Me and Mathilde

I used to work in an office where dogs roamed free. At one point, we had two rescued greyhounds who kept their post in the office of the production manager, an aging Boston terrier who held court in the art department, and a Bernese mountain dog who lolled at the feet of our editor in chief.

Then, after people quit, moved on, or got laid off, they took their dogs with them, and new ones arrived: a coal-black border collie named Rosa with her deeply soulful gaze, an unpredictable Mexican hairless, and a lovable, lap-ready pug named Mathilde (pictured left).

Say what you will about dogs in the office, but I tell you there is NO quicker shortcut to stress relief. Dogs have a powerful grounding effect (read about how they can boost your mood); their simple, animal presence has a way of making us feel more human somehow–and at the same time neutralize any uncomfortable vibes in a room.

It’s true: I’ve seen workplace tensions all but melt away when a dog comes sauntering in or collapses with a sigh. How can you be mad over this headline or that meeting when you’ve got a pair of liquidy eyes beaming up at you? They somehow call us back to our kinder, simpler, childlike selves, and, well, sometimes we need that. I actually feel myself getting nicer around them. (Find out just how common dogs are in the workplace.)

I am not a dog owner (yet). And while I love my cat, I appreciate any and all time I have to soak up some canine love. So my very best decision today was taking time to visit my sister and her husband–whom, dogs or not, I very much wanted to see of course–but the added bonus was hanging with Marty and Moo, whom I don’t see as often.

Marty & Moo. I mean, are you SERIOUS?

Me and Marty

We rolled around on the floor and I let Marty the beagle lick my face and smoothed his velvety ears. I gave Moo, a labradoodle with long red eyelashes who is definitely part Muppet, a good belly rub. And then, later cuddled with Mathilde, who will curl her dense little body against my legs on the futon and snore like a buzz saw.

If you have the chance to spend ANY time with a dog, do it. Lose yourself in some furry playtime. You might find yourself a better person for it. I know I do.

I walked in on something happening in my own bathroom the other night. And I remind you that I live alone (save for a stunning tuxedo feline named Silas). A cockroach big enough to block traffic on West End Ave was hiding under the slats of my wooden bathmat. In fact, I would not have seen it, had I not accidentally moved the wooden mat and seen a telltale antennae and a suspicious scurrying.

What. Was. That.

So I tried moving it again, my heart drawn up into a tight fist in my throat. It deftly anticipated the shifting of the slats and stayed hidden. Almost. I faked left and shifted the mat right.

That’s when I realized there were two of them. Two. Commiserating together. I could have lifted the mat, but knew such sudden exposure would send them scurrying and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then one made a break for the door and the situation escalated, regrettably. He forced my hand. Or, rather, my shoe. I smashed and flushed it, feeling horrible about all of it. Meanwhile, the other dashed a short distance to the safety of a cabinet which I could have moved, but dared not.

We were in a stand off.

This one was bigger and, I imagined, wiser. And the very thought of grabbing it even with wads of tissue, was paralyzing. I would not–would not–be able to stomach the feel of all those legs moving in my hand. We both stood, stock still, feeling the other’s unwanted presence and dread.

But rather than pursue an unsettling face off OR fill my home with toxic fumes, I called a truce. I communicated to the beast through mental telepathy, which I’m sure all roaches possess, and said, “You and I can coexist, provided you never EVER show your face again. I won’t sneak up on you. You don’t sneak up on me. Go in peace.”

He must have agreed to the terms, because I never saw him again. Though for a few days Silas seemed to take a pointed interest in the small, shaded space below the cabinet. Whenever I came in there to do my business, I issued a mental forewarning and a prayer, to please, please stay hidden. It wasn’t until much later that I found the courage, while cleaning, to move it. And he was gone.




This is one happy guy.

You have not seen a happier man than my father about to have at a dozen oysters. Which is why rather than sweep into town to borrow the car he so generously lets me use to drive to Massachusetts, and bolt back out, I proposed dinner, just the two of us, at one of his very favorite eating establishments in the world (or at least, in town), Legal Seafood.

Truth be told, it’s one of my happiest places to be, too–not Legal specifically, but poised above an icy dish teeming with the chilled, liquidy mollusks swimming in seawater. But especially with someone who loves it as much as I do. When the plates are lowered and the wine is served, he is perfectly merry–a man who’s both anticipating something wonderful and yet fully contented.

We tasted and slurped and rolled our eyes at how sweet, how tender and fresh. At how lucky we were to be able to eat them, wash them down with Riesling (him) and champagne (me).

And we talked: He told me about his crazy schedule (he’s 72 and a full-time anesthesiologist for 40 years, and still makes more in a day than I could hope to make in a month); I told him about new clients I have in the works, and how thrilled I am to be self employed; we remarked how beautiful and smart and loving my niece and nephew are growing up to be. My dad’s colleagues, one-time medical residents of his who have long since grown up and raised kids of their own, and who also happened to be eating there, paused long enough to clap him on the back as they passed through with families in tow.

“Your dad’s a good man,” one said smiling. “And he’s got a wonderful sense of humor.” And my dad grinned, patting his mouth with the starched white napkin and nodding his thanks.

“Wow, Dad,” I said, when the second familiar family came through. “What are you like, the mayor here or something?”

My father smiles as he tips another rough shell into his mouth and rolls his eyes. “I have to make a point to pay attention to this while I am eating it,” he says. “I want to enjoy every last one.”

When he finishes his last of the dozen, he turns the shell face down with finality. “The saddest thing,” he says, “is when you could swear there’s one more and you look and look and realize you’ve eaten them all.”

(By the way, for those of you unanointed in the pleasures of oysters or the generally shellfish-shy: There is this commonly held perception that oysters are slimy, a point I wish to correct. Slimy suggests that the food in question leaves some kind of oily or sticky residue. When in fact, as my fellow oyster lovers know, they’re actually cool and crisp and clean. As far as a fishy taste, I find cooked fish and tuna fish for instance far more “fishy.” Oysters are so clean (and sustainable, I might add), that all the things you might think you hate about fish simply don’t apply. So if you haven’t, I urge you to try just one.)



Pure pleasure.

Chocolate is NEVER a bad decision. Ever. Not in my book, anyway. And not according to recent research written up in the NYT, which points to the cardiovascular benefits of chocolate.

So deciding to stop by the famous L.A. Burdick’s in Harvard Square recently was perhaps the best decision of my day–of the week, even. I went with my good friend Janice, who, like a steamy beverage, always warms my spirits. And between some good laughs and a delicious cup of liquid silk, my serotonin rose to a record high. I floated out onto Brattle Street in a cross-eyed, chocolatey haze.

(I will get on my soapbox about this, though: L.A. Burdick’s used to be a place you could park it with friends; not anymore. They seem in recent years to have cleared out more than half of the original seating area to put in a full wall display of gift boxes and other Burdick’s merchandise. Boo. Major misuse of space. I saw a line out the door of people craving chocolate but with nowhere to sit–and a lot of fancy expensive chocolate gift boxes that were going nowhere fast. What were they thinking?)

You can, by the way, do this at home if you take good quality dark chocolate (for an amazing bittersweet brew I’d opt for 68% cocoa content or higher) and shave it right into warm milk (or soy, or whatever your nut milk pleasure). And when you do, I promise you, you’ll abandon all foolish powdery mixes for good.

The holidays are breathing down our necks, people. And resistance is futile–and pointless, if you ask me. Why. Why would we deny ourselves something as sweet and sensual and serotonin-enhancing as this little cup of joy? Especially as the chill sets in.

My advice for you: Make it a point to enjoy something delicious–if not a hot chocolate, then something else–and enjoy it slowly.

Champagne glass. Isolated on white background

I arrived the other night in the Twin Cities for a client meeting, and stayed in the ultra-swank Graves 601 hotel in downtown Minneapolis. The kind of place you walk into and, thanks to the genius lighting scheme, sculptural elements, music and overall vibe, you feel way cooler than you have any business being.

I dropped my stuff off in a room that could have been a soundstage for some Hollywood movie, wherein Ryan Gosling should, on cue, sweep in and knock me over onto the goose down bed for some gratuitous activity before I slip on heels and prance down to dinner or a car chase or a bank heist. Since this was not the case, and it was very much just me in a wrinkled shirt, I left my bag and proceeded to have dinner in the atmosphere-heavy Cosmos restaurant on the 4th floor.

And this was my best decision of the day: Sit at the spare, sexy bar and order a glass of prosecco as long as my arm. (I didn’t actually make that request; that’s how they come at Cosmos.) It was just what I or anyone needs after the cranky rigmarole that travel entails: a mouthful (or several) of cool, crisp, sparkly libation.

I also want to take a moment here to address the issue of eating alone at a bar. Why do people, especially women, have a problem with it (ok, maybe you don’t, but plenty do)? That night the bar was dotted with business professionals dining alone and there wasn’t one thing sad about it. Men and women. I for one find it’s one of the best ways to enjoy a meal mindfully–you can actually chew and taste and enjoy without having to talk around your food.

Not that I don’t love sharing a meal of course, because is there anything better? But if you let yourself savor a meal in a delicious little bubble of solitude, without worrying what people may think (trust me, no one’s thinking anything about you or me–they’re too busy worried about themselves, as we all are), you’ll expose yourself to a singular kind of joy.

By the time I finished up my little meal (caesar salad that was eh, but roasted sea scallops and earthy, umami-esque hen-of-the-woods mushrooms in a sweet, thick sauce) and drained my glass, I felt light and bubbly myself. Relaxed and satisfied, I teetered to my room to take in a hot shower (with multiple heads!), slipped into the soft envelope of my hotel bed and sent myself off to dreamland.

I urge you to try it yourself.


Conan O’Brien is back in town (apparently to officiate a long-time staffer’s gay wedding), and of course, it’s hard to miss this fact when there are block-long billboards up near Times Square (my favorite being “The city that never sleeps welcomes back the man who never tans”), and you live a few blocks from the Beacon Theater, where droves of Conan fans have flocked to ring in their hero.

What I didn’t expect to see when I met a colleague for lunch at Landmarc in Columbus Circle was a Conan-inspired art exhibit.

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This year, I dug out an old dress, this shimmery floor-length gown that I wore to a ball my senior year of college (still fits, thank you very much), threw on some wings, a halo, and elbow-length gloves, and voila. I’m an angel.

Though I certainly didn’t behave like one.

My friend Carina (rocking the red wig) invited me to some big bash on the Lower East Side (haven of cool, people), and despite the sloppy, snowy conditions, we went for it. And it was by far the best decision I’d made all weekend.

Trick or treating? Kid stuff. But getting decked out for an adult costume party is a whole different level of fun. And I was psyched at the high bar set by the party guests. These weren’t folks looking to get away with as little a costume as possible (like Jim on The Office who went as three-hole-punch Jim one year). These people went for it.

I saw my share of fantastic individual costumes of which there were several (I saw more than one Black Swan complete with tutu, severe eye shadow, and long feathery lashes; a huge beaver, a 6’6 Santa Claus, a firefly. But also impressive ensemble costumes–a few honeybees, one of whom also wore a beehive hairdo (nice touch) who buzzed around their friend dressed up as a full-on honey bear; a group of flight attendants, a crowd of London businessmen, complete with derby hats and monocles (who were, in fact, from London, which was the best part).

There was of course the occasional snarky Manhattan costume, like the guy who looked like a banker, wearing a suit with a pin that said “1%” and underneath that in small print, “You’re welcome.” A nice complement to the few slightly less kempt gentleman bearing Occupy Wall Street signs (and on the other side of the sign, one guy had “I majored in art history”).

It was a carnival of personalities and I found frolicking around in it a ton of fun. Honestly, how often do you get to go up to someone at a bar and make a comment about what they’re wearing without risking a serious personal confrontation? The night would have been a total bore if everyone was standing around in their jeans and cute shoes, like we do the rest of the year.

Instead, I got to flirt with the Brawny man in his plaid lumber jack shirt with a roll of paper towels strapped to his chest (who turned out to be a medical student at Columbia) and a tall, voluptuous Joan Harris from Mad Men in a sexy grey suit. I danced with a few wry badminton players from 1920. I drank three dizzying glasses of sparkling rose and broke a wing (which the Occupy Wall Street was surprisingly industrious enough to mend temporarily) and had a f’ng amazing time.

So if you get the chance to dress up this year, DO IT. It’s not just kid stuff. It’s a rare chance to do something we don’t normally do: Play.

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Untitled-1It’s the easiest thing to drop from the to-do list, and the simplest thing to excuse yourself from doing: A creative thing for its own sake. Getting that (whatever it is–writing, painting, scrapbooking, model-airplane-making) onto your schedule, and fending off all other competing, and arguably more urgent issues, is easier said than done.

And that’s the thing about inspiration as pertains to all creative projects: You can’t wait for it show up.

If you sit around pining for your prince to trot in on his steed and save you from obligation, tedium, and routine, you’ll be sorely disappointed. It ain’t coming. Creativity is the horse, not the prince. A horse will take you somewhere, anywhere–but you have to get up on it and tell it where to go.

So I decided to submit a manuscript to be considered for an advanced writing workshop at the 92Y in Manhattan. I have been wanting to invest the time and the money to devote to being in a writing class, and realized if I waited til I had both,  it would never ever happen. So I submitted a manuscript to be considered for admission, and then when I got accepted, I said, OK. I’m doing this.

In fact, I’m writing a short story right now–which is laughable because I’m not a fiction writer. But I’m really loving it–and hating it, because this is hard, and yet immensely enjoyable. And yet I’m 100% sure that if I didn’t have a draft due in a matter of days, I would not be doing it, period. That friction, that discomfort, that inertia you fight to get shit done, that’s where the magic happens.

You want a spark of inspiration? Start the fires going again? Then you’ve got to sit there and rub two sticks together for a while.