the possible exceptions of Hiro and the indestructible cheerleader, I don’t really feel invested in most of the characters and their inner lives. So I think it’s good—good enough to rank a season pass slot on my TiVo—but not great.

Moving On…

Biggest Disappointment: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Way back in the fall I was insanely excited for Studio 60. West Wing creator Aaron Sorkin, Josh Lyman and Chandler Bing joining forces? How could it miss? By being painfully self-important, that’s how. Self-important works when you’re writing about the White House, but not an SNL knockoff. I cannot handle one more pompous speech about how the culture war is played out every week on a late-night comedy sketch show. It’s not. The last funny thing I saw on SNL was Justin Timberlake singing about his dick in a box. How’s that for high-brow?

On the flip side, I’ve been strangely charmed by 30 Rock the couple of times I’ve caught it. This could be because I have a bit of a girl crush on Tina Fey (the thinking man’s hot chick), or because Alec Baldwin is a comedic God.

Best New Discovery: Weeds
Take heed, ladies of Wisteria Lane. If you want to skewer the suburbs, this is how it’s done. I always knew I loved Mary Louise Parker, and now I know why. She leads a great supporting cast in this dark, caustic comedy about single parenthood, suburbia and the mind-altering drugs you need to survive it.

Most Over: Grey’s Anatomy
Forget about all the backstage scandal. I know we tune in for the McDrama, but can’t the characters at least PRETEND to be doing some actual doctoring once in a while? Also, American Idol. Every year I say I’m not getting sucked in, this time I mean it. I’m holding strong.

Most Excited For: Finding out who killed the Dean, and who the Final Five are. If you don’t know what that means, I can’t help you.

That’s all I’ve got for now. In the future I plan to dedicate an entire post to the demise of The OC, and tackle why the American version of The Office is NOT as good as the British in its own special way. Until then, happy viewing!

Critical Mass

It seems that high fashion models—those gazelle-like creatures that Tyra Banks keeps trying to bring back to relevancy—may now have to follow rules other than “Don’t leave your blow on the toilet seat” and “If you’re going to abuse your assistant by chucking a phone at her head, make sure you offer a generous settlement.”

A few weeks before the start of New York’s Fashion Week, a council of fashion designers have cobbled together a list of “guidelines” aimed at keeping their human clothes hangers from looking like, well, human clothes hangers. The geniuses who decided that it was high time to bring leggings and skinny jeans back to the masses have put forth mind-blowing suggestions such as placing nutritious snacks backstage and requiring models identified as having an eating disorder to receive professional help.

In a stunning act of hypocrisy, great avatars of fashion like Anna Wintour and Diane von Furstenberg actually came out in favor of a so-called crackdown, apparently realizing that the jutting clavicle beast they’ve created has spun out of control. When models become so distractingly thin that they pull the attention away from the couture, it’s a problem. When five Brazilian modes die in quick succession from anorexia, that’s just bad P.R.

The recommendations fall short of the more drastic measures taken in Milan and Madrid, where fashion show organizers banned models whose body mass index fell below World Health Organization standards. And in an even less promising sign, several elite clothing brands have announced the advent of a new size—the double zero.

Downsizing seems inevitable since “zero became the new two and two became the new four.” So says Stanley Tucci to Anne Hathaway in a scene from “The Devil Wears Prada”—a film that mirrors our own schizophrenia by simultaneously skewering and revering the fashion world. Although it’s played as satire, hearing Anne Hathaway’s slender but healthy body derided throughout the film strikes a nerve. It hits us where we live, knowing that no matter how thin we are, we’re never thin enough. (Six is the new fourteen, didn’t ya know?)

Granted, we live in an obese nation where the associated health risks rightfully receive a great deal of attention. America needs to put down the chicken wing and lose some weight. But the skinny obsession has a lot more to do with status than with health consciousness, and weight has become emblematic of the growing divide between the haves and have nots. Americans are fat and getting fatter every day. Kids are fat and getting fatter every day. But as the average mortal expands, the standard of beauty has shrunk to literally deadly proportions.

The recent backlash against models and actresses with negative body fat might be a sign that toothpick-chic has officially outlasted its welcome. Or it could be a signal that we’re squarely trapped in the Catch-22 being played out daily on tabloid covers, where slim frames are celebrated and celebrities who gain weight are splashed unflatteringly across the pages. However, celebs who lose too much weight—as Nicole Richie and the Olsen twins have learned the hard way—become the unhappy recipients of even more derision.

True, outright revolt is always an option. Like peasants storming the Bastille, we could hurl carb-loaded breadsticks at models strutting the New York runways and shout to the heavens, “I’m hungry as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” But it’s hard to fight against a cultural ideal that’s slowly ingrained and then re-enforced a thousand different times a day. Logic and reason seems like insufficient weapons against such a stealth campaign.

The only comfort is that every cultural pendulum eventually swings back. By the time it does we will have likely found a new and more ingenious way to wreck ourselves in the name of fashion. But someday, maybe sooner than we think, six might once again become the new six.

Addendum

The L.A. Times wrote a story a couple of days ago about the sad state of independent bookstores in Los Angeles.

I feel pretty cool knowing that I shop at the same place as Diane Keaton.

Things That Make You Go Hmm...

When I started this blog (a whole three weeks ago) I intended it to be more of a forum for my observations of the world at large, rather than a personal online diary. That’s still pretty much my intention, but I have to share a few stories about my friend Gina.

Gina—one of my dearest friends from college—is in Los Angeles this week on a business trip. As much as I love her, it’s a general rule that when Gina comes to town it’s time to break out the survival gear. Much like Halle Berry from the X-Men movies, Gina controls the weather. Well, not so much controls it as brings it with her wherever she goes.

Our Junior year, we both spent the spring semester in London. After the semester ended, we spent a couple more weeks traveling together. We started in Switzerland, with a plan to take the Eurorail south through Italy. On our first day in Geneva, it rained torrentially. We quickly learned that Geneva—known for its botanical gardens and beautiful vistas—is not an indoor city. The storm followed us all the way to Italy and down the boot. We got stranded in Milan and were waylaid for a night in fair Verona while we struggled to get out of the waterlogged city on the last train.

Thinking that I was going to be spending the trip soaking in the late-spring Italian sun, I packed mostly capri pants and tank tops. The rest of our luggage was left in storage at Heathrow Airport. I had packed one sweatshirt, one jacket and one pair of jeans in case it got chilly at night. I wore those clothes for six days in a row.

A couple of years later, Gina, two other friends and I went on a cruise that stopped at an island off the shore of Haiti. At about the same time, Haiti was hit by a hurricane.

Not long after that, Gina came out So Cal for a visit. The week she was here marked the most consecutive days of rain in like a century. Mountains fells and giant sinkholes swallowed houses whole. The day she left to fly home?—75 degrees and sunny.

Gina arrived back in town on Wednesday. Today, I woke up to a dusting of snow on my front lawn and car. IT SNOWED. IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

I am now convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that medical science and atmospheric researchers need to be contacted. This is a phenomenon that must be studied. The plus side is that if she learned to harness her powers she could be a one-woman solution to global warming.

Remember Gina…Save the Cheerleader, Save the World.

The End of a Beautiful Friendship

I’ve always loved bookstores. Whether they’re small independents or corporate behemoths, I love them all. There’s something indescribably comforting about the rows of unread books ripe for browsing, the fact that Jane Austen and Michael Chabon can share a shelf, the soothing affirmation that we’re not quite living in a post-literate society.

So it’s with a heavy heart that I say good-bye to one of my favorite Los Angeles haunts. The one and only independent bookstore in Beverly Hills closed its doors at the end of December. For Matt and I, it was a favorite stop on our semi-regular expeditions into how the other half lives. Hang a left at Jimmy Choo, and there it was—a small inviting space tucked away on an unprepossessing street in Beverly Hills’ shopping district. Even though it was just a couple of blocks away, it felt far removed from the gawkers and self-conscious opulence of Rodeo Drive.

But this is L.A., people, and even a bookshop isn’t without a hint of glamour. It was the location of my infamous Ben Stein sighting. (He was spotted walking through the store saying “Phil?…Phil?…Phil?” I’ve often wondered if there actually was a Phil present, of if Mr. Stein does that in public just to mess with people.) We exited the store that same afternoon to see Djimon Hounsou engaged in conversation on the sidewalk.

Then there was the time we observed a guy introducing his blond, model-esque girlfriend to the wonder of reading. He kept stacking books higher and higher in her arms. When he shoved Love in the Time of Cholera at her, explaining how it had changed his life, I thought she was going to faint. It was like watching Henry Higgins instruct a large-breasted Eliza Doolittle.

Despite our frequent visits--and the patronage of sundry monotone celebrities--I realize that we are precisely the reason why the place couldn’t stay afloat. All of their best efforts to drive actual book purchasing were completely lost on us. There was the time we ambled inside to find we had missed Al Gore signing copies of An Inconvenient Truth by mere minutes. Our visits were always punctuated with sentences like, “why didn’t we know Amy Sedaris was going to be here last week?” We didn’t even know the place was closing until we walked past and found the doors locked. To be honest, I think the only thing I ever actually bought there was a birthday card.

Apparently that means that I am complicit in the spread of the evil corporate empire. I’m a mass-consuming drone lured by the promise of Internet purchasing ease and 30 percent off of all bestsellers. But the truth is that I like Barnes&Noble, just as I like Banana Republic and find Dunkin Donuts coffee to be superior to just about anything else in the universe. In the end, a bookstore is a bookstore. It’s not like B&N has stopped stocking Dostoevsky in order to free up shelf space for more copies of The Da Vinci Code.

I’m guessing that, much like myself, most people don’t go to places like Dutton’s to actually buy books. It’s a discovery. A haven in the midst of the retail jungle where you can linger peacefully for hours without having to actually purchase anything. That’s why we come to love such places. Why, when we find them, we plant our metaphorical flags there and declare them our own. It’s a shame they can’t survive on love alone.

Hear me roar

Will 2007 go down in history as the year of the woman?

Nancy Pelosi was sworn in this week as the first female Speaker of the House, bringing with her the advent of the dreaded “San Francisco values.” (I’m not sure what that means, but apparently it has something to do with gay people being able to hold hands in public.)

On her well-tailored coattails: a Democratic Congress that boasts the highest number of female lawmakers in our history. As stunning an achievement as this is, it begs the question…. What Took So Damn Long?

We could have this conversation about any minority group that’s underrepresented in our profoundly white and male government. The only difference being that women aren’t a minority. At last count, we still comprise about 51 percent of the population. That means, in theory, the share of women in our representative government should be hovering around half. This year, a record 16.5 percent of Capitol Hill will be female.

According to the Associated Press, the United States lags behind 79 other countries--including China, Cuba, North Korea, Vietnam, and even Afghanistan--in the share of women serving in the national legislature. The U.K., Israel, India and Chile are just a few of the nations that have been led by women while we’re just now grappling with what it might mean to have our first formidable female Presidential candidate.

One of the major reasons there are fewer women in American government is simply that fewer women run for office--often because of child care concerns and the fact that they are less likely than men to be asked to run for office by party leaders, according to the A.P. Once women decide to run for office, they are just as successful as men.

But I think it’s fair to say we’re a nation still conflicted by the idea of women in power, as opposed to the more traditional role of political helpmates. Laura Bush, the spotlight-eschewing, oh-so-ladylike First Lady, has remained popular despite her husband’s downfall. Yet, I’ve always suspected that the main reason so many people hate Hil so very much is not because of her politics or even her shaky moral compass, but for being a calculating striver who used her role as First Lady to ascend to the highest rungs of national power. In some circles, that might be called gumption.

It’s a strange dichotomy we’re living in when it comes to messages about female achievement, especially for the younger generation. Girls are consistently outperforming and outpacing their male counterparts in college admissions and academic achievement. At the same time, there’s a noticeable cultural backlash against feminism, characterized by the dominance of the Pussycat Dolls and Paris Hilton. How are we to reconcile these conflicting phenomena?

While its troubling to think young women may have abondoned the notion of “housewife” in favor of “sex kitten” instead of, say, “CEO”, maybe the role of women in this country defies such neat labels. Perhaps second wave feminism and it’s goal of a gender-blind equality is no longer relevant in a culture where the rules are slowly being rewritten and where push-up bras and straight A’s are not mutually exclusive. The next generation of girls may simply take it for granted that you can grow up to be either Carrie Bradshaw or the President of the United States.

It will be interesting to see where this road and this new Congress take us. There’s a lot riding on the next few years, which will likely be seen as a referendum on both the Democrats’ ability to lead in a time of war and on the ability of women to chart the course of the most powerful nation in the world. Let’s hope we’re all up to the challenge.

Viva la Revolucion!

So this New Years, I’m crossing “Get Organized” off my list of resolutions.

Because the New York Times told me that I don’t have to. An article last week extolled the virtues of disorganization, encouraging readers to embrace clutter as the mark of creativity and individuality. One particularly insightful paragraph stated:

But contrarian voices can be heard in the wilderness. An anti-anticlutter movement is afoot, one that says yes to mess and urges you to embrace your disorder. Studies are piling up that show that messy desks are the vivid signatures of people with creative, limber minds (who reap higher salaries than those with neat “office landscapes”) and that messy closet owners are probably better parents and nicer and cooler than their tidier counterparts. It’s a movement that confirms what you have known, deep down, all along: really neat people are not avatars of the good life; they are humorless and inflexible prigs, and have way too much time on their hands.

Vindication is mine!

Suck it, Container Store! Always taunting me with your empty promises that color-coded files and a well organized shoe rack will lead me to a happier and more productive life. I always knew that you were a false prophet!

Turns out the stacks of paper strewn across my desk, the phone numbers I can never find and the appointment book I’m always losing are just the signs of a nimble mind at work. I don’t have time to alphabetize, I’ve got important thinkin’ to do!

According to the NY Times website, the article has been at the top of most frequently e-mailed story list for days. I’m sure that loads of important international news has been overlooked as throngs of Type B personalities celebrate our newfound validation. What a novel idea that perhaps we shouldn’t feel ashamed of our hapless closets and our unmade beds. That it’s acceptable—nay healthier—to have other priorities for how we choose to spend our free time.

I’ve always felt that neatness, or lack thereof, is beyond our control anyway. Our level of organization is something that’s hard wired into us, like being right or left-handed or the ability to roll our tongues. Sure I could teach myself to write and peel bananas with my left hand, but what’s the point? It would never feel natural. Likewise, my boyfriend--who only half-jokingly lives by the motto that if it’s not a right angle, it’s a wrong angle—could force himself to throw his laundry on the floor with reckless abandon. But for him, this would be a miserable, unfulfilled life.

(For the record, he’s a very creative and funny guy, not an inflexible prig as the New York Times would have you believe. Perhaps it’s because his neatnik tendencies only apply to his bedroom and office, and not his bathroom or kitchen. However, if he ever buys a label maker, I’m leaving him.)

As thrilling as it is to be let off the hook for messiness, it calls into question a number of other so-called shortcomings for which we routinely beat ourselves up. For instance, who says that procrastination is the wrong way to approach tasks? That people who go to bed early and wake up with the sun are more virtuous than those of us who choose to greet Saturday afternoon in a horizontal fashion. That watching TV will make you stupid? (People who say this have clearly never seen an episode of The Daily Show or Veronica Mars.)

This is not to say that we should all become useless slugs, wiling the days away in front of the TV surrounded by our unfolded laundry. All I’m suggesting is that we should stop feeling so guilty for the short periods of the day we spend in blissful unproductiveness. There will always be jobs, errands to run, meals to prepare and gym memberships to justify. But wouldn’t it be amazing if the time we waste turns out to be the most valuable part of our days?

In light of this revelation, I’ve revamped my list of resolutions for the New Year:

1.) Start looking for new, more fulfilling job/ figure out what I want to do with my life
2.) Learn to speak Spanish
3.) Go to gym at least twice a week
4.) Learn to cook actual meal not involving plastic wrap or microwave
5.) Eat more vegetables
6.) Don’t hate myself if I fail to accomplish #’s 1,2,3,4 or 5.

The Inconvenient Truth...About Penguins?

I guess it was only a matter of time before they went after the penguins.

The loveable, Antarctic-dwelling creatures have marched their way into our hearts and minds. They’re the most popular animals that Louis Vuitton has yet to create an over-priced carrying case for. Unless you’re a conservative commentator like Neil Cavuto with lots of air time to fill. In that case, a cheerful animated movie about singing and dancing penguins is nothing more than left-wing propaganda aimed at indoctrinating youth into—gasp—caring about the environment.

Now, I haven’t seen Happy Feet, so maybe the movie was made by the Leni Reifenstahls of tree-hugging. How effective that will be with kids is questionable. After all, I watched the Smurfs for much of my youth and didn’t become a Communist. But if tap-dancing penguins actually are a thinly disguised indictment of the havoc we humans have wreaked on the earth and our feathered friends, than I ask…What’s wrong with that? Any good parent tries to instill basic values into their kids--things like respect for fellow human beings, tolerance and generosity. Why would we assume that respecting the earth would be beyond a child's realm of understanding?

I get that there’s a debate in this country about global warming. What I don't understand is why. The extent of the damage may be debatable, but the evidence—such as reports that frozen sea areas in the Arctic Circle will be completely gone by the summer 2040—is pretty sobering. At least that’s what scientists from the National Center for Atmospheric Research, the University of Washington and McGill University say. And they are much smarter than I am. The fact that the brain trust of Cavuto and Co. write it off as a liberal agenda is less than comforting.

I understand that the glory of this great nation is that everyone is free to espouse whatever kooky theories they like. But why should they merit equal time and consideration? Why aren’t global warming naysayers relegated to the societal fringes reserved for alien abductees and people who see leprechauns in trees? Which, incidentally, happened in Alabama.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nda_OSWeyn8

The point is that the longer we continue to treat global warming like a robust debate instead of a foregone conclusion, the longer it will take to enact any real changes.

And on a related subject, I did recently see An Inconvenient Truth, and it was as impressive and downright scary as everyone has said. How is that Al Gore put me to sleep during a presidential debate, yet managed to keep me on the edge of my seat for an hour-and-a-half long power point presentation?

Actually, I think it would very interesting to see him run for President again in 2008. At least he's demonstarted that he has the ability to look at an issue in broader terms than the next election cycle, and he now tells jokes that are actually kind of funny. (Hearing him refer to himself as "the former next President of the United States" never gets old.) Plus, I'm pretty sure he'll get the penguin vote.

You Are What You Like

I thought it might be helpful to include a little more information about myself. So, for the "about me" section, I've stolen the questionnaire that all guests on "Inside the Actors Studio" are subjected to. Granted, I'm not an actor, but if Teri Hatcher can be interviewed for this venerable show--why not me?
1.) WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE WORD?--The French word for grapefruit. It is Pamplemousse.
2.) WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE WORD?--"Slacks," what my grandmother always used to call pants. Come to think of it, I don't really like the word "pants" either.
3.)WHAT TURNS YOU ON?--Laughter and wine. Preferably both at the same time.
4.) WHAT TURNS YOU OFF?--Pretentiousness.
5.) WHAT SOUND DO YOU LOVE?--Coffee brewing in the morning.
6.) WHAT SOUND DO YOU HATE?--A cell phone ringing in a movie theater.
7.) WHAT PROFESSION OTHER THAN YOURS WOULD YOU LIKE TO ATTEMPT?--Getting paid to do this.
8.) WHAT PROFESSION WOULD YOU NOT LIKE TO PARTICIPATE IN?--Celebutante
9.) WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CURSE WORD?--F**k. Although in polite company I shorten it to "What the F?"
10.) IF GOD EXISTS, WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE HIM/HER TO SAY WHEN YOU REACH THE PEARLY GATES?--"Your table is ready."

It's a fun exercise. I encourage you guys to try it and post your responses.

And So It Begins

To start with, I should say that I tend to be late to the party. But within the past few weeks, I've hooked up my TiVo and gotten my first IPod, so the time seems right to continue my foray into the 21st century by setting up a blog. It's something I've wanted to do for a while, mainly as a creative outlet and because I'm just arrogant enough to think that someone besides me might be interested in my thoughts on things. (Isn't that the philosophy upon which the entire Internet culture is based?) The plan is to regularly post pithy and hopefully insightful commentary on current events and pop culture, but I can't promise that it won't occasionally be just a landing pad for random thoughts.

Part of the reason it took me so long to get this going is because I agonized over what to call it. It's harder than you might imagine to think of a name that's neither overly pretentious nor cheesy. In the end, I called it The Notebook as a nod to my roots. Back in high school, my extremely close-knit group of friends started passing around a notebook as sort of a collective diary. A sisterhood of the traveling three-ring binder, if you will. What started as musings about the mind-numbing boredom of health class and gossip about boys later evolved into a gold mine of doodles, photos, hilarious observations of high school trials and tribulations and endless games of dump, screw, marry. If everything I owned were to suddenly go up in smoke, that is probably the first thing i would save. That and my new IPod. So, I dedicate this blog to a group of bright and witty young women who were the first people on earth to like my writing, or at least to tell me they did.