Wealth Management

What does it mean, to be rich? I have never had money, so the idea that shopping or buying a car would be rewarding is foreign to me. My family doesn't have a lot of money and although my parents are comfortable, there were times when they certainly were not. Putting two kids in private schools and college stressed them and although I never noticed it at the time, we had a few christmases with considerably smaller piles under the tree.

Although I have never spent money without thinking, I have lived alongside people who can, and do. Growing up on Cape Cod, I went to high school with Walt Disney's grandchildren and nannied for people like Nicholas Cage. When my family invested in a snow plow, my neighbors bought the LA Dodgers. It never bothered me that my parents didn't give me a credit card at age 16, or that they didn't finance my college education or buy me a car when I graduated. But when I moved out of their house and into a tiny six floor walk-up in New York City I planned to do a few things differently.

After living on an income near, or below, poverty level for two months while I interned at a small design company I was offered a job as a freelance designer for a giant marketing agency. Although it would be long hours, working late into the night, I agreed to take it. I would be making considerably more than any of my friends who had found full time work in the city. I knew it was going to be tough, but the idea of being able to buy groceries or pay for electricity was music to my ears.

On my first day I left my internship and headed to my new job. I climbed the stairs from the train station on Houston St and noticed the marked difference in environment. Away from the hustle and bustle of Union Square, here the buildings grew straight up from the concrete and the sidewalks were packed with people walking in straight lines, to and from work. Once inside the building I had to be x-rayed by the security guard and my lunch began to turn to bile in my stomach.

When my roommate and I had come to New York to find an apartment we had gone to a few realtor's offices, big rooms with high ceilings but no windows, filled with monitors and computer chords and the hiss of ringing phones. At the time I had sworn I would never live like that and when I stepped inside the design studio, the same feeling of anxiety overcame me and I felt short of breath.

On my first night I sat next to the shift supervisor who did not stop swearing, even to sip his coffee. I looked around me and saw only tired, puffy eyes, glued to the computer. Someone in the office next to us was playing ACDC and as the veins in my forehead constricted, one single tear slid down my cheek.

The next day I left my internship again to go to work. Day two. My feet felt heavy on the pavement but the two block walk to the train seemed to fly by. I stood on the corner of 27th street and looked at the subway station lights. Next to me, the train uptown, the one that took me back to my six floor walkup in Harlem every night. Across the street, downtown to work, misery and riches, all rolled together in a nice, easy to swallow time sheet.

The white walk sign flickered on and people started to move past me, across the street as I turned and rode the local line all the way home, poor, unemployed, and the happiest I had been in two months.

Thank You Very Much

After pounding the pavement in New York City for three weeks, I finally scored an interview. Not only an interview, but an interview for a internship with really cool company, that actually liked my work and wanted to meet me and let me work on projects.

I poured sweat the entire train ride to midtown. But the designer who interviewed me was really nice and did a good job pretending to care about my dumb college portfolio I was dutifully showing him, which was nice. He also said really good things about me to the hiring designer and encouraged her to contact me for a second interview. And I thought, what a nice guy. I'll send him a thank you email and he will think I am really nice and genuine and tell them to skip the internship and hire me, right then and there.

So I get all set up and copy/paste in this LAME thank you letter off the internet into my draft and write Dear... and then tab down to the next line and my hand slips and the next thing I know I'm looking at my inbox and the email is gone. And it's not in drafts. Nope. It was sent.

Another email opened. Please ignore the previous message. I am a complete fuck up and although I assured you I was competent with web design and internet concepts, I was, in fact lying. As you can see, I have difficulty navigating the gmail interface. Let your imagination run wild as you proceed to watch me struggle with XHTML code.

Thank you for your time and consideration. Let us never mention this again and upon my commencement of said job, I promise to avoid you at all office functions. Goodnight.

You Can Call Me Honest John

My friends say I am a pathological liar and to some extent I cannot argue with them. I do lie. Everyone does. I started when I learned to talk and never held back because as far as liars go, I consider myself Glinda the Good Witch. I never make stuff up-- I just copy edit every story in my head until by the time the tale is finally repeated at a family dinner or friendly gathering, my presentation is as polished as a presidential address. Just like turning a rock over and over will smooth the edges, I tumble over my days until I have tailored each pause and change in intonation to a tee. This compulsion makes me wildly popular at dinner parties and work gatherings. I like to think.

I have never been caught although my friends might raise an eyebrow at a particularly theatrical rendition of a trip to the grocery store. That is, until last night.

Outfitted in our party gear and wearing so much mascara would could barely lift our eyelids, we bellied up to the bar at our favorite Friday night haunt. The trick is to get your beers early, before the place gets really jammed, and set up shop at the corner of the bar by the band. We were scoping out the crowd and had barely gotten our drinks when, what would soon become my kryptonite, stumbled into our midst.

He was loud and had a thick Boston accent and introduced himself by asking, "How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice! I'm Ryan, Ryan, Ryan."

I vomited into my mouth. Unperturbed by our blank expressions he began to quiz us individually on our hometown, hobbies and profession and I watched my friends effortlessly answer with complete bull shit. Alyssa, Jackie and Rachel from Brookline became Kaitlyn, Ashley and Sarah from Allston. They talked about their jobs at their research labs, and even came up with plausible names for their labs and the fellowships they had received. Which is even more admirable considering only one of them was even a science major in college. Bolstered by their success, I felt prepared when the attention was directed at me and Ryan asked my name.

"Ummmmmm..." Silence ensued and I could think of nothing. Not my name, not my mother's name, I could have said freaking Mary Magdalen for crying out loud, this total idiot would have bought it in a second. Instead I said, "I think I have to go to the bathroom?" I am sure even the band stopped playing at that moment as I turned and slowly made my way to the bathroom, my face scarlet and my friends' howls of laughter clearly audible behind me.

I went home and polished my Good Witch crown.

Last Night

Ugh. I am standing with my forehead pressed against a mailbox on the corner of Harvard Ave and Vernon St. My best friend is standing next to me, her eyes closed, swaying to remain upright while the world spins past the backs of her eyelids. What did we do in the last twenty four hours that could have possibly been terrible enough to deserve such punishment? Oh right. Fifteen alcohol units. FUUUCCCCKKKKK.

I mean, it was a post grad mistake. It can happen to anyone. Here we were, heading off to a good night out, wisened by the fact that we have been training for nights like these for the past four years, because, lets face it, what else is college for if not building my tolerance so at 5'4" I can drink more than most 200lb hockey players? But since the days of partying five nights a week have been gone for two full months now, my resistance has faded and I am out of party shape. I mean, I party. I can party with the best of them! But my nights of multiple keg stands and rounds of shots are behind me and I can carry out a buzz on eight or nine beers. However, I arrived at my friends' apartment and overcome with excitement and anticipation, proceeded to consume the equivalent of 7 shots of vodka before we even reached the cab. Convinced I was not feeling a buzz, I drank my way through the front bar, the back bar, the downstairs bar, and back upstairs with shots on every staircase. Which is how I came to lean on the mailbox. At 12:45.

My friend slept on the bathroom floor and I let her, making us both look like fools. When she crawled into bed at six in the morning I had to wonder: was the last four years really worth $100,000 if the only real knowledge I was expected to acquire was my alcohol limit- something I obviously am not aware of? Did I peak too soon? An epic flaw in my conditioning schedule would put me out of partying late into my twenties. I guess I just figured I would never live that long anyway. I mean when your 18, 30 is OLD. And after my skin began to lose collagen at age 20, lets face it, I was planning on checking out as soon as I was legal. Now I am having to reevaluate. At age 21 I have only one spider vein from a run in with a towel bar and no wrinkles on my face thanks to religious sunscreen application. If i am still that young on the surface, I must have at least three more years of partying ahead of me.

So I will revamp my training schedule. I will continue to drink with a renewed energy and vigor. I will make a comeback that would rival Secretariat, remain in drinking shape well into my mid twenties, hopefully outliving the horse by at least four years.

Dream Books

Since I neither dream, nor care to know about anyone else's dreams my most recent project is genuinely for you, my people! Hazzah! Dream books! Each tiny booklet is bound with a different stab binding stitch. They ride together in their case, held shut with your dream-documenting pencil! Now you can write down your dreams, and remember them for always.

Goodbye Copper Plates

I have been busily destroying my copper etching plates and turning them into these charming NECKLACES! Hung from a suede string, my etchings are looking mighty fine and serving the dual purpose of personal adornment as well as saving space in my overcrowded room.

My dog Georgia is having a tumor the size of a basketball removed from her spleen tomorrow. I offered to donate blood but apparently we are not the same type. Whatever. Instead the vet suggested option b: drive to Bourne and wait in traffic for two hours to pick up two liters of golden retriever blood. My mom put it in my lunch box with some cold packs and now it is lying on top of the tortillas in our fridge. Delicious!

In the meantime we are hoping for the best and giving George and her "growth" lots of love.

Do you remember? When your mom had a white Compaq typewriter in the basement and it had run out of ink and correction ribbon like five years ago but you don't care and you still use it anyway? Because when you press the buttons they go THUNK THUNK THUNK away across the page. When you take the paper upstairs to tape on the fridge all the words are gone but you know when you lean sideways and squint you can see them. Then your mom threw the typewriter away and bought a couch from Ethan Allen to put where the desk used to be. So I went to the junkyard and took a picture of your old typewriter. Your welcome.

Oh Canada! Oh Canada!

Last weekend I journeyed back to the foothills of my youth, Canada. Actually, more accurately referred to as the foothills of my rebellious youth since we only went there once a year to party but a part of my youth, nonetheless. This weekend I took some time to drink with my friends and reach out to the local community through a shared interest in alcohol and related activities.

It was at one of these outreach excursions that I encountered a curious phenomenon which I had never seen before. We arrived late at a trendy fusion bar and after cruising the split-level space, settled near a group of attractive young professionals out for a drink. I chatted with my friends until one turned to me and offered me a G&T. We made small talk and I asked him if he worked in Montreal or if he was visiting. He responded that he had grew up in the city and moved away two years ago. He explained that he returned a few times a year "to recharge" which is where we ran into trouble. Recharge? That is one word this girl does not know. I was confused. I did not see him plugged into an outlet anywhere in the bar which I took to mean his chord was retractable and therefore it would be up to me to discover it (EWW). Was this a new thing or was I just never old enough to bother to speak to a person who might be used-up enough they would need to reach out for strength? I began to debate the pros and cons of having a rechargeable boyfriend. Pro: Can be unplugged. Con: Shuts off at inconvenient moments. Pro: Potential to serve as charge station for my other electronic accessories and can double as a 4G platform. Con: Difficult to travel with. The possibilities go on and on...

The long and the short of it is... Although they offer more options than the standard boy, rechargeable boyfriends are boring and cumbersome to travel with. For all of their quirks I will take my battery free boyfriend and be happy. I thanked the man for the drink and grabbed a cab to B-Side on Saint Laurent where I danced the night away in an outlet free club. Cheers!

Doggie Love

My dogs are the cutest and therefore become the subjects of most home photo shoots. Harriet went for a swim at Eagle Pond and had to be hosed down before I could put her in the sink.

Savannah Dirt

It has been five weeks since I moved back to Massachusetts from Savannah, GA. Although I miss the city and my wonderful friends I do not miss the weather, humidity, slow people and crowds of tourists on Segways. When I bathed Razzle, my horse, yesterday my boots got a bit of a bath as well. Goodbye Savannah clay! Hello West Barnstable clay! The same, only redder and more difficult to get off white breeches!

Happy Graduation Lindsay

My cousin Lindsay graduated from high school this month so I decided to make her something special to take to college in the fall... Behold! I am sure she will love and cherish this journal and think of me whenever she looks at it. I am sure.