San Francisco: Cosmopolitan City or Toilet for the Homeless?

I spent 7 years living in the Bay Area. There were things I loved, and there were things I hated. For all the amazing food, culture, and shopping, the city has an out of control homeless problem. Many of these poor people are clearly mentally ill. During my time at Berkeley, I cannot even tell you how many times I heard people blame Ronald Reagan for closing all the mental institutions during his tenure as governor of the state. Whether or not it's a problem he created, I still don't understand why no one since him has done anything at all to fix it.

I get amnesia about how bad the problem is between visits to the Bay Area. But, sure enough I am promptly reminded almost immediately upon arrival in downtown San Francisco. There are pan handlers, there are people muttering to themselves in a vaguely threatening matter, and today I saw the foulest thing I have EVER seen in my entire life. As I was walking up O'Farrell back to my hotel, I noticed a homeless man scrambling after some papers. When I got closer, I saw that his pants were down. I realized what was happening, but it was too late to look away. He was defecating on the side of a building - and let's just say his stomach seemed to be upset.

How can a city with such a storied history, such scenic views, and such high property values allow this sort of thing to happen? I know for every yuppie, there is some former hippie espousing a 'live and let live' philosophy, but come on! Market Street smells like urine all the time. And while I have seen poop on the sidewalk before and been convinced it is probably not from a dog, I have never actually witnessed someone in the act.

Tourists will always flock to the city, and businesses will always operate in San Francisco. But don't the tourists, businesses, and residents deserve better? And frankly don't these poor homeless people? I don't profess to have the answer here. I know this is a complicated problem without an easy solution. I just think it's a shameful and shitty (literally) situation that takes away from the allure of a truly world-class city.

The Diminishing Joy of Cooking

I love to cook. When I was little, I always wanted to help mom in the kitchen. While her rules of baking and cooking were somewhat repetitive and totally unhelpful as a teaching tool (all rules were to “listen", which taught me nothing about reading recipes) I loved the proud feeling I got from proclaiming “I made that!" It felt magical to take simple thing like flour and sugar and turn them into cookies or whatever was being created.

As I've become a self sufficient adult, my love of cooking and my ability to create something edible from raw components has grown exponentially. I love to have people over for dinner. I love finding new recipes. I still feel proud knowing when the finished product is on the table that I made that. Which is why it's so sad that lately cooking is more a chore than a joy.

Budget austerity means meals out are a thing of the past. And in an effort to lower the grocery bill, menu planning has become a necessity. But cooking every day and twice daily on weekends has stripped the fun out of it for me. I feel like I spend my life in the kitchen. Moreover, I feel like my life revolves around the kitchen.

Part of my problem is stubbornness. I could make simpler dishes or let my husband take the wheel. But, if I am forced to eat in, I want to enjoy what I am eating. So my kitchen prison is of my own design.

In order to make this self-imposed kitchen exile more fun, I am going to start sharing recipes and tips on this blog. I hope that sharing my kitchen wisdom will inspire others to cook more and perhaps reinvigorate my joy of cooking. Stay tuned for more from this high heeled contessa :) And unlike my mother, my first and only rule in the kitchen is to make what you love. Because if you don't enjoy the fruits of your labor, then cooking is truly joyless.

Eye Cream with A Free Gift of Self Loathing

Long gone are the days where cosmetics counter girls (or the occasional guy) fawned over my skin. While prone to a blemish here or there, I had a relatively lucky adolescence skin wise. While I didn't appreciate my porcelain skin at the time, it was a thing of beauty to the women who spent hours and hundreds of dollars trying to achieve a dewy and fair complexion.

Now when I go to a cosmetics counter, I am bombarded by hard sells for cleanser, toner, and more creams than I have time to apply. I remember when I toyed with the idea of not using foundation for my wedding, and the woman at the Bobbi Brown counter looked at me as though I were plotting murder. There was this horrified expression all over her face.

I see these women - none of whom have great skin - convincing other women that they need a cream to get rid of oil, one to replace the oil, one at night, one for daytime, and much more. Meanwhile, my dermatologist has flawless skin and just instructs me to use sunscreen.

I used to love buying make up. It was fun. Now it's just depressing. I try to always remind myself of the summer I worked as a stock girl in the Saks cosmetics department. I learned some very important lessons there. 1) toner is a waste of money. It dries out your skin so you use more moisturizer, and the circle continues. 2) for years Bobbi Brown only sold essentials meaning very few skin care products. Then it was acquired by Estee Lauder... 3) most of these women who gleefully point out your flaws while ringing up cream after cream or serum after serum lead sort of sad lives. Most peaked in high school when they were still beautiful without a lengthy beauty routine. 4) most importantly, they work on commission.

Sure, I am starting to have a few small lines (with the occasional blemish, which I think is unfair and utter bull), but I am still young. I still have pretty good skin. And I know that creams and serums won't turn back time. I will never look 17 again, and I refuse to spend hundreds of dollars trying.

Goodbye Sky Harbor

I think that no matter where I travel in life, Sky Harbor will be the airport with which I have the most positive associations.

As a kid, a trip to Sky Harbor International Airport either meant a vacation to some exotic locale (like Minnesota where you could actually wear pants in the summer) or a special visitor coming to town. Sure goodbyes were hard, but they didn't compare to the joy of an arrival or my own departure.

As an adult, Sky Harbor is my entry point to return home. It's more familiar than most of Phoenix since the big changes took place before I left. Though the end of the trip is usually bittersweet, Sky Harbor means returning to my own home and bed after a reminder of why I left Phoenix in the first place.

Going home reminds me of a time before I found where I fit. I was a nerd and so painfully insecure that I constantly tried to prove how interesting my life was. I was a humble bragger who lacked subtlety. When I encounter people like teenage me as an adult, I understand why I was picked on and excluded. I was annoying.

As my plane ascends and I grip the armrest for dear life, I leave all that pain and awkwardness behind. I am reminded of the formative experiences that shaped who I am today. And I am as grateful to go as I am to come. No other airport has that sort of association, and I doubt another ever will.

But, I still don't understand the 16 minute Jimmy Eat World song that I borrowed the title of for this post - or why it's 16 minutes.

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

As you may have read in an earlier post, I am buying a home. As I mentioned, that has meant a new, austere spending regime. I am getting used to eating at home and denying myself lunches or coffee during the work day. And in general, I am not so sad to not shop. But, this weekend is different. This weekend I am going to Phoenix. Tucked away in Scottsdale is my personal mecca - my shopping Jerusalem: Scottsdale Fashion Square.

There is no other place on earth that contains all of my favorite stores, yummy chain restaurants, and literally tons of air conditioning and parking under one roof. The mall is massive. It has high end department stores, Banana Republic, J. Crew, kate spade, and more. It's busy but never as maddeningly packed at Tyson's Corner (the best mall in the DC area, which is technically two malls separated by a very busy street). It's like all the best parts of the Tyson's I and the Galleria without the drawbacks of either. Shopping in a town like Phoenix is what shopping should be. You walk into Neiman's in flip flops, a tank top, and shorts? No big deal - you still get treated like a person and a customer! The east coast and big city attitude doesn't penetrate the Valley of the Sun. Maybe the extreme heat keeps it at bay. But whatever the reason, the result means that trips to Phoenix always require a spiritual pilgrimage to Fashion Square.

But this trip is different. I have to break with tradition and break up with Fashion Square. It pains me to do the responsible, grown up thing and not give in to my shopping addiction. Also, sales tax in Scottsdale is nearly twice that of VA - a fact is of little solace at best. But that fact means it is especially important that I stay strong.

So Fashion Square, I am sorry, but you and I are done (for now). I can't let you know the touch of my American Express or Banana Republic credit cards any longer. I can't wander through your ample stores or up and down your escalators. It kills me to say goodbye, but I must. Please know, that there is no mall that can ever replace you. Until I have equity in my house, my beloved shopping center. Until then...

Fear and Loathing at Ronald Reagan National Airport

I hate flying. I hate everything about it. First, you have to stand in a long line to have some TSA employee either see you naked on a monitor in some undisclosed location or let them feel you up if you opt out of the body scan. Make sure to remove your shoes, sweater, belt, watch, and dignity lest you have an abnormality that gets you groped in spite of going through the scanner.

But it isn't just the ridiculous security theater that gets me. I can no longer bring gels or liquids in quantities larger than 3 ounces through security. I am still not used to this restriction after years of suffering through it. My hair products don't come in travel size. So I can pay the airline blood money to check a bag or make due with a pony tail during my trip. Speaking of blood money, if I want to drink something while I wait endlessly to board, I can pay $3 or more for a soda or bottled water, because those items can't come through the security checkpoint.

Once my rage about the TSA has subsided, and I am finished muttering about how the terrorists have already won or given my obligatory speil about how much better the security is in Israel, I have to get on the plane.

It boggles my mind that after decades of aviation, the boarding process remains entirely inefficient and fucked (apologies if the language offends, but it's just the right word). What part of get out of the aisle is so hard to understand? And, the battle for overhead bin space is like something out of Hunger Games.

After all the trials of getting on the plane with my luggage, I get to sit in a cramped seat with a small ration of free beverages from a surly flight attendant all while terrified at 32,000 feet.

I have been flying my whole life. Each trip lately is more terrifying. Every bump or vibration makes me clutch my armrest and close my eyes while praying we smooth out. When I land at my destination, I am relieved and eager to get the hell off of that crowded tin can that seems to be full of people who have never been on a plane before. Because getting off the plane quickly and efficiently seems to be more difficult than getting on that way.

I realize flying is a necessary evil. I like to visit places and vacation. I just may need to start medicating to do it.

Home

It's been nearly 13 years since I left Phoenix and the home I grew up in. My parents and a lot of my crap still live in that house. I was luckier - or perhaps more determined - than many in my generation who had to move back in with mom and dad because of money or other difficulties. So I haven't lived there in more than a decade. Yet I am heading to Phoenix this weekend and am referring to the trip as going home.

Despite the bugs, humidity, bullshit, and tourist infestation, the DC area is my home. I've made a life here and am buying a house here. So why is going to Phoenix going home?

The house, the neighborhood, and the city have all changed immensely since I left. There is a familiarity, sure. But it's one that feels like some fuzzy memory or distorted dream - not like the place I spent my first 18 years that I knew so intimately. I love visiting Phoenix, seeing my parents and friends or hitting up my old haunts. But lately the visits are bittersweet. They serve as a reminder of the passage of time. And while high school was decidedly not the best 4 years of my life, there was this optimism about the future and what my life would be.

I realize 31 is young, and there is lots ahead for me. But many of the big questions are answered. I know who I am spending the rest of my life with. I know what I do for a living. I have a pretty solid idea of what my life will be (at least I hope I do). And going to Phoenix sometimes makes that growing pain very acute.

In college I used to laugh at the cliché "you can never go home again." I always thought, of course you can! I do it all the time. It wasn't until a few years ago that I realized how much wisdom there is in that hackneyed phrase. You can visit the physical place, but eventually, no matter what you call it, it won't feel like home. But there is some small part of me that still hopes it will. And I guess that part of me is the one that answers "home" when people ask where I'm going this weekend.

Trash TV: Princesses Long Island - 30 Going On 13

Most people who have spent more than 10 minutes talking to me know that I have an undying love of television - specifically trash. My husband used to shake his head while I devoured crap like "Rock of Love" or "Laguna Beach" lamenting that I was giving the TiVo herpes. But lately, I am having trouble relating to - and therefore relishing in - the adventures of teens and tweens. So, I have canceled the season pass for Teen Mom and added one for quite possibly the worst, and yet most amazing, thing I have ever watched: Bravo's Princesses Long Island.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, Princesses is the answer to the question (no one asked) "What were these awful housewives like when they were single?" Princesses is also notable, because its cast is made up of single Jewish girls on Long Island, all of whom still live at home with mommy and daddy. It features all the worst stereotypes about the ladies of my tribe. They are spoiled, vapid, gossip-y, and materialistic. They are also obsessed with finding a nice, wealthy, Jewish husband. In fact, the 27 year old (named Chanel - who refers to herself as "Coco" when she wants to get down) has had multiple crying fits and even met with her rabbi about the fact she isn't yet married. She's 27, but she carries on like she's 47 and all her eggs have dried up and her youth is behind her. Not to play into anything here, but oy vey! As for the rest of the cast, the youngest is 26 (and dating a 38 year old who is so painfully and clearly gay) and the oldest is 30.  Allow me to give you a visual of the 30 year old:

She is in tears, because the other girls are "being so, so mean to" her. During a day at the winery, a confrontation erupts between Ashlee (above) and Joey. Joey lives on the south shore of Long Island, which I guess means she is solidly middle class instead of upper middle class? Although, when Ashlee ventured to the south shore in an earlier episode, she acted as if she was on skid row. Anyway, Ashlee thinks Joey is trash and a bad person - and has told her and all their coven of friends as much. When one of the other princesses (who, incidentally used to bear the title of "hottest girl on Long Island") wants Joey and Ashlee to have it out before continuing their girls' day on her daddy's yacht, all hell breaks loose. For reference, here is what a decade has done to the hottest girl on Long Island:

After Joey repeatedly says that Ashlee doesn't matter to her and she doesn't want to talk to her, Ashlee says "your mother was right about you" and storms off to cry to mommy and daddy and beg them to let her take a jet home. I wish I was making this up. Oh, Ashlee feels totally justified, because Joey called her "funny looking," during an earlier confrontation. According to Ashlee, who just told this girl her mom was right to sever her relationship with her daughter, calling someone funny looking is "disgusting." Not since high school have I witnessed such melodramatic bullshit. Also, at 30, maybe it's time to get some thicker skin, not run home to mommy and daddy when someone says they don't like you, and learn to handle interactions with people like a 30 year old - not a 13 year old.

THESE WOMEN ARE SUPPOSED TO BE ADULTS! Some of them are dying to have babies. I think most of the girls featured on 16 and Pregnant and Teen Mom are more ready for motherhood than these mishegana ladies. At least those girls have jobs, which is more than I can say for half of the Princesses.

So, why do I watch? Maybe because comparing my life to theirs makes me feel like I am an adult and capable of dealing with the big life decisions that lie ahead. Maybe it makes me appreciate the fact I have a career, a husband, and make my own way in life. Or, maybe I just love a televised guilty pleasure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clear Here Comes Honey Boo Boo off the TiVo before it causes an outbreak of TiVo herpes!

DC: The (whatever is the opposite of fashion capitol) of the World

DC is a major metropolitan area. Its suburbs consistently top the list of highest incomes in the country. It's a power town built on networking and deal brokering. It is also where style comes to die.

Sure, there are a few well-dressed elite. And of course Michelle Obama also looks impeccable and impossibly well put together. But this town has a lot of the fashion equivalent of unwashed masses.

Even the more well dressed among Washingtonians don't venture out of the conservative comfortability of Ann Taylor or Brook's Brothers. They may be boring, but they aren't embarrassing.

The vast majority of the area's inhabitants couldn't pull a coordinated look together if you threatened to throw their Blackberry into the Potomac (the DC equivalent of holding a gun to someone's head). There are ill-fitting suits every where (women doing their best impression of Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl and men who look like boys trying to wear daddy's hand me downs), sweat or track suits are not uncommon in an office in DC, and more 80s and 90s fashion on the Metro than one sees during a John Hughes movie marathon.

What is it about this town that makes people so averse to good taste? You would think a city that runs on superficial BS would be more, well, superficial. People joke that DC is Los Angeles for ugly people. I think it's more like New York for the poorly heeled.

Things I Am Officially Too Old For

At the ripe old age of 31, there are several things I have officially become too old for. Fortunately for me, I know I have aged out of the items below. I pity the people in their mid 30s or beyond who have yet to come to terms with the end of their 20s and carry on as if college never ended.

1) Wearing anything seen on the non-parent cast members of Pretty Little Liars, 90210, or other CW and ABC Family shows.

2) Drinking to get wasted. I like alcohol but not for the reasons I used to. I enjoy the taste of wine, beer, or a well-crafted cocktail. If you can't taste what you're drinking, you've had too much.

3) Related to 2: drinking cheap alcohol. As you age, hangovers become more frequent. Don't bait a hangover by drinking cheap, crappy booze.

4) Participating in the team Edward vs team Jacob debate (or perhaps more current team Peeta vs team Gale). It's one thing to enjoy a good book or movie (and for the record, I think Twighlight was neither), but it's a little ridiculous to get invested in the love lives of fictional characters.

5) Befriending the office intern. You can be nice, but you cannot and should not hang with them socially. And, you should never hook up with one. It's just sad.

6) Dying you hair purple or green or blue or pink. I'll allow a shocking fake red, but Crayola colors are for teenagers.

7) Using the term YOLO UN ironically.

8) Having a crush on Bieber, the boys from 1D, or any other non threatening male teenager that looks sort of girly.

9) Pigtails.

10) Not having self confidence. Being awkward is part of growing up. And growing out of it is a right of passage. If you project confidence and give an air that you know what you're doing, people will believe it. And maybe eventually you will too.

I feel like my 30s are about coming into my own. And each item on this list feels like an attempt to make an impression or fit in. Well, I finally learned that fitting in is overrated. I'm just sorry that it took me more than 30 years to realize it.

Home Ownership

There is one trapping of adulthood that I have been looking forward to for years: home ownership. And, it's finally happening. I have been ready to buy a home (well, emotionally ready - not financially ready) for years. So why do I feel like I am going to throw up?

I am sure my nausea is due in no small part to the two pounds of paperwork sent to us by the bank. When my husband saw the overwhelmingly large packet he asked, "Is there a rectal examine in there too?" While there is no literal rectal examine, there is most definitely a figurative one. To buy a home, one must bend over and spread the one's financial cheeks wide open while the bank roots around in there to make sure you are worthy of paying them interest for the next 30 years.

In order to prepare for the momentous occasion that is closing on the home, we are currently in what I like to refer to as "budget lockdown." This means, no shopping, no meals out, no happy hours, and no trips to Whole Foods without a plan and a list. Basically, this means no fun at all. I feel like a junkie who is trying to get clean (for the record, I don't actually know how a junkie feels as I have never even smoked pot - I am extrapolating what it must be like based on my extensive television watching). The first couple weeks of budget lockdown were fine - no big deal. But this week, week three, I started to get the proverbial shakes. I have been insanely grumpy and bitchy, because spending money makes me happy. I am an amazing consumer and a tremendous supporter of the economy. In short, I have a spending problem. It's not to say that I can't be frugal (and am being frugal and will continue to be frugal). I am just saying that it sucks most of the joy from my life when I am frugal.

Stopping for coffee, going out for lunch, or picking up something shiny and new helps me deal with the drudgery of normal life. I know what you're thinking (probably). You might be thinking, "why can't you do those things once in a while?" Well, because for me self control is like a muscle - the harder I work it, the stronger it becomes. If I treat myself, it can become a slippery slope. So, until this new regime is an ingrained habit, I am living under self-imposed austerity measures.

We close some time in December or January (yay for new construction). So, there is an end in sight, and I am keeping focused on the goal. I'm going to own a home of my very own, and maybe that will be the first step toward not just being an adult - but feeling like one too.

So This is 30 (er, 31)

I am having trouble with 30. So much so, that I am now 31 and still reeling from my 30th birthday. Regardless of the fact that I am in a better place financially, emotionally, and professionally than I was in my 20s, the big 3-0 (and now 3-1) has been a tough one to swallow. I am now at the age that 18 year old me thought was old. Every year it gets harder and harder to stay in shape - or maintain a weight that is 5-10 lbs from the weight I tell people I am when asked. It also gets harder to duck questions about when my husband and I will have kids. If one more person reminds me that I am not getting any younger, a fact that I am keenly aware of, I might have a Britney Spears level meltdown.

In spite of being older and somewhat wiser, I still don't feel like a grown up. I don't feel ready to start a family. And I am a grown up who is still somewhat uncertain about what she wants to be when she grows up.

I know I am not alone in feeling this way. I hope that you will find this blog amusing, relatable, and worth reading (and maybe even sharing with friends).