One Year; Year One

It’s been a long time since I’ve written something very personal on this blog. I feel the urge today. Perhaps it’s because I’ve developed a recent addiction to reading personal essays by women. Perhaps it’s because I’ve always had an affinity for dates and anniversaries. Perhaps it’s because autumn makes me introspective. Perhaps it's because September 17th, 2012 was the beginning of the rest of my life.

One year ago today, a significant aspect of my life was flipped upside down. I know it was today because I wrote it down in my writing journal. “September 17th, 2012, ----- --------- broke up with me.” It was a single line in the margins between notes about the book projects I had in progress at the time.

My “partner” of 6½ years, with whom I had been living for almost 2 years, unceremoniously broke off our relationship one Monday morning. It was the first day of a week I had taken off work to dedicate to my writing. We'd had a fight the previous night when he came home too late and lied about who he was with. He woke up in the morning, showered and dressed for work, came out to the living room where I was lounging in my pajamas with a book, leaned against a piece of furniture, and told me it was over. He didn’t even sit down to tell me this.

I put “partner” in quotes because that’s never truly what he was to me. It was only what I called him. I started using that term in our sixth year together, when “boyfriend” was too young an expression and “husband” was something we agreed he would never be. (One of many compromises I made was that marriage and children were off the table.) We had a formal domestic partnership in place so that he could be on my health insurance. I had replaced romance with paperwork, thinking I would take what semblance of permanence and commitment I could get. He never used the term. I’m not sure what word he used to refer to me. I’m not sure he ever referred to me at all. I found out several months ago that his boss at a job he’s been at for years didn’t know I had written a book. He was a photographer who only took my picture a few times, an apt metaphor for our relationship. But despite the many problems, it's hard to overstate the effects being in a near 7-year relationship can have on a person, and even harder to overstate the effects of its sudden end. 

We lived passively together for the next 5 weeks, while we worked with our landlord to find someone to take over the apartment, and I tried to find a new place to live. Our life together was shockingly similar to the way it was before the breakup, a fact that made it easier to swallow the reality and the necessity of the situation.

The immediate effect of the breakup, aside from the traditional cycle of grief (which seemed to spin on an endless loop those first few weeks), was a deep introspection and a consuming need for intense self-care, which I had let lapse for years. I planned a trip to Colorado in an effort to reconnect with my semi-estranged sister, my relationship with whom had been strained in large part because of my ex. I emailed another friend with whom I had been estranged for years; he was ecstatic to hear from me, and we forgave each other for past wrongs. I wrote love letters to my friends. I called everyone I loved and made plans with them. I scheduled every day for a solid month to do something, anything. I dedicated myself to a new [semi]-minimalist lifestyle and gave away, sold, or trashed a significant portion of my possessions. I found a beautiful studio apartment in a neighborhood that scared me; I knew living there would make me grow. Moreover, it was somewhere I couldn’t live with another person, so I knew I would have 18 months of living alone—and that was essential for me.

In the midst of all this, as well as being sad and angry and confused, I reconnected with someone else from my past. He was a would-be suitor from a foray into online dating 7 years earlier. We’d run into each other on Facebook in December 2011, when my book came out, and had been “friends” since then, but one or the other of us had been involved. This was the first time we were both single, and to say I began to notice him is a gross understatement. By the time I was in Colorado, we were texting with each other every day, for almost the entire day. We had our first date on November 3. I threw up that morning because I was so in love with him, and we hadn’t even met yet. That date lasted 2 days. Today, we already have plans for a weekend away for our 1-year anniversary, and are planning a trip to Asia. I could write a book about what meeting this man has done to my heart, soul, and mind. We agree it’s a blessing we never went out those 8 years ago; we needed these years to become the people we are, the people who were meant to be together. I lamented the time “wasted” with my ex and he the time wasted on his own dating foibles, but we reminded each other that we are who we are because of what—and who—has happened to us. It truly feels like my whole life was spent in a run-up to meeting him, again, and having him meet me, and then falling in love with each other.

To spend time thinking about what else the past year has brought is not to minimize my new relationship. It is by far the most important thing to happen. But there has been so much more. Indulge me while I take inventory, in no particular order. 

• I attempted—and failed—to learn French. Relatedly, I learned that learning is harder when you’re older, and that I am not, in fact, good at everything.
• I turned 31 and threw myself a rager of a birthday party to make up for the failed 30^th birthday that had gone forgotten.
• I gained—and subsequently lost—18 pounds.
• My football team won the Super Bowl.
• I put out the second edition of my novel, finished the booktrailer, and threw the most glorious book reading for the best of my best friends and family.
• I gave away almost all my art supplies in a conscious decision to focus my free time on my writing.
• I bought more art supplies so I could draw my first comic. I drew my first comic.
• I decided one day to stop texting my ex first, just to see if he would ever contact me. He never did and we haven’t spoken in 7 months. I deleted his number from my phone. I’ve seen him once, across the street at a festival. I don’t think he saw me.
• I learned to love my body, instead of feeling like it is always a work-in-progress. I started to feel truly beautiful for the first time in years.
• I cut out sugar and grains and have subsequently learned to cook some really interesting foods, like greenola and spaghetti squash.

• I started practicing yoga at a studio.
• I allowed myself to grow out my hair because I like it that way.
• I started wearing more makeup because I want to.
• I tried on bikinis instead of one-pieces. (I did not, however, buy one.) I started wearing shorts on the regular for the first time since childhood.
• I decided that I would like to be heavily tattooed, and scheduled 9 hours of tattooing over the next 3 months. I hired an artist to design a tattoo to commemorate my first book.
• I put over 20,000 miles on my car.
• I took my bassoon out of its case, put it together, and attempted to play it for the first time since June 1999. It belongs to my nephew now.
• I reconnected with my sister and spent excellent quality time with my niece, who is becoming an adult faster than I can bear.
• I started spending my money on things that make me—and my loved ones—happy, instead of squirreling it away in paranoia and anxiety. I bought art. I bought pretty dresses. I donated to Kickstarters. I bought plane tickets to Bali.
• I remembered how much I love to walk. I climbed a mountain. I regularly hike through Baltimore just to be sure I am truly noticing all the people and the things there are to see. I replaced driving with walking whenever possible.
• I started bicycling. I am terrible at it, but getting better.
• I took up feminism.
• I realized I DO want to get married and I DO want children, and that I had deluded myself out of those desires because of a man, and fuck that forever.
• I neglected this blog, but I started tweeting like crazy.
• I started listening to more music and less news. I listen to hip-hop without feeling embarrassed about it. In fact, I listen to whatever I want without feeling embarrassed about it. I pretty much stopped feeling embarrassed, because people who make me feel embarrassed don’t count.
• I took a class in religion. I discovered Buddhism and Unitarian Universalism, and started going to church sometimes. These may very well be the answers to the spiritual questions that have been haunting me for a decade.
• I realized I might still like to be a minister some day, and I started looking into it in earnest.
• I decided I don’t need a Master’s degree to feel like a whole person.
• I cut down on drinking alcohol from nightly to once per week, or none at all.
• I finally got over my fear of the dentist and got my teeth fixed. I FUCKING FLOSS NOW.
• I learned that I can’t do everything myself. I learned to let people help me. I learned that the way it makes me feel really awesome to help people is the way it feels for other people when they help me, and it’s only fair that everyone gets to feel that.
• I tried to smile and say hello to everyone I saw on the street. That ended when I realized how much street harassment I was facing. I realized I don’t owe it to anyone to smile at them, so I stopped. I feel very ambivalent about this, but I have become very outspoken against street harassment.
• I went to my 10-year college reunion.
• I networked. Like an adult.
• I go out to eat or to concerts by myself sometimes—not because I can’t find someone to go with me, but because I realized I am friends with myself.
• I Instagram my meals and my cats with abandon because fuck the haters.
• I have more, better sex than ever, and I realized I am no less than one half of that equation.
• I make a concerted effort to see at least one of my friends every week. Depending on your personality, this may not seem like a lot, but it’s a significant change from the way I used to live my life.
• I remembered what it’s like to enjoy things with abandon. I remembered what real happiness feels like. I stopped thinking it was cool to be aloof or critical. I stopped giving energy to people or situations that make me feel bad.
• I’ve made new friends. My boyfriend has made friends with my friends. I’ve made old friends into new friends. I’ve made acquaintances into best friends. I’ve made best friends into family. I got rid of friends-in-name-only. I will never again neglect the people who will never leave me.
• I fell into a deeper, truer, more perfect love than I could have dreamed possible.

There’s more. So much more. What a year it’s been. 13’s always been my lucky number. I guess it figures that I’d be age 31 in the year ’13, and it would be the best fucking year of my life. It took a major shaking up to wake me out of the fog I was living in. It felt like a knife at the time. Now it feels like a gift. 

The Best Year Ever?

I was originally going to post this on New Year's Eve, but got caught up, unsurprisingly, in the festivities that come with that celebration, and subsequently with a bizarrely busy beginning of the year at work. Due to a large project being taken off my hands, I've finally gotten a chance to breathe and ruminate about 2010.

I have come to the not-so-light conclusion that it was my best year ever. I do feel like I should qualify this: obviously this was not a good year as a whole--for the country, for the world, etc. But it was wonderful for me, personally, as a personal person, as an individual. I achieved some of my greatest lifelong accomplishments in the past year. Here's a quick rundown of what made this year so good, in no particular order:

• Romantic accomplishment: I moved in with my best friend, love-of-my-life, and partner, Chris, and our three cats, to a really beautiful apartment in Mount Vernon. We're kind of sloppy, but other than that I simply adore living with him. It's pretty darn blissful. Also, we have a working fireplace and TWO bathrooms.
• Athletic accomplishment: I began and completed a running training program and subsequently ran a 5k race. Never having been athletically inclined (or able), and being exceptionally lazy, this was a huge accomplishment. I didn't come in last, or even close to last.
• Intellectual accomplishment: I finished writing my novel. I actually finished. The whole thing is written, front to back, and I wrote "the end." I honestly never thought it would happen. Some weird, psychological "fear of failure/success" often keeps me from finishing ANYTHING.
• Geographical accomplishment: I finally made it to Europe! Ireland counts, right? Next stop: the Continent.
• Professional accomplishment: I trained, studied, took an exam, and became professionally certified in my field. I am better at my job and got a raise.
• Financial accomplishment: In addition to increasing both my 401(k) and Roth contributions, I have began putting money regularly into the stock market and am becoming much more educated on how to make my money work. My portfolio has made returns of 55% and I should have a $25,000 down payment for a house in advance of my 5-year goal. I'm not debt-free (still have that dang car payment) but I will be within a year (the possibility of student loans notwithstanding)
• Educational accomplishment-in-progress: I've chosen a graduate school and program, and have finished 90% of my application. The accomplishment of actually applying will have to go on 2011's list.
• Artistic accomplishmentette (a little accomplishment): I've continued to draw and paint, and I attended multiple--not single--multiple--art sessions with artistically inclined friends.
• Philanthropic accomplishment: I began donating to charities in earnest, with planned purpose. I've succeeded in getting at least some of my friends/family to donate to charity instead of giving me presents for birthdays/holidays.

Of course not EVERYTHING was an accomplishment. My partner went through some significantly rough professional times that has added a lot of stress to our otherwise blissful romance. I had a falling out with some family members that has created a rift wider than I like to think about. I still find myself scattered among too many desires and pleasures, and still don't know exactly how to spend my time and energy. I am still struggling with spiritual and religious questions.

But I know that 2010 was a stepping stone for even better things to come. This is my last year as a 20-something, and I feel like I have the whole world to look forward to.

From a Hole to a Hill

I've written before about my struggles with debt and credit, and my attempts to remedy a screwed-up financial past. In a nutshell, at a bad point in my life, I got in over my head with debt. I once had my phone turned off and once had my ATM card eaten because I was so overdrawn on my bank account. I used to be ashamed to put those things out there for all to see, but I think more and more people are coming out of the "debt closet." And I see myself as a lesson others can learn.



I am proud and ecstatic to say that I have once and for all paid off all my unsecured debt.



While I still have a car loan (which I would label acceptable, typical debt), last month I wrote the last check to pay off the personal loan I had taken out to consolidate my credit card debt. The debt had been five figures. And it's all gone now!



I've been steadily paying on this loan for several years now. In the meantime, I got rid of all my credit cards, and got a new one with a tiny limit ($300) so I could work to rebuild my credit. I pay it off every month. I've also done a number of other things that years ago I never imagined I could accomplish:

1. I put 6% of my salary into a 401(k) plan.


2. I put an additional 3% of my take-home pay into a Roth IRA.


3. I put 10% of my take-home pay into an emergency fund.


4. I invested around a thousand dollars in the stock market shortly after the "crash" and have seen my money grow by 70%.

The best thing about having my debt paid off is that, instead of filling in a hole, I can start building up. I ran some numbers a little while ago. I do that when I'm either extremely worried about money or extremely excited. This time I am excited. This is what I realized:

• If I take the monthly payment I had been making on my personal loan and now put it towards my car, I will pay off my car four years early. The interest I'll save is in the thousands.


• When I pay off my car, I can put the combined loan-car payment into the bank each month (it's not like I'll miss the money; I've been writing it off for years). If I do that for three years after the car is paid off, I'll have enough money for the down payment on a house.

The down payment on a house. By myself. In the next five years. And I'm not talking about some 3% down payment for an FHA loan. I'm talking about 20%.

It's an almost unbelievable thought for me. I just want everyone who reads this (all four of you) that it can be done, with patience, dedication, and discipline. The rewards--financially, emotionally, spiritually--are great.

Feng Sew

New View of My Work Area
Originally uploaded by Elly Zee

I’ve never put much stock in the whole Feng Shui thing, but I am now a believer that the arrangement of your room can affect your energy. Since I moved into my apartment in August of 08, my bedroom has been arranged exactly the same way. Sometime in 2009 (probably around NaNoWriMo time), I bought myself a desk, so I could really hunker down on my writing.

The desk promptly became a dumping ground for all manner of mail, clothes, paperwork, and anything I needed to get out of the way. My cats also liked to lay on it, so it was usually covered in fur, too.

Meanwhile, my dining room table had my sewing machine on it. Every time I wanted to dine on the table, I had to take down the sewing machine and set up the placemats and settings. Every time I wanted to sew, I had to move all the dining accoutrement (usually onto the desk…). It was becoming annoying. I stopped sewing so much. I started eating at the coffee table.

One day a few weeks ago, right after I’d scheduled the Stitch ‘n’ Bitch, I started thinking hard about how my apartment would look to a strange—especially to a stranger of the crafty mindset. And I realized it was set up all wrong for my needs.

The desk was in the darkest corner of my room, against a wall, with nothing pretty to look at. It was too close to the bedroom door, which could never fully open, and also too close to the front door, where I would enter looking to plop down my mail, laundry, or purchase on the nearest flat surface.

My bed was in the middle of the room, sticking out into the biggest space I have in the whole apartment, cutting it in half, and making either side of the room basically useless.

By the bedroom window, in the sunniest, prettiest area of the whole room, was a loveseat that I never sit on. It looks nice aesthetically (except when it’s covered in laundry), but I don’t sit around in my bedroom; I sit in my living room.

Because my desk was all but useless, my dining room table had become the only place to sit and sew or sit and type. But it, too, was in a dark area facing a wall. Nice for a romantic dinner; not pleasant for sewing curtains.

None of this made sense. Thankfully, the answers were all simple.

I moved the loveseat to the living room. It effectively “cuts off” my living room from my dining room. They are really the same room, but with the visual barrier of the loveseat, it’s like I now have a living room AND a dining room. It also gave me more seating for having lots of guests over (like the 11 people I was expecting for Stitch n Bitch).

I moved the desk to where the loveseat had been. Now I had the sun streaming in through the window and it immediately increased the energy level around the desk—as well as my desire to sit at it for long periods of time. I arranged a table behind it that could hold my printer when I was printing, or hold the new light box I had constructed for taking photographs. The light box needed to be near the window to catch the sunlight, and this was the perfect place. The desk was also now too far away to be a convenient place to stash any odds or ends. It now only holds crafting supplies and papers having to do with my creative writing.

Then, I moved my bed to where my desk used to be. The dark corner of a room is the best place for a bed—the place you want the darkest. I’m also loathe to stash anything on my bed, so it’s okay that it’s near the front door. It also leaves the middle of my room wide open. This makes me feel less cramped, but also provides a lot of floor space for laying out large pieces of material. I was also prompted to call my landlord and have her fix the light fixture in the middle of the room that had been broken for the better part of 2009—I suddenly needed it.

Since I’ve done this rearrangement, I’ve done more sewing, crafting, marketing, writing, and work than I ever had. I’m not drawn to the couch because I don’t feel like cleaning off the desk. I’m drawn to the sunny, organized creative nook I’ve made for myself.

There are additional notes on Flickr.

On Fashion

(I wish I had more pictures to sprinkle into this blog, but for most of it, you'll have to just use your imagination.)

Let's go back to the beginning first. This is not a fashion picture (obviously - look at that hat!), but it will help take you back to a long time ago . . .

When I was a kid, my mother would not spend a lot of money on clothes for my brother and me. We would shop at places like C-Mart (a discounted department store overstock warehouse), K-Mart, and Goodwill. I also received a lot of handmedowns from a family friend. I was absolutely mortified to have to buy my blue jeans at Goodwill and wear sweaters that had been owned by someone else, so I kept these secrets close to my (thrifted) vest.

We were not a "poor" family by any means. My mother was (and still is) a very thrifty person, and chose to spend our family's money on other, more valuable and lasting things, such as taking a family vacation to a new place every summer. As an adult, I cannot fault her for this at all. As a kid, though, I have to admit that I was pretty bitter. I was the only girl on the basketball team without white umbro shorts (I wore cut-off white sweatpants--handmedown), and my "pump" sneakers were off-brand, from Payless. I didn't get to have a "poet blouse" like the popular girls at North Harford Middle School until I got one for my 12th birthday, and they were already out of style. I wore it to please my mom, but I was secretly embarrassed to be so late.

As a kid from elementary school up through the beginning of high school, my "style" was essentially to cobble together what I had into something that didn't suck. Thank god for the thick skin that artsy, weird kids are forced to grow. One of my favorite things to wear when I was 7 or 8 were extraordinarily loud bermuda shorts with solid color t-shirts. I remember being teased because I dressed like a boy. In fact, one my most vivid early memories is that I was in the bathroom at Hickory Elementary (I was probably 7 years old) and I heard a girl outside the stall gasp and say, "There's a boy in here!" She'd seen my shoes (knock-off Chuck Taylors, black rubber with navy canvas) and thought I was a boy. Another girl corrected her snidely, "Oh no, that's just Elly Zupko." That ended my early tomboy phase really quickly.

By the time I got to high school, I started to try to own my weirdness. I was no longer concerned with looking like the other girls; I realized that the pieces I was finding at Goodwill or got as handmedowns were unique, and could afford me a unique look. Being fairly shy, I realized I could stand out and be noticed (whether in a good or bad way) through my appearance. I was also starting to have a little bit of money, so I could buy strategic new pieces to liven up the other stuff. I think my greatest fashion moment to date was when my mother offered to go halfsies with me on my first pair of Dr. Marten's boots, a pair of 1460s in brown leather. They were $140 (I got ripped off; I know), so the contribution on my mother's part was huge, and I will never forget it. I think the first time I wore those shoes was the first time I ever really felt cool.

My fashion through high school (I still cringe to deign to call it "fashion") largely fell into two camps: one was wearing vintage t-shirts with jeans or cordoroy pants and my Docs. I still hold fast to the notion that I started the vintage t-shirt craze. I got a couple cool foreign t-shirts from my grandfather's trips to Hong Kong, got weird old stuff in my handmedown bags (huge trash bags full of clothes, brought home by my dad after church), and revisited old clothes from childhood that had been packed away. My brother made constant fun of me when I ransacked a box full of striped polo shirts that he'd worn in elementary school. I thought they were awesome, and they made my boobs look great, lol. I grabbed a couple of old oxfords from my grandfather's wardrobe (which were huge, but I thought looked cool with jeans). I also started wearing my middle school gym uniform shirt to class, and I thought that made me the coolest person ever. Take that 80stees.com. This picture is from college, but I am wearing one of those Hong Kong tees here (please, please, please ignore the hair):

The second camp was "old lady clothes." This particular term came from Jim, my boyfriend at the end of high school through college. This "fashion" came from me actively trying to be more feminine during my later high school years. I'd finally figured out what to do with my wild terrible hair, and started plucking my eyebrows. My braces were off, and I was kind of exiting my awkward phase. The jeans and boots got replaced with skirts and loafers, and I started wearing a lot of cardigan sweaters. I still wore the vintage shirts. This feminine look proved to be short-lived. I was still a tomboy at heart.

Another of my great fashion moments, when I really felt like I was "sticking it to the man" was Prom. I had (miraculously) been voted onto Prom Court with 9 other girls (I still can't really figure out how that happened, except that maybe the nerds united behind me). I wanted to do something pretty daring to stand out, so I found an amazing dress that had a denim bodice and a huge ball gown skirt. Who wears denim to Prom? Me, baby! I almost didn't buy it, because it was $200, but my big sister offered to go halfsies with me because she thought I HAD to have it. The kicker was that I also bought blue hair color and sprayed the back of my updo blue. Take that, popular girls. I didn't win Prom Queen (duh) but I sure felt like one that night. This is the best pic I have handy of the dress (holy crap was I skinny):

College proved to be a big change for me, fashion-wise. This was in large part due to Jim. Jim was fairly fashionable, and also spent what I considered to be a substantial amount of his money on clothes. He was brought up differently, and spent money on material things like nice clothes and a nice car, etc. This wasn't wrong, just different. He encouraged me to buy new things and to expand my wardrobe into things I actually wanted--not just clothes I happened across. It was because of him that I bought my FIRST pair of NEW blue jeans (which were $50!!!!!) but fit like a dream. Jim was also into the rave scene and got me into it, so my look started to head in that direction: industrial, boxy cuts on the bottom (like UFO pants), with fitted tops, and crazy bright accessories.

In college, I used to wear so many plastic and rubber bracelets that they went halfway up my forearms. I wore these every day. I also put glow-in-the-dark glitter on my black patent leather Docs and laced them with Spongebob Squarepants laces. I started to get piercings and started stretching my ears. I did crazy things to my hair. It was college. I was . . . branching out . . . Morbidly unflattering pictorial examples I happen to have handy:

(yes, that's Joel Madden; notice the candy necklace and horrible dye job on me).

I also started hanging out quite a bit at Club Orpheus in downtown Baltimore, because they played good dance music, so my style skewed a bit goth-industrial, too. Here's an embarrassing outfit for you (I was home from college, about to hit the mall with my brother, who had started to wear my grandfather's oxford shirts that I'd left behind, hahaha) That's a Goucher lanyard sticking out of my pocket. Gopher pride!

After I graduated college, fashion was just about a non-issue for me. I worked at a job in a basement where the only person I ever saw was my boss, so I certainly didn't dress for the office. And I also had the just-out-of-college-and-I'm-poor blues, so clothes were not at the top of my to-buy list. After that, I had the "my boyfriend spends all my money and I've been buying too much stupid shit on eBay like Sheena Queen of the Jungle comic books and I'm poor" blues, so I still did not buy a lot of clothes. When I did shop, I bought double-duty pieces I could wear to the office (I got a "real job") and as casualwear. For a woman, I owned very few pairs of shoes and almost no accessories.

Also, due to things going on in my life, my self-esteem plummeted. I felt it easier to wear things that drew little attention. Lots of black made it easier for me to blend in. I didn't want to be noticed and didn't really care what I looked like. I felt like I was back in elementary school again, getting by with what I had and trying to pretend that fashion didn't matter--it's what's on the INSIDE that counts. Working in an office full of women made it really hard. They never overtly judged my appearance, but it was always the lowest rank on my performance review, and I got teased more than once about wearing all black, all the time (for a while, I only bought black clothes because I knew they would match all the other black clothes I already owned). Here's one of my traditional office outfits--black and gray (though I did rock the pirate skull headband, just for some funkiness):

Despite how happy I look in the picture above, which is out of context (the outfit is just an example), that period of my life was a low-point, both fashion-wise, but on a much deeper level as well. I guess I hadn't realized until now how what was going on inside was really manifesting itself on the outside.

Anyway, now, very very recently, I've finally gotten back into the fashion groove. I can't pinpoint exactly what it was . . . No, wait, I can. My boyfriend Chris (happily pictured above) told me that he liked me best in feminine clothing (skirts and blouses and cute shoes, etc.).

**Okay, I'd like to stop at this moment and address the obvious. Yes, it seems that what I wear has been largely influenced by the men in my life. I am aware that some feminists will jump out of their chairs in rage at this. But you're missing the point. 1) I am never going to wear something I don't like or am uncomfortable in to please a man. 2) I like to look sexy and attractive for my mate, just as I expect him to want to look sexy and attractive for me. 3) I am open to trying all sorts of new things, especially things that I might not have thought of on my own, so if someone (whether it be a boyfriend or someone else) says to me, "Hey you look good in [whatever]" I'll probably try it. If I look good, I might try more stuff like it. This is how style evolves. 4) I still wear stuff that I like and only I like; I just may not wear it out on a date with my boyfriend, just like I wouldn't wear certain things to the office or certain things to a rock concert. 5) I'm not wearing this stuff to please my man. I'm wearing some of it in some cases because he pointed out it looked good, and I happened to agree.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled blog.**

In light of his comments, I realized that so much of my wardrobe was leftover from a time when I didn't care too much about what I looked like, and that a lot of the pieces were ill-fitting, outdated, drab, or just boring. I was wearing what I had, not what looked good. I also realized that when I wear clothing that fits well, is brightly colored, and is well-taken care of, I feel much more confident. Therefore, I walk taller, look better, smile more, act more comfortably--and people notice that. I feel better, I look better; it's a win-win situation. I've realized that fashion is not shallow, and wanting to look good and dress well is not a sign that I have no substance underneath (as I might have argued when I was 15 and awkward).

The other thing that happened is that I discovered Wardrobe Remix, a group on Flickr. Purely based on appearance, this is one of the most creative, daring, fashionable, and cool groups of women (and some men, too!) I've ever "met." Through their outfits, store listings, and other tips, I've been truly inspired in the way I dress. I'm accessorizing more, little by little, and buying more daring pieces that two years ago I never would have worn. I'm also back to shopping at Goodwill almost exclusively, because now I feel like I truly appreciate it. Not only can I save a ton of money (which is important, now that I'm really an adult), but, as I knew in high school, I can find unique things that set me apart from everyone else. In addition, it's sustainable (good for the earth!), I'm not contributing to the Wal-Martization of the world, and the money I spend goes to a good cause. What could be better??

Flash forward to today: I'm wearing an "old lady outfit." This is something I would have felt completely uncomfortable in two years ago. It's brightly colored and ultra-feminine. (For reference, I know exactly what I was wearing almost exactly two years ago, when I met Chris, the love of my life: a pair of baggy blue jeans, a black tank top, and a black zip sweatshirt--boring, boring, boring. Thank goodness he could see past my fashion-less exterior and fall in love with me anyway. I was dressed like I wanted to blend into the background. I was dressed like I felt inside. As I said before, it was a low-point. Meeting Chris that night changed all that.)

The way I look AND feel today is decidedly non-depressing. As my depressing, all-black outfits of years ago were an outward manifestation of how I felt inside, I think the bright colors and coordination of this outfit are a manifestation of how I feel inside now. I'm happy. I'm spunky. I'm bright. It's an awesome way to feel. :)

(And btw, this entire outfit, from head to toe, cost $28.50.)

Money is the Root of All Great Annoyance

From 2003-2005, I really got myself into some financial trouble. Part of it was some mistakes I made; part of it was being naive and letting certain people take advantage of me. I don't really want to go into details out here in public, but let's just say it sucked.

Anyway, as part of a greater self-improvement plan, I am trying to get my finances in order this month. Included in this task:

1) Adjust my tax withholdings to ensure I neither owe money to the government nor am owed money by the government next January (I did that in 2007 and it was great to come out even).
2) Start my 401(k) and contributing 5% of my pre-tax salary to it (my company matches 100% up to 3% of my salary and 50% from 4 to 5%).
3) Open a savings account and route 2% of my take-home pay directly into it every paycheck. 3a) Find a savings account with the best rate of return I can get.
4) Find a better bank to house my checking account (SunTrust has largely not been my friend, and I'm kind of done with them).
5) Start a Roth IRA and contribute as much as I can stand.
6) Stop buying stuff; thrift/make what I need (i.e., live more cheaply and more sustainably).
7) Eat out less often and stop picking up the tab when I can't really afford it (i.e., carry more cash and just pay my portion).
8) Consider moving in with a roommate to save money (my rent has become too exhorbitant to handle alone anymore)
9) Consider moving down to Baltimore to save gas on driving down to see my boyfriend and friends; work from home 2-4 days per month

Progress:
1) Done.
2) Done.
3) Done. Between 1, 2, & 3, my take-home pay is $400 less per month than it was about two months ago. This sucks. But I'm actually richer because of it - I just have to keep reminding myself of that. And less money in the checking account means less inclination to needlessly spend. In fact, now every time I find some extra money (I sell a plush, I stop myself from buying something expensive that I don't really need, a friend pays for dinner, etc.), I take that amount and immediately transfer it into my savings account. It's kind of like dumping your spare change into a jar - only way better. It's money I probably would have spent on something dumb, or at the very least would have sat dormant in my checking account for a while, and it's money I won't miss because it's "extra." I have to tell you: it feels GOOD.
3a) This was actually the impetus for this post, which was begun in an extreme state of agitation. I have since calmed down. I will return to this subject.
4) See 3a.
5) I've realized my apartment is sucking me dry and I won't be able to do this unless and until I complete items 6-9
6) I've so far been very successful in this. However, my continued vices include: art supplies, crafting supplies, tights (I don't want used tights!!), presents for my boyfriend, gasoline.
7) I've been very good about this. Carrying cash is still foreign to me, but I'm getting more used to it.
8) In progress. I sign my three-month lease this weekend, which will bring me up to August, at which point I am planning to move to Baltimore. I have a prospective roommate.
9) see 8)

3a) and 4) redux

OMG, I was so pissed off when I started this post. The reason is as follows: I found a bank that is offering 4% APR on savings accounts with no monthly fees or minimum balances when you link it to a checking account through them as well. I thought that sounded great. It would be an opportunity to move both my checking and savings over to a new bank and start afresh. Their deals look really good.

So I started the process. I linked my old SunTrust account over to them, and scheduled a transfer of funds to get my checking account started. After everything was approved and started, I would transfer my current savings account over to the new, higher yielding savings account, then start direct depositing my pay into both accounts. The whole process was supposed to take "3-4 days."

This was almost two weeks ago. Wamu confirmed and approved my outside funding source (via two microdeposits) but then gave me an error message saying my account information was wrong and I needed to cancel and reschedule my initial deposit. Okay, no big deal. I cancel it, then go to the "Transfer Funds" page, except I get an error message that says, "Sorry, you cannot transfer funds on this type of account." What?? It's an online-only account. That makes no sense. Wamu doesn't even have any branches in Maryland.

So I go to their contact page and select the "Send Us A Message" option. This gives me a form which I fill out with my problem, then click "send." I get the error message, "Please input a valid message in the message field." So apparently my message isn't valid enough for them. I get this error no matter WHAT I put in the message field. I want to punch my computer.

Wamu does not provide an email address, only this form, so I decide I need to call them. I call them, and the robot lady informs me that I will not be able to do any telephone banking unless I have my "telephone access code." I do not have one of these. They have never given me one. I didn't know such things exist. I try to get to the option I need, only to be denied access because I don't have a code. Wonderful.

I cannot send a message to this bank. I cannot call them. Since their closest branch is in NEW JERSEY, my only recourse at this point is to send them a letter. Are you kidding me? Not only will that take several days to get there, I can't (or won't) include any account information because of security issues. Then I'll have to wait for THEM to contact ME, and who knows how long that could take.

At this point, I could give two shits about getting the account open and running. I just want that stuff closed and my information deleted, and I will go back to the bank with the slightly lower interest rate that has taken care of me from the outset.

What a frustrating experience. No wonder no one ever wants to change banks...

"A Book Meme"

I've been "tagged."

A Book Meme.

Here are the rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people and post a comment here once you post it to your blog so I can come see!

So here we go, from The Art Book. Page 123 is Edgar Degas' The Rehearsal:

"The composition appears totally random: the figure on the far right is cut off by the edge of the canvas, and truncated legs appear at the top of the stairs - had he waited only a few seconds more, it seems, another dancer wold have walked into the picture. The painting is executed with vibrant, rapid strokes of pastel and some areas have merely been sketched in. The cool tones and lack of formality are refreshing."

I'll tag a few members of my writers group:

Jes
Gavin
Dan
Tim
Stacy

R.I.P. Arthur C. Clarke

He was a visionary and hugely important figure in science fiction, space exploration, and secular humanism. He will be missed by many.
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COLOMBO, Sri Lanka - Even in death Arthur C. Clarke would not compromise his vision.
The famed science fiction writer, who once denigrated religion as "a necessary evil in the childhood of our particular species," left written instructions that his funeral be completely secular, according to his aides.

"Absolutely no religious rites of any kind, relating to any religious faith, should be associated with my funeral," he wrote.

Clarke died early Wednesday at age 90 and was to be buried in a private funeral this weekend in his adopted home of Sri Lanka. Clarke, who had battled debilitating post-polio syndrome for years, had suffered breathing problems in recent days, aide Rohan De Silva said.

The visionary author won worldwide acclaim with more than 100 books on space, science and the future. The 1968 story "2001: A Space Odyssey" — written simultaneously as a novel and screenplay with director Stanley Kubrick — was a frightening prophecy of artificial intelligence run amok.

One year after it made Clarke a household name in fiction, the scientist entered the homes of millions of Americans alongside Walter Cronkite anchoring television coverage of the Apollo mission to the moon.

Clarke also was credited with the concept of communications satellites in 1945, decades before they became a reality. Geosynchronous orbits, which keep satellites in a fixed position relative to the ground, are called Clarke orbits.

His nonfiction volumes on space travel and his explorations of the Great Barrier Reef and Indian Ocean earned him respect in the world of science, and in 1976 he became an honorary fellow of the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics.

But it was his writing that shot him to his greatest fame and that gave him the greatest fulfillment.

"Sometimes I am asked how I would like to be remembered," Clarke said recently. "I have had a diverse career as a writer, underwater explorer and space promoter. Of all these, I would like to be remembered as a writer."

From 1950, he began a prolific output of both fiction and nonfiction, sometimes publishing three books in a year.

A statement from Clarke's office said he had recently reviewed the final manuscript of his latest novel. "The Last Theorem," co-written with Frederik Pohl, will be published later this year, it said.

Some of his best-known books are "Childhood's End," 1953; "The City and The Stars," 1956; "The Nine Billion Names of God," 1967; "Rendezvous with Rama," 1973; "Imperial Earth," 1975; and "The Songs of Distant Earth," 1986.

When Clarke and Kubrick got together to develop a movie about space, they looked for inspiration to several of Clarke's shorter pieces. As work progressed on the screenplay, Clarke also wrote a novel of the story. He followed it up with "2010," "2061," and "3001: The Final Odyssey."

Planetary scientist Torrence Johnson said Clarke's work was a major influence on many in the field.

Johnson, who has been exploring the solar system through the Voyager, Galileo and Cassini missions in his 35 years at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory, recalled a meeting of planetary scientists and rocket engineers where talk turned to the author.

"All of us around the table said we read Arthur C. Clarke," Johnson said. "That was the thing that got us there."

In an interview with The Associated Press, Clarke said he did not regret having never traveled to space himself, though he arranged to have DNA from his hair sent into orbit.

"One day, some super civilization may encounter this relic from the vanished species and I may exist in another time," he said. "Move over, Stephen King."

Clarke, a British citizen, won a host of science fiction awards, and was named a Commander of the British Empire in 1989. Clarke was officially given a knighthood in 1998, but he delayed accepting it for two years after a London tabloid accused him of being a child molester. The allegation was never proved.

Sri Lankan President Mahinda Rajapaksa lauded Clarke for his passion for his adopted home and his efforts to aid its progress.

"We were all proud to have this celebrated author, visionary and promoter of space exploration, prophet of satellite communications, great humanist and lover of animals in our midst," he said in a statement.

Born in Minehead, western England, on Dec. 16, 1917, the son of a farmer, Arthur Charles Clark became addicted to science fiction after buying his first copies of the pulp magazine "Amazing Stories" at Woolworth's. He read English writers H.G. Wells and Olaf Stapledon and began writing for his school magazine in his teens.

Clarke went to work as a clerk in Her Majesty's Exchequer and Audit Department in London, where he joined the British Interplanetary Society and wrote his first short stories and scientific articles on space travel.

It was not until after World War II that Clarke received a bachelor of science degree in physics and mathematics from King's College in London.

Serving in the wartime Royal Air Force, he wrote a 1945 memo about the possibility of using satellites to revolutionize communications. Clarke later sent it to a publication called Wireless World, which almost rejected it as too far-fetched.

He moved to Sri Lanka in 1956.

In recent years, Clarke was linked by his computer with friends and fans around the world, spending each morning answering e-mails and browsing the Internet.

Clarke married in 1953, and was divorced in 1964. He had no children. He is survived by his brother, Fred, and sister, Mary. His body is to be brought to his home in Colombo so friends and fans can pay their respects before his burial.

On the Shelves

I took these pictures last night to help me fill out my "shelves" on GoodReads. Thought I'd post them for those bookshelf voyeurs out there. Post your own and leave the link as a comment: I'd love to see! Also, join me on GoodReads so we can share what's good, and what's not.

ABOVE: This is a shelf of favorites, mostly. Like We Care was the last book I helped publish at Bancroft Press. It was written by Tom Matthews who was an absolute delight to work with. I picked the book from the slush pile, helped negotiate the deal, edited the book, and worked directly with the graphic designer on the cover and layout. The title image is in my handwriting. I'm also credited in the acknowledgements, which is pretty cool.

Money by Martin Amis is my favorite book of all time, and Jazz by Toni Morrison is the book that made me want to be a writer. Narrative Design is a great writing book written by my favorite fiction professor at Goucher, Madison Smartt Bell. Lots of good stuff on this shelf.

ABOVE: Mostly books about writing and the industry. Also the random classic, There's a Wocket in My Pocket.

ABOVE: Mostly trashy novels (Valley of the Dolls!) with a few random gems thrown in (Watership Down and The Adventures of Cavalier and Clay).

ABOVE: More trashy novels (Ann Majors, yuck!) with a random classic (Art of War) and what I think is my third copy of Like We Care.

Is the World Entitled to Art?

As you’ll notice from the adoring Lolita posts from the end of last year, I’ve recently become a huge Nabokov fan. I’m not rabid, or well-read, enough to yet call myself a “Nabokovian,” but I could see it happening eventually. And so I’ve been mildly to warmly interested in the recent debate surrounding the late author: an unfinished manuscript of his last work before his death exists in a vault somewhere, but Nabokov’s son, Dmitri was tasked with the death-bed request to burn the manuscript before anyone could read it. Dmitri has not yet made a decision, and is stuck between meeting his dead father’s wishes to burn the manuscript and keep it a secret forever from the world, and some other option—publishing it for mass consumption, bequeathing it to the Ivory Tower for study, even just keeping it in a vault forever and ever.

It’s really a fascinating debate, and I don’t envy Dmitri’s position. At first blush, my reaction was “Set the work free!” As a fan, of course I want to read the manuscript. Despite the fact that Nabokov considered his work unfinished, unpolished, and thus unfit for public consumption, I’ve no doubt that it’s perfect in its genius as it came straight from his pen. I admit I haven’t even read all his works, but I can empathize with any Nabokovian who has read all his work and has been all but drooling for just one more morsel dropped from the table. How easy (or possible) is it to for any literati at all to be objective about this situation?

But, Chris (of course!) brought objectivity and level-headedness to the argument, showing me a side of the story I hadn’t considered: why do we (the world—the readers, the viewers, the experiencers, the fans) think we are entitled to the art created by artists? What right do we inherently have to what they produce?

I recently read an article in Slate about Jeff Mangum of Neutral Milk Hotel in which the headline compared him to J.D. Salinger. Both are artists who have contributed heartbreakingly small collection of brilliant works to the world, and have now all but vanished, having ceased to make their work public or even to make work at all. Writes Taylor Clark about Mangum:

“And if Aeroplane really is Jeff Mangum's final statement to the universe, maybe we should be happy with that—not because of some tired line about going out at your peak (which he likely didn't reach), but because his story is a kind of modern fable. Many fans see his disappearance only in selfish terms: They've been deprived of more great music for no good reason. They can't understand why Mangum would shun success just to shuffle through his days, and, indeed, when musicians abandon this much promise, the culprit is usually drugs or debilitating accidents or people named Yoko. So he must have gone nuts, right? Well, no. After all, what if Mangum is just being honest? What if he poured his life into achieving musical success only to discover that it wasn't going to make him happy, so he elected to make a clean break and move on? We should all be so crazy.”

Is it selfish to desire, even to demand, that artists of genius not withhold themselves from the world? Or is the artist the selfish one?

Like I imagine it is for others, it’s extremely difficult for me to empathize with the artists at all. I live (and participate) in a world where most of us are clambering for attention, recognition, and even fame. I’m a mediocre artist in a world full of mediocre (and lesser) artists screaming in a crowded room of screamers. The internet has made things worse a million-fold. We have the ability to broadcast our thoughts, art, and “art” to billions of people all over the planet—and so we do, largely to our own detriment, contributing to “information overload” and the general watering down of what’s left of our culture.

So when a “real” artist chooses to cease contributing his work to the world, is it because of, or despite, the noise?

Is the world entitled to the art created by the artists it itself created? Or is the artist more entitled to do whatever the hell he wants? Burn the manuscript, or publish it?

Nabokov is dead. His published work will never die. His unpublished work (that we know of, at least) has a death sentence. If it’s pardoned, it will then live in perpetuity, and in possible imperfection, if what Nabokov had to say was true. If the sentence is carried out . . . we’re only left with speculation and disappointment—but some of us will also have the satisfaction that we’d given something back to Nabokov, whose already given so much to us, by granting his final wish.

Brief Response Upon Finishing Lolita

I finished Lolita over the weekend. I alternated between reading the book and watching the accompanying scenes from Adrian Lyne’s filmic version (which is 100% true to the book, but only as far as the events go—the characterization is completely wrong, but that’s another story). The book bowled me over so hard, I think I’m still recovering.

The best way I think I can describe is that Nabokov took me on a three-tiered, or three threaded, journey through the book. The first thread was the actual story as it unfolded linearly—how the characters experience the story. The second thread was the writing style/narrative—how the author experiences the story. The third thread was the way I felt about the narrator, Humbert Humbert, and the book at large—how I experience the story. All three of these met in a synergistic yarn which caused the three elements/entities (characters, authors, reader) to be interconnected in such as way as to make the existence of each impossible without the existence of the others.

Throughout “Part One,” I was absolutely entranced and delighted by the writing and, much to my chagrin and confusion, felt just as charmed by the pedophile Humbert Humbert himself. The book takes a sharp turn at Part Two. This was an interesting and ingenious division for the book: the change from Part One to Part Two is that Lolita finds out that her mother is dead. Charlotte actually has been dead for quite some book-time. Both the reader and Humbert know the mother is and has been dead. Only Lolita didn’t know, and when she finds out, everything changes.

“Part Two” begins the slow decline of the regard in which Humbert is held by Lolita, by Nabokov, and by the reader. His charm and wit have worn thin with his self-awareness and, later, his inability to deprive himself of self gratification. Confidence has become smarm, which soon gives way to patheticalness. The writing seems to become long-winded and cloying. I don’t fault Nabokov for this, as some reviewers have. Rather, the culprit is Humbert’s increasingly desperate attempts at justification for his actions that plays out via the narrative. I began to hate him, began to hate what he had to say, began to hate his every action, and in turn began to hate the book and the writing itself—but I was so mired in the story that I could not put it down. Likewise, Lolita was mired in her own situation that she could not escape. Even when she thought she did escape, she just got into another situation that was equally unhealthy for her. She never really escaped at all until her death (which we learn about at the beginning of the book, but actually occurs after the book is over: she dies in childbirth). The reader gets to escape the misery of the story at the same time both the characters do; but only death is a strong enough reprieve from the torment they’ve been subjected to by the hand of McFate and by their own designs.

As I stated earlier, I felt immensely uncomfortable and confused at how much I was enjoying reading this book about a “nympholectic” pedophile. It made me feel dirty, decadent, and debased. But the way I felt throughout the end of the book completely reconciled my emotive response to where it “should” have been through the incredible feat of making me strongly desire to read a book I was, at points, loathing.

There’s so much to say about this incredible book, but I haven’t fully been able to wrap my brain around it all. I just wanted to write a few words about my response as a writer. What I’m taking from this is how your narrative design can affect the interconnectedness of character/author/reader—and the tremendous effect that interconnectedness can have. I’ve also learned about creating unreliable narrators, and the power of both sides of that coin: when the unreliability is only hinted at, or unknown completely, and when the unreliability is undeniable and almost excruciating to the reader. Nabokov used that tool to effectively manipulate his readers emotive responses as if he were creating the responses himself.

I love when you finish a book and you feel like you have “traveled” – through time, through space, and through that intangible journey that is experience.

Read it.