Commentary

The following statement is going to be truly dweeb-tastic: I’m deriving a lot of my self-confidence these days from none other than a site I once found totally pointless. That site is called Twitter.

When Twitter first hit pop culture tidal waves, I did exactly what I did when Facebook made its debut at my educational institution: made a lot of fun of it and vowed never to join. Why anyone entertains any of these rants from me is baffling; if everyone’s doing it, I’m definitely going to eventually self-loathingly hop on board, jump-off-a-bridge style, especially if there’s an element of narcissism involved. Twitter is narcissism encapsulated. It’s a wonder I wasn’t a member of the beta development process.

Much as I want to believe I’m part of counterculture in some way, I’m facing reality these days: I’m a social-networking whore, and Twitter might have me prostituting myself out most of all.

I like to give a lot of fancy reasons for why I spend so much time crafting pithy thoughts to tweet out to the twittersphere (god, that’s fun to say out loud… in a crowded coffee shop… where everyone is pretending to work but really doing the same thing I’m doing… perusing these forums of fun for hours…). Some of these reasons are even kind of true. It’s a good way to direct people to posts like this one, as well as more real things I write, like reviews of local restaurants. It’s also a good way to provide commentary on goings-on about the town without having to craft a 1000 word summary of my thoughts. And, hey, it’s kind of like sending a really clever mass text message, except that I can send it even to people who aren’t in my phone book.

But notice that all of these “reasons” for using Twitter can be boiled down to the general category of “telling everyone all the time about how awesome I am.”

I kind of can’t help myself. Unlike Facebook, where I’m pretty sure my profile is locked down under every privacy setting available (unless something’s screwy with all the changes they’ve made), any old person can follow me on Twitter. This is pretty self-validating when people I don’t know start following me. This is pretty ego-feeding when someone thinks I’m clever enough, in 140 characters or less, to subscribe to my every posted thought. And this is pretty exciting when people I’m fans of become fans of me, especially when they RETWEET my original thoughts.

I’m sorry, I’m sucked in deep, and I can’t stop myself. Brevity is the soul of wit, after all, and I’m doomed to spend hours upon hours upon hours paring down my monologues into a few choice words so as to obtain self-validation from the likes of my 56 followers.

No but seriously, follow me on Twitter.

Duh.

Ok, admittedly, part of the reason I like this article is because it validates my choices on Saturday night, which included, among other things, a decision to eat 13 different dishes, including 2 desserts, 2 (different) preparations of bone marrow, and at least 2 elements of deep-fried goodness. What’s the opposite of low-fat? Yep, yep, my Saturday night.

Slate’s not exactly breaking news here, what with Michael Pollan, patron saint of all things naturally raised and sustainably grown, having spent the last several years telling the story of villainous processed food in the form of New York Times columns and best-selling books, but they bring up an apt point: there are policy implications of this newfound food fervor.

Low-fat had its day in the sun only to be replaced by sugar-free. Now, there’s no denying that America’s diners are looking less for subtraction of “evil” than asking about the origin of food on their plates. Robert Kenner’s “Food, Inc.” came out this year to critical acclaim and took the next swing at the processed foods empire in the war started and fought by Pollan with the help of people like Eric Schlosser, Morgan Spurlock, Joel Salatin, and Alice Waters, among others.

The repercussions of this trend run deep. Suddenly, “natural” has supplanted “fat-free” in advertising catch-phrase land, and diet literature preaches whole foods instead of low cholesterol.

As for the USDA, the supposed leader of the nutrition pack and the agency responsible for setting the tone of how our country eats will have to choose whether to change its approach or stay the course when they revisit dietary policy recommendations this year. Regardless of what that particular group of people decides, the fact that they’re making a decision over whether or not to toe the low-fat line is a testament to the fact that this bureaucratic organization, like most of government, is painfully behind the times.

Seriously? Low-fat? That was at least two trends ago. On the other hand, aren’t these supposed to be scientists and nutritionists? Are they really only going to change policy because suddenly the public is swinging a different way? I’d rather my government agencies not make their recommendations by the polls, everyone’s-doing-it-so-it-must-be-right style.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a believer in eating real food, period. Lots of it. Not only because I believe it’s better for me, but also because I’m a sucker for stuff that tastes good, and there’s no denying that a succulent cut of pork belly is 9000 times tastier and more indulgent than even the best crafted Snackwell’s 100-calorie pack of cookies (god forbid I call out Snackwell’s, by the by, did you hear Ruhlman got fired from his Restaurant Industry column for calling out Kraft in his personal blog? I speak the truth).

I’m not advocating that everyone eat like me, and I’m not begging Washington to condone my choices. Truth be told, if I had my way, I’d rather Washington butt out altogether, relying instead on other sources to propagate nutrition information to America’s masses, which is exactly the kind of forum the warriors in the food dialogue are attempting to create. But while I’d rather not listen to the government when deciding what to eat because I’m a foaming-at-the-mouth food fanatic intent on charting my own course, I know not everyone out there feels the same, choosing instead to abide by the questionable food pyramid because the back of the cereal box told them to do so.

Unfortunately, because they’ve clearly not kept up with contemporary food thinking, the USDA is between a rock and a hard place when it comes to preserving its credibility. Staying the course has obvious problems, but so does adapting to the whim of the year. No matter which way the low-fat sugar-free or organic whole grain cookie crumbles, it doesn’t change the fact that making this choice at all demonstrates that a clearly inept organization is telling the American masses how to eat.

That said, there’s still a sizeable sect of society that listens to lawmakers over experts while perusing shelves at a grocery store, something Jamie Oliver’s “Food Revolution” is proving over and over again. Maybe it’s the idealist liberal arts grad talking here, but I’d like to think there’s a way to rescue the USDA from obsolescence while still making a solid positive impact on America’s health.

I’d like to see the agency take a new tack, telling us less about exactly what to eat and more about how to find information when we’re trying to make that choice for ourselves. I recognize the importance of brief messaging, but since when does the government care about being brief? There’s a bevy of information out there, and the food debate is nothing if not an ongoing evolving conversation. If we can harness that, we’ll rescue ourselves from food ignorance and eat much more delicious food as a result.

It’s officially Spring in Boulder. You know what that means? Barring the occasional irritating March snowstorm, the sun is shining, the streets are filled with happy people and their dogs, and I, of course, have been fully embroiled in an all-encompassing crisis of faith.

This should, by this juncture in my young adulthood, be predictable. I don’t know if it’s a pressure change or a harkening back to school days of yore, but my itchy feet get especially bad in the Fall and Spring, and each season brings a prolonged period of listening to my Pensive mix and telling everyone ever all about every convoluted and conflicting thought passing through my head about some life-path-altering decision. Proof, starting in 2007 (it should be noted that this pattern could be seen as early as 2003 after I broke up with my stable high school boyfriend and, thus, my stable high school perception of who I was):

Crisis of Faith (COF) Fall ‘07: “I should go consult in New York City in January 2008 when no one’s moving there because I hate Denver and I want a great deal on an apartment!” vs. “But wait, I kind of like my job and Denver! I should wait to move until June!”

COF Spring ‘08: “I love burritos! I should totally work on burritos remotely from NYC since my boss will let me! I don’t need financial analysis skills, those are for boring people, and I’m not boring!” vs. “Financial analysis skills are for sexy people, burritos are for silly people. I really want financial analysis skills so I can be sexy! I should totally work in finance-light!”

COF Fall ‘08: “I hate finance-light! Imma work in marketing!” vs. “I really want financial analysis skills! I should definitely tough this out!”

COF Spring ‘09: “Everyone should be required to live in New York for two years! I’m going to do that!” vs. “I’m moving back to Boulder immediately because I hate finance, but I loooove wine! Also mountains!”

COF Fall ‘09: “I’m sick of wine! I miss the office and being able to afford dinner!” vs. “I love wine! I should work in another restaurant and get my sommelier certification!”

That list exhausts me, maybe because of the schizophrenic exclamation points, but not as much as my brain is exhausting me right now. For every side presented on that list, I had a fully crafted poetic argument that I gave to each and every one of my friends and acquaintances who, in turn, wanted to lock me in my room for a week or six until everything blew over.

I blame my generation. A hundred years ago, when I was but a rosy-cheeked youth, I read an article in Time about defining characteristics of my age group. As opposed to our hippy-dippy parents, we want to grow up fast, stepping right into solid careers and adult lives. A lot of my friends have done that. They’re now in year three or four of their stable careers in banking and consulting and publishing and coffee. They own houses and cars and significant others. They know what a 401 (k) is, and they use it. This is fantastic for them. Their parents are very proud and happy that someday their kids will have the means to pay for a nursing home.

And while my friends have been building their solid lives and solid long-term careers, I’ve been trying to decide what my long-term career is going to be while dabbling in every field that exists. Hence the convincing arguments for both sides of the coin: do I cut my losses at this early stage of the game, or do I stick something out for a lifetime? Hey, I fully acknowledge that a lack of patience is my greatest weakness in each and every one of my 20 interviews per year. This is obviously very black and white. There’s clearly absolutely no gray area here.

So guess what’s been happening for the last week or six? Yep. Yep. 2 sides of an argument surrounding what my next (and final this time, no really) life move is.

Here are the details, little people in my laptop who still read my blog. Back in COF Fall ’09, I decided I did, in fact, want to pursue the old childhood ambition of a fulfilling career in law. I did my prep work. I took the LSAT. I spent a million dollars and devoted hundreds of hours to applying to schools. I even got accepted to some of them. And I started making shiny happy plans for a move back to the East Coast.

And then March started. And the first 70 degree day happened. And I met a new friend or two after whining for months about the size of Boulder. And I realized there might be a couple of restaurants in Denver I haven’t experienced. And COF Spring ’10 started in full.

Do I REALLY want to be a lawyer? I mean REALLY? Willing-to-take-out-$180,000-worth-of-student-loans want to be a lawyer? Haven’t I been saying the whole time that I want an unconventional law career? As in not being a lawyer at all at the end of the day? Maybe I should be a writer. Or a non-profiteer. Or an astronaut! That sounds like a fun plan! I haven’t tried space yet on my list of career prospects! I wonder if NASA is hiring people with my qualifications!

But wait. Even though my eventual goal is to do something outside the realm of law, a few years of practice will help immensely. And the legal field does play to my strengths. And my smarts. And my love of sexy suits. And my love of affording sexy meals. And I spent millions of dollars and hundreds of hours on getting accepted. And I already have a delightful roommate lined up for Boston.

Flip. No flop. No flip. Flop.

You know how I know I should be a lawyer in the end? Because I can fully convince everyone, including myself, of either side of my personal fence on any given day, even if I’ve already completely proved, case-closed style, the other position (no, but now I know FOR SURE that the OTHER WAY is the way to go). Gray -> black and white. Hello, law school (no wait!).

Let’s all take a moment to remember the holiday I hate: Halloween. In case you’ve forgotten, let me summarize. Halloween is a night when girls dress like sluts, a bunch of frat-tastic d-bags put on dumb costumes, and everyone drinks with a vengeance so that they may use the holiday as an excuse to act like bigger morons than they already are. And to top it off, I suck at this holiday since I don’t really know how to dress like a slut (see former costumes: Amelie, gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, and, most recently, the Reading Rainbow).

The only holiday that rivals Halloween for my personal greatest repulsion is St. Patrick’s Day. Let’s back off for just two seconds and acknowledge the fact that if you’re my age and have been out with me more than, like, once, you know that I like to act like a full-fledged d-bag on occasion, complete with the fist-pump. What I DON’T like to do, however, is fist-pump with a bunch of other fist-pumpers, the majority of whom are red in the face, sweaty, and smell like a combination of beer-infused B.O. and Axe body spray. Enter St. Patrick’s Day, possibly even more frat-tastic and slut-filled than Halloween because no one has to be clever, they just have to don green.

I’m sorry. I mean, I’m Irish. I should be the loudest d-bag of them all, proudly touting my “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” tee shirt, stretched tightly across my meager bosom. I should be showering in green glitter. I should be spilling green beer all over you as I sloppily stumble around Fado, Denver’s choice St. Patty’s Day spot, because I’ve used my heritage as an excuse to drink from sunrise to, well, sunrise. I should be drunkenly making out with some thick red-headed meathead in solidarity and remembrance of our potato-famine roots.

But I’m full-on St. Patrick’s Day Debbie Downer. I won’t be wearing green. I won’t be drinking Guinness. I probably won’t even eat corned beef and cabbage (on second thought, mmm, corned beef). The only thing that redeems St. Patrick’s Day above Halloween is that I don’t have to grudgingly participate; I just have to put up with your impulsive urge to pinch me in ostracism. I’m okay with that. Just don’t make me kiss you, and we’ll be alright.

A friend of mine and fellow server recently turned me on to an article in the New York Times complaint box on tipping.  I encourage you to read it before reading my response, but for my lazy friends, Daniel Sax, self-admittedly cheap, never leaves above 15% gratuity and hates the custom of tipping.  The title of his rant is “Hey, Waiter!  Just How Much Extra Do You Really Expect?”

I should preface my response to Mr. Sax with this: About a year ago, I’d never had a service industry job in my life. Now, I spend each and every night catering to the requests of diners in a chic Boulder restaurant. But in both walks of life, I’ve never tipped less than 20% unless the service was unbelievably atrocious. And knowing there’s a lucrative end in sight to my days as a server, I dream openly of the day when I can leave lavish tips for servers who deserve it.

And so, Mr. Sax, I’d like to tell you where my perspective differs from yours.

Occasionally, a restaurant professional merely brings you a latte or pours you a beer; in these situations, industry standards for gratuity are often lower than 15-20%. But when you sit down in a restaurant, someone is going to be your personal slave for as long as you care to grace the tables of that particular establishment, and, what’s more, they are going to make you feel like they can’t imagine anything they’d rather be doing.

You see, sir, even if you are the most low-maintenance of diners (which I’m guessing you are not), there are still a number of points of service a server provides. We refill your water. We bring you food and drinks. We make sure you have a fork with which to eat your pan-roasted scallops. We indulge your disgusting habit of eating your fries with mayonnaise by bringing you a heaping side of the condiment. In essence, we do everything short of lay across your lap and feed you bits of your ordered meal with a tender loving hand.

It’s not just the basics we provide, though. We exist to make your experience as comfortable as possible. We can be your best friend, a confidant, someone who makes you look good in front of your business associates or studly to your dashing date, or we can fade into the background, providing you service without you ever realizing we’re there. If you don’t like your dish, we’ll go yell at the kitchen for you and pick up the tab for your food. If you want to let your kids run rampantly, we’ll corral them for you and tell them how cute they are when they’re dipping their grubby hands in other patrons’ ketchup. If you don’t like your beautiful Premier Cru Burgundy that we just opened for you because you were more in the mood for a cabernet, we’ll absorb the cost while smiling toothily and assuring you that we understand. If you ask us to jump, we’ll jump, and then say, “please sir, may I have another,” while whistling zippity doo dah, if that’s going to make you feel good.

How much is a personal slave worth, sir? And should the burden of that service really be on my employer? My employer isn’t asking me for a larger pour of wine. He’s not waving his hand wildly to tell me the filet mignon isn’t to his liking, after all, and ask whether it would be possible to get the salmon instead. He didn’t just shatter his glass of 30-year scotch and demand a free refill.

As for added gratuity on parties of 6 or more, the official answer is that this just makes it easier for you to divide the bill (and since most people these days actually do tip 20%, they don’t oft complain). In reality, large parties require more work because there are more of you to make special requests. After I’ve run a track meet to make sure everyone has everything they need, I’d like to have some assurance that you’re not going to take your irritation with your cheap friend (or, in your case, that your friends don’t take their irritation with you) out on me. I’ve eaten with enough groups to know that somehow, the final count of bills is always short.  My little secret, though?  I don’t add gratuity (or “auto-grat,” as we say in the industry) unless I’m pretty sure I’m going to get stiffed.  Maybe your server is better at reading you than you think.

I’ll be honest, though, the real reason you should tip well is for entirely selfish reasons. I remember my pleasant and appreciative diners, and I also remember the high-maintenance diners that never tip over 15%. Who do you think I’m sending the new appetizer on the menu even though they didn’t order it? Who do you think I’m bringing tastes of wine? Who’s getting the table in the packed reservation list? Who’s getting styled out and looking studlier in front of their dashing date while other repeat customers are nursing their house white without the extra love?

One theory of the etymology of the word “tip” is that it’s an acronym for “to insure promptness.” That might not work the first time around since you don’t tip us until the end, but I can assure you, paying it forward reaps benefits. And for someone who’s self-admittedly cheap, I would think free stuff would be reason enough to toss a few extra dollars our way.

Be I the orchestrator or a lucky participant, I am a big fan of combined social circles. Sometimes, like when I’m the x factor or when my most social friends are the ones being mixed into the fold, I like this situation because I know it’s going to result in a harmonious interactive event in which everyone gets a business card or a phone number with which to establish a new friendship. But when that’s not the case, which is more likely, I find the affair delightful because of the awkward social politics involved.

Combined social circles often take place at parties. I’m getting better at choosing invitees, but I oft fall into the trap of inviting every single one of my friends to parties I throw because I want to look popular. This gets stressful on the day of the gathering. Hosting etiquette says you should introduce friends to each other and tell them something they have in common so as to initiate conversation. Unfortunately, sometimes the thing those friends have in common are that they’re both humans and both my friend. It doesn’t really do any good to say, “X, meet Y. You both breathe air,” or, “A, meet B. You can both talk about me for awhile.” Luckily, alcohol is a great equalizer. Give a person enough distilled grain and they’re likely to find SOMETHING in common with ANYONE. And if not, well, we can always put on a Journey song and sing along, fist-pumping in new friend solidarity.

Because of excessive alcohol consumption and the power of numbers, parties are the least awkward place to combine groups of friends from different walks of life. Where it gets tricky is when I try to plan group friend dates, because this means I have to strategically choose a handful of people to make a night out interesting.

Being a girl of diverse interests, I have a diverse group of friends. Or, I should say, diverse groupS of friends. Some of those friends are real live adults. I talk to them about real live adult things like the economy and the Obama administration and how to itemize more deductions on my tax return, usually over an expensive dinner and a nice glass of wine. Other friends really play to my occasional desire to shotgun a Coors Light, eat a greasy basket of fries, and lose some of my personal effects in a dive bar. Maturity level aside, my friends divide on every possible spectrum: democrats and republicans, city dwellers and small town lovers, highly ambitious and highly unmotivated, artists and scientists, introverted and extroverted, coffee-drinkers and tea aficionados… you get the idea. Probably the best way to combine this group teeming with varying hobbies would be to introduce like to like. That way, when one of my friends is saying 70% of the words at the table and only talking about the numerous preparations of foie gras, the other people at the table not only know what he’s talking about, but also have a word or two to say on the subject themselves.

As someone fully entrenched in Liberal Arts school values, however, I like to take the opposite approach and pick combinations of friends most likely to bait each other into controversial discussion. I always think the cross-section of interests is going to result in pithy articulate conversation in which everyone learns something new and grows as a person. Try as I might to make my real life like my college summer camp, such glorious mutual personal progress rarely occurs.

For instance, I was recently at dinner with 6 other people. We were all of the same age, same general educational background, and same relative intelligence. Moreover, everyone was well read and well versed in current events. And everyone had at least 1 very good friend present at the table, but was also meeting SOMEONE at the table for the first time. This sounds like a recipe for success, right? How could this possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, environmental variables came into play. Before sitting down to enjoy each other’s company, our entire party had traipsed from restaurant to restaurant, trying to find a place that would accommodate everyone’s dietary restrictions and impatience with hour-long wait times. When we did choose a place, the room was a little too dimly lit for a meeting of friends, and the table was awkwardly situated for a natural flow of conversation. Half of us had been daytime drinking and were trying desperately to get our second wind. One of us had been studying for days and was trying desperately to get a life second wind. A couple of us were on a special diet that probably sucked all of our energy out from underneath us and, thus, made a second wind impossible. So of course, when the conversation inevitably turned to the political economy, the whole dialogue became a delicate dance, walking that fine line of trying hard to (appear to) respect the viewpoint of a brand new acquaintance who apparently has no knowledge of the subject on which they’re spewing opinions.

It starts innocently:

“The economy would be better if the national banks gave way to small banks.”

“I think national banks serve an important purpose, but I’d love to hear your reasoning for your opinion.”

And at some point devolves into:

“I just don’t think you have any understanding of the working class, but that’s okay.”

“I just don’t think you have any understanding of the economy at large, and I don’t think that’s okay at all.”

And then:

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

(Awkward group silence until half the party decides to go get ice cream, and the other half decides to stay for one more drink)

There’s a reason it’s taboo to talk about politics or religion in mixed company. I’m not immune. I once gave my very controversial opinion on abortion to a staunch Roman-Catholic with whom I was shamelessly flirting. Needless to say, that nipped any notion of premarital sexual relations in the bud.

I’ll get it some day, combining people in a way conducive to those magical nights that make everyone warm and toasty over the beauty of human interconnection. In the meantime, thanks for humoring my social experiments (obviously, I mean that in a completely non-genocidal way). I like to think I’m just helping us all become better more well-adjusted adults.

Oh, big surprise, this is a Valentine’s Day post. You didn’t really expect to hear silence from me on such a controversial day regarding love, did you?

Here’s the shocker, kids: I like this holiday, and I’m obviously going to tell you why.

No other holiday divides the universe quite like Valentine’s Day. No other holiday demands the entire population put a stake down on a side of the great love debate. No other holiday evokes warm toasty feelings of optimism in some and fiery burning hatred in others. And that, to me, is fascinating.

This isn’t merely the swinging singles vs. the happy couples. There are plenty of singles that rush out to fill shopping carts with candy hearts and cute little cards, dressing in pink and red and buying themselves roses. Likewise, there are plenty of couples that would rather sit at home eating Chinese food and Ben & Jerry’s than hit the saturated and overpriced restaurant scene on the day of love. The division is more like the hopeless romantics vs. the jaded cynics, and there are members of both parties in all relationship statuses.

I have to say, I get both sides. I grew up in a pro-Valentine’s Day household. Come the morning of February 14, my place at the breakfast table would be set with chocolate, Sweethearts, and pink and red hued kitsch (namely, clothing to wear to school). Valentine’s Day was as good as Halloween, only with better sweets: we were allowed to gorge ourselves on Cadbury until we barfed or surrendered. The holiday also satiated my arts and crafts itch; rather than take the easy route and purchase the popular cards with kiddie jokes on them for my friends and classmates, my mom would help us make cleverly embossed works of art. Plus, a few Valentine’s Days brought elementary school love letters and roses from “secret admirers.”

What lessons did I take from those Valentine’s Days in my formative years? February 14 is a magical day on which anything can happen. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I secretly hope for a creepy letter from a long-lost love, if only so I can bask in the glow of how desirable I am. Even sans heartfelt declaration of obsession, Valentine’s Day is also a day on which I’m allowed to gorge myself on quality chocolate, and the calories basically don’t count. Plus, red is my color. What’s not to like?

On the other hand, Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark holiday, and I’m inherently opposed to specialness as propagated by greeting cards. The jaded cynic in me acknowledges the stupidity in meaningless tokens of obligation (see also: Christmas). The lover of aesthetics in me hates cheap kitsch. The marriage of these two things makes me slightly nauseous every time I step in a national chain capitalizing on the momentarily looser wallets of America’s lovesick.

Quite frankly, romance should be spontaneous. Secret admirers take note: if you’re going to shower me with presents and expensive dinners, I’d rather you do it on a whim because you’re feeling especially mushy about me, not because it’s February 14. And I’d rather those gifts and dinners be things you know I’ll like rather than something society says you should give me. Roses die (actually, I think they’re already dead), candy makes me fat, and generic restaurants incite within me feelings of intense discomfort and rage, but an authentic tongue taco and a mix CD… now that goes straight to my heart (get your head out of the gutter, I’m talking about Mexican food).

Both of these sides of my personality manifest on Valentine’s Day whether I’m single (usually) or coupled (very very rarely). But when I’m single, I love the sympathy from my not-single friends, who speak to me with the ginger tone usually reserved for someone who just lost a close relative or tried to commit suicide:

“What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?” they’ll ask delicately.

“Oh, nothing. I’ll probably just watch a chick flick, eat some Haagen-Dazs, and think about how someday I’ll find my other.”

“It’s good to hear you’re getting through it. You’ll find someone soon. Probably when you least expect it.”

(sighing for dramatic effect) “I know. It’ll happen just when I’ve given up looking.”

“That’s the spirit. Good for you! Good. For. You.”

Likewise, I wholeheartedly enjoy the bitterness from my fellow bachelors and bachelorettes. I’ve been single for the past 4 Valentine’s Days. On each of those, I’ve had a wealth of anti-Valentine’s Day options from people who’ve opted to rechristen it SAD (Singles’ Awareness Day) Day. SAD Day options are numerous and entertaining, and oft revolve around some sort of judging activity: going to a good restaurant and judging the couples on dates, going to shows and judging the couples on dates, going to coffee shops and judging the couples on dates, going to the bars and judging the couples on dates, judging, judging, judging, all because those Other people are wrapped up in loving romantic bliss.  Then everyone drunk dials an ex and eats their feelings.

The final analysis? When it comes to the day itself, my feelings about love and romance basically neutralize each other, and I experience no emotion toward the holiday whatsoever. However, given the fact that I enjoy conflict, I engage zealously in the stand-off between the different sides of the fence. So, yay, Valentine’s Day. Controversy. Loneliness. Optimism. Emotions. Hooray.  Let the games (and meltdowns) begin.

A couple of my good friends got engaged this week. Not to each other. You know what this means? I’m officially entering that phase in my life where I’m going to be attending weddings a lot in the summers. I’m going to celebrate the lifelong love of my closest confidants. I’m really excited for all of these people, but I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

While those people were getting engaged, I woke up on Thursday morning at about 11 am with a hangover. I also had $25 in my checking account not allocated to bills, a messy room, no sheets on my bed, a pile of dirty clothes that’s threatening to cause injury due to its massive size and location, a broken phone, a broken windshield on my car, a doughy body due to my year-long hiatus from exercise, and no hint of a romantic relationship headed toward even sharing a cable bill, let alone marriage. Adding insult to injury: I went out with a guy this week who’s building a multi-million dollar company, thus making me feel even more like I’m doing nothing with my life right now, and then Berkeley rejected me from law school.

I’ve written about getting my shit together before as if it would be some kind of impetus to do so. That’s obviously panning out. I’m pretty sure I’m headed right down the track of wearing the same sweatpants for two weeks straight until I die alone and the neighborhood cats gnaw on my body until the smell reaches the neighbors. They say when you get down you should rely on good friends to pull you on up by your bootstraps, so, naturally, I took out my mental health common cold on some of my closest confidants, getting angry with them for their lack of validation and then storming off (uh, signing off the internet… like I have friends in real life) (also, sorry Ali…Tyler…Hayes…Molly…Jen…okay, stopping).

Fine, I’m going to law school next year. Fine, on Thursday I also went to a board meeting as the Director of Marketing for a non-profit. Fine, I have a few friends in real life. Fine, I have had marginally successful romantic relationships. Fine, I’ve said a hundred times that I want to be single right now. Fine, sometimes people think I’m funny. Fine. Fine. Fine. Sometimes a girl’s gotta wallow in her despair, okay? I mean, we’ve all got baggage; what differs is how we carry it (like my roommate Paige, who probably has a matching suitcase set whereas I’ve got a taped-together trash bag).

The thing is, in some ways, I can’t wait to be a real adult, waking up in my home with a mortgage, making coffee, feeding the dog, organizing the mail, going to work, making a bunch of deals, speaking at a benefit, coming home, having a glass of wine, reading in bed next to my husband, and then going to sleep only to start over again the next day… But then what? Barring the fact that that scene actually sounds marginally horrifying, the scarier thing is the idea of not having any problems to solve.

Sometimes I forget that everyone my age is trying to figure their shit out right now. Everyone wishes they were making more money or spending more time making an impact or connecting with someone on an intense level or not getting tired when they run. As life goes on, if we’re patient, we’re probably either going to figure those things out or (if we’re not patient) settle, but it’s never going to be like it is right now again. Quite frankly, it’s this process that makes us cool humans (yeah, I went there, you can thank my high school guidance counselor and 1 semester of college psych).

So, yeah, do I wish that underneath the surface I was just as shiny as I am when I’m presenting in front of real adults or charming someone on an epic date or talking about my hopes and dreams in a law school essay? Sure. But then I’d be a plastic politician. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna wallow, but I’m also going to take Jerry-Springer-trainwreck-like solace in the fact that even if you’ve got a piece of the puzzle in place, you’re occasionally wallowing over something, too.  Let’s hug and talk about how failure is beautiful.

I’m not gonna lie, I’m hot for Barack Obama’s thoughts. That man could be talking about toast or paint colors on the walls and I’d be hanging on his every word. So it’s probably no surprise that after the State of the Union, I was inspired to wax poetic about most of the major issues discussed over several bourbons on the rocks (pretty sure I got smarter as the night wore on).

Inspirational speech (or at least speaking skills) aside, I think the tack Obama has been forced to take is an interesting one. Recent events, namely the surprising election in Massachusetts and the Supreme Court decision on campaign financing for corporations, have shaken the administration just enough that the State of the Union had our president strengthening his resolve and making more promises of change. Indeed, if he can’t deliver some of those this year, he risks alienating his roots.

I never thought I’d have to say this in the wake of Obama’s game-changing marketing strategy, but I think he’s suffering from some bad PR. I’m pretty sure it was under the Obama administration that our financial crisis was pulled back from the brink of the deep hole of destruction. Under his watch, our foreign relations have improved. We’re in uncharted territory in an international policy sphere. But, strangely, we don’t hear about this. Why? Because at the end of the day, we, and by we I mean most of the people who voted for Obama, want to see real documentable domestic change.

I think now is an apt time to consider the role of the president in general. Realistically, the unfortunate (or fortunate) fact of the matter is that no matter how intelligent and pragmatic, a new president alone cannot necessarily make sweeping change to the system. There’s a constitutional reason for this: we put checks and balances in place in order to make sure ruling doesn’t become dependent upon the whims of one man (or woman). And, quite frankly, even with a legislature stacked in Obama’s favor, after the Bush administration, a constriction of power in the executive branch should be expected. Unfortunately, as a lawmaker, the president is relatively inconsequential, doomed to lobby for his interests and set the general law-making tone.

That’s not to say the president is unimportant, however. He (or she) represents the face we show the world. How we negotiate with foreign countries, arguably equally as important as domestic policy in today’s global climate, is largely dependent on the president in power. And there, Obama is delivering, opening avenues closed by 8 years of President Bush. So you want change, you got it.

The problem is that Obama was elected on the assumption of sweeping domestic change. As a result, a large portion of his base is going to be the restless and fickle type that’s quickly going to lose heart when real change at home doesn’t seem imminent. This is why our president had to focus on reaffirming his promises, vowing not to quit, and acknowledging that change hasn’t come as fast as he would like. Don’t expect it to happen- Obama needs the legislature to put aside their regional and political differences in order for anything consequential to pass. Here’s hoping his speech stirred our politicians enough to try to work together.

Voters should focus instead on what Obama has the potential to represent, and what he already does represent. I voted for Obama because I think he constitutes change we can believe in because he’s a figurehead we can believe in. Obama is an intelligent fresh face we can show the world, opening doors that few other leaders, from either party, could have opened. And Obama’s PR machine would do well to remind us of that.

Still, I liked Obama’s overarching message in his address, and, particularly, his line about leadership. The kind of change I hope to see doesn’t have to do with any one policy. I’d like to see Washington working for a more compelling future, whether it’s popular or not. I trust that Obama is smart enough to have that vision. I’ll vote for him again if he follows it.

Oh, NPR, you’re validating all of my hopes and dreams: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122612096

I’m no hairy-armpitted militant feminist screaming for equality now, but this article makes my modest bosom swell with pride, mostly because it’s reflective of a trend I’ve been aware of since entering the working world. Gone are the days of frumpy power suits, the she-male, and sworn vow never to have children in the ranks of successful women. In fact, if anything, I’ve noticed that being a woman gives a distinct interview advantage in more male-dominated industries. Subtle as it was, there was certainly a desire to recruit highly ambitious females into the ranks of financial firms, if only because it looks good to investors to have women in management positions. Suddenly, companies are offering family benefits like daycare and maternity/paternity leave as if to scream, “WE DON’T UNDERSTAND YOUR HORMONES BUT WE ADMIRE YOUR ABILITY TO MULTI-TASK! HAVE A CHILD! HAVE AN ARMY OF THEM! BUT STAY WITH OUR COMPANY INSTEAD OF GOING TO THE COMPETITION BECAUSE WE NEED WOMEN HERE!” Whatever the motivation for this shift, I say, thanks, don’t mind if I do.

I’ve oft quipped that I’m going to marry my first husband for his money (okay, gentle readers, that’s a JOKE…. I’m not as heartless as my last entry apparently suggests). In reality, though, I’ve got a strong personality and a problem with being the submissive member of any relationship. What’s more likely is what I told my grandma when she told me I could always learn to love a rich man: nah, I’ll just make my own fortune. If I’m really honest, when I fantasize vaguely about a future marriage, I get immense joy from picturing a relationship where I very much hold my own as an equal or greater contributor to our assets rather than a shoe-fetish-motivated drain on the bank account. And here’s the thing: I have no doubt about what my future holds.

What I really like about this article is that it’s proof of the critical juncture at which we find ourselves in the history of women’s rights: for women, our limitations are now mostly self-imposed.

Okay, I can feel a certain type of feminist friend squirming at those words. After all, the number of men in leadership positions still outnumbers the number of women. Fine. But I’d venture a guess that that’s not because organizations are actively keeping women down.

The limitation comes from choices we all have to make. What’s our main motivation? What do we want? And what makes us happy? If it’s a high-powered career in business, then that will come first, and we’ll find our road not easy, because few paths to meaningful goals are ever totally easy, but mostly unblocked from a gender perspective. But if it’s raising a family, or making a difference in our communities, or writing a book, then we’ll pursue those ends instead of the business career, and, remarkably (I know), NOT end up as a high-powered business leader. As women, we’re good multi-taskers, but we can’t have it all at once. Even without sleep, we can’t be full-time moms, award winning authors, and high-powered executives all at the same time. Guess what?  Men can’t do all of those things at once either.  And guess what else?  They aren’t wrapped up in trying.

What we have is a choice to define what it is that we want, and then do what we need to do to get it. It’s a choice that all of us, women and men, should consciously make. And when we make that choice, we should remember what Mae West said: Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels. Women can do everything that men can, and they can do it with their own style.

The TRULY exciting thing about this shift is that gender roles within the household are grayer: the rise of the sugar mama shows that the choice to have a family no longer relies on a woman sacrificing her career if it’s not what she wants; there are plenty of men out there willing to rise to the family-rearing challenge. This is bound to terrify some women’s liberators: our last excuse for not achieving our goals is on the outs. But for those of us confident in our talents and human abilities, it presents an unlimited wealth of choice from which to craft our ideal life.

The best way to break through the glass ceiling is to not acknowledge its existence, choosing to actively pursue goals rather than let fate take over. Time to pull a Henry David Thoreau and go confidently in the direction of our dreams. No excuses, play like a champion.