the things I should do

I won't sugar-coat it: I can be uber lazy.

I was extremely motivated to lead many extraciricular lives in high school -- from the School Board to cheerleading to Student Council and Students Against Drunk Driving.

I believe the laziness officially took hold at some point during my spring semester freshman year in college. This is probably not uncommon. But it took hold in a big way for me. It started with not doing my French homework about once a week. I didn't like taking French; I wasn't good at speaking or reading or understanding French; I had no interest in going to France or any other French-speaking location. So occasionally I skipped my French homework to talk on IM with my then-long-distance boyfriend, or to download the latest Dido song on Napster, or to Dome-jump (its not half as dangerous as it sounds, by the way. Not only am I lazy, but I am also quite cautious). After that, I eased into my laziness a bit more... to procrastinating on papers and studying for exams. Then I toughened up. I stopped studying French altogether. At my final oral exam, Spring semester of my freshman year, the only phrase I rehearsed walking up to meet my professor was, "I don't know." I said that 15 times during my exam (he counted). After, my professor told me (in English) that it made him sad that I had so little interest in this, considering I had told him I was a reasonably good French student in high school. I admitted that that meant that my French teacher in high school liked me. I couldn' speak the language worth a damn, but she just liked me. After that, I had fulfilled my language requirement, and stopped speaking French completely. Now, the only thing I remember is "c'est impossible!" and that's only because I am newly obsessed with Dinner: Impossible on the Food Network and the show makes me think of that phrase. Because everything Robert Irvine does is impossible!! (In my dream last night, he was playing the role of my boyfriend. Also impossible.)

Later on in college I stopped studying for exams -- even finals -- altogether. The only class I ever studied for was my Television Crit classes. Partly because I cared, but mostly because my professor's tests were unbearably difficult. Once, even when I did study, I got a 52% on my exam. To my credit, though, after taking my third class with this prof, I was scoring 98% almost every time. For the other classes, though, I favored watching Sex & the City on DVD with my roommate to even looking at a book. But, as a television major, that wasn't the worst possible thing I could do.

Now my laziness flucuates wildly. As I've posted before, I occassionaly forgo work for watching Grey's Anatomy at my desk. While other times, like last week for example, I don't give myself a minute to breathe non-publicity-related air while at work. This week I am back to being lazy. I am already contemplating which episode of Grey's to watch tomorrow.

The thing about being lazy, at least for me, is that I spend an awful lot of time thinking about the things I should be doing instead of being lazy. In college it was that I should have been doing some kind of assigned reading. Today it was that I could have called a few more journalists to pitch my client's latest product.

But I don't. Because I'm kind of lazy.

confession of the week

Sometimes on Fridays, while I'm supposed to be working, I download episodes of Grey's Anatomy on iTunes. I lock my office door and enjoy McDreamy for 45 minutes of my company's time.

saving the world, one organic bath towel at a time

Sometimes I feel like I am the picture of change. I often think what a different person I was just five years ago.

Then: I eagerly anticipated my college graduation, moving to New York, and getting a "real" job.
Now: I eagerly anticipate winning the lottery, early retirement and moving out of New York.

One thing that I find radically different about myself is my approach to the world around me. I was not always the balanced, eco-friendly, world-hugging person you know and love today. The problems that I had while growing up once consumed me, and I am often thought only of myself and those around me (usually those around me more than myself, though [but, believe me, I'm certainly not bragging there]). Today, I can honestly say that I do my best to think globally.

I recently moved and needed a lot of new items for my fancypants new apartment. When I purchased these products, I took both eco-friendly and my more traditional products into consideration. With very few exceptions, I chose the eco-friendly options. I did things like clean with all environmentally safe products, order organic groceries and buy organic cotton bath towels free of unfriendly dyes.

I remember when I was six or seven, Nickelodeon started a marketing campaign with the then-new buzz phrase "reduce, reuse, recycle." I distinctly recall thinking that all the whole thing was stupid and it didn't apply to me. I mean, it wasn't like the polar ice caps were going to melt if I didn't recycle my soda can...

Right.

I can't exactly remember now why I had this mentality. I blame (at least partially) my parents. My father only started recycling when I was around 10 or 11. And even then, I think it was because it amused him to crush the cans. My mother still doesn't recycle. I now beg and plead but she makes a million excuses. I remind her that when Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn flood, her grandchildren and I will be washed into New York Bay and swallowed into the Atlantic. This has yet to phase her. And since I live three hours away from her, I can hardly mandate my recycling policy there.

I've personally committed myself to helping to protect the environment and limiting my own carbon footprint. I've made it a priority for me. I hope one day the energy-saver lightbulb goes on over the rest of my family's head, too.

the coffee drinker

I've been working very hard over the past year to achieve a mystical, likely unrealistic, idea of adulthood. I got my very own apartment and big girl furniture (ie. none of it is neon in color, as it was in my college years). Then I started trying real cheese. Like, not the Velveeta cheese on which I was raised. I'm now a huge fan of goat cheese. I started appreciating my father, not for bailing me out on my rent when I needed it, but for being my biggest supporter of things big and small. My dad never forgets to say, "my daughter, I'm proud of you..." or sometimes just, "I know you're trying and you're doing just fine."

Adulthood has required an excrutiating amount of mental change for me. I'm sure it does for most people. I'm not ashamed to say that, in the thick of my growth, I slipped into a serious depression. I think this probably happens to a lot of people, too. I sought help, and I am proud of myself for admitting that it was too much for me on my own. I worked hard to understand things in a new way and I'm doing much better -- in every aspect of my life -- than I was just a year ago.

2007 was very painful for me. I went through everything from a break-up to depression to a brain tumor scare. But everything is fine now. I am fine now. I am less worried about getting a ring on my finger and more focused on making relationships work. My breakdowns, now, are much more warranted, and on occasion, necessary. Like when I could have been homeless. Last year they were mostly about not liking to do laundry.

Ideas that didn't make sense my whole life are beginning to come together for me now. Twenty-six is apparently my time to get a hold on things.

This post was originally meant to be about me beginning to drink coffee. I've always hated the taste of coffee. But, this morning, when I could barely get out of bed and it was cold, I thought today would be the day to stop at Starbucks and continue to slow descent into adulthood. With a vanilla latte. And it was pretty good. I woke up a bit and I'm considering another when I head out for lunch. Like, wow.

bang for your real estate buck

I read in Glamour this month that the average monthly rent for women is something like $425. In New York, it's closer to three times that amount, if not four.

I've spent the last few weeks tirelessly looking for a new apartment. I don't want a four-bedroom, 3.5 bath duplex on Park Avenue. I want a studio in Hoboken for less than half of my monthly salary. I didn't think this would be an impossible feat, but it seems to have turned into one.

I've had two panic attacks since my search started. I've called well over a dozen realtors (an aside: when did realtors stop wanting commission? Nearly every realtor I've encountered has been unhelpful at best. Is my money less green than everyone else's? You'd think the desperation in my voice would be like blood in the water to them...). And I've managed to see three... count 'em, THREE apartments. All within my price range, yet all miserable in their own way. The first I saw had an archaic heating system. All heat radiated from the oven; something straight out of the early 1900's, not 2007. This apartment, while fine in other ways, also had an exposed water heater in the middle of the kitchen. Meaning, should it have ever exploded, I may have floated away into oblivion.

The second, in a lovely area of Park Slope, was slightly larger than a matchbox car. When my brother was four or five he had a twin bed shaped like a race car. That may be the only bed that would fit in this place. My plush queen didn't even have a chance. Yes, New York is known for its small apartments, but for exactly half of my current take-home income, I'd like to be able to at least have my bed. The kitchen cabinets were another (albeit small) issue. At 5'2", I could only (barely) reach the bottom most cabinet. I would have needed a full-sized ladder to reach any of the others.

In the third, the bathroom was immediately OUTSIDE the front door. That's all I will say about that.

I have to vacate my current apartment in 12 days. I feel panic attack number three coming on.

Nothing works.

I have an ever-growing list of things that don't work. Hotmail (especially today) being at the top of my list. Items behind that include: realtors, my alarm clock, my work computer, flash drives, attracting bloggers' attention (they hate publicists, and really, who can blame them), my tastebuds and anti-humidity hair products.

And despite any effort I've made, all of these things continue to frustrate me.

Mother of Two by 31?

I was asked yesterday if I thought I might be a mother of two by age 31. I, of course, can only speculate here, since its my 26th birthday around the corner, not my 30th, but I'm going to say no. For two reasons... 1. While I really like children, at (nearly) 26, I can still barely nourish myself properly. I might be okay for the first few months with breastfeeding, but when I have to choose between organic carrots and pizza-like substances in a jar, I'll probably be lost.

And 2. If I actually did have children in the next five years, I would only have one (unless, of course, the goddess of twins blesses me, which I should probably just count on). I believe that, for myself, children should never outnumber parents. So two is really pushing it.

But since I work in children's media for 90% of my day, I often think about the raising of my own. Last week, I spent several hours per day researching the phenomenon of mommy blogging. And I phenomenom that I find, by the way, utterly fantastic. Some of these women whose blogs I stumbled upon are insanely cool. I want to be them. Minus, of course, the challenges they must face in properly nourishing their children.

Also on the parenting/adulthood note, I watched the premiere of Tell Me You Love Me on HBO last night. I found myself wondering a few things... is this porn? Are they trying to capture only the dull elements of coupledom? Which of these three couples are living my life? I'll give it another chance, but episode one get a "not compelling enough for a series" rating.

the politics of public relations

Dick Cheney was on Larry King last night. I watched a good bit of it. It went something like this... "blah, blah, blah, I'm always right, blah, blah, everyone but me sucks, blah, blah, the American public doesn't know what they're talking about if they think we're doing a bad job, blah, blah, blah, I swear I'm not Darth Vader... and so on. It was, um, riveting? Sure.


And then, this morning I read this:

There's No Such Thing As Bad Publicity

Ever since I snagged this gig as White House communications director last year, I've gotten my fair share of condolences from friends and...