"CAN YOU HERE ME NOW?" No. Because My Phone is in a Mailbox.

So I was mailing Christmas cards the other night and accidentally mailed my cell phone along with them as I dropped my phone in the post office mail box in the lobby of my building. Take this as a lesson - when mailing something, make sure you put your keys, phone or anything else personal in your pockets because you never know when you may accidentally let go of the wrong thing and lose it in a federally protected fortress – thank goodness I wasn’t holding a baby.

Apparently, a mailroom is more secure than an airport because not even my office building’s security was allowed to access the room to retrieve my phone. I was told to leave a note on the mailroom door with my name and number in hopes that the mail carrier would just put it aside for me when picking up the mail – well, either the note wasn’t big enough or the mail carrier was bitter because the mail was picked up with my phone sadly sandwiched among Christmas cards, random bills and postcards.

So off went my phone and on went my panic. After feverishly calling every post office in the area, I was directed to a local “sorting plant” and was told that if my phone was lost among the mail, it would end up on their conveyer belt and hopefully (key word “hopefully”) it wouldn’t be destroyed.

First, I started to feel bad for my poor little phone. I started to think that if and when I found it, it would be dirty with soot and covered in stamps from across the globe, being forced to travel to foreign places with no charger in sight. Second, I realized that I didn’t have a phone and like most young Generation Y adults, I really don’t know anyone’s number by heart. My life suddenly became very dull.

My parents graciously alternated lending me their cell phones for the next two days to ensure I had some means of communication should I get into a car accident that leaves me stranded in a cornfield all by myself (at this point anything is impossible with me), but I still didn’t know anyone’s number, so my normal trip home from work that is spent on my cell phone and filled with gossip and laughter, turned out to be just me, my thoughts and Christmas music blasting from the radio.

And you know what? It was kind of nice.

I found myself not worrying as much because I wasn’t in an animated discussion that included, “did you hear what she said about her?!”, “do you know what you’re doing for New Years Eve?!”, “have you called so-so yet about getting together next weekend?!” The only exclamation marks I came across on my way home were those in “Jingle Bells” as I happily sang along with holiday every tune that night…

And once I was home, for the first time I didn’t worry about work because there was no way for anyone to get a hold of me to tell me about a time-sensitive project I had to tackle first thing in the morning. Ignorance is truly bliss and I found bliss without a cell phone.

However, ignorance can only last a girl of my ambition for so long and as my phone remained lost within the USPS system, I began to get antsy about my literal disconnection from the life I once knew. What if I needed to get a new number? Would people bother to reset it in their own phones? Whose number would I forget to get and never call again? What important text am I missing right now? These questions ran through my head and then finally I heard something more beautiful than the first time I heard my cell phone’s ring… “we found your phone.”

So now I’m on my way to pick up my phone and worry that I won’t recognize it after its many travels, but I can’t wait to dust it off and get back to the life we once shared together. And although I’m so grateful for the reunion I’m glad I had this little experience as it taught me some valuable lessons beyond keeping everything personal away from a mail slot. It taught me that every now again I need to be okay with being disconnected with my social network so I can reconnect with myself.

Feed it Forward

You know the old saying "its better to give than to receive"? Well, go to www.restaurant.com/feeditforward and feel the love...

There will be NO tricks for this new home owner on Halloween...

This will be my first Halloween as a home owner, thus my first Halloween encountering my very own trick-or-treaters, and to be honest, I’m a bit nervous. Being relatively young myself, I’m surprised at how cynical I am when it comes to teenagers as I’m 99% sure that a twerpy 17 year old will attempt to TP my house or smash one of my pumpkins on October 31st. Little jerks.

Oh, but don’t you worry about me… I’ve been known to chase punks down on foot and scare the crap out them when they think I’m just an innocent girl waiting to be terrorized… but that’s another story for another time…

Anyway, something that I’ve always hated about Halloween is how people, from twerpy teenagers to dirty old men to ditzy girls, feel like they can do anything when they are hiding behind a mask (or in the ditzy girls’ case, when they are wearing a slutty school girl outfit). I think it’s actually a studied phenomenon that humans get a false sense of protection and security when in disguise inspiring us to do asinine things that we normally wouldn’t do if we took off the clown wig, the scary face paint or the plaid skirt.

I’ll admit that when I was in college celebrating Halloween, I did feel a bit invincible in my costume and thought that I could take an extra shot or win an arm wrestling match against an overweight frat boy. But this false sense of power only left me with a killer hangover and sore arm the next morning, and I’m actually still looking for some of the pride I lost. I learned quickly that you must wear a Halloween costume with caution, but I don’t think the rest of the nation has caught on just quite yet and I have a feeling that I’m going to confront some of those delusional morons who think a Bill Clinton mask means they can get in my face and demand two handfuls of candy… first, aren’t you too old to be trick-or-treating? And I’m a Republican, so you get a toothbrush and floss.

Plus, I HATE being scared. And when I say, “I HATE being scared”, I mean, “I detest any feeling of panic or alarm to the point that I’ll scream if you merely come up to me in a non-sneak up kind of way”. I’m a pansy and I’m not afraid to admit it, so Halloween is my worst nightmare. I was at a pumpkin farm a few weeks ago and refused to go into the Haunted House even though the sign said it was “appropriate for ages 5 and up”… unless I had a 5 year old leading the way, there was no way I was going in there. So as I wait for my trick-or-treaters, I know without a doubt I’ll scream at least a few times when the doorbell rings and jump if someone growls at me even if it’s the little boy dressed like a puppy who’s mom tells him to “bark for the nice lady”… if you played that bark backwards, I bet you’d hear some satanic messages… I’m just saying.

I have toiled over the idea to just jump ship and turn off all my lights in hopes that trick-or-treaters will just move onto the next house, but if I did that, I’d be missing out on one of the privileges I get from being a home owner. I’m not paying a mortgage for nothing, you know. I want to have the full experience even if that means I have to prepare myself for mischievous twerps and I think I have an advantage that other homes in my area don’t have… Am I an actual home owning adult or just a young chick home from college? Dun... dun... DUN.

You see, I’m still young enough to actually be mistaken as a peer to one of these twerpy, terrorizing jerks and that, my friends, may just terrorize THEM. Adolescent boys fear embarrassing themselves in front of young woman more than I fear a 5 years and older haunted house, so I’m going to confidently open my door, stare those kids right into their masked eyes and dare them to get in my face, because I’m not a mom, I’m a mysterious “older girl” who could ruin their reputations.

So to all you boys preparing to scare or punk me this Halloween, be afraid, be very afraid because I just might have the power to spread rumors about you to the hot young things in school girl outfits that go to your high school… or if nothing else I’ll just chase you down until you pee your pants or cry, whichever comes first.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

All I Need to Know I Learned At My First Job

After two and half years, I’m moving on from my first job out of college and embarking on a new career adventure. GULP. As easy or as exciting as a job change sounds, this transition has been quite overwhelming, as for the first time, I’m EXPECTED to know what I’m doing.

When I started my first job as a kid out of college, I was just that – a kid fresh out of college. I don’t think expectations can be any lower for college graduates. Your employer knows that you just spent the last four years sharpening your drinking game skills and perfecting your school’s fight song, so whatever job you get has the bar set so low that a limbo champ couldn’t even get under it. And as long as you show up on time and don’t burn the place down your first week, you can really only raise that bar. And even though you’re getting paid peanuts, no one expects you to save lives when you’re making less money than a bus driver – you’re under paid, but that keeps you under the radar.

But there comes a time in your life when you’re ready to move on, ready to take on a new challenge. Fear aside, it is MY time to grab the bull by the horns (although I’m REALLY hoping my new job will be more like a rabbit than a bull ... I’d personally rather grab cute, soft bunny ears), take what I’ve learned over the past couple years and dust off the “college kid” title and start fresh as a smart, savvy professional who knows what she’s doing... ha, like I know what I’m doing.

Surprisingly though, moving on has been far more emotional than I ever thought it would be. I never realized until I gave my two weeks notice how personally attached I had become to my office. It’s like waking up at home the morning you are planning to move into the Freshmen dorms and realizing how much you’re going to miss the comfort of your childhood room, your comfy bed that your mom always kept fresh with great smelling sheets and the familiarity of the things you’ve grown accustomed to. Although you’re ready to move on and annoyed with constantly having your parents yell at you for not picking up your clothes from your bedroom floor, you still have thoughts of fear and sadness. Maybe you’re not ready to start college. Maybe you rather have your parents scold you instead of living on your own where yes, there is no one to tell you what to do, but at the same time, there is no one to comfort you either.

Luckily, I’ve already experienced major moves and life changes, so I know that the outcome is generally positive, but those initial feelings of uncertainty never cease to creep up on me.

So as I spend my final days reflecting on the great impact my first job has had on my life, I would like to share what I’ve learned along the way:

• Humor is an important, if not vital, part of maintaining composure and getting through a difficult time. If you lighten up, your stress will go down.
• You shouldn’t hold your breath waiting on someone to change because you’ll most likely pass out. You can’t change the way someone acts, but you can change the way you handle them.
• If a door is locked, check the window, if the window isn’t open, go to the next door neighbor and charm your way into getting the spare key. There is no such thing as a locked door.
• Often times people say “no” because they are not smart enough to say “yes”. All those people who didn’t understand your value just weren’t ready for your forward thinking and talent. Their loss, not yours.
• Never underestimate the power of being nice. You never know who will be your next client, your next boss, your next lifesaver; respect is invaluable.
• Using “per”, “bandwidth” and “in regards to” in your casual, social conversations doesn’t make you a major loser, it makes you a professional badass.
• Everyone loves a good story and everyone has one – let people tell you their story and be open to tell yours. Allowing yourself to get personal enhances all the senses you need to be a professional.
• Anything important can be reduced to three letters, and three letters only - ERP, TBC, PLM, EOM, CAD, RFP, SOW, EOD, WIP, SOS, TBD...
• Always carry a granola bar with you because you never know when your next meal will be and you can’t run on empty while running around in pumps.
• When in doubt, don’t “assume” - If you aren’t sure if someone got a memo, if you don’t remember whether your client wanted that report by today or tomorrow, check.
• It’s important to know just enough to be dangerous, but pretending to know more than you do IS dangerous.
• Being exposed to the best and the brightest is humbling and often times intimidating, but welcome the intimidation, because spending time with talented people only makes YOU better and brighter.
• Your first instinct is almost always right. If you question a decision, remember that your initial response is most likely the right decision for you... new job, here I come!

Do you really want to go where "everyone knows your name"?

You know how if you went to Cheers, everyone knows your name? I’ve personally always wanted to find a place where I could walk in and have people light up with joy after recognizing my face, knowing that I’m a “regular”. Well, it’s happened... finally. It may have taken a good two and half years of seeing the same overworked Starbucks baristas at the same tired location, but I’m now reaping the benefits of becoming a recognizable regular; however, I think it comes with a hefty price tag... and when I say “hefty”, I mean, this desired stardom is going to make me fat.

I’ve gone to the Starbucks in my office building regularly for over two years. The staff at that location has remained fairly consistent, but they also seem consistently annoyed with the early morning coffee rush. Starbucks is notorious for its chipper employees who brew your latte with a smile, but this specific coffee crew is kind of like the black sheep of the Starbucks enterprise as they avoid casual conversation and conveniently forget that you like room in your coffee for cream. This unfriendly vibe instantly crushed my dreams of ever being recognized and treated like a cast member of Cheers, but then about a month ago, my years of smiling and good consumer behavior paid off as one of the baristas asked, “hey, you’re in here a lot, what’s your name?” SCORE. Ever since then, the Cheers theme song plays as soon as I enter the store, and I’ve already started to reap the major benefits of being a preferred customer.

However, I’m not only counting those benefits in money, but also in calories. Now when I order my “usual” grande, raspberry, nonfat, no whip mocha, I’m instantly upgraded to a venti. For you Starbucks novices out there – a “grande” equals a medium sized drink and a “venti” equals a BIG GULP. Although I’m grateful for the free perk, I find myself finishing the entire bucket of liquid calories even if I’m full to the brim with espresso. At least its non-fat, right?

And this morning... oh boy... where do I begin? I ordered a regular cup of joe and splurged on their low fat blueberry coffee cake (I just have to note its “low fat” because you’ll start to think that wedding dress sizes may be more reasonable than I made them out to be considering I drink venti mochas and chow down on coffee cake – I swear, I’m a healthy eater and those dresses are sized way too small!!) Anyway, when I was handed the bag with the LOW fat pastry, I noticed it was heavier than usual and with a wink the barista said, “just take it”. What did I “just take”? A FREE piece of extra coffee cake, that’s what.

Although that’s an incredibly kind gesture and something I should start getting used to as a recognizable, loved, respected regular, its just starting to become overwhelming... and fattening. And it’s not only the freebies, it’s the attention I’m getting – the other day, I walked in to the store to get my afternoon coffee and was immediately greeted by a high five... I’m not even joking. Again, a very nice gesture, but I realized that when it comes to being at work and wanting to get away to my coffee escape, I really DON'T want everyone to know my name.

What’s a girl to do? My new found celebrity will stay with me until I start sporting a wig and sunglasses or decide to boycott my mochas... both of which won’t happen. So as I adjust to a life where “everyone knows my name”, I’ll just have to remember to appreciate the recognition and promise myself that I won’t let this attention go to my head... or to my butt.

Too many high fives, mochas and pieces of coffee cake will that to you, you know.

To be a 10, You Must Wear a 10...

With wedding plans in full swing, I can’t help but to have “bridal brain” as I continue to meet with various vendors, thumb through stacks of wedding magazines and shape up the ever-growing guest list. Up until this point, everything has made sense to me. I get the importance of “mood lighting”. I understand you’ll need to cough up a hefty down payment for flowers without a petal or blossom in sight. I know that you have to send “courtesy invites” to those crazy relatives who never go to any event, but get offended when they don’t receive an invitation that ends up costing more than the cheap gift they’ll end up sending you months after the big day.

But there is one thing that I don’t get and never will. I don’t even think there is a logical explanation for this one bridal phenomenon as it’s so illogical that I dare someone to make rational sense of it. What I don’t get is why wedding dresses are always 2 to 3 sizes larger than the bride’s actual size, causing an already manic, stressed woman to obsess over weight that she truly does not have. Who came up with this cruel concept? Probably a man, that’s who.

I just recently started searching for my dress and I eagerly anticipated the experience up until I was locked in dressing room with my mom, wearing only my unmentionables, trying to squeeze into a dress that was a whole two sizes bigger than my normal pant size. I felt like a stuffed turkey as my mom kneaded down my buns and told me to “suck it in”. Suck what in?!?! I couldn’t even breathe!

Prior to this traumatic experience, I always assumed “sample” sizes were supposed to be these huge potato sacks that you’re forced to pin back with huge clamps to give you some kind of idea of what the shape of the dress could really be. Alas, I needed the jaws of life to remove myself from the darn dresses I tried on, and the best was that there was a beautiful dress that came in a sample size of 2... T-W-O. Ha. The dress would fit me if I put one on each thigh.

Luckily, I’m the kind of bride who can get over the size of my dress (eventually... perhaps after this post) and understand it’s not the number on the tag, its how you look in it. But what about those girls who can’t look past sizes? You put a self conscious bride-to-be in a dressing room with a 360 degree mirror and a dress that would fit an American Girl Doll, she goes from Betty Bridal to Ann O. Rexic.

And don’t get me started on 360 degree mirrors in dressing rooms. I recently saw angles of myself that I never knew existed and wish I was never introduced to, and then as I scramble to cover up, I get a 360 degree view of myself struggling to fit a dress over my hips. If I were to open a bridal shop, I would replace dress sizes with compliments, like “size HOTTIE” or “size WOW, YOU’RE THIN”, and curtain off all mirrors in the 360 degree house of horrors and only unveil them once the bride is fully in her dress and ready to see the total package without being forced to view that unsightly birthmark on her left butt cheek.

But let me tell you once you find a dress that fits over your curvy hips and hugs you just right, it’s the best moment... ever. And so what if you can’t sit down in your dress because it will cut off your air supply? You look goooood, girl.

So short story LONG, wedding dress shopping has left me a bit discouraged, but more importantly has left me bewildered as I don’t understand why dress manufacturers willingly add to a bride’s stress with their wacky notions of size. I know I'll personally move on from this disturbing phenomenon and accept that if I have to wear a 10 to look like a 10, then so be it!

(I swear I don't have to wear a 10, it was a just a play on words to make my point... but I wouldn't be embarrassed if I had to wear that size, which I actually just might... but I'm not officially confirming that... SEE... this is what dress shopping does to you!!)

Buying a House is Like Riding a Bike... Ding Ding!

“If you can survive buying a home together, you can survive anything together.”

That’s a quote from our realtor who sensed that my fiancé and I were at our wits end with one another as we were debating “to bid or not to bid”. (If you’re dying to know... we bid)

Buying a house is so much more than just buying something with a roof that you can live under. When you buy a house you’re buying responsibility, you’re buying a new chapter to your life and you’re buying some uncertainty. I bet you didn’t know that uncertainty can come with such a huge price tag.

I was talking with one of my closest friends the other day who is also embarking on her first time house hunt and we were commiserating over how much you need to know when buying real estate and that no one ever really prepares you for what you’re about to go through. I’m a smart gal, but during this process, I’ve never felt so stupid... if I had a dollar for every sentence I started with “I know this may be a dumb question, but...” when talking to our realtor and broker, I would have already paid off our mortgage. It’s almost like the industry wants to haze first time buyers and once you’ve made it through, you’re officially in the cool club and have figured out all the insider secrets – I hope there is a secret handshake we find out about at closing.

So my fiancé and I are embarking on our last leg of the home buying process, which for me, has been kind of like riding a bike – its really tough and confusing at first, and you may be left with some scars (my scar is the memory forever etched in my mind of hearing how much closing costs would be – ouch!), but when you finally get it all down, you cruise to the finish. Now, unlike bike riding, I have no intention to hop up on the real estate bike seat again for at least another 5 years because this was all one wild ride that I don’t have the stamina to do again any time soon, but when I’m ready to kick up the kickstand, it will be easy to pick back up again.

My real estate bike was a tandem one as I ventured into this experience with my soon-to-be husband, and if you’re riding solo, I must give you major kudos because it can get pretty scary out on the road alone. However, riding tandem isn’t always that easy especially when you and your partner aren’t always equally matched – I remember trying to rent a tandem bike with my dad while we were on vacation on Mackinac Island... I was about 8 years old and he was about 150 pounds heavier than me. Let’s just say the bike ride didn’t work out because the weight difference caused my part of the bike to be stuck at a 45 degree angle, unable to be pedaled by my 4 foot-something frame.

So now that you know this about tandem bikes, my fiancé and I rode through my home buying experience rather smoothly, but then the weight difference would set in – whoever thought I’d be so turned off by a banister? And who knew my soon-to-be husband had a burning hate for certain kinds of shrubs? What’s important to you isn’t always important to your partner – what you see as fixable, could be unbearable for someone else.

Okay, so enough with the bike metaphors (but aren't metaphors just so darn fun?). The important takeaway from all of this is that buying a home is an interesting, stressful, exciting, scary and overwhelming experience. It’s an experience that has really opened my eyes and one that I’m happy I’ve had the opportunity to have, but if you’re a first time home owner, you better be ready to take people’s opinions, disregard those same people’s OTHER opinions, and know that NO question is stupid.

As my fiancé and I approach the closing of our home, we can reflect on the bumps in the road, the bruises we got along the way and the times when we were just not thinking at the same speed, but with those moments behind us, we can now plan on just cruising to the finish... ding ding!

My Sticky Situation

Gum. I stepped in gum.

Today I was enjoying a break from work and taking a walk around my office building when I suddenly felt like someone was stepping on the back of my shoe. Turning around to glare at the rude person who was walking WAY to close to me, I saw no one and smelled a familiar minty fresh scent – it was then I realized I had put my foot smack dab on top a clump of sticky, germ infused gum.

Who just spits it out like that? I guess I wouldn’t be surprised about all of this if I were sauntering through a truck stop, but a high end office building? Please. Get some class, people! Are you too busy being a high powered lawyer that when you’re done with your gum you choose to let it stumble out of your mouth and hope your assistant is close enough behind to catch it? I don’t care who you are, gum is like the devil’s glue and is such a pain to clean off... I should know... my right foot is currently plastered to the floor beneath my desk because not even all the scraping in the world can remove this piece of rudeness from my sole.

As you can tell, I don’t just have an issue with the gum. I have an issue with the people who just spit it out. These are the same people who leave public restrooms filthy. Who raised these rodents? And I’m sure if these guilty gum spitters found themselves in a similar sticky situation, they would throw a fit.

I myself learned a valuable lesson and had karma bite me in the butt when I selfishly disposed of my gum in a careless way. I was at a beach with my dubble bubble practically melting in my mouth from the heat. Wanting to get rid of it and seeing that the trash can was a distant 10 feet away, my laziness got the best of me and I decided to toss it in the sand. Later that day, forgetting about my careless action, I was frolicking in the sand and stepped in MY OWN GUM. I was barefoot, it was sticky and the situation wasn’t pretty.

Have you ever stepped in melting gum barefoot? No? Well hot gum on a heel is like super glue on fingers (I’ve superglued my fingers together before too, that’s another post all together). Even when I thought I had scrubbed it off, I could still smell the dubble bubble and had residual gumminess on my foot for weeks. I made myself two promises after that: 1) never chew dubble bubble again (the smell alone sends chills down my spine and my heel starts to throb) and 2) never spit out your gum on the ground, Rudy McRudster – throw it away!!!

If it weren’t for the fact that it was MY gum, I would have flipped out even more because if it wasn’t, it would have been like having a creepy old man licking my foot... assuming that whatever random gum I come across has been chewed by a creepy old man and for comedy’s sake, lets say it is. I realized how disgusted a fellow beach bum would have felt if they stumbled about my dubble bubble trouble – ew.

So the next time you’re thinking, “this gum sucks, I don’t want it anymore”, either find a trash can or be a champ and swallow it – it only takes 7 years to “pass”, right? Because for every person who steps on a stranger’s gum, an angel loses its wings... no, wait, that’s a bit dramatic, but just remember that public places aren’t yours, they are everyone’s and when you disrespect a public space by spitting your gum on the ground, you’re spitting on your fellow man.

Disrespect. What a sticky subject.

I'll have my "usual", please.

The other day I went to Starbucks for my mid-day java jolt and ordered “my drink” – a grande, raspberry, non-fat, no-whip mocha. That’s right, I like my drinks how I like my men: sweet and complicated.

So I ordered, handed over the obscenely unnecessary amount of 4 bucks, and then elbowed my way into the huddled mass of other afternoon coffee lovers waiting for their overpriced cup of stress relief. So I’m standing there, waiting. And waiting some more. I then get waved over by the barista, who I’m thinking wants to reward my loyalty by giving me a free gift card under the table or something, but who instead admits that they are out of raspberry syrup.

Two questions:

1. WHAT?? [Insert big eyed, blinking stare]
2. And why didn’t you know this before I gave up my money and waited patiently, anticipating the unforgettable taste of my beloved brew??

It’s not the fact that they ran out of the raspberry syrup that makes me upset– I understand that disasters can and will happen. It’s the fact that they led me to believe that my addiction would be satiated and then suddenly took it all away... and then what’s worse, with my fellow Starbucks cult members looking on, is that they asked me what other drink I wanted, and I had NO idea. I was put on the spot, expecting my raspberry mocha, and couldn’t even read the menu for other options as my vision was blurred by the sudden surprise of not getting what I ALWAYS order and ALWAYS expect.

So I just kind of stared at the remorseful-less Barista and said nothing... it was almost like I was waiting for him to say, “JUST KIDDING! You’ve been Punk’d” and then be presented with the best raspberry mocha I’ve ever had by Ashton Kutcher himself. Well, that didn’t happen.

I collected myself and managed to order a latte instead, but I wasn’t happy about it. I then realized how much I rely on my “usuals” – I think we all have some kind “usual” we depend on. Be it a favorite dish you always order at a specific restaurant or a specific TV show you watch every week without fail. “Usuals” most likely control some facet of your life and I was embarrassed that my “usual” left me tongue tied and inflexible (and in front of a gaping, judging Starbucks crowd no less).

The more I think about my “usuals”, the more disappointed I become in myself. Let’s face it, most of us aren’t sky diving instructors or out of work artists trying to make a buck on Hollywood boulevard by playing the drums on empty buckets -- we’re working at a typical 9-5 job and without even trying, we are living very mundane, “usual” lifestyles, which is something I often complain about when I’m not playing drums on the corner to make an extra buck (okay, that’s a lie, but not a bad idea).

So here I am, whining about my unusual life, as usual, and have a mini panic attack when Starbucks forces me to think outside my raspberry mocha and settle for something different. Was it really that painful? Of course not. But should I take this as a lesson that I need to drop my “usuals” and spice things up? You bet ya. Stepping outside your comfort zone, even if it’s merely ordering a new kind of drink, can only enhance your boring life and introduce you to wonderful new things; however, having tried this before, these new things soon become your new “usuals”, thus the vicious cycle continues, but either way, you’re embracing change and change is good.

So go forth, change things up and instead of ordering your usual, go for your UNusual.

Shaved Eyebrows & Red Pumps

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Has anyone ever said that to you when things weren’t going your way? Or when something doesn’t quite work out like you had hoped? You’ll often hear this phrase when you didn’t get that job you wanted or when you’re faced with an illness or basically anytime when something pretty negative happens. When you and friend go to a shoe store and they don’t have those adorable red pumps in a size 8.5, you don’t turn to each other and say this phrase because situations like that are far too trivial... you say this to someone when you know that whatever just happened will leave them questioning their life’s happiness... and although I LOVE shoes, I wouldn’t lose sleep over red pumps... but they would have looked so cute with that new dress I bought... damn.

Someone told me, “everything happens for a reason” in response to a recent letdown I experienced and although it seems like such a standard response to anything discouraging that comes our way, there is a lot of truth in that statement and it really made me get all philosophical (don’t worry, I’m not getting all soft on you, this philosophical thinking only lasted only for a moment and then I was back to thinking about where I could find red pumps in a size 8.5).

So why does everything happen for a reason?

One of the earliest “everything happens for a reason” comments I received was when I was applying to colleges my junior year of high school. I wanted to go to Notre Dame so badly. Maybe I had just watched Rudy too many times, but I so desperately wanted to get accepted there. I remember when my “thanks, but no thanks” letter came in the mail from Notre Dame - it was like a postcard you get from the dentist reminding you about your teeth cleaning – simple, straightforward and bearing bad news. That’s when my mom told me, “everything happens for a reason”. At that time, I was just bummed that I would have to go to my second choice school and never be able to have a football stadium chant my name in unison when the coach put me in the final moments of the game. Wait. Wrong person.

Anyway, what was the “reason” for me not to get accepted to Notre Dame? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I was meant to cheer for a football team that actually wins games, live in one of the greatest, family-friendly cities in the country, meet my husband and learn what cheese curd should TRULY taste like.

Okay, okay, I realize that I would have liked any college I went to, because its college for the love of God - four beautiful years of bliss pretending that you’re independent, when in reality, you’re just relying on your parents long distance - but I would really like to think that my life is better because something I wanted to happen didn’t actually work out.

Another example for you - I would LOVE to not have random illnesses. If you remember correctly from a past blog post, I’m the queen of mysterious diseases and medical issues, and these maladies have impaired me throughout my life. Trust me, I would much rather be shopping for shoes instead of sitting in the fetal position nursing a side pain that feels like I just swallowed a spork. But let’s say “everything happens for a reason” in response to my health.

[Word of caution: do NOT say this phrase to me when I’m experiencing the actual pain... if I’m in pain and you say this, I’ll punch you in the face and say “everything happens for a reason, like I punched you in the face because you’re a moron”. You just can’t be philosophical with someone who is immediate pain or distress – so if your friend accidentally shaves off her eyebrows, don’t say this in the moment because at that time, your now expressionless friend will chase with a razor to make you her hairless twin - let it lie for a moment and when her eyebrows grow back with the perfect arch she never had before, you can then say, “see, everything happens for a reason”.]

But enough about eyebrows and back to my pain. When I sit and reflect on my ailments I realize that I’m stronger and smarter for having them. My physical pain has beefed up my brain and I can handle stressful social and professional situations a lot better than some of my pain-free counterparts. And since I know what its like to hurt, I appreciate life that much more when I don’t. I sometimes don’t think people realize how great life is when you don’t have to worry about your body betraying you.

But don't cry for me Argentina; my pain could be A LOT worse. And if nothing else, I’ll be a better mother as I think I’ve experienced every possible weird thing that could happen to my kids and know how to intelligently address it.

My kid: “Mommy, I feel like I’m stuck in a snow globe and someone is shaking it.”

Me: “Oh, don’t sweat it – you probably caught the vertigo virus, so I’ll take you the doctor where he’ll knock your head around to dislodge the crystals formed on your inner ear from the virus and they’ll prescribe a high doze of motion sickness medication. Now scoot."

My poor kids will receive no sympathy from this mom.

Okay, so you may find that my examples aren’t deep nor are they philosophical, but you get my point. I guess I’m trying to say that if you’re going through a rough time, just remember that this time has a purpose in your life. And if you can’t think of why you should be living with a mysterious pain or why you didn’t get the job of your dreams or why not having eyebrows for a few months will actually benefit you, just remember that some of the best things that can happen to you are those things that actually didn’t. (now ponder THAT philosophical statement for a while...)

Two Dozen is Better Than One

This week I’ll be turning 24 and I’m totally jazzed about it. What a great age. Why? Let me tell you –

• 24 happens to be a super cool show, which I have never seen a minute of, but rumor has it that its totally hip, and anything that has rumors surrounding it is totally cool.
• 7-11 is open 24 hours a day – who doesn’t love a good slurpee at 4 am??
• Jeff Gordon’s car number is 24 – I could care less about NASCAR, but in some circles, this number represents a religion.
• 24 equals two dozen and things that are counted by “dozen” usually are tasty, so two dozen of anything tasty is way better than one.

I can’t really think of anything else great about the number 24, but you catch my drift – I’m excited for my birthday. But ever since I turned 21 I noticed that my peers react to birthdays, beyond the one that granted them legal access to bars for the first time, with so much despair. Most of my friends fall in the under 30 category and when they complain about how “old” they are when their birthday arrives, I just know that people in their 30s and 40s want to give them a swift kick to their STILL YOUNG butts.

Okay, okay, I get it. I understand that some of these despairing 20 somethings expected to maybe be somewhere in their lives by the time they hit 21 and they aren’t quite there yet. My lord are these people an ambitious group!Just because you don’t have a corner office or a husband/wife in your 20s doesn’t mean you aren’t successful – heck, if you don’t have these things by your 30s, its fine... but when you get your 40s and you’re still an intern and living with your parents, then we might have problem.

I wish people, young people in particular, would embrace birthdays and not dread them. This is YOUR day to celebrate YOU. When else do you get to do that?! Well, actually, I remember asking my mom when I was little why there was a mother’s day and father’s day, but not a kid’s day – her response? EVERY day is kid’s day. Point taken. But seriously, birthdays are meant to celebrate everything wonderful about your life and if things aren’t THAT wonderful, at least take this day to celebrate with the wonderful people in your life. I know that’s why I love my birthday – I get to spend time with people that I don’t always get to see but love dearly.

(Sidenote – if I don’t see you this week, its not that I don’t love you dearly or consider you to be not wonderful, because I do and you are – I think that covers all my bases, right?)

And what’s with age anyway? We aren’t living in the era when you get hitched at 20 and pop out your first kid at 22 – it’s just not like that anymore. In reality, there has never been a better time to age and embrace each birthday even if you’re turning 24 or 34 or 44....

So go forth and celebrate each birthday with excitement, and if you still can indulge in birthday cake with great people, consider yourself young (and that counts even if you have dentures and need to sip your birthday cake through a straw). Remember age is in your actions, not your wrinkles. I know a lot of old, stuffy 20 somethings and I also know a 91 year old who has the youngest person I’ve ever met. So as I begin to celebrate my two dozen years of life, I won’t moan or groan, I'll remember that two dozen is better than one and each year will be better than the last.

The "Train Wave"

What? ANOTHER post about riding the train you say? Get over it. I’m a commuter and will spend half of my adult life sitting in the last car of the Metra, right side, 4th seat up, and it’s only natural to write about what you know... and I know trains.

So, the “Train Wave”. What the heck is the "Train Wave" or better yet, my burning question is why does it even exist to begin with??

The next time you ride a train, look out the window and you’ll slowly begin to notice that the most random people wave as your train passes by. Now, I’m NOT talking about the cute little kids, who wave their adorable chubby hands as they wait for daddy to get off the train or the lame heartbroken boyfriend who waves farewell to his probably not-gonna-last for another week girlfriend who gets on the train to go to summer camp... “Buddy, she’s coming back eventually, but probably with a new boyfriend, so stop lamely waving”.

I’m talking about grown adults, who are taking a morning jog through their neighborhood or walking to the end of their driveway to pick up the paper who WAVE AS THE TRAIN PASSES BY – thus the term, “Train Wave”. (Note that although this behavior exists, I made up that term, so use it with caution to avoid embarrassment when you suddenly realize that it’s not a universally embraced term.)

So back to these adult, able minded train wavers. Why do they wave to a train in the distance when they know that the hundreds of people who are riding it will just end up staring at them thinking that they look ridiculous in their tight running shorts or funny in their fluffy bath robe? Do they know someone on the train and just hope that their drive by waving will catch the eye of their loved one? Probably not. These train wavers are waving at complete strangers, for what reason, I don’t know.

If you think I’m being tough on these nut bars, I would ask you to then walk outside and wave to someone you don’t know - and accidentally waving to a person who looked like your best friend in a crowded bar doesn’t count. I’m talking about stretching out your hand muscles, going into the Chicago loop, standing on the street and waving... to anyone and everyone... you’ll soon be the best dressed homeless, crazy person anyone has ever seen.

This morning, my train passed a construction site and a few of the sweaty guys started waving at it – note that you can’t see through the windows very well and most of these “Train Waves” happen from pretty far away, so its not like they saw a hot young dish and wanted to live up to the dirty construction worker stereotype and ogle her. And then we passed through another town and some landscapers literally put down their rakes and starting waving as we went by. It was like the Metra transformed into the Pope-Mobile or something and all its riders were his holiness. It just doesn’t make sense to me.

The best one is this lady who jogs every morning alongside the street that follows the tracks. She will do the “no eye contact Train Wave” as she keeps her eyes straight ahead with determination as she runs, yet will raise her right and wave like crazy not even breaking her stare. It’s like she was told that if she doesn’t wave like a moron to the trains that pass by she’ll be struck down by lightening. This is truly perplexing to me because when I’m not riding the train and see one pass, I don’t instinctively start convulsing with happiness and try to get the attention of the strangers within the mysterious locomotive.

Since I experienced so many “Train Waves” this morning, I’ve been trying to think of instances in which you’d publically wave at a stranger. Like during one of the parades at Disney. In that instance, you wave like crazy to Minnie Mouse who is probably an out of luck dude looking for extra money, but that doesn’t even come close to “Train Wave” because you are in a setting that permits and expects it.

But, if Minnie Mouse were to pop up randomly on the street of your home town, I bet that you wouldn’t start waving at her (or in some cases, under the costume, him), you’d probably think, “who’s the jerk who stole that costume?” See, there is a time and a place for random acts of waveness, so I don’t get how trains constitute as that appropriate time and place.

So as I wait for the answers to address this phenomenon, I’ll continue to ride the train, looking out at my “fans” who wave at me like Minnie Mouse on parade. Yeah, it still creeps me out.

My Big, Fat, Chicago Wedding

It’s official. I’m getting hitched. And it seems that finding the man was the easy part.

The cost of a kidney on the black market is cheaper than the cost of a nice wedding. And I’m not even talking about “Hollywood” nice. I’m talking about “beautiful, but not over the top because I’m not a celebrity making millions” nice. I’m no Beverly Hills princess; I’m just a nice girl from the Chicago suburbs and all I want is a tasteful reception that isn’t held in a tacky banquet hall that looks like it came straight out of “My Big, Fat Greek Wedding” – is that too much to ask for? Apparently.

So here I am. Just at the start of my wedding planning and I’ve already had bridal induced heartburn.

I recently read an article about how although the economy continues to decline, the wedding business continues to increase and the amount of money spent on receptions rises quicker than prices at the gas pump. Some couples are going broke just so they can host an event where they will most likely not be able to eat or drink what they are paying for, be forced to slow dance with creepy Uncle Lester and crazy Aunt Marge and then be left with a collection of useless kitchen gadgets. On top of that, the planning for this blessed event probably consumed 12+ months of their lives, caused numerous arguments and was the source of frequent tears. Well, when you think about it, I guess that’s actually a lot of bang for your buck.

You may start to wonder... why would I even bother planning a traditional wedding? Why waste money, tears and antacids when I can just hop on a plane to Vegas? Or better yet, why not just make a toast with tequila and do a beach wedding in Mexico? Yes, the thought has crossed my mind and it may cross my mind again when I’m battling over who gets cut from the guest list... but at the end of the day, I’m THAT girl who dreamt about her wedding since she was little and I didn’t envision getting married by Elvis or having a mariachi band as the entertainment. Plus, I don’t have a creepy Uncle Lester, so I can rest assured that my tushy won’t be squeezed by any drunk, twice removed relatives.

So, my childhood dreams have put me in a wedding vendor headlock – I will have to succumb to extra fees and upgraded linens... so I’ll just skip my daily Starbucks run to save more money, I’ll try to leave my sensitivity at the door and realize that I can’t please EVERYONE (this will be the HARDEST thing for me to do)... oh wait, there is one thing that I have to deal with that can’t be avoided: competition.

My sister got married 1.5 years ago and she had a lovely wedding. The venue was great, the food was great, the music was great, the speeches were great (ahem, one of them being my own, ahem), and it all happened for a great price (or at least “great” in comparison of what I’m looking at). Grrrreeeeeaaatttt.

The pros of having gone through my sister’s wedding planning is that we know what won’t work... but I’m more concerned about what WILL work. And will my wedding be as great? Okay, okay... I hear you... I shouldn’t compare my day to anyone else’s, but if you were in my shoes you’d feel the same way... its like telling someone the mountain size zit on their forehead doesn’t look “that bad” when you damn well that they look like they have a mini Mt. St. Helen’s on their face.

But enough whining – where do I go from here? Sell one of my kidneys on the black market? Eh, I probably shouldn’t. Snap out of pity party mode and plan the big, fat Chicago wedding of my dreams? Most definitely. As I try to stay level headed, I’ll run into tears, heartburn and bouts of “let’s forget about all of this and go to Vegas”, but in the end it will all be worth it because I'm THAT girl who has dreamt about her wedding since she was little and my dream come true will be waiting for me at the end of the aisle... and THAT is what matters. (oh, and good reception food matters because no one likes a hard potato and tasteless chicken)

No Offense, You Know?

No offense, but I really don’t like when people preface sentences with “no offense”. If you start a statement with that phrase, what you’re really saying to whoever you’re talking to is that what you’re about to spit out will greatly offend them, but because you said “no offense”, they really can’t get mad at you. It’s the proverbial “not it” of the language world.

People who use that phrase almost seem to leverage it to lessen the pain of a rude remark, kind of like mixing medicine into apple sauce to make it go down easier. But for those people who have ever had “no offense, but...” directed at them actually consider the phrase to be the antiseptic wipe right before you feel the pain of a needle – sure, the wipe is nice and cool, but you know what’s coming shortly after and its not going to be fun.

If you’re telling me not be offended, chances are I probably will be, so why insult me with your irony when you should just cut to the chase?

So those are my thoughts on that random, futile “pre” sentence phrase... how about we talk about “post” sentence nonsense like, “you know?” Now that’s another pointless utterance that drives me up a wall because it usually proceeds a confusing/nonsensical statement to signal that the confusing speaker no longer wants to discuss the topic and wants you to ponder the confusing message they just shared.

You will normally hear “you know?” when a person either:

• a) doesn’t want to elaborate any further in fear of insulting you – example? “I just really don’t want your ex-girlfriend there, you know?” Translation? “I really don’t want your ex-girlfriend there because she’s annoying and makes me uncomfortable and I’m angry that you would even suggest she be there”. In this case, the “you know” is understood and I suppose it has eliminated many dramatic confrontations, but I’m all about being honest and if you abuse “you know” in those sensitive situations, you are really just hiding your feelings and you’ll soon be saying, “LISTEN JERK, I HATE YOUR DAMN EX, YOU KNOW???”.
• Or b) doesn’t quite know what to say or do and is confused and hopes you’ll just let it go and figure it out yourself – example? “How about you just do some research, compile it in that report thingy, you know?” Translation? "All I know is that we need to do some research and I'm not sure how to even start it, and I don't even know if we have a report you could repurpose. In fact, I hope you understand it better than I do or just figure it out on your own so I can just walk away now and not feel so dumb." Ugh. That’s the worst use of “you know?” in my book.

And speaking of my book, let me tell you about my own experience with these ineffective phrases. Now don’t get scared, but I had someone use BOTH phrases in ONE sentence... this tale is better left for a late night campfire accompanied with a flashlight held up to my chin, but since I doubt I’ll be roasting marsh mellows with you all around a bond fire anytime soon, I shall divulge the details now...

Someone recently said to me, “No offense, but I just think you’re too serious, you know?” Wow. That’s like mixing medicine in my applesauce, right before you give me a shot, followed by a kick in the stomach. Ouch. This statement drove me crazy because this person assumed I would be offended by being told I was “serious”. Since when is being “serious” a really bad thing? And on top of that, I don’t think I’m serious (this person obviously doesn’t read my blog), so the “you know?” really left me confused because guess what? I DON’T know what you’re talking about and if I asked this person to explain themselves, they would be tongue tied and probably wet themselves.

So, I took this terribly ineffectual comment with a grain of salt and decided it was a compliment because let’s face it, those people who purposely offend you and then can’t explain themselves are most likely just threatened by you or stupid or a combination of both.

So no offense, but how about we all just say what we mean and mean what we say, you know?

Uncomfortable Fridays

I think whoever it was in Corporate America who decided that wearing jeans on Friday would be some kind of privilege must have been wearing sweat pants at the time. Let’s get real, people - if you’re a woman who appreciates good, trendy denim, than you KNOW wearing jeans is not a blessing, it’s a curse.

Jeans are hands down the one clothing item that everyone hates, but yet why are they embraced at work as a symbol of relaxation? Today my company allowed us to wear jeans (I know, I know its Monday... how scandalous!) and let me tell you, I’m everything BUT relaxed. My “work” pants consist of wide legged, high wasted trousers that are far more comfortable than my tight butted, low rise jeans. As I sit here typing, I can feel my jeans digging into the stomach fat that I normally can tuck away in my normal work garb.

You ask, “if you are so confined by your trendy jeans, why don’t you buy more comfortable ones, Stejamoe?” Sure, I’ll wear comfortable Lee jeans with a high waste, wide butt and tapered leg and then you can call me “mom”. No thanks.

So here’s my dilemma - wear your corporate pants which are ultimately more comfortable five days a week and get seen as uptight, but wear jeans on casual Friday and truly be uptight because your pants are well... TIGHT.

When I think casual and comfortable, I think sweat pants – so what about making casual Fridays into sweat/stretch pant Friday? No? Then tell me what’s the difference between wearing something to work you’d normally wear to bed or for lounging and wearing an uncomfortable fabric that you’ll find in every hick bar across America? Personally, I think the former is not only more comfortable, but less tacky.

So sit on that casual thought for a while... and while you sit on it, I’ll be sitting at work pretending that I’m comfortable.

Never Underestimate a Tuesday

If you were to be any day of the week, what would you be? At first thought, I bet you’d NEVER be Tuesday. Think about it... everyone hates Monday because it’s the start of the week, but at least it’s a powerful day regardless of its negative connotation. Wednesday is “hump day” – how fun is that? This day has its own nickname, thus a beloved addition to the calendar and represents the light at the end of the work week tunnel. Thursday is the “cool kid” on the block as it’s known by many as “Thirsty Thursday” and the preliminary start of the weekend... once you hit Thursday, you know Friday is right around the corner. And Friday. God bless Friday. What a day. You may still have a job to do but you can hear the weekend knocking and if you work, you know that Friday is always a slow, mellow day in the office (not my office per say, but I’ve heard rumors that low-key Fridays do exist). Saturday is Saturday. Enough said. And Sunday is not only holy, but also is the quintessential “school night”.

So what’s Tuesday other than boring? What a random day. It’s not bad or good. It just sits there after the most hated day of the week and waits to introduce hump day. Talk about being a red headed step child.

However, if I have learned anything over the years, it’s to never take a single day for granted and to never underestimate the importance of a Tuesday. Heck, I would even venture to say that I would willingly identify with a Tuesday because the red headed step child day of the week has changed my life.

It was a Tuesday night during the April of my sophomore year at college and I was living every young man’s dream – I was calling a house packed with sorority girls my home, participating in occasional pillow fights and gossiping all night long, scantily clad in boy shorts and a tank top (only some of that is true, and to avoid crushing teenage boys dreams everywhere, I won’t divulge which parts).

I remember this specific Tuesday night so well. Earlier that evening I took a run through campus listening to my Discman – yes, this was the PRE-iPod era – and I remember later that night I wore cropped jeans with one of those ponchos that were so popular at the time – the ones that went over your head and ultimately looked like you were trying to hide a good 50 lbs of weight. That night our house cook made spaghetti for dinner paired with a terrible Oreo cheesecake for dessert. I remember this specific Tuesday night so well.

This specific Tuesday night, my sorority was hosting a dinner for a fraternity that just established itself on campus. Like any good sorority girls, we needed to be cordial and invite these young men to our house to make a good impression, which would consequently lead them to believe that our house was THE best house with THE best girls and maintain our competitive advantage in the Greek system – ah, those were some good, shallow times. And on this specific Tuesday night, I met someone very special.

Fast forward four years.

It was a Tuesday night during the April of my sophomore year of life (aka, two years out of college) and I remember this specific Tuesday night so well. Just like that Tuesday night four year ago, I remember what I wore, what I ate and what I did that day. The special someone who I met just four years prior, was with me this Tuesday night, but instead of sitting across from me at a sorority dinner, he was on one knee asking me to spend the rest of my life with him. I'll remember this specific Tuesday forever.

As I begin to plan my life with this person, I look forward to EVERY single day, because I know that each day can bring something exciting. Based on my experience, I’ve promised myself to not fear Mondays and wish for Saturdays, but to embrace the entire week because you never know what life changing moment can happen on a boring Tuesday night.

Generation Y Not?

Generation Y includes those people born between 1980 and 1995. They are the generation that grew up with successful baby boomer parents, who didn’t make them walk to school up hill both ways, but gave them a car to drive. They are the generation that learned to use a computer before learning how to speak. They are the generation that was given more opportunities than the generations before them could ever dream of. There are a little under 80 million of these pampered, tech savvy youngins’ and they’re taking over the workplace and driving employers insane as they do it.

Recently, a SmartMoney.com columnist wrote an interesting article for employers who have to manage this new breed of adults, because Generation Y is not like any workforce companies have seen. According to this journalist, this new generation tends to "be a little high maintenance," as these young professionals demand more benefits and freedom. Generation Y typically didn’t have to worry about going without as their parents were part of the most successful generation to date, and with that security, Generation Y was able to study abroad, take on risky endeavors and not stress as much about the future and instead was able to live in the now.

What a lucky group. Well, a lucky and stuck up group according to most critics. You’ll find a lot of articles about this generation and the debate is over whether all this opportunity has gone to their heads making them entitled little brats or whether this opportunity has given them the confidence to create a better, more ambitious workplace.

The SmartMoney.com columnist recommends four things that employers should keep in mind to make sure they appease this growing workforce of young twenty somethings, because after all, we really are an untapped resource that potentially could revolutionize business as we know it, and if nothing else, we’ll be taking over the workplace in the next twenty years anyway, so you better get used to us. Since the columnist isn’t part of Generation Y, let’s see how well she captured what “we” really want.

First , the columnist encourages employers to “fully engage young workers”. I would say that I prefer to have a few things to juggle – I don’t stress multitasking, I embrace it. According to the article, since Generation Y grew up an era of technology revolution, we should be given the opportunity to leverage what we know recreationally and apply it to our jobs. So yes, I want a job that allows me to flex my creative muscle and demonstrate how my age is one of my strengths and not my weakness.

The second piece of advice is to “improve retention through incentives” – DUH. I’m pretty sure this advice applies not only to a young college graduate, but also to a 40 something with a high profile job, to a toddler being potty trained and to a dog learning to sit. No matter what generation, incentives are something we all respond to and want; however, I do think that Generation Y is more inclined to actually ASK for the incentives instead of patiently waiting for them. There is that whole Generation Y “entitlement” thing that critics complain about. But I personally think employers should appreciate such forwardness because unlike our 40 something counterpart who may leave a company because they weren’t compensated enough, at least you can try to salvage a position if you know ahead a time what your employee wants.

The columnist also recommends that employers should meet regularly with their Generation Y employees. This is something I completely agree with. Generation Y was raised to be social and growing up we had access to a crazy amount of social activities and have really come to depend on constant communication. So to all employers – the more you meet with your Generation Y employees the better off you’ll be because with each meeting you are creating a social bond that turns into loyalty, which is something that employers complain that their Generation Y employees do not have. Talk to us more and you’ll get a lot more bang for your buck.

Finally, it is recommended to “be true to your culture”. If you’re a formal, buttoned-up bank, don’t put a pool table in the break room just show how “hip” and Generation Y friendly you are. Generation Y is smart bunch of kids and we see right through those kind of things and resent it. Don’t insult us and think that “casual Fridays” makes up for an uptight office – we’re onto you – be real and we’ll do the same.

So overall, I think the columnist gave some pretty good recommendations to manage Generation Y, but there are a few others I’d like to add. Employers – are you listening?! These are pearls of wisdom...

Embrace the ambitious, ditch the lazy – Our generation is part of the most competitive entry-level workforces in history, so we see the good, the bad and the ugly. Don’t be fooled by Generation Y – we’re not all creative, hard working and innovative. Some of us are disguised as ambitious and end up being useless, so please recognize that because those of us who are really the keepers get frustrated when a lazy kid gets a job just because he/she has a blog – no amount of tech savvyness will dig you out of the holes that these sketchy, young morons can create for you.

Don’t remind us how young we are – I think my biggest pet peeve is when I’m reminded that I’m “so young”. I’m not denying I’m young and fairly inexperienced, because I’m both. But I found that generations before us, specifically those people who fall just outside Generation Y, really like to emphasize our youth and I’m thinking it might have to do with a small bit of jealousy – we may have been give a lot of opportunity, but a lot of us have worked hard in our short lifetimes.

We may have nontraditional work styles, but we still have traditions – Although Generation Y has introduced unconventional ideas to the business world and opened up unique and innovative doors for employers, it doesn’t mean we don’t value conventional lifestyles. Forget about Samantha Jones, you’d be surprised by how many of us want to get married before 30. We go to family birthday parties. We want to have dinner at a decent time. We value our time outside of work. Yes, we’re definitely an ambitious bunch, but that ambition applies to our personal lives as well so don’t think that adding a high-tech espresso machine to the office is going to make us happy as we work late, letting us have a life outside work is the best energy boost of all.

So, to all those employers fearing the Generation Y workforce invasion: don’t sweat it. Don’t think you have to bend over backwards for us because at the end of the day, we need you just as much as you need us. However, taking advice on how to manage us better may just benefit you in more ways than one because everyone could gain from some extra communication and a more relaxed work environment.

The next time you are faced with making a change to appease this young group, give it a try and don’t ask yourself “why”, ask yourself “Y not?”

How do you spell Chipotle? L-O-V-E

Why do I LOVE Chipotle? First, let me state the obvious. Who doesn’t love a full, delicious meal wrapped in a convenient tortilla shell? I mean, come on. Its not only mouthwatering, it’s portable. And recently, I was granted 10 of these foil covered morsels for FREE after my business card was pulled from a raffle. Could a girl get any luckier?! Well actually, as I ate my free burrito, I was keeping my eye open for a hidden diamond ring, but my luck had apparently run out. Next burrito.

So why am I gushing over these burritos? Two reasons: one, they were free and I mean, how cool is that? The cost of 10 burritos probably totals a little under 70 bucks and if you ask me, that’s one nice giveaway. Leave it to Chipotle to be generous to the common man. And two, I ordered all the food through their “DSL” website, which stands for “Don’t Stand in Line”, and I was very impressed.

I’ll admit that at first I was a bit confused with the whole online ordering process. In fact, I accidently processed a “practice order” of mine and had to call the restaurant at 8 am to cancel my mistake. My bad. Once I finally got it down, I had a laundry list of complicated orders and a few special requests; one of my colleagues didn’t want cilantro in his rice and I assumed asking Chipotle to make a cilantro-less burrito is like ordering Oreo cookie ice cream without the Oreo – pretty much impossible. But I made the request anyway and I also asked that they label each burrito with a name of the person they would go to – a shot in the dark request, but wouldn’t that just make life so much easier? I then specified the time I would be in and hoped for the best.

Now, I have never been one to have much luck with to-go orders. Something always seems to be missing and someone always ends up getting upset. In this case with the burritos, the pressure was really on because what if the boss’s burrito missing?!

When I arrived to pick up my order, I happily bypassed the hungry lunchtime crowd standing in line. After identifying myself and handing over my credentials (i.e. the “Congratulations, you’re a winner!” certificate), I was handed two full bags and immediately was astonished to see that the burritos had a name associated with each one; if they were the correct name, I wasn’t sure and didn't even care... I was just amazed that they did it.

So I come barreling back into the office like a Mexican Santa with sacks full of Chipotle and lo and behold the right names are on the right order. [insert wiping of brow]. Now the final test would be when my boss bit into his burrito – would he find cilantro and fire me? Or would he be greeted by plain rice and realize what an asset I am to the team? Well, let’s just say that I’m a burrito bearing asset. I didn’t even know that Chipotle would honor cilantro-less requests. What a place. This is why I L-O-V-E Chipotle.

Yours, Mine and Ours.

Marriage is on my mind, I can’t help it. It seems that where ever I turn there is something relating to holy matrimony – either someone I know is getting engaged or there is a marathon of a Wedding Story on TLC or I look up in the sky and see clouds that resemble a 5 tiered wedding cake. Recently, even random one off conversations result in a mention of marriage as the other day, a friend of mine asked me if I thought it was weird that a couple would share the same email address once they tied the knot. So for example, if John marries Jane, then their one and only email address would be something like, john&jane@gmail.com.

This random question arose when this friend of mine received an email from a newly married couple announcing that they would be ditching their separate email accounts and creating one joint account that they both could access. Good bye are the days of e-solidarity for this twosome, through the vow of marriage, they have meshed their lives, their homes, their families and the random “You know you’re a redneck when...” forwards they receive from friends bored at work.

So what do you think about sharing your personal email account with your significant other? Personally, I would never do it. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing to hide electronically from the love of my life, because what fills my personal inbox are emails about the latest products from Coach and e-cards from my mom; however, when I’m married, I plan on sharing pretty much everything and having a personal email account will be one of the last solo ventures I keep.

So beyond the personal email account, I’m pretty much an advocate meshing everything with your spouse – if you listen carefully you can hear the screams and expletives of feminists from around the globe, cursing my decision to “lose” my identity to a man. Say what you will, hairy feminists, my decision has nothing to do with gender power, it has to do with the power found in numbers.

Did your mom ever tell you not to walk alone at night? Or that you could go to the mall as long as you were with a group? For me, I feel that when you get married you have a permanent clique comprising of you and your spouse. If the person you say “I Do” to is the right one, they will back you up, protect you and take half of all your stresses (give or take a few).

For example, I believe that finances should be shared when you get hitched; none of this, “funny money” bank accounts that you each hide from one another, never knowing exactly how much the other has, thinking that it may be enough to fund that air conditioner repair that supposedly you don’t have the shared moolah for.

When the day comes for me to me tie the knot, I want my husband to share half of our financial burdens if for no other reason to spread out the stress. And yes, I’ll be able to buy my designer handbag every now again and he can splurge on season tickets to the Brewers, its just that the funds for both will come out of the same pot of gold. And please don’t start to argue with me, I KNOW that this technique doesn’t work for everyone and thank goodness, because I’m NOT everyone. You do what you want and I’ll have a joint bank account.

So how could someone like me who is so for sharing money with her spouse not be into sharing an email address? The last time I checked, my bank statement doesn’t let me send invitations for a surprise party and doesn’t forward funny sayings about how stupid men can be. Email is trivial, finances are not, and I personally think major things need to be faced head on with your partner in crime. So when it comes to a marital relationship, I say share what makes you comfortable, even if that includes an email address, and keep those things separate that will help prevent confrontations ... bathroom towels, closet space, toothbrushes, etc., because “what mine is yours” is not always the case.

I've Gone Bananas Over You.

Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching and if you listen carefully you can hear the sarcastic sighs and pessimistic groans of those who do not have a special someone to spend the holiday with. To them, Valentine’s Day is consumerism’s way of shoving their singlehood in their face. With every heart shaped candy and every mushy card on display, these anti V-day warriors point and shoot their cynical guns, while all I want to do is put a daisy in the barrel and give them a lame Hallmark card with a monkey saying, “I’ve gone bananas over you”.

I personally love, dare I say “heart”, Valentine’s Day. Always have and always will. It has been my favorite holiday, even trumping Christmas, since I was chubby, snaggle toothed kid and if I remember correctly, I wasn’t in a serious relationship during my elementary school days, and the only man in my life that tugged at my heart strings was Big Bird... and did Big Bird even have a sex? I mean, the bird didn’t even wear pants for God’s sake.

So why should you embrace Valentine’s Day with or without a romantic rendezvous?

As a child, Valentine’s Day was just another reason to celebrate and get hopped up on sugar, and unlike the anticipation of Christmas that causes young kids to lose sleep over a fat man with a cookie addiction, Valentine’s day has a quick and simple arrival with limited stress, and instead of reindeer with lethal antlers, you get a cute little cherub flying around with a painless bow and arrow. You would share cards with your entire class and for once, everyone felt included... even if that meant you gave all the boys and that girl who smelled like cheese the “ugly” Valentines with the non-chocolate candy.

As an adult, Valentine’s Day is a great excuse to get in touch with friends and remind those around you how much you love them – and I’m not talking about the romantic, mushy love, I’m talking about the relationships you have with your friends and coworkers. Who doesn’t like a little card every now and again? And that’s all you need to give – something small and sweet that does NOT force you to take a hammer to the good ol’ piggy bank. And when Valentine’s Day comes to an end, you aren’t left with two months of leftovers, two months of debt and post-holiday depression.

All of this goodness aside, there are still people out there, primarily women, who when they start seeing the red of Valentine’s Day immediately get the blues. Some people feel that if they don’t have someone special to share the romantic time of year with, then the holiday is a complete bust. Yes, Valentine’s Day is obviously a very couple oriented holiday; however, you need to look beyond the dinners for two and make time for a dinner for 6 and get together your close friends and family and celebrate.

So this year, don’t decide to sulk on February 14th, don’t stay in and rent sappy love movies and don’t sit around with equally bitter people and moan about the woes of love. Go out, be happy, send a friend a funny card and enjoy the stressful, cheap holiday. You may even be pleasantly surprised to learn that someone has “gone bananas over you”.

Hello, Lent. Good Bye, Coffee.

Yesterday was Fat Tuesday. Did you eat enough? I, myself, indulged in a Chipotle burrito that I later regretted as I laid in bed cuddling with a nasty case of heart burn. My queen size bed was definitely not big enough for the two of us as my hyper indigestion demanded attention from my exhausted burrito stuffed body. Let’s just say that I truly put the Fat in Fat Tuesday.

Now it’s Ash Wednesday, my burrito has been digested and it’s the start of Lent. Traditionally, Christians “give up” something enjoyable over the next 40 days to represent the sacrifice JC made, and for me, my annual Lenten sacrifice is a way of making up for all the 325 unholy days in my year. I take this Lent thing seriously and have decided that I will put my mug down, say good bye to my Starbucks barista and give up.... wait for it... COFFEE... dun dun DUN.

If you know me, you know I love me a good cup o’ joe. And I’m not just a Starbucks snob, no sir. I enjoy my java any way I can get it; Folger’s at home, a good old fashion brew at a diner, and yes, even a cup of capitalism at a ubiquitous coffeehouse. By hanging up my coffee mug for the next 40 days, I’m giving up something that has become a daily comfort and by saying farewell to my beloved drink of choice, I’m presenting myself with a challenge and that’s what a Lenten sacrifice is all about.

For you cheaters out there, giving up TV when you barely turn on the tube or deciding to drink less cocktails when you’re averaging only one glass of wine per week, will send you straight to Hell. Okay, that was a bit dramatic, but giving up something that isn’t truly a physical and mental sacrifice doesn’t really count – why even bother then?

But the more I think about, it does seem a bit ridiculous that modern society has determined that if you truly enjoy and depend on something like candy, smoking, coffee or all of the above, giving up your guilty pleasure is a fair trade for a holy figure’s life. Well, wait. Did they even have coffee when Jesus around?! If Jesus had access to a Jerusalem Starbucks, I think he’d agree that us modern folk who give up espresso is his honor are truly dedicated to faith. But seriously, how can giving up a truly trivial habit represent the ultimate sacrifice? Although, in our current day and age, it’s not very realistic for me to pack up and tromp through the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. I don’t have 40 days vacation built up yet.

However, I don’t think trudging through sand or giving up something that could drastically impact your life in negative way is what JC would have wanted from us. No matter how small your Lenten sacrifice, it’s still a sacrifice... but, remember... if you don’t like chocolate and decide that you’re giving it up, you’re just lame and I hope you choke on a piece of non-chocolate candy.

Chocolate and Starbucks aside, times have changed and no matter what religion you are, how you decide to express your faith is up to you as long as you know you aren’t cheating yourself or what you believe in. I have a very good friend who just left for Israel to really experience her Jewish roots first hand and she the epitome of faithful dedication. For me, I think I’ll stick with my 40 day coffee hiatus to show my own religious commitment. Baby steps... baby steps.