Rom-Com Journalist Types

I seldom blog on the weekends, but I just spent my morning watching "Morning Glory" which came yesterday from Netflix and features a super-amazingly-gorgeous Rachel McAdams (I totally have a girl crush). The movie very obviously plays to a specific target audience. But as a rom-com loving, hardworking female journalist, I definitely fall into that category. I find McAdams easy to relate to, partly because she's a struggling journalist and partly because I've had bangs before, too; I know how tempting it is to tussle them every two seconds.

Anyway, the movie literally had my eyes watering from laughing at times. It's no Academy Award winner, but when I discussed it with my fellow female journalist (and super close friend/sister/Bahama buddy) Laura Nelson, I mentioned that I was tempted to buy the movie. Truth is, I love those journalistic rom-coms. Sure, they're unrealistic; I mean, one would assume that all journalists are 25 and gorgeous. But they're feel good movies with strong central female roles that I relate to. Needless to say, I own way too many of them.

And now, for no apparent reason and jut because I want to, here's a list of all the  journalism/writing movies I can think of (and I own most of them!):

• The Devil Wears Prada
• How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days
• 13 Going on 30
• Confessions of a Shopaholic
• Letters to Juliet 
• Julie and Julia
• Eat, Pray, Love
• Bridget Jones' Diary
• Little Women
• 27 Dresses (she works at a magazine)
• Under the Tuscan Sun
• Post Grad
• Morning Glory
• Sex in the City

Today's Obsession: Ariat

I mentioned yesterday how much I loved my cowboy boots. They were on the list of htings I had paid a bit more for, but loved exponentially more because of it. Unfortunately, however, I love my boots so much that I wear them to bits. And introducing them to Boston winters wasn't the nicest thing I've done. They've been weathered and worn and need some major TLC from a cobbler. Or a replacement.

Buying boots is like buying a prom dress. During high school, I would start looking at dresses in December. And by the time buying time came around, I knew exactly what I wanted. I had seen all the styles and fished through designers' catalogs and had my choices narrowed down.

For boots, there's only one place I really feel comfortable buying, and that's the Boot Barn in San Diego. When I bought my first pair, they gave me an employee's discount. It was awesomeeee. Plus, while I'm happy to shop around online, the in-store try-on is incredibly fantastic. It's important to ensure that one's beloved boots fit correctly, hit in the right part of the shin and are badass enough.

But that doesn't mean I haven't been browsing online. With my first pair, I bought one with both brown and black so that I could wear it with anything. But I'm thinking it's about time I invest in multiple pairs. These caught my eye because they're vintage looking and a summer-y brown, but they're almost too conventional (If cowboy boots in New York can be conventional). Practicality be damned, I could definitely do with a pair in black or a super crazy colored pair (like these!). You can never have too many shoes. Obsessed.

Ariat Women's Heritage Western Boots in Red, $140

Today's Obsession: Book Buddy

Locked away in a storage facility in Poway, Calif. is one of my most prized possessions: my books. For a personal finance class, I once had to calculate my net worth and the majority of it was on my bookshelves. I estimated that the dozen-or-so full boxes of books that now reside in the storage unit amounted to some $1800+.

One of those boxes, marked “Personal Classics” contains some of my favorite books of all time. Thinking about them now is like flipping through old scrapbooks. I’m nostalgic for those books, for the thrill of finding another treasure worthy of that box. In it are my worn and torn copies of White Oleander, The Handmaid’s Tale and Brave New World (I have a thing for dystopic novels). Since then, I’ve found a select handful of books that I love as much. Whenever I move, I’m sure to pack my copy of Eat, Pray, Love (for inspiration) and Let the Great World Spin (a recent find).

Anyway, I was looking through Bas Bleu’s site and found this plush little accessory. What with being on co-op, I’ve been reading a lot more lately. And I’ve become re-familiarized with that slight ache in my shoulders from holding up a heavy book. This pillow is both practical and pretty (and probably an easy DIY project). Perfect for a book nerd like myself. Obsessed.

Bas Bleu – Book Buddy: Navy Faux Suede, $34

Investing in the Good Stuff

It was drizzling today on the way to work in that awkward I’m-not-going-to-really-rain-just-sprinkle-enough-to-soak-your-shoes-and-make-you-cold way.

Growing up, I used to love the rain. But that was San Diego, where it rains five days a year. Rain meant that our house wouldn’t spontaneously combust. It was reason to celebrate.

That isn’t to say that I dislike rain now. But when I was younger, rain was something I was able to enjoy. From my living room, curled up by the fire with hot cocoa and a book. I wasn’t actually living in it. In fact, I didn’t even own a pair of rain boots until my senior year, when I bought myself a pair because I knew I’d be moving to a colder climate.

Anyway, walking to work today, my shoes did get wet, as did my hair. But I wasn’t necessarily cold. And when I evaluated my outfit, I realized the quality (and lack thereof) of my clothes.

Kmart flats, black drugstore tights, discount pencil skirt, H&M sweater… all of the basics of my outfit were well under $20. But my coat was a wool, black pea coat—the warmest I could possibly find in California, and a very expensive Christmas present from the Christmas before college. On my hands was a pair of insulated leather gloves that I bought myself when I was fifteen and hid in the back of my dresser because they were too pretty to wear.

The gloves probably cost something like $40—quite an investment for a 15-year-old, especially one that lives in a climate where I can’t wear gloves. And by asking for a quality coat for Christmas, I was sacrificing the opportunity to get something else. Something less useful, but more immediately satisfying.

I’m as big a fan of Forever 21 as the next frugalista who pays for her own clothes. Forever is good for cheap clothes—by any definition. But the most beloved, prized pieces in my closet are the ones I invested in: my leather jacket that I bought in Florence, my (very worn) cowboy boots that I bought as a graduation gift, my Marc Jacobs PanAm bag from my 16th birthday, my Marc Jacobs Daisy perfume that I bought somewhere over the Atlantic, my pearls, my sorority pin.

I don’t know if I care about them because they cost me, or if I was willing to pay more because I cared so much. But I have noticed that in many ways, you get what you pay for with clothes. And it makes a lot of sense to invest in the pieces that will last a lifetime and still be just as beautiful. That longevity is what makes those clothes classic.

Jackie O had "classic" down to a T.

Today's Obsession: woof (duh)

In the spirit of all things woof-tastic, here’s one of the shirts I designed. Designing was more for fun and I don’t really anticipate buying anything until all our branding is finished and secure (any graphic designers out there?), but I like this baby because it works for the magazine and is totally something that my dad and his boys need to get for their next testosterone-ridden reunion.

Check out all the designs and stuff here, but I don’t really recommend buying anything yet. I know we’re all excited, folks, but it’s still not a done deal. Nonetheless, you can bet I’ll be scouring etsy for the next lifetime looking for things that are woof-related along with all my periodic search for Paris and Kappa goodies. Woof is my new obsession. Ahhhhh so stoked. I’m a total nerd. Whatever. OBSESSED (But for realsies).

Cafe Press woofMagazine Mens Baseball Jersey, $20

I'ma Let the Dogs Out

Ladies and gents and four-legged friends…

The cat (or dog) is out of the bag. I just sent out an email to various writers, friends and colleagues announcing my new magazine. A while back, I mentioned that I had an idea about what to name it, and I’ve moved forward with that idea. The email is out, the positions are open and I’m set to have a Skype meeting with Northeastern’s Student Involvement Board a week from tomorrow.

I’ve already been working closely with someone on SIB and have cranked out a constitution and bylaws. But then I went ahead and made T-shirts… because that’s how I roll. So, my fellow huskies, be sure to keep your eyes peeled this fall (fingers crossed!) for the first edition of…

Here you go, Daddy. I may have written Ma a poem, but I named a magazine after you (so stop complaining). For those of you readers who aren’t my dad (there are more? Say what??), “woof” has some very deep roots in my family. So yes, we NU students are huskies and huskies woof. But the four letter word (one of the only ones I like) has much more meaning.

When my dad was growing up, he and his buddies used to call “wolf” to find one another. If it sounds silly, give it up; you know you had secret handshakes and the like. Anyway, somehow “wolf” morphed into woof. Even now, nearly half a decade later, it still stuck.

And it’s contagious. As those boys grew up and moved all over the state, woof spread from the core group to siblings, spouses and families. Somewhere in the morphing mix of things, it also became my dad’s nickname. Hence the shout out.

When I am walking around a public place—say, the grocery store—and need to find my mom (I always get lost in the cookie aisle), I’ll “woof,” rather than say “Mom.” After all, in Suburbia like PQ, there are tons of “Moms” in the grocery store.

I woof. And she woofs back. It’s inbred, instinctual. Even 3,000 miles from home, sometimes I hear something like “woof” and have to consciously stop myself from shouting. My childhood friends (especially Bo) are used to woof, and sometimes even use it to get my attention. But people here think I’m a little cuckoo. And there you have it: the real reasoning behind the name.

This magazine is quickly becoming my baby. But I’m thrilled to get the ball rolling. I have my mother’s habit of throwing myself into new and exciting adventures and this is no different. Stomach ulcers are all the rage this season, no?

So yes. Woof Magazine. Out this fall (**insert girly scream**).

 ###

Today's Obsession: Etc.

My boss here at MC is super awesome and she's recently been doing a little redecorating, finally getting settled and making her desk her own. I picked up a bunch of cute brocade stuff from The Containter Store for her, and last week she showed me this adorable mug she got from etsy that has a girl reading and says "lost in the pages." Tres, tres chic, non?

I didn't want the exact same thing but I did go on another etsy rampage and found this baby. I can't tell if I want to drink out of it, put pens in it, or just look at it. It makes me happy :) The store owner (loveartworks) has others that have letters instead, but the symbols communicate something more. It looks like what brain barf feels like. As the item description says, this mug is %^$&/#@^*%?!>/&#*%:$:&@^>#$%@?!&*!!"*. Translation? Awesome. Obsessed.

ETCETERA Incredible Textured Stamped and Glazed Mug, $42

For the Love of Food

I once messed up a box of Kraft Mac N Cheese. I am an absolutely hopeless cause when it comes to working in the kitchen. But that isn't to say I don't have a passion for it. If and when I devote the time (money) and effort to it, I thoroughly enjoy cooking. And when I can't find the time to cook, I still enjoy eating just as much. I've been spending the past couple of minutes looking through Cook's Country, some cute little foodie magazine I'd never heard of but that has amazing pictures and makes my mouth water.

It got me thinking about food, though. I walk home down Ninth Avenue and pass dozens of delicious-smelling, boutique-y, small, eclectic restaurants. Yes there are some that look like they've contracted some sort of STD, but the gems shine comparatively brighter compared to the ethnic grunge of Hell's Kitchen. I'm hungry all the time. And I'd be lying if I said I haven't Googled the best Italian restaurants or picked out where I'm making my parents take me when they come to visit. But this isn't the first time food (or the lack thereof) has defined me. For as long as I can remember, it's played an active and constant role in my life. So I decided to compile some little anecdotes about how food brought me to the three most incredible women I've ever met.

--

Mom: My mom's rule when it came to grocery shopping was that whichever child went got to pick out something they wanted. For my brothers, that meant taquitos and ice cream, but for me it meant something weird. I remember the first time my mom and I found celeriac. And persimmons. She was always experimental and fun about food. Even when we didn't know what something was, we would buy it and then look up how to cook it in The New Joy of Cooking when we got home. Celeriac was middle of the road, but oftentimes our science experiments yielded incredible results. I remember I once picked out Chinese long beans because I thought they looked like some sort of monster hair. But when we brought them home and learned how incredible they are sauteed, we were in legume heaven. Mouthgasmic bliss, right there. The first time I went vegetarian my junior year of high school, my mom did it with me as our Lenten sacrifice. And though I craved Carls Jr. jalapeno burgers almost as much as chocolate, we made it fun. I remember looking through vegetarian recipes and trying to make eggplants sound appealing. We made these ricotta cheese Italian roll-up things once and I swear the prep work took two hours. But they ended up being amazing.

My mom didn't make me lunches until I was in high school (a little behind the curve, but I didn't mind). But her lunches were incredible. As my brother's high school girlfriend said, our lunches were "circus lunches," full of different food groups and color. When I was vegetarian, she catered to that, making falafel and packing hummus and celery. With the exception of the ever-present bag of carrots (which I always gave away), I loved every single lunch I had.

Last summer, when I went to Europe with my mom, we had an absolute blast. I've never met someone so experimental and inspiring. We would never order the same thing, always order wine and dessert, and we challenged ourselves to try things we might otherwise write off--like fresh anchovies and sardines in northern Italy or mussels and frites in Belgium. In Sienna, we stumbled around the tiny walled city for probably an hour looking for some Rick Steves-approved place before finally "settling" for a whole in the wall close to our hotel. When we saw the menu was entirely in Italian, we just signed to the waitress/owner that we'd have whatever she wanted to make. And we ended up with a porridge-y soup, some stewed meat, and spinacci (even I could read that). As we found out later, the meat was boar, not beef. But I didn't care in the least. I was too busy listening to my stomach purr.

Bo: I wouldn't necessarily call Bo's food choices diverse, but the girl knows what she likes and I have to give her that. Half a hamburger at The Cheesecake Factory, Steak at Jake's, pasta at Sammy's Woodfired Pizza. And Machaca at Rod's. Even if she weren't my best friend, I would love her for sharing Rodrigo's with me. Somehow, that little hole in the wall has seen me through some amazing transitions in my life. So many of my high school ghosts visit the restaurant (can I call it that?) that under any other circumstances, I would avoid it like the plague. But Rodrigo's is one piece of PQ that I will never quite let go of. Rodrigo's is the common stomping ground and it's a place where Bo and I can go and just be us, her and me, the Shis. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the Machaca is the shit. Hot or cold, drowning in salsa and spilling everywhere. Noms.

J: I still remember my first lunch with J. I described it once in conversation... It was awkward because I think we both knew intuitively that we were going to be close. But we had to get all the small talk and details out of the way first. But really. I remember wearing my pledge pin. I remember which corner table in Stetson East. And from then on, I spent almost every single dining hall meal with the girl. Over Colin-the-omelet-master's omelets and those amazing little rolls they have by the pizza stand, we learned the ins and outs of each others lives. We cooked Easter brunch together (or she cooked and I ate WAY too much), we made eclaire cake together (OMG, yum). Last summer I came to visit and we all had the most incredible potluck (shout-out to the "Stinky Salad"). This year, we both had kitchens and we were able to experiment even more. I remember the first time she made me a salad with a fried egg on it. I nearly died. Or making a pumpkin pie a week. Or having steak at her parents' house.

In a show of apology and gratitude to some guy friends who took care of me one best-to-be-forgotten weekend, I made enchiladas in their stunning (albeit disgustingly dirty) kitchen. The next Sunday, she made bolognese. And then one of the guys made chicken parmasean. There in that kitchen, we grew even closer. Whenever she felt inspired to experiment, I reaped the benefits. When I've been sad or upset, there's always been a heaping plate of deliciousness to cheer me up. And I remember one night when she hauled her butt across campus to the news room to bring me some southern corn chowder. I can say without hesitation or any iota of regret that my relationship with J is tied to food, to our shared appreciation for it, to our love for cooking it, for our zeal for eating it. I'm more than excited to share a (much cleaner) kitchen with her in September. The freshman fifteen will be nothing compared to the middler midsection. Bring it on.

--

Food is so much more than a life force. It's a bridge connecting me to the people I love. It's a hobby and a skill. It's something I can look forward to. Though my family couldn't always come together and eat dinner (hockey and Scouts and theater and choir kind of mess with the Daniells family calender), we strove to have breakfasts together. And not the cold cereal kind. But omelets and bacon and the good stuff. The kitchen table was, and subsequently always will be, a place of conversation and community. Kind of funny that food can be so simple, but such a binding (and delicious) force. I'm loving it.

Today's Obsession: yarntwisted

I did finally manage to get my hair cut last week and will upload pictures as soon as my phone decides to come out of its coma. To accessorize my new "glorified mom cut" (as I've deemed it), I've been browsing etsy looking at headbands and clips and new fun stuff that I can't afford. Meh.

But, all depressing bank statement references aside, I still enjoy it. A while ago, my friend and sister Dani came into town and was donning a knitted earwarmer/headband thing. Annndd it was pretty snazzy; I ended up stealing it for the entirety of her visit. So when I found a similar one on etsy, I got a lil excited. The etsy designer (yarntwisted) makes the designs from scratch and this one has a huge spiral flower, rather than the typically floppy ones.

It comes in whatever color requested (I tried to specify a favorite and can't. I want to wear the rainbow) and a portion of the proceeds--though she doesn't specify how much--go to charity. She has a bunch of other knitted goodies, too. I'm really liking the cowl scarf thingamabobs. But the earwarmer takes the cake. It's warm for the frigid winds that have been taking Manhattan by storm, but has the flower for a sweet little taste of spring. Obsessed.

Crochet Spiral Flower Headband / Earwarmer, $25

Old Habits Die Hard

I’ve been spending my morning looking up crazy holidays that no one ever celebrates. I love using them as tie-ins for stories and they oftentimes prompt good story ideas, anyway. I know I’m way ahead of the game here, but May 9th is apparently Tear the Tags Off the Mattress Day. I’m loving it.

I never understood why it’s apparently a crime to rip off a piece of fabric. Yet, I’ll admit that I’ve never done it. Anyway, as usual the idea prompted some thoughts annnnd obviously a blog post. I just got thinking… What other useless information do I just listen to and accept as normal even if it isn’t? What habits do I still maintain even though they are no longer relevant?

I’ve had a Word document open on my screen for a bit and compiled a list. In no particular order and just because I want to, here’s a list of all the random habits or silly rules that make no sense to me:

• Look both ways when you cross the street: not as useful when you live on a tiny deserted island with one-way streets.
• I always take the first stair with my right foot. I’ve tried switching it up and just faceplant.
• Knocking on doors: why not kick it?
• The customer is always right: bullllllpucky the customer is NOT always right. I find it hilariously hypocritical that establishments enforce that mentality, yet have signs that say “We maintain the right to refuse service to anyone.” There should be a fine print that reads “but we’ll let you bring in your perfectly fine coffees for free refills even though we know you just go from Starbucks to Starbucks, you lazy bum.”
• Forks: why does the fork go on the left when most people are right-handed and the fork is the most prominently used utensil?
• Cash: for one of my SAT test essays, I argued that we should completely eliminate cash. And I think there’s a case for it. With everything on plastic, we’d save a lot of money we spend manufacturing. And maybe beggars would believe me when I tell them I don’t carry cash (I don’t).
• Say cheese for the camera: say whatttt?
• Picking up the phone: apparently, in 1877, Thomas Edison wrote a letter to the president of the Telegraph Company in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, suggesting that when people answer the phone, they use the word "Hello" instead of the word "Ahoy" suggested by Alexander Graham Bell.
• Ringback tones: I don’t need to know your (lack of) taste in music.
• Labor Day: what exactly are we celebrating, except the death of our right to wear white?