The Best-Laid Plans...

My friend Mayumi and her new boyfriend, Kevin, came to New York on Thursday. She had to pitch a financial education program she developed to the New York City chapter of a national non-profit organization Friday morning, then figured she'd extend her stay through the weekend at our apartment in Williamsburg. They stayed with us until Sunday afternoon when they flew home to San Diego, missing a major snowstorm by less than 24 hours. It was Kevin's first visit to New York. And they had an ambitious agenda that included: visiting midtown monuments from the Empire State building to Rockefeller Plaza; walking along Wall Street and around Ground Zero (the site of the 9/11 attacks) on the lower tip of Manhattan; shopping in SoHo; and, of course, seeing "The Gates" in Central Park before they were dismantled yesterday. In between, Kevin said he wanted to visit all the cool neighbordhoods below 14th Street (which is just about all of them) from Little Italy to the Lower East Side (where we gnoshed on spinach, sweet potato and cherry cheese knishes at Yonah Schimmel then walked down the block to Katz's for some NY hot dogs). And that's Manhattan. We also had big plans in our borough (Brooklyn) of bar-hopping our way through Billyburg.
Here's what actually happened. On Thursday, exhausted after an overnight flight sitting across the aisle from a mother and screaming infant, Mayumi and Kevin slept until 2:30, when I called them to see when they were meeting us for "lunch." The plan had been to meet for lunch and then visit The Gates. Needless to say, the plan did not happen. Mayumi spent the rest of the day (and part of the night) on my computer perfecting her Power Point presentation for Friday's meeting. We ate slices from Sal's Pizza, which is located three blocks away from our apartment, for dinner. And drank Guinness and Brooklyn lager from the bodega on the corner.
On Friday, they hit midtown while my husband and I went to work. Then we all met at home and nearly changed our minds about going out. But we had a reservation for 8:30 at a French bistro in East Village and two other friends from school meeting us there (my husband stayed home, nursing a bad cold). On Saturday, we slept till nearly noon (our dinner had lasted more than three hours, three courses, and two bottles of wine). And didn't get out of the apartment till 2. My husband brought home bagels and lox spread for breakfast.
We skipped lunch--unless you count the jelly bellies and Swedish fish Mayumi and I picked up later during a shopping trip through the Village. Mayumi and Kevin went to see The Gates. I went to the gym and Victor went to karate. Then I met up with them at 14th Street and we walked through the Meatpacking district and the Village--bouncing from boutique to boutique, ostensibly in search of a dress for Mayumi to wear to an upcoming black tie dinner, though, in the end, she only bought a bag of jelly bellies, while I netted two necklaces, a red turtleneck sweater, and a purple and black strapless shirt with hand-embroidered flowers.
We didn't get back to the apartment until nearly 8. And it took us another two hours, and a few beers, to go out again for dinner at Plan Eat Thailand--which is mistakenly spelled "Planet" in nearly every review and guidebook (rumor has it that the restaurant owner was forced to change it to "Plan Eat" to avoid a lawsuit from a certain Planet-something restaurant chain that, believe me, would never be confused with this place, but I digress..)
Our only Brooklyn bar-hopping consisted of hopping back and forth between the bar at PlanEat Thailand and a couch where Mayumi and I had secured seats while we waited for our table (yes, even at 10:15, there was a half-hour wait).
We didn't fare much better on Sunday. My husband and I got up around 9:30 but our guests slept in another hour and a half, despite the noise we were making in the kitchen beside them (they slept on a pull-out couch in the living room), grinding and brewing the coffee, toasting a bagel and washing dishes.
It took us another three hours to leave the apartment, which left us with exactly one hour and 30 minutes to get into Manhattan, walk--briskly--through SoHo, Chinatown, Little Italy and the Lower East Side, and have brunch. Which, in the end, consisted of us standing at the counter at Yonah Schimmel scarfing down napkin-wrapped knishes then hustling down to Katz's to scarf down some hot dogs (which Mayumi and Kevin impressively managed to finish before we'd even made it from the counter to the cash register).
Sure, we missed a few items on the list of Things to Do (hell, I still haven't done all the things I want to do in NYC). But the way I figure, that just gives them one more reason to come back.

The Gates and the Numa Numa Dance

"It's only the gates. A work of art of joy and beauty. We do not build messages. We do not build symbols. It's only a work of art. Nothing else."
-- Christo's wife, Jeanne-Claude

"It made my heart smile--not just my face."
-- bewtiful's "review" of the Numa Numa Dance video

"This ain't going to change the world, but...the guy has some creativity and isn't afraid to throw himself out there. Regardless of your intention, thanks man for brightening my day, if just for a moment."
-- sha987's review of the Numa Numa Dance video

Today is the last day to see The Gates before volunteers begin disassembling the 7,500 saffron-colored, fabric-draped gates that were set up just 15 days ago in Central Park. According to New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, the large-scale installation was expected to draw "hundreds of thousands of international visitors" this month. And at least as many domestic visitors drove in for a day or flew in for a few days--as my friend, Mayumi, did last Thursday from San Diego--and walked through The Gates.
Not everyone liked The Gates. But there are few who could claim that they were not moved by the experience of walking through them. Central Park was the perfect canvas. And the fabric curtains--which really resembled orange shower curtains more than the robes of Hindu saints and Buddhist monks evoked by Jeanne-Claude's insistence on the term "saffron"--nonetheless stood out against the stark winter landscape, changing shape and shade depending on the strength of the wind and sun.
"I liked it, but where was the art?" asked Mayumi's boyfriend, after his initial pass through the southwest corner of the park.
"You were in it," I told him (though it was a legitimate question).
He'd been looking for paintings in the park initially. He didn't realize that he was walking through the canvas itself.
Another friend suggested that the $21+million could have been much better spent. What was the point of creating an art installation only to take it apart 16 days later?
Someone else asked me: "What do they mean?"
In fact, it seemed several people sought deeper meaning in the color and context of The Gates. The New York magazine art critic even remarked upon the similarity between the artists' names and a certain Biblical figure (“Christo” sounds rather like Christ, and Jeanne-Claude’s initials are J.C. The couple claim to have been born on the same day of the same year), and called the pair of artists "the Pied Pipers of art."
But the whole point of The Gates is that there is no point to putting thousands of fabric covered steel rods in a park--nor is it intended to be permanent. Though The Gates may be captured in sketches and renderings and hundreds of thousands of digital and print photographs, and in the memories of all those who were a part of it, it's existence is ephemeral--"useless and delightful in a society where everything must have a purpose and a price" (as the New York critic added). And that is what drew so many people to the Park: the shared experience; the simple joy of walking through a line of saffron curtains hanging from horseshoe-shaped gates in the middle of Central Park; the evanescent nature of the exhibit.
Those same factors might explain the strange story of Gary Brolsma's sudden rise to fame. The 19-year-old amateur videographer from New Jersey (whose day job is at a local Staples), made a brief clip of himself lip synching and dancing along to a Romanian pop song and posted it online. In less than two weeks, more than two million people had watched the homemade video--and then, in most cases, forwarded it on to several friends. And Brolsma's video was soon appearing everywhere from VH1 to the Today Show to the New York Times online.
Not everyone who watched it thought it deserved the attention it's been getting (and incidentally, according to the Times, Brolsma himself is "distraught and embarrassed" by all the attention and has stopped talking to the media). "The popularity of this video I think just goes to show how retarded people are. AnyBody [sic] could have done this video. You're just sitting in the chair singing and dancing and the video quality isn't even any good," wrote one naysayer on newgrounds.com, where the video clip first appeared, in a review that gave Brolsma a "0" out of 10.
But the vast majority of viewers seem to have enjoyed his clip--as Mayumi and her boyfriend, and my husband and I did. (We've watched it at least a dozen times, and caught ourselves humming the tune when we were out this weekend). The song itself, a Romanian pop tune called "Dragostea Din Tei," makes no sense (even with English subtitles)--nor do some of Brolsma's actions (the fake beard stroking, the double eyebrow lift). Except that they gave us a reason to laugh (and, Gary, we weren't laughing at you, but with you--for the most part, anyway). There was absolutely no point to the video--no symbol, no message. It just let us all share a smile.
Is it any wonder that Gary and the Gates have been so popular?

And the winner is...

One creative clothing line, a two-hour episode, three final contenders, four semi-celebrity judges (if you include host Heidi Klum and you count Elle fashion director Nina Garcia as a celebrity), and five months of preparation later... And the flamboyant, fushia-shades-wearing Jay McCarroll, 29, was finally declared the winner of Project Runway last night. The former "porn industry worker" and vintage shop owner from tiny Lehman, Pennsylvania, wins a management contract, an apprenticeship with Banana Republic, and $100,000 to launch his own clothing line.
Jay beat out long shot Wendy Pepper, the 40-year-old "mother from a small town in Virginia" (as she kept reminding the TV audience and judges over and over again), and resident villain, who barely slid into the final three by winning the final challenge. And Kara Saun, 37, the L.A. costume designer who seemed well on her way to winning--particularly after two of the judges pronounced her clothing line "amazing" and her execution "perfect"--until Michael Kors mentioned offhandedly that her dresses were "too Gucci-like" (judge for yourself). In the end, Jay won on originality, and rightly so, with his "Stereotypes" line, which featured oversized headphones painted to match his brilliantly colored concoctions, distinctive in their detail, design and difficult construction (a hand-quilted wrap, for example, and delicate scarves woven with beads).
Can't wait for season 2! Though I might have to--assuming it happens at all. It seems that Bravo executives aren't sure who will have the rights to "Project" next year if Disney and Miramax split up as expected. So there's no guarantee that the show will go on--especially since the first season started filming last summer, and had all the cast, challenges, and prizes in place beforehand.
But it's hard to believe that Bravo would let a hit like this slip away without sequels. And this is one reality show that'd be worth repeating.

The Millionaire Mind

I'm reading "Secrets of the Millionaire Mind" by a self-made, multi-millionaire named T. Harv Eker I'd never heard of before I received a review copy of his book. But I liked the title. And I always appreciate advice from people who've achieved the kind of success I want.
Plus, the timing was good. The book arrived on my desk last week, just as I was feeling completely overwhelmed from overcommitting at work. Of course, most of the pressure (as always) was self-imposed. After I read the story on mommy madness, I started thinking about all things I'd need before I was ready to start a family (namely, a higher position and salary and a lot more money in the bank). I'd wondered if I'd be able to earn (or save) enough money before I got pregnant. Or would I have to choose between spending time with my baby and having money to spend on him or her, like my friend who quit her job to stay at home then struggled to cover the costs of raising (even outfitting) her child? Would I be forced to go back to work before the baby was even old enough for daycare like several of my colleagues have? Could we afford a nanny? Or even daycare? Would we have to give up our apartment?
Then I came to a great chapter in Eker's book that addressed some of my questions. Eker argues that poor people see every situation as either/or. Rich people say, I can have both.
Now, we're not poor. We're not rich (yet) either. But I do know that I want the answer to be both, not either/or. I want to be able to have a successful career and to spend at least the first few months at home with my baby (without fear of losing income, promotion possibilities, or my sanity). And I want to have enough money to afford a decent daycare when I do choose to go back to work--or, preferably, a nanny. I want to have the freedom to be able to work at least part-time from home (or set my own hours) so the baby will spend as much time--or more--with me or my husband as she/he will with a daycare attendent or nanny.
Achieving these goals won't be easy I know. But I feel fortunate that I've still got time to make sure that I can have both a fulfilling and financially rewarding career and a family too.
If I start working harder (or smarter, at least) now, while we're still young and newly married without a mortgage or family but with plenty of time and energy to devote to making that money, I can get a lot closer to being able to answer "both" and no longer having to ask, what will I have to give up?
I may not have a lot of money (yet) to invest now, but I certainly have the time and the energy to invest. Now, I just need to figure out where to invest them for the best returns.

Through the Gates

On Sunday, my stepbrother, Jay, my husband and I went to see The Gates, the Christo and Jeanne-Claude installation in Central Park. It took $20+ million and nearly 26 years for the husband and wife team to complete, and get approval for, their latest project: 7,500 free-standing, orange-painted steel "gates" with matching vinyl curtains strewn along 23 miles of walkways through the park. The effect is somewhere between surreal and superfluous.
I was a skeptic, I'll admit. I've always thought the park, whose chief architect was Frederick Law Olmsted , was distinctive in its design and hardly needed accountrement.
And when I first viewed the installation from my vantage point on a co-worker's terrace on the 17th floor, the dotted orange lines created by The Gates seemed as out of place and intrusive as traffic cones lining a hiking trail. But walking through them is an altogether different experience. You're walking through a living canvas. You become part of the art itself.
When we approached the entrance at Columbus Circle, I saw The Gates as exactly that: 7,500 "gates" of steel frames with orange flaps. But as we walked through them, the fabric changed shape and shade with the wind and setting sun, and The Gates were transformed from objects to art.
The saffron fabric flaps became waves against a grey-white sky, then flames lapping at the skeletal branches of the leafless trees that line the pathways of the park.
I thought of the way Jay depicts the landscapes he paints. The world divided into bold, broad bands of color. Triangle trees and shadowy seas. And I wondered how he would paint The Gates.
Before we'd begun our walk, Jay had presented us with one of my favorite paintings of his--a wedding gift, he said. It's his view of the ocean off the coast of Newfoundland, one of a handful of paintings he did last summer during a four-week trip to Canada he embarked on the day after our wedding.
I will hang it beside a painting of the New York skyline by my stepsister-in-law, Leanne. Now, wherever we live, I will always have a view of the ocean and of New York.

Miles to Go

A quick addendum to Saturday's "Sideways" post.
There's no question that Miles is a wine geek. But I think the question raised in the Times story was an interesting one. If Miles had been drinking martinis--or malt liquor--instead of wine, would it be easier to believe he had a drinking problem?
As the Times writer points out, "Behind its veneer of glamour and sophistication, alcohol treatment professionals say, wine can be the perfect cover for alcohol dependence because many people do not associate it with alcoholic behavior, not even drinkers themselves."
Even Paul Giamatti, the actor who plays Miles, said he saw Miles as an alcoholic but didn't want it to be the "focus" of the film. I agree, it shouldn't be.
My point is only that Miles feels like a failure in so many other areas--his love life, his career, his ability to attract women. The one area in which he can compete with his best friend, Jack, is in his knowledge of wine. His best friend is a dog. And yet he gets (spoiler alert) laid and gets away with it and still gets the doting--and wealthy--wife. Meanwhile, Miles gets dumped. Gets his car wrecked. And his novel rejected. Ouch. The tragedy to me is that Jack gets laid, gets rich and gets married. While Miles is left drinking his bottle of 1961 Chateau Cheval Blanc from a plastic cup alone in a burger joint.
Of course, who's to say that Miles doesn't get the girl and the publishing deal after the credits roll? Maya does open the door to him after all. And she liked the book--even if the publishers didn't. And one weekend of binge drinking does not necessarily indicate an addiction. Though the fact that Miles stole money from his mom for booze, and drank alone and often, and to the point of total inebriation seem a pretty good indication that he might have a problem. But that problem may not be alcoholism. The problem is that he's 40-something and has nothing much to show for his life so far (at least, in his eyes), but an impressive knowledge of wine.

Rosé-Tinted Glasses

"Is Wine-Soaked Film Too, Um, Rosé?" asks the New York Times, in what may be the first story on "Sideways" that asks "alcohol treatment professionals" what they think of the movie. Their conclusion, not surprisingly, is that most "Sideways" viewers (which, at this point, includes just about every American 17 or older) don't recognize that the protagonist in the road-tripping, wine-filled comedy is an alcoholic. Audiences might laugh at Miles's missteps with Maya, Merlot phobia ("If anyone orders Merlot, I'm leaving!"), and memorable--if miserable--musings ("I'm a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage").
As Roger Ebert puts it, "He's not an alcoholic, you understand; he's an oenophile, which means he can continue to pronounce French wines long after most people would be unconscious."
For recovering alcoholics and the people who treat them, though, his behavior is no laughing matter, apparantly. (Stephan Gonzalez, coordinator at an adult treatment program of the Council on Alcoholism and Drug Abuse in Santa Barbara, Calif., says in the Times story that Miles's behavior shows a lack of control that makes him, if not an outright addict, an alcohol abuser, "all under the wonderful guise of sophisticated social drinking.")
I think they've got a point. But to me, the real tragedy of Miles's life is that drinking is all he's got. As Mireya Navarro writes in the New York Times, "Miles may be all thumbs when it comes to writing and women, but when the subject is wine, he is a poet of pinot noirs and just about every other grape he meets on an alcohol-fueled road trip through the Santa Barbara wine country."
Drinking and describing wine appear to be the only things Miles is good at. So it shouldn't be much of a surprise that he does a lot of both. Whether his drinking keeps him from achieving the success he wants in his professional and personal life isn't clear. In fact, it is his love of wine that helps him find common ground (and woo) his love interest, Maya. As for his professional aspirations, alcohol seems to have been more of a balm than a barrier.
And look at Hemingway and Bukowski--both of whom Miles cites as writers he admires (or, at least, quotes). Alcohol doesn't seem to have hindered--and, in fact, may have helped--the writing careers of some of the most-esteemed writers of the last century.
Ernest Hemingway reportedly drank a quart of whiskey a day during the last 20 years of his life. And in “A Brief Life of Fitzgerald,” Matthew J. Bruccoli writes "the dominant influences on F. Scott Fitzgerald were aspiration, literature, Princeton, Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, and alcohol." (He adds: "His reputation as a drinker inspired the myth that he was an irresponsible writer; yet he was a painstaking reviser whose fiction went through layers of drafts.")
During World War II, beat poet Charles Bukowski was a skid row alcoholic. "If you are going to write, you have to have something to write about," he said. "The gods were good. They kept me on the street."
But alcohol has turned Miles instead into a 40-something man who steals from his mother to buy booze, sits alone at a bar drinking until he stumbles home half-blind, and swallows wine straight from the spit bucket. "No wonder his unpublished novel is titled The Day After Yesterday; for anyone who drinks a lot, that's what today always feels like," writes Ebert.

If I'd Known Then What I Know Now

While I was at the dermatologist's office today for a barely perceptible but annoyingly itchy rash I'd developed on my legs (which turned out to be a form of dermatitis that many people get in the winter and required a change of soap, shower temps, laundry detergent, and $32 tube of cream with cortisone), I figured I'd also have him look at a mole I noticed on my stomach that's grown and changed shape recently.
I've been a little paranoid about any new moles or abnormally large freckles because my great uncle got skin cancer, and I spent a lot of time in the sun as a teenager and in the tanning salon as a 20-something. I was a bit more reckless then, and a bit less knowledgeable about the potentially deadly consequences of my sun worshipping.
In the dermatologist's office there was plenty of information, of course, about all the negative health effects of spending time in the sun--assuming you're not hiding under a hat and long-sleeved shirt or re-applying (as my husband does) SPF 45 lotion every hour.
Helpful hints like: "If you're fair-skinned, blue-eyed, freckled and have light-colored hair, you're at particularly high risk of skin cancer of all kinds, not just melanoma. Avoid overexposure to sunlight and protect your skin from sunburn and blistering. The majority of lifetime sun exposure for most people occurs before age 20."
Now you tell me.
Better late than never, I guess. Though it's not as if my mother didn't warn me--or try to--numerous times. She even left pamphlets on skin cancer (subtle, huh?) on my bed before I went to North Carolina with some friends for spring break.
I have cut back on my time in the sun now--if for no other reason because I live in a city where the sun does not appear as often. And it looks weird to be tan here in the winter--unless you're one of those New Yorkers who has the money and flexibility to split their time between Florida and New York. And I'm not. I'm a fair-skinned, blue-eyed, freckled full-time New Yorker with light hair and a scary-shaped mole, which--as it turned out--required a biopsy today.
I was hoping my dermatologist would assure me that it was harmless and nothing to worry about. But instead he agreed with me that it was an unusual shape. Two minutes later he was scraping it with a needle and instructing me to clean the site daily with alcohol and to come back in two weeks. It was only as he was leaving the examination room that he looked at my face (which must have reflected the sudden panic I was feeling) and said, "But it's probably nothing."
I hope. But it's enough to keep me from wanting to spend any more time in the sun without layers of lotion and long-sleeved shirts.
Mom would be proud.

When Less is More

Victor, Sandi, Del... thank you for helping me put things in perspective.
I talked to a colleague of mine this morning (who is a few months from fatherhood himself) who said his first thought upon reading the "Mommy Madness" story was: "Get Over Yourselves!!"
And it's true, of course. We impose these ridiculous standards on ourselves. We tell ourselves (or allow marketers of expensive children's toys, books, games, clothes, furniture, etc etc. to convince us) that we have somehow failed if we don't give our children the best toys, clothes, trips, etc. But if we work ourselves to death so that we can afford to buy our chidren the latest and most expensive eletronic game or Phat Farm jacket or [fill in the blank] and send him/her to the best preschool (And is there really such a difference between public and $18,000-a-year preschools? It's preschool!) and the result is that we are utterly exhausted and unhappy and hardly have the energy to enjoy our children and our spouse... what kind of message are we passing onto our kids?
I'd bet most kids would prefer to have a happy mother (or father) who is able to find some fulfillment in their job--or through friendships or volunteering or parenting itself--and who has the energy and time, if not the millions of dollars, to spend on their children.
Of course, this is all hypothetical because I'm not even pregnant yet! But, I can speak from my observations. I've been thinking a lot about parenthood because so many of my friends are experiencing it--or will be shortly--and I'm watching them grapple with these issues.
A close college friend of mine has 2 young children already. She has a Masters degree in social work but stopped working (after cutting back to part-time during her second pregnancy) after her second daughter was born. She realized she was paying almost as much in child care as she was earning in her job. And it wasn't worth it to her.
But she and her husband still wanted to live in Manhattan and in a building with an elevator. (Ever try carrying a baby and stroller up a five-floor walk-up?) So they're in a one-bedroom apartment in a doorman building on Park Avenue--and they're sleeping in their living room (albeit behind a screen) so their kids can have the bedroom. It seems like a strange arrangement to most, I know.
If they moved to New Jersey, as they've threatened to do many times in the past year, I'm sure they would be able to afford a home with three bedrooms--and probably as many bathrooms, and a backyard as well. And probably for the same or less than they pay now for their place. But they love being in the city. While some may not understand their living arrangement (though anyone who's ever lived in Manhattan on less than $100K a year can definitely relate), it works. For them, it's a small price to pay to stay in the neighborhood they've lived in for years. And the city they call home.
And they're happy. And when it comes down to it, that's what really matters.

The Choices We Make

I took the day off. After rereading yesterday's post, I figured I needed it. So it's 3:28 pm on Wednesday afternoon and I'm sitting back, eating Jelly Bellies and listening to the rain and Haydn's Symphony No. 88 in G Major, and the occasional burst of Italian from my landlady and landlord. They are standing on their back porch, surveying the rain-splotched, concrete-covered area between their home and the rear apartment we rent, a space they somehow manage to transform into a flourishing, flowering urban garden each spring.
Of course, I've already gone to the gym, run some errands, worked on my taxes, researched a book idea, emailed my editor three times, and finished up and filed my freelance piece. (And I wonder why I get stressed out?)
I'm beginning to think I've got to relearn how to relax. How have I gotten to the point where I'm having anxiety attacks about motherhood--before I'm even pregnant?!
A good friend of mine (who I hope doesn't mind me repeating her words), told me that she'd read the "mommy madness" story too--and had a completely different reaction to it. "I thought, all those women were driving themselves crazy--for what?" she wrote me in an email.
Good question, I thought. Exactly whose expectations are we trying to live up to? And why do we act as if we're in it alone when we have a husband and the support of friends and family? Why do view motherhood as something we must learn to master--as if it were a game of golf, or a challenging work assignment--rather than the amazing and predictably unpredictable experience it is? Why do we worry about preschool (as Malcolm pointed out) before our baby is even born? (Well, in part because in NYC, it is not unusual for parents to add their unborn child's name to sometimes years-long waiting lists at the handful of public preschools...then again, the fact that I've come to accept that as normal is a little worriesome).
"I've learned to take it one day at a time," my friend added, and advised me to do the same. "It's about choices."
Yes, it's hard for someone in America to complain too much about their current circumstances when we have the freedom to choose where we live/work/play, who we marry, and how we spend our money (or use our credit cards).
I could live almost anywhere (hell, I've lived in 10 different cities already). I choose to live in NYC. I could work in PR and make a lot more (and don't think I haven't been tempted). But I choose to work in journalism instead. I've even chosen, lobbied for and gotten the beat I cover. I know how fortunate I am to have the friends/husband/job/life I do. So why can't I just relax and enjoy them? Am I afraid that if I take the time to enjoy what I have already, I won't want more? That if I don't review my goals--and how to reach them--every day, I might never achieve them? Or is it just that the bar keeps getting higher?
I might be perfectly happy with my salary--if we didn't live in a city where 500-square-foot studios sell for nearly $1 million. I might be happy with my job--if I had gotten the promotion and raise I'd expected or hadn't accepted the position with the expectation that it would turn into something it hasn't. I might be happier with my apartment--if I knew I could afford to buy it now (or even fully furnish it).
My husband and I do ask ourselves sometimes: For what? For what do we stay here and struggle? Just to prove that we can? Or is it the hope that if we stay and struggle, one day we'll find success (and we'll be able to answer the "For what?" definitively)? Why don't we go somewhere else where the homes cost less and jobs come with less stress? But always, we talk ourselves back to NYC. Because we truly love this city. And it is our home. And for now, at least, it's worth the trade-offs and the struggles.
There's a passage in "Reading Lolita in Tehran" in which the author, Azar Nafisi, contemplates whether she should leave Iran. Her husband argues that they should stay. I love this country, he tells her. This is our home. They should stay as a form of resistance against an oppressive regime "to show that we are not out-maneuvered."
Besides, Azar adds as she thinks about the life they have created in Tehran, it's much harder to dismantle their world and to rebuild it somewhere else. "I guess the point is we all have to make our own choices according to our potentials and limitations," she adds.
On that day, Nafisi and her husband chose to stay. But they would leave Iran less than two years later and come to America, where she would publish a best-selling book about her life in Iran. So, in the end, both choices made sense. If she didn't move to America, she might not have been able to publish the book. But if she hadn't stayed in Tehran, she wouldn't have been able to write the book.

Adult Anxiety

In episode 63 in Season 4 of "Sex and the City," Miranda convinces the newly engaged Carrie Bradshaw to try on some "bad" wedding dresses, figuring the exercise will ease her pre-wedding jitters. But when Carrie sees herself in the three-way, full-length mirror, she starts to panic and screams at Miranda to just rip the dress off her when she is unable to undo the back-length buttons fast enough. Freed from the bodice, but gasping for air and clutching the ripped wedding dress that she knows she'll never wear again (but must now pay for), Carrie notices she's broken out in hives across her chest and back. Later as she recounts the wedding dress break-out (and breakdown) over brunch with her friends, Carrie wonders why she and Aidan need to get married at all when things are "just great" as they are. "Do we really want these things or are we just programmed [to want them]?" she asks.
When I first saw that episode, I remember thinking, grow up! Do you have any idea how many women dream of finding a man like Aidan to marry? I felt no sympathy for Carrie's character, only for Aidan--since it was clear she was about to break this man's heart again (she'd done it once already when she cheated on Aidan with Big--and also managed to break up Big's marriage).
But then this afternoon, I had an anxiety attack as I was reading an excerpt of Judith Warner's new book "Perfect Madness," about the madness of motherhood, in Newsweek.
I read one mother's quote--"About once a year I just end up in tears, telling my husband 'I can't do this anymore'."--and my heart began racing. I was short of breath. Tears actually welled up in my eyes when I got to a quote from a married mother of 2, a Dartmouth grad working as part-time physician's assistant in Denver, who said motherhood was nothing like she'd imagined. "It's stressful, lonely and tiring," she said.
Now I'm not even pregnant. My husband and I haven't even celebrated our first anniversary yet. And yet, just reading an article on motherhood was enough to make me panic. Suddenly, I sympathized with Carrie's predicament. It's not that I don't want to be a parent. But I don't want to be a bad parent.
And I already have a hard time balancing my career with my social and marital obligations (or needs). Last fall, I developed a strange rash on my legs--barely perceptible (just small red bumps) but really itchy--and it seemed to flare up every time I was stressed out at work. Suddenly, in the last two days, the rash has spread to my chest and upper arms and so has the itching. Yesterday, I spent more time scratching my arms, snacking nervously on chocolate, pretzels, and soy crisps (anything I could get my hands on, really), and searching for flights to Florida (where my mom is until late April) than I did working on the 1,800-word freelance assignment that my best friend compared to a "masters thesis on child development," which is due Wednesday. And that's on top of my regular job duties. Just as I was getting down to business, I looked at the clock and realized it was 7:30 pm and Valentine's Day. And my husband was waiting at home for me with a bottle of prosecco, pizza and a box of Valentine's cookies.
So I headed home. And enjoyed a romantic candlelight dinner, trying desperately not to think about the impending work ahead or the itchy rash that now seemed to be immune to Cortisone. And it worked (especially after a couple glasses of prosecco and a couple kisses from my husband).
But today I woke up even more stressed. Fueled by five Valentine's cookies and a large cup of coffee, I finished up a draft of the story (I'll take another look after I finish this) and then went for a walk outside to experience the strangely springlike weather we got today (58 degrees and sunny). I stopped by the gym late this afternoon, where I got on the elliptical and pulled out my copy of Newsweek to read the cover story ("The Myth of the Perfect Mother"). And I realized that the sudden shortness of breath had less to do with my workout (I'm at the gym at least 5 times a week) than with lines like "Because there is right now no widespread feeling of social responsibility--for children, for families, for anyone really--and so mothers must take everything onto themselves. And because they can't humanly, take everything onto themselves, they simply go nuts."
So there we have it. I'm working my butt off to become successful enough in my career in the next 12 months that I can afford to have a baby--and to take some maternity leave without fear of losing my chances at a promotion. I'm juggling freelance assignments with my full-time job, cutting back on nights out so I can pay down my debt and put more into my Roth IRA and 401K. I'm reading parenting books and preparing (mentally) for pregnancy. I'm trying to drink less, eat better, exercise more, and cut back on caffeine. I'm devising ways to earn enough this year to pay off my credit card debt so we can qualify for a mortgage--or, at least, afford daycare. In short, I'm driving myself nuts now. And I haven't even had--or even conceived--a baby yet.
I realized when I was reading the story today that I'm not so concerned about whether we have enough money or career stablity to have a baby. I just wonder: how am I going to be able to handle a child when I can't even handle my life now?
When I'm overcome--and it's happened a few times in the last two years--I sometimes allow myself a "sick day" from work to recover (a mental health day, as my friend refers to it). But you can't take a "sick day" from motherhood.
In the SATC episode, after Carrie's recovered from the panic attack in the bridal boutique and is enjoying a romantic night out with Aidan, he suddenly suggests the pair fly to Las Vegas and tie the knot that night. Carrie demures. And it becomes clear to both that only one of them is ready to get married. "If you don't want to marry me right now, you'll never want to," says Aidan. And the next day he moves out.
Thirty episodes later, Carrie is in her late-30s and back with Big--but without a ring, a job, or any talk of marriage--much less of a family. And that is how the series ends.
But in real life, the story doesn't end when we find the love of our life. You might say that's when real life begins.

Dancing in the Dark

I don't want people who want to dance, I want people who have to dance.
--George Balanchine
Dance is the hidden language of the soul, of the body
--Martha Graham

I could talk about "The Apprentice"--or about how I ate half of a broccoli roll (think rolled-up calzone) that my husband brought home Thursday night after my blog posting, despite my best intentions. But suffice it to say, I wasn't impressed with the ad campaigns that either Apprentice team came up with for a new Dove body soap (nor was Donny Deutsch, chairman/CEO of the 2.4-billion eponymous ad agency, who was asked to judge the teams' TV ads and pronounced them both "terrible"). And I wasn't impressed with my willpower--or lack of--in sticking to those federal dietary guidelines. (Did I mention I had a hot cocoa with Bailey's for "dessert"?)

But that was Thursday. And Friday was a new day and the end of a very long week at work--and I awarded myself with a long overdue night out, all dietary restrictions lifted.

My friend Laura and a friend of her's Maureen, who runs an art gallery uptown, met after work at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in Nolita for a couple rounds (we'd initially planned to start at Von on Bleecker, but it was overrun with alt-media types who'd gathered for some Gawker-sponsored drinkfest and it was nearly impossible to get a drink, so we bolted). At Tom & Jerry's, we sipped $4 glasses of pinot grigio and munched on wasabi-coated peas and slightly stale Japanese rice crackers from a bowl on the table. A little before 8 we bundled up and braved a fierce wintery wind to walk the 4 blocks to the Joyce Theater, on Mercer Street just below Houston, for the opening night of a weekend-long performance by the Rocha Dance Theater. The dance company's manager and one of its principal dancers is a woman named Christine, who dances by day and at night manages Five Front , a regular restaurant stop in Dumbo. When I was there last week for dinner with Laura and two other friends, Christine had asked if we wanted to come to the performance. It was only $15 a ticket--and that also covered wine and an array of fruit, cheese and other finger foods after the show. Not bad.

The show, "not so soft," included six pieces--two of them solos (one by Christine). The choreography reminded me a little of Mark Morris, but with a feminine touch. There were underlying themes of abuse (a solo accompanied by minimalist music interspersed with voiced over phrases like "You're my pretty baby" and "You aren't enough"), letting go of inhibitions, growing up (and apart), vanity, and isolation. The dances were beautifully choreagraphed, if a little long and occasionally repetitive (with the exception of Tiny Matters, Christine's solo which, as Laura pointed out, continued to surprise as it unfolded).

I used to be a dancer. I took ballet for 10 years and pointe for four (and have the "hammer toes" to prove it). But when it came down to the choice of spending each school day afternoon at the studio or at home (or with friends), I quit dancing. Hey, I was only a teenager. What did I know? My mother was more upset than I was, I think. She spoke of my natural dancer's arch as if it had been wasted on me (my foot naturally arches, even when it's relaxed, which, strangely enough, means I am actually more comfortable in high heels than in flats). My mother had been a serious dancer, commuting from Metuchen, N.J., into NYC for lessons. She dreamed of dancing for Balanchine but ended up choosing college instead.

So both my mom and I get a little wistful (and sometimes unduly critical) when we watch professional dancers. But I really lost myself in the dancing on Friday and tried to suspend any judgment. And I enjoyed it. After the performance, the three of us congratulated Christine, had a glass of wine and then walked over to Nolita House for dinner. Over more white wine, an orgasmic artichoke dip with warm slices of soft pita, and a warm duck salad with tomatoes and pine nuts, we debated "Sex and the City" (and concluded that Miranda was the only character who demonstrably grew over the six seasons), top Texas towns (I'm from Dallas and Maureen is from Houston, but my pick was Austin, which she dismissed as being "too hippy"), and Oscar nominees (conclusion: Don Cheadle probably deserves it most, but Leonardo DiCaprio will probably get it).

I got home after midnight. Victor was waiting up for me. He'd gone to a bar called Blue & Gold earlier to have drinks with a colleague who was moving from Esquire to Marie Claire (which is actually just 3 floors down). Our friend Marty met him there with some newly burned CDs (Jumprope and Brazillian Girls). Victor was playing the Brazillian Girls CD on my computer when I got home, and we started dancing around the room to it, twirling around in the semi-darkness (he had the overhead track lights on dim) until we both collapsed, laughing.

Diet Day 2

Well, maybe I just needed a little time to adjust. I'm feeling a little better today (read: less bloated). Today's menu (a close approximation of the federal dietary guidelines, with some creative substitutions): half a protein bar, 1/4 glass of OJ, 2 bananas, sliced turkey and lettuce + tomato (hey-every veggie counts!) on 9-grain, BBQ-flavored soy crisps, vegetable crackers, black-bean burrito--and, well, I'm not sure I can explain away the chunk of white chocolate I had (so instead I'll blame my colleague, who's still) getting free chocolate in the mail for this feature she's working on).
Maybe this isn't so hard after all.
Except that it's 8:51pm and I'm hungry. Hopefully, "The Apprentice" and my husband (who should be arriving home from his senior kata class any minute) will be able to distract me.

Austin's Powers

Okay, spoiler alert for anyone who missed tonight's episode of Project Runway. Wendy not only made it to the final three, she won tonight's challenge, so Nancy O'(-what-is-she-thinking?) Dell--the brown-eyed blonde co-host of Access Hollywood--is wearing her orange mini muu-muu-like top + ruffly iridescent orange chiffon micromini skirt disaster to the Grammy Awards on Sunday "with some modifications." (I can't wait to see what it actually looks like by the time she's done with it). And Austin--whose dreamy blue and lavender chiffon dress was deemed "too Oscars"--is out! (Though Nancy did ask him--after he was told he'd been cut--if he would design her dress for the Oscars). My only consolation is that he is only 23. And gracious and talented. And I have a feeling he'll have a job by the time the PR finale runs, which incidentally is not next week. In an effort to stretch out the suspense--and the suprisingly successful series--PR is instead inviting all the original competitors back to the studio in the next episode for a critique of the finalists' designs and a candid discussion about the show thus far (the teaser promises "previously unaired" moments from earlier tapings, including what appears to be a cat fight between two of the models).
But I wasn't planning to dedicate my posting to tonight's episode (though I'm apparently worked up enough about it to sit down and write this at 11:30 pm, after walking home through the rain from my friend's place in Murray Hill).
I was actually going to write about a little eating experiment I did today.
I was working on a story today about the new federal dietary guidelines, published last month, and offering suggestions for healthy food choices that fit under the recommended categories: fruits and vegetables, whole grains, low-fat dairy, small servings of fat. So I decided to see if I could follow the new guidelines myself for a day.
That meant 4.5 servings of fruits and vegetables. So I had 2 apples (gala and fuji) and two bananas, and a couple tomato slices and lettuce (on my sliced turkey sandwich--protein, check--on, yes, nine-grain bread). I ate a Kashi peanut butter granola bar (really, more of a peanut-buuter-flavored rice crispy treat--with puffed rice) and half a protein bar.
I had a handful of almond flakes, a cup of Kashi puffed wheat cereal and 2 cups of Cheerios with sliced strawberries (which appeared to have been freeze-dried, judging by appearance and taste), from boxes in my office left over from a feature I'd done earlier on cereals. I figure I got my low-fat dairy from the skim milk and vanilla creamer I poured into my coffee (one cup regular, one decaf). And that, um, small serving of fat: well, the sliced almonds qualified as a 'healthy fat,' but there was coconut in that small chunk of white chocolate I broke off of the oversized bar on our conference room table (a colleague is doing a feature on chocolate).
Oh, and then there was the small square of "no pudge" fudge brownies my friend picked up the recipe for at Weight Watchers (two points). And the glass of red wine. BUT, until I'd even gone there, I'd pretty well followed the HHS dietary guidelines to a tee (okay, there were those 3 dark chocolate Hershey's kisses and 2 packs of mini Menthos.. but they hardly count!).
So how was I feeling? I should have been feeling effin' fabulous with all those whole grains and whole fruits inside me.
But all I felt was bloated! And that was before the brownie and wine. The black slacks that hung loosely around my waist this morning were cutting a crease across my belly by this evening. And my stomach was gurgling through PR.
Okay, maybe it's just the shock of so many fruits in my system at once. But aren't bananas supposed to aid digestion? And whole wheat is supposed to be packed with fiber. I suppose it could be the fat-free vanilla creamer or chocolate--and, okay, the brownie/wine combo probably didn't help. But I walked 11 blocks between the subway and my friend's apartment and my apartment. And I still felt bloated.
I'm willing to give it another shot, and even to abstain from chocolate--for a day, at least. But all the long-term cancer/heart-disease-fighting health benefits of this diet won't amount to a hill of beans if I feel this bloated and uncomfortable each day. Actually, maybe a hill of beans is what I need.

Project Runway

Another late night at work. And now (well, soon) I'm off to watch the prelude to the "Project Runway" finale at a friend's house (this is a weekly event, usually accompanied by a couple other friends and at least one bottle of wine).
I'm not just interested in the show because I fancy myself a budding fashionista (albeit, one who can name the top designers but can't afford to actually buy anything they send down the runway). This is one of the best reality shows out there. And, yes, I know that's not saying much. But I'd put it right behind Mark Burnett's creations in terms of creating characters we care about, as well as compelling drama. And three of the four designers left are truly talented (I think Wendy's style matches her personality--alternating between blah and bizarre).
It's also a chance to revel in our fabulous femininity (PR, as my friend points out, has become the new "Sex and the City" in terms of its popularity among 30-something women in NY and its accurate depiction of a certain slice of life in NYC). We usually keep a running commentary going on the characters and couture throughout the show. Meanwhile, my husband can't stand to watch the show for more than five minutes. So I'm happy to have a friend whose willing to host the weekly screenings.
Gotta get going, if I'm going to pick up some wine. Stay tuned for the recap tomorrow.

Rilke's Wisdom

"Works of art are indeed always products of having been in danger, of having gone to the very end in an experience, to where man can go no further." (Rainer Maria Rilke -- from Letters)
I don't think Rilke meant danger in just the physical sense, but emotionally, spiritually, morally (that's what made Hunter S. Thompson's writing as compelling as his lifestyle was repugnant). In order to produce a real work of art--one that forces a re-examination of the views we hold--the artist (or writer) must either explore new territory, whether that be artistic or emotional or geographical, or forge a new path through familiar territory.
But it's hard not to ask: what if no one follows? Or you get lost? Or the demons you've tried to lose catch up with you? Or the ones you love get left behind?
Rilke once wrote to a struggling poet: "A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it."
He advised: "Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take the destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside."
I told my mother a long time ago that I had a book inside me, waiting to be written. In the years since, I've left it on the shelf, untouched. I convinced myself that my book would come from outside me--from my experiences, not from my self. I think it's time I went into myself to see how deep the place is from which my words flow.

A Neighborhood Tour

When I fell asleep Friday night, still feverish, after downing a mugful of apple cinnamon flavored Theraflu, the temperature outside was in the mid-20s. When I woke up Saturday morning, my fever was gone, my appetite was back--and so was the sun. And NY1, our local news channel, was forecasting temperatures that day in the mid-50s. For a moment, I felt as if I'd slept straight through winter (wouldn't that be nice?). But I still felt a little groggy. So I spent most of the day watching the sun through the window.
By Sunday, I was feeling stir crazy. Though I was still feeling a little under the weather too and had a nasty, cringe-inducing cough, I couldn't stay inside another day--at least, not on a day like Sunday (another sun-filled springlike afternoon).
I cancelled my brunch plans with friends for fear 1) that I might still be a little contagious (especially since one of the other guests was pregnant), and 2) that I might still be in need of a little rest. I have this tendency to go from 0 to 60 the moment I start perking up after an illness.
So my husband offered instead to take me on a slow cruise through the neighborhood (on foot--we do live in NYC after all). If I felt sick at any point, we would turn around.
It had been a month or so since I last walked down Bedford Avenue--the main drag through Williamsburg (at least, if you're hip, or think you're hip, and under the age of 40)--and through nearby McCarren Park. The park's main track and field, and many of the buildings that overlooked it, were under construction. There were at least four different apartment buildings in various stages of completion. And as we walked up Bedford Avenue, I noticed two new stores (a vinyl record shop and a tiny cafe) as well as several signs advertising "loft space." After we picked up bagels and lox spread and a chocolate croissant from the bagel shop near Grand Avenue, we turned back toward the BQE to walk past an earlier multi-use development I'd admired. All the floor-level retail space was leased, to a salon, a Scandanavian coffeehouse, and an art gallery. The second and third floors--reserved for residential units--appeared to be filled too. All the mailboxes had names written on them. One scruffy-haired tenant was carrying a painting under his arm up the stairs when we passed by.
I'm not surprised by all the activity. Williamsburg's giant converted loft spaces attracted waves of artists in the late 90s who had been priced out of the East Village and the Lower East Side--as well as recent college grads willing to share subdivided floor space with a dozen of their closest pals. The neighborhood is close to Manhattan (three subway stops from Union Sqaure). It's got all the amenities of an old Brooklyn neighborhood (butchers, bakeries, bodegas, a fish market and fruit stands) as well as at least a dozen new art galleries, bars and a burgeoning music scene. And it butts up to the waterfront. All "desirables" in real estate terms.
So it's not surprising that all the big NY developers--even Trump--have been staking out any unclaimed property and squeezing in as many apartments as allowed by zoning.
I just hope that we can afford to buy one of them, once we decide to stop renting.

Ode to My Mother

It's funny how childhood memories can creep back into your consciousness when you've got a fever and a few hours to yourself. While I was lying under a pile of blankets on the couch yesterday, drifting in and out of sleep, I flashed back to a bout with the flu I'd had as a child in Dallas 20 years ago. I remembered how my mother set up a tray table beside my bed and left a bell on the table. If I needed her, she said, and I felt too weak to call, just ring the bell. I tried not to abuse the priviledge. But I remember ringing the bell and she would bring me tea or a steaming bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup and a grilled chedder cheese sandwich on wheat bread. I still get cravings for grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell's chicken noodle soup when I'm sick (even when I don't have the appetite for anything else). I imagine it's not the food I crave so much as my mother's presence. When I was young, just knowing that she was as close as that bell was comforting.
So I called her yesterday at her home in Florida, where she's spending the winter with my stepfather, doing aerobics, taking tennis lessons, and working on a book. I didn't even have to tell her I was sick. As soon as she heard my voice, she asked "What's wrong?"
I told her how I'd come down with the flu and how my fever had reached nearly 102 degrees and the irony of not taking my own advice about getting a flu shot. She didn't give me a hard time about it; she just gave me a sympathetic ear. And though she was hundreds of miles away, just hearing her voice made me feel better.
My husband had to go straight from work to a dinner last night for karate black belts (he is a shodan, or first-degree black belt). So he didn't get home till after 11 p.m. I was dozing on the couch upstairs when he arrived. He bent over and kissed me and asked me how I was feeling. "I brought something home for you," he said.
Then he set a grocery bag down on the table beside me and pulled out a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup.

I've Got the Flu

...which is ironic, since I just wrote a story last week about the surprise surplus of flu vaccine, and recommended that readers get a shot now since February is traditionally the worst month for the flu bug.
But did I take my own advice? Nope.
So, when I started getting the chills at work--and I seemed to be the only one in the office who was cold (despite my thick turtle neck)--I had a feeling it might be the flu. But I knew I was sick when we opened a box of See's chocolates at the news meeting and I wasn't even tempted. I finally forced myself to eat half a turkey sandwich at about 3. Turns out, that'd be the last thing I'd eat all day.
I went home at 5 (which is very early compared to my normal work hours) and my fever was 101.8 degrees by 7. Can't remember much more about last night. I slept through most of the NBC line-up. Though I did rouse myself enough to watch "The Apprentice" and the Magna team, who all have college degress, get their butts kicked by the Net Worth team, who don't (but do have triple the net worth of their opponents collectively, as my husband points out in his blog--hence the name). For those keeping score, that's Street Smarts 2, Book Smarts 1.
I'm a college grad (and magna), but it was still kinda nice to see the Street Smarts team wipe the cocky grins off their opponents' faces.
Then my husband made me a hot mug of cherry-flavored Theraflu and I was out cold before Jon Stewart had even finished his "Daily Show" monologue.

An Endurance Game

For those who weren't sufficiently motivated or inspired by Mark Burnett's story yesterday, this is for you.
In a piece posted on MSN.com today, Kiplinger's Personal Finance shares stories of how a dozen people--from a singer to a student athlete--made their first million (italics intentional).
I was drawn immediately to the "struggling actor" story of Scott Patterson, star of the "Gilmore Girls" TV series (NOT to be confused with Scott Peterson). Not only did he have to wait 14 years for his big break, but his filmography doesn't even start until 1993--when he was 35! I have to tell you, for those who've hit that 30-year mark and wondered that the hell they're doing with their lives, stories of successful 30-something career transitions are a real source of comfort and inspiration.
Patterson started as a baseball player with big league ambitions. He pitched for several seasons in the minor leagues during the early to mid-1980s and then--success!--he was traded to our own New York Yankees...where he lasted about--oh, maybe a game or two. And then he was cut. (In a 2001 interview, he puts it this way: "It was really bad. I got to tell ya, I threw hard but I had no idea where it was going. I once delivered a pitch to the third base coach. So... you can tell I have a bad sense of direction.")
By the time he decided to start his second career--moving to New York to study acting--he was 28. He moved between NY and L.A. He got bit parts in commercials to try and pay the rent. Sometimes he had to crash with friends or sleep in his 1966 Pontiac Le Mans. "I knew I would have to really, really earn this," Patterson said in the story. "It turned out to be an endurance game."
And, in the end, he won. In 1999, he read for the part of Luke Danes, the male lead in "Gilmore Girls." And he got the role. As the show became more popular, he became more well-known and more wealthy. Now he's making enough to help pay for a new wing at a hospital in Baltimore.
Patterson's advice: "Even when you've been pounded for 20 years, don't give up. If you stay in the game long enough, you get lucky."
Fabulous. By that measure, I've only got 14 years to go until I "get lucky."

Survivor Skills

Part of the appeal of living and working in New York is that the city draws such a confluence of over-achievers, creative talents, and intellectuals. Being among so many talented people who are determined to 'make it here' provides a constant source of energy, inspiration and competition. But the downside of being surrounded by so much ambition is that there is always someone else who's more wealthy, successful, famous [or insert any attribute here] than you are. And it's easy to feel discouraged in a city of super-achievers. There are plenty of examples in every profession--from fashion (Zac Posen) to finance (Zachary George)--of people who are younger than I am who have already made it big.
I confess that there are times when I wish I'd applied myself just a bit more in high school so I would've gotten into an Ivy League school. It sounds cliche, but I can tell you from experience, that having a Harvard degree definitely opens doors in this city, probably in part because so many Harvard grads occupy powerful positions here and are only too happy to hire someone else from their alma mater. Of course, an Ivy League degree isn't a prerequisite (or even a guarantee) for success. Persistence can open doors too--eventually--if you've got the patience and the confidence to keep knocking. That's why thousands of people come here each year to find their fame and fortune, and why I'm still here.
Still, sometimes you need a little reminder of how far your own personal drive can take you. So I've been reading Mark Burnett's new book "Jump In!"--a mix of anecdotes and advice drawn from his own experiences. Burnett is best-known as the creator of Survivor and The Apprentice, two of the most successful reality shows ever aired in the States. He's a multi-millionaire producer with another show on the way that's bound to be another hit, The Contender.
But when he arrived in Los Angeles from London in 1982, he had only $600 and a few years experience as a British paratrooper. He had no TV experience--he didn't even have a college degree. Burnett's first job in the U.S.? He was a nanny (and, not suprisingly, he has even been able to turn this experience into a new show, a WB sitcom called, yep, "Commando Nanny").
He went from cleaning homes and driving kids back and forth from school and soccer practice to selling insurance and then T-shirts on Venice Beach. With the money he saved, he invested in real estate and made a handsome profit, which he used to start his own marketing company. Then, on a whim, he decided to compete in the Raid, an international extreme sport/globe-trekking competition. His team placed last. But he lined up sponsors and TV coverage and the experience gave him the idea to launch the Eco-Challenge, which went on to become a top-rated show on the Discovery Channel and then the USA Networks--and led to his being asked to take an idea about throwing together a group of 'castaways' and having them compete for a prize and turn it into, yes, "Survivor."
Sure, Burnett's obviously got skills. But he didn't have any TV experience when he first pitched the idea of an Eco-Challenge show. Yet he never let the fact that he had no college degree and no experience and no family connections (his parents were both factory workers) keep him from dreaming BIG and reaching his goals.
Pretty inspiring stuff.