Tag Archives: Movies

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Silly Little Thing Called Luck

As many bloggers and magazine outlets will say today: I don’t consider myself lucky in relationships. In fact, I’ve considered myself unlucky in the game of love – never one to get the hearts, clubs, or diamonds; only the spades.

Nevertheless, while I could write about the fact that love is probably the factor of a little faith and the luck of great timing – I’m not committed to the idea. I’ve yet to determine what I think the best prescription for finding true love is and I’ve honestly reached a point where it isn’t the priority, but rather something I trust will be in my cards eventually. Maybe.

However – in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, tribute must be paid to those Irish things that have brought me much joy over the years. And perhaps, even a little bit of that silly little thing called luck.

Claddagh ring

My hometown is this beautifully hippie and new age town tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It is a mecca for up-and-coming bands, artists, and the beat of the streets beats “come as you are.” Growing up in a contradictory town: Southern and accepting of different cultures and orientations, made me an investigator of international affairs, as well as a curator of my own background.

Following my junior year of college, I finally jumped on the Claddagh ring ban-wagon and bought a fancy one (by fancy, I mean more than the $10 one on the side of the street. This one had a real stone with a real personal meaning) from a local artist in downtown Asheville. And since I signed my name to charge it, I never took it off. Not to shower, not to cook, not to do anything. To me, it was symbolic of love in my life – where it be romantic or self. A few guys cleverly turned it around when they asked to be exclusive, but somehow, it only felt  right when it was displaying my single title to the world.

Because even when I find love, it doesn’t mean I’m not open to any other expression of admiration from other sources. So really, my heart is always open. Funny thing is though, a week after I started writing this blog, I tucked away the ring in my drawer, having decided I didn’t need anything that defined me by my relationship status. I may sport it again, but if not, it’ll always remind me the universe is always giving love – as long as we’re perceptive enough to see it.

Fitzgerald’s Pub

Today, I’m not much of an Irish pub kind of girl. Maybe I’ve grown out of the feel or prefer live music or dancing to darts and rugby, but if given the choice, a place with “O’Connor” in the name wouldn’t be first on my going-out list. However, when I interned in the city and was without a friend to my name, the bartenders at this joint in the Flat Iron district became my instant pals.

I’d come in after a long day at the mag or hostessing at a restaurant in Times Square and there they’d be to greet me with their lovely Irish accents: “Lindsay, darling! Give the girl a Guinness, will ya?” I’ve never cared for Guinness but in my naivety, I was flattered by their gesture and always accepted anything they gave me. We’d sit watching baseball (which I know next-to-nothing about), talking about their wives, and dissecting my Southern/Irish roots. Without these entertaining nights, I wouldn’t have had as many dates that summer (somehow, I was always hit on at Fitzgerald’s) or felt like I had a place to just be myself. Now, I take guys there to see how they respond to something so special to me – and of course, to get the opinion from the same bartenders, who after several years, are still serving up the pints. They told me then and they continue to reiterate it every time I stop in: You wear your heart on your sleeve, lady. Don’t ever let that city harden ya.

So far, I haven’t.

Jerry from P.S. I Love You

When I saw this movie in the theaters with my friend L, it was a few days before Christmas and intolerably cold for North Carolina. She brought in a blanket she had stored in her car and we watched the midnight showing with it sprawled across us. Ten minutes into the film, we both started bawling our eyes out…and didn’t stop until the credits rolled.

Now, I know it’s a rom-com like all of the other ones that dazzle our televisions and trick us into believing in serendipitous meetings that end in an honest, everlasting love (though, if you listen to J.Lo, don’t make it your first dance song). But something about Gerald Butler as Jerry captivated me. The movie illustrated that relationships are far from perfect. And most of the time, we treat the ones we love the most with the most critical eye and unforgiving mentality. But even when we’re unforgiving and profoundly ridiculous with the people we care about, if they are worthy of our good and our bad – then they’ll see through it and love us regardless. Just as Jerry did with Holly after she threw a shoe at his face. (I’m embarrassed to admit I did the same to Mr. Idea – and he was less than thrilled).

Now, I don’t expect my husband to schedule out letters before he goes six-feet under – but I do know I will only end up with someone who accepts me for me, flaws, obsessions, and all. And maybe if the heavens humor me, I’ll find a guy who is as go-lucky as a leprechaun and does a little Irish strip tease in suspenders for me, too.

Lucky Charms

My household growing up was void of sweets and anything that was remotely bad for the body. It was only on holidays, special occasions, birthdays, and sleepovers that my mom cracked and bought potato chips or cookies, otherwise, I considered peanut butter and celery sticks just as good as Dunk-a-Roos (remember those?). However, one day at summer camp as a kid, I discovered the goodness that is Lucky Charms.

I begged and pleaded to have a box at home and even offered some of my allowance money to cover the $3 cost. She remained firm for a while, but eventually gave in and bought Lucky Charms once in a blue moon for me. I’m not too much of a cereal eater in my adult life, but if I pick something purely for the taste, I still pick the charms.

And yes, I always leave the marshmallows for last.

Leprechaun in Alabama

This is a real newscast. These are real people. Enough said.

Tall Brunette

And especially for this St. Patrick’s Day, I’m a fan of a newfound friend and Gchat companion. She has Irish roots and lives in the Northwest and we may be polar opposites – but her clever advice and wit always brightens my mood. Not to mention, the gal’s fiercely talented in artistry, penning, and otherwise. Go check out her blog and stay tuned for a podcast from both of us.

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Put My New York On

As we said our good-byes at the airport when I returned back to the city, my mom said she watched me “Put my New York on.” Meaning she noticed me shift gears in a single instance – from relaxing and being off guard in the sweetness of the South to prepare for the toughness of the North. I’m not sure if my disposition or attitude altered or if I somehow flipped the intensity of my brow – but my mom’s right, being in New York is unlike being anywhere else.

The city’s pace can be exhausting at times, but it is also exhilarating. It challenges your spirit, your ego, your skills and your failures, your audacity and your ambition. It isn’t a place where excuses are accepted, but an island where business gets done. And not done, but done big or not at all. As much as I adore Ole Blue Eyes, I’m not convinced anyone can ever claim they’ve made it in New York. I think the city makes you instead.

I won’t confess how long I’ve been here (I’ll let you make your own assumption), but in the span I’ve been able to truthfully claim New York as home, I’ve changed. According to my mother’s remark, it is a noticeable change. It’s the difference between the comfort that comes from not being alone and the bravery necessary to take a chance on a city that’ll push you to your limits while bringing you to your knees.

New York ain’t no joke, y’all.

The inhabitants and transplants I’ve encountered here have told time and time again that I’m tougher than what I seem. It continues to surprise me to hear it, but then again, it’s a natural theory that someone is pretty delicate if they are blue-eyed and pint-sized.

In other words, I don’t exactly elude a “stay the hell away from me” energy, but I’d like to think I do pretty well on my own. And half-a-year of daily blog posts later, I don’t just think I’m okay by myself – I know it.

Regardless of how much effort I put into keeping my spirits high or getting to a point where I don’t care if the man I’m ga-ga over thinks I’m so-so –the thing that makes me more independent and self-assured than anything else isn’t a post. It’s not encouragement from others. It’s not having a someone who could be a something. It’s not feeling like a knock-out or knocking out competitors for a gig.

Rather, it’s putting my New York on.

It’s the satisfaction that after years of dreaming and never having the chance to dwell in the place I adored, I finally grew some roots. It’s the constant ups and downs that city living presents; those things you’ll never understand unless you actually spend more than a month or so drenched in the culture. Like having your dress fly way past your head, in a torrential downpour on Fifth Avenue, while pieces of trash wrap their way around your calves. And while the applause of the gawkers was well-intended, I didn’t appreciate it – especially when this was a day I decided to go commando. Or when the one night you don’t make plans, thinking no one else made plans, everyone you know actually did make plans, and you are left to plan with greasy Chinese takeout. Or when in the middle of Times Square, with ten minutes left to make it to fourth-row tickets at the theater that were given to you for free, your cab driver’s credit card machine bites the dust. And you’re without cash, causing you to pull out some words and exchanges you never would have deemed appropriate six states down.

But then there are the splendors of being a slicker that are only appreciated by those of us who have seen the good, the bad, and the superbly New York. Like the sense of accomplishment when you get to the station and the train is there within seconds. Or when someone asks you for directions because you look like you belong, or you don’t need to use Google maps or HopStop to meet your friends for drinks – instead, you just know. Or if you don’t, you’re finally not afraid of getting lost to find your way. Or when you’re walking in beat with your iPod and the street changes precisely when you would have had to come to a stop, allowing you to just keep strutting down the avenue. Or when you don’t feel the need to have a rolodex of friends or go to the hippest parties in meatpacking. You know – when you have an actual life, with actual people who you care about, and you finally feel like you’re living, not just working your way up the ladder or the social calendar?

It’s a good feeling.

Putting my New York on means I’ve learned not only how to adapt to my surroundings but to become them. To allow myself to shed some old ideologies and ways of life that may have worked for me in the past, but now would never fulfill me. It means I’ve reached the point where instead of feeling a little inadequate and out-of-place in a city of people who seem to be obsessed with black, I feel comfortable in all the bright and grey shades I cascade. It’s realizing that a city, a man, a dress – may hug my curves just right at certain points, but like my body will eventually sag and wrinkle in places I’d rather not mention, life will change too.

And though I always have an eye on tomorrow and a mirror within reach to glance back at who I once was, I’m more attracted to the person I’m becoming each and every single day. A girl, that while she puts on her New York when she wakes up, there is always a little North Carolina in the choices she makes.

The world may be my oyster – but I’d like to think I’m some sort of a peal in this city that’s anything but pure.

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The Trouble With Happy

Returning from a networking event that filled me with excitement and an accelerated drive, I found myself cursing the cursor blinking in front of me. I didn’t know what to write – and that’s a big problem.

As an editor – a young one at that – it is part of my job responsibility to have fresh, modern ideas. I’m supposed to produce proposals that knock the stilettos off of editors two to 20 years my senior. These angles, these formulas, these stories are all brewing inside of me, prepared to burst at the printers of the glossies I’ve always imagined seeing my byline in.

So why is it, that when I sit down to write this blog, which historically has taken me maybe half-an-hour to write, I find myself lost for words? Dried up of stimulation to string together words discussing my love life or my views toward sex, relationships, and all that romantic jazz that causes so many stumbles?

I mean, what’s wrong with me?

Concerned by my inability to do what I’ve always considered my best ability, I called out to Mr. Possibility, who was aimlessly working on a project that’s kept him occupied for weeks. As he usually does, he listened to my frustrations and cautiously tried to hide the smirk painting itself across his chiseled jaw. In desperation I exclaimed, “I have to write! This is what I do. I don’t ever get writer’s block, what’s going on with me? I’m not losing it, am I?”

Wrapping his arms around me and greeting the top of my head with his lips, he asked, “Linds, do you ever think that maybe, you’re just happy? And that’s your problem?”

Hmm. Perhaps that could be possible, Mr. Possibility.

Writing about the trials of being single, how difficult it is to keep your self-confidence at a somewhat high, and learning to love yourself is easy to do when you’re sad. When everything in the world seems to be crashing down or you’re afraid of the walls you’ve built losing their durability against charming men with dimples – sentiments and thoughts flow freely. When a guy is more of a jerk than a gentleman, when a man would rather bone you than phone you, or when Facebook or a friend or a fan reveals something about a someone that makes you reconsider the prospect of “someday” with them – blogs are easy to devise.

But what happens when drama stops dazzling your mind? When complications become uncomplicated? When the road-less-traveled branches off to easy street? When there isn’t anything wrong, yet anything that’s superbly outstanding – but you just find yourself content? If lack of tragedy or anxiety in my dating life or any other facet, causes me to wonder what to write about – does that mean I need to be challenged to be inspired?

Could I be a drama queen and never knew it?

I’m still single, but seeing someone pretty regularly. I’m not overly satisfied with the way I look, but I’ve made an effort to focus on what makes me beautiful, without touching up my makeup hourly in the mirror. I’m not lacking a desire for a mate, but if something were to happen, if things were to fall apart, I have no doubt I’d be able to find my footing. Would I be hurt? Of course. But am I stronger than I was six months ago? Absolutely.

My career is on the track I hoped it would be at this time, and my nights are spent searching and prospecting for the next address I’ll call home. I’ve saved enough money to take an international trip this summer and while my run time isn’t at its peak, it is still strong. I can’t remember the last time I cried or obsessively asked my friends for advice or downed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Really, Mr. Possibility is right: I am happy. Perhaps I should knock on some wood for even claiming this right, but it’s the truth.

So maybe I cross a different fork in my journey to self-love: what do you do when everything is fine? When you’re satisfied in your singleness, mostly unafraid of the prospect of a possibility, and secure in the life you’ve created for yourself? Happiness is usually temporary, but when you’re submerged in the oasis it creates, how do you relish without resting in the reassurance? How do I let myself let go of the notion that to write, to be a 20-something, single-something, I have to be upset? Can’t I hold those titles and be pleased?

Maybe drama is easier to portray because when we’re disappointed or aggravated, we feel justified in complaining. We know dozens of people who share our craziness, who approach relationships and love with the same exhaustion, so spewing out the strife of struggles seems natural. But having the bravery to say, “No, really. I’m fine. I’m happy!” – seems like bragging or boasting when we know so many are not at the point in their lives where they want to be. Or able to reach a point of contentment that we have.

Or perhaps we get used to focusing on the bad, instead of the good. Pain is sharper than the warmth of joy. Being depressed seems less risky than imagining the opportunities that could lay in the horizon. Trouble brews and boils easier than the art of just living our lives.

I can’t say how long this bliss will last or determine where it stems from. I can’t say I don’t wonder if it’ll all blow up in my pretty little face tomorrow. But that’s the trouble with happy – if you don’t enjoy it while you have it, then you never should have had it to begin with. So instead of analyzing it or wondering how long it’ll last or preparing myself for the discovery that I’m simply chasing pavement –I’m going to try living. Try being thankful and counting my lucky stars.

And maybe, writing about what it feels like to just be…happy.

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The Good, The Bad, and The One for Me

Motorcycles aren’t my thing. Really. I know they are quite popular among the Southerners I grew up with, but they’ve never oiled my engine. The savage beast inside of me is not tamed by the musings of a musician with a sleeve of tattoos and a knack from strumming strings with precision. A detailed rap sheet or a scent that attracts bar fights aren’t things I’d put down my dream man’s checklist – and they’d be a red flag in a hot minute. I’m not impressed by the number of shots a dude can down or how many women have been nailed up against his bedpost. I really don’t care how fast he can drive his car, no matter how expensive it is.

I’ve never really wanted to date the bad guy. You know – the one who’s flawed around the edges and rough with me. A player or a gangster, a homeboy or unattractive unemployed artist have never caught my eye or held my attention. I may not be entirely specific about what type of person I desire, but I know he doesn’t fit the bad boy protocol.

Well, at least in the traditional sense, anyways.

I have a knack for attracting unavailable men with miles of baggage and disclaimers. Those who make entirely more money than what I would know what to do with and the ones who avoid commitment in ways more clever than my own. They don’t walk on the wild side, but they bring out the wild little freak in me who over analyzes everything to death – with the help of friends over Gchat, Merlot, and mass text messaging. They don’t put me down, but my self-assurance can leave as easily as they have seemed to do, and I’ve admittedly been a doormat a few times, allowing them to walk all over me in the process. They are not crazy or dangerous in any sense, but they make my heart feel like it’s in harm’s way and I go a little crazy for each of them, each time.

A few years ago, as I was describing my most recent opposite-sex induced dilemma, my mother exclaimed, “Lindsay – where do you meet these guys? They are so complicated and have such odd hang-ups. Don’t you ever just date a nice guy?”

In my own defense – I’ve tried dating the really good guy. The one who, on paper, would seem like the best fit for me. Someone who is tall, attractive, comes from a great family, makes a decent living, likes what he does, answers when I call, responds to emails and text timely, doesn’t question his desire to be with me, takes me to nice places, and compliments my eyes. He says all of those things I want to hear, exactly when I want to hear them, and he is never too much, too invasive, too needy, or too anything. He’s just fine.

And that’s the problem.

I’d classify myself as an equal-opportunity dater, give or take a few non-negotiables that I’d never lower my standards for. I do tend to give most everyone a chance –or at least a drink – and see how I feel before writing them off into never, ever land. But generally speaking, I’m a middle-ground kind of girl: I really don’t care for the bad boy in the rock band, but I also don’t find myself gleaming at the guy who has everything together. Or at least the versions of together I’ve met so far in the game.

Does a man need to have visible flaws for me to be attracted to him? Do I confuse passion with a disaster waiting to happen? Am I lured in by an unfinished project, rather than a sturdy hunk of a man? Do I overcompensate the importance of a personality, of a man who makes me laugh, who keeps me on my toes, and continuously guessing? Do I think for a relationship to be successful, it needs to be work? Is a stubborn, charming challenge more alluring to me than one of those easy, simple, All-American boys?

Or is that we all just attract the company we keep? Or the people we really are?

If I’m a little messy, if I’m a gal who will snap back the wit as quickly (if not quicker) than its spewed, if I’m a woman who needs constant intellectual engagement – is that what I’ll find in return? If I’m still haunted by the ghost of past-love, will I inevitably meet men who can’t shake the lingering what-if’s from their last girlfriend? If I’m attempting to figure myself out and see what Manhattan has to offer all in the same breath – will I meet a multi-tasker, just like me?

I’m nor the good girl or the bad one. I’m not the down-and-dirty, hardcore gal, but I suppose I’m not strawberry shortcake and lemonade, either. I can be messy, I can be indecisive, I can be all over the place – so why wouldn’t I be intrigued by a man of the same manner? After all, isn’t imitation the highest form of flattery?

The nice guys are always irritated by the women who won’t give them a chance and will say they always finish last in the pack. The bad guys on the other hand, don’t really seem to give a damn who finishes where. Maybe the reason I find myself searching in the gray area between the one with wings and the ones who gets high enough to think they have wings – is because I’m search of myself. I’m always looking for answers, so I want someone who is willing to think a little more out of the box. I’m going to get upset and I’m going to be less than polished and classy at times, and I need to be around someone who accepts me as I am. I’m not an extremist but I also would never be satisfied by a life that’s painted with mediocrity. Any investment I’d make with my money would be on something that I felt was worth the risk or the time, but part of the thrill, is in making the wager. If I don’t feel like I have something of value, by my own standards, something that I would hate to lose, why would I go for it at all?

Maybe the good guys are meant to show us what we should want, while the bad ones are designed to tease us with what we shouldn’t. But they each show us the life we don’t want to have forever, and are merely ideas of futures we’ll never experience. They show us the different sides, varying scenarios we’ve imagined, but they also give us a reflection into our own psyche. At whatever point in our life we’re at, that’s the partner we’ll decide to pact with. The way the good guy gets the girl or the bad guy steals her away- isn’t based on the men themselves, but the woman who choses what’s best for her, right then, right at that moment. There’s no way to determine if she’ll go left or right – or go straight into the army of middle ground again.

But somewhere, between the ones who brings me to my knees and the one who would get on their knees for me- is the man, who is good for my life, bad for the attention-span, but perfect for me.

PS: Jennifer from Cincinnati, OH completed Love Addict’s survey and won a fabulous glass from Lolita and perfume set from Pacifica. Love Addict will be doing another giveaway soon, so make sure to take the survey for your chance to win! Congrats Jen and thanks for reading!

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The He’s & the She’s of Me

He is the one who showed me what it felt like to make love like a woman. She convinced me that I could, in fact, make a living as a writer. He made me believe that love is never quite what you expect. She introduced me to the miracle that is the Miracle Bra. He made me addicted to sushi. She taught me  to be a best friend, sometimes the best remedy for anything is a little wine and a hell of a lot of nodding along. He showed me everything I never wanted in anyone and how to walk toward something that’s might be worth the risk. She gave me the friendship ring that would remain in each and every jewelry box I’ve ever owned. He opened my eyes and my heart to the exhilaration that comes from liberating yourself from self-imposed rules. She held me steady and made me exhale with a single text message thousands of a miles away.

People have entered my life in a variety of fashions – through a friend, through a class, through a shared interest, through a job interview, through a blog post, through an affinity for Mac Viva Glam #5 lipstick, and even through public transportation. The ways the faces of the he’s and the she’s cycle through my life, some staying longer than others, seems magically planned by a divinity that I can never entertain. By a force, that no matter how I may try, I can never reckon with.

If you ask your mother or your best friend who both try to say the right thing at the right time – they’ll tell you that people come into your life to teach you something and that the higher power of your own belief gives you what you need, no necessarily what you want. And if your fate director is anything like mine, my life always has playful and unexpected turns that makes every experience unpredictable.

Last night, New York was radiating in 50 degree weather, making my blazer, jeans, and high heel trio a hit on the streets. Between the blinking buildings and the waves of sidewalk congestion, an encouraging wind made its way to me. And in a language that only someone who loves the city as much as I do can understand, something spoke to me. It went straight to my core, dismissing any chills, barriers, or worries and it promised me that I’m always exactly where I’m meant to be…

…with whoever I’m meant to be with or without.

Time, sweet, time has a funny little rhyme about it, but I’ve somehow managed to always have exactly who I need, exactly when I needed them the most. Even if at the moment we met, became friends, fell into bed, or had our first date, we couldn’t understand why in the world we came to be whatever we were.

Sometimes that second chance I would have done anything to be given comes in the form of a person I didn’t initially desire or in an opportunity I would have missed if the someone I wanted back, didn’t leave. Those prayers that I brought me to my knees over and over again, desperately needing a solution to the trouble brewing in parts I didn’t know could feel pain – turned out to be best left unanswered. The partners in crime growing up that I surely couldn’t imagine myself without, have become strangers whose name only pops up on Facebook occasionally – but I don’t mind. The miles that seemed to separate me from where I was and where I knew I belonged disappeared in an hour-and-half plane ride that was delayed two hours. Those dreams I dreamed, those men I melted into, those friends who knew my deep dark secrets, those days where the second-hand couldn’t have gone slower, turned into memories signaled by simple reminders in uncommonly common places.

But the trick of it all is to take people for who they are. To realize that only one man will be meant forever, the rest are merely chapters and courses to pass before the final exam. To know that the person who knew you best five years ago, most likely won’t be the same lady who plays the part of best friend in a decade. To be able to see when a relationship, a friendship, or something undefined has run its course, or maybe, is finally getting the fresh start it needs.

To know that time and space, miles and hours are sometimes temporary and sometimes forever. To remind yourself that while your heart wonders if you’ll feel that thing again, if history is an indicator of anything, you know you will. To accept that not everyone will give you what you need or be able to give you what you want – but the good ones, those worth the trials and the work, will do what they can to make you happy. To let people go when they want to leave and fight for the ones you know you’d regret to see walk away. But if they do anyways, rest assured someone else will eventually fill the shoes and perhaps be even better suited to you.

Without certain interactions, each relationship, or the phone calls that lasted for hours, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. People may try to break you, but in so many ways, they make you. Some I may never see again and a few I may be lucky enough to know a lifetime, but regardless, I’m glad to have met them and I thank them for molding me into the woman I am. While I’m not sure if life is a series of fleeting images and experiences that become part of my past faster than they were part of my present – I do know all of the people I’ve met are the he’s and the she’s of me.