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who needs a prince?

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it's about time!

check out my first column here:

sand in my suit

fingertips

just found out from my editor--i mine as well be saying my boyfriend, for each are equally foreign verbalizations to me--that my work, unfortunately, will not be compensated.

effff.

apparently the "boss man" doesn't have anyone on a regular payroll, besides a few exceptions, so that makes me feel a little better about the disappointing news. i wasn't expecting a six-figure salary here, just some seed money to cover the lattes and homemade granola that i purchase while i'm writing the damn column.

i'm still very pumped for this opportunity to craft my writing skills and be able to see my own words in newspaper ink smudged beneath my fingertips. the plan now is to write kick-ass pieces until i accumulate some leverage for myself. in three months time, its either show me da money or show me the door.

if the shoe fits

i.have.a.deadline.

monday morning. the most painful-sounding of all deadlines, wouldn't you agree? monday morning...just the sound of it can terrorize all your sunny weekend plans.

before biking to work today, i met with the editor of a local newspaper--who i have been in contact with just shy of two weeks--and by the time i left, i had my deadline. folks, looks like they are allowing me to have my own column! sand in my suit will run bi-monthly and i'm as excited as i am terrified. this is what i have been wanting for myself...this is what i have been waiting for! to go to a coffee shop, plop down on my computer, start typing away, and actually get compensated for what i am writing. i suppose it will make my tea/coffee/muffin intake feel more like a work-related expense rather than an indulgence.

while on the phone last night, my sister made the comment that i am like a young carrie bradshaw from sex and the city. i crinkled my nose and shook my head for there are several reasons why carrie and i differ--the most convincing one at the time being: "but i don't have an obsession with shoes."

"yes you do, an obsession with flip-flops."

"i have one pair!"

"yes, your first pair of havaianas (brazilian-brand flip-flop). when carrie moved to the city, she bought her first pair of manolo blahniks. both in manhattan, just in opposote corners of the country."

huh.

just don't expect no gushy, sexy details about my personal life anytime soon. i cross the line at shoes.

something very, very exciting happened to me today...but i'm keeping it in the bag. for now. until i know a little bit more.

more than one way to use a latte

lattes are the perfect hand-warmers, wouldn't you agree? one in each hand--the only time you can double-fist a beverage without your friends taking bets on the hour at which you are going to face plant on the dance floor. i was carrying the hot beverages from jane, a new bakery on fillmore street, back to my sister's apartment in san francisco. i'm in the city for just the weekend, which means only three days of exceptional-don't-mind-shoveling-out-four-bucks-a-pop coffee. i asked the friendly barista with the scruffy chin if they had almond milk. they didn't. not even skim. just whole and 2% (i thought whole milk was 2%). so i had to settle for a fatty latte made with fatty milk that only fatties drink (i know, life is tough). as i stood there in my spongy, bodyglove trucker hat, i thought to myself in true judy garland fashion, "we're not in l.a. anymore". definitely not. ordering a cup of coffee in l.a. would play out more like this, "oh yes, we've got almond milk! or do you prefer soy? goat's? the milk of an endangered giraffe? how about human breast milk? can you spare a few minutes? our wet nurse, shelley, is just returning from her lunch break."

i really milked that comparison.

the reason why

the paramount reason why i have been so m.i.a. the last few weeks is because i decided that i was going to commit myself to writing and submitting my first essay for a print magazine. the publication i chose to write for provides freelancers with prompts each month as a guide...the prompt for this particular edition was, "what if?" and i had seven sunrises and seven sunsets to get the thing finished by the deadline.

'twas the night before the deadline and i was exactly nineteen words short of the minimum length requirement. felt like i was at the library in college again. choosing those nineteen words turned out to be easier than i thought and in the end i think they actually made my story stronger. it was ready, all 837 words. one "click" and it would virtually be in the magazine editor's hands.

"click".

it felt good. with no guarantee that my story would be looked at--let alone published--i was relieved and proud to have finished what i set out to do.

thing is, less than a day later, the editor of the mag sent me this one-liner: thanks so much, but we don't have a spot for this in our march issue. all i wanted to say in return was, "then why do you encourage writers to contribute their work on your website? thanks for nothing." needless to say, i felt a wee bit deflated after receiving this e-mail, which is why it took me a few days to post the article on my blog (which is also why it took me another few days to actually explain the premise for the article). better late than never, right? i knew a few college professors who would disagree.

If at first you don’t succeed, fail, fail again.

Self-defeating thoughts can have a field day in your head. When faced with a challenging task, it’s hard not to entertain the possibility of failure. The two seem inseparable. “What if i fail?” you ask yourself. The answer to that question involves a deeper understanding as to what failure means to you and how you define it. If you don’t control it, failure has the power to manifest itself in just about everything.

It’s on the “submit” button to apply for the job of your dreams.
It’s in the gooey center of the under-cooked cupcakes you made for friends.
It’s the spot just outside the line that awarded a point to the other team.

Failure can be found everywhere and in anything, if you choose to see it that way. I’ve been wrestling with what failure means to me ever since I committed myself to beach volleyball, the reason I drove across the country last summer to start a new life in L.A. I flew to where many have flocked before me to pursue a dream. Mine was to become a professional beach volleyball player. Earning professional status means winning professional tournaments--or consistently placing in the top ten--and scoring a sponsor, goals I have yet to reach. Though my friends who played sports in high school and at the college level have all moved on to a livelihood that more or less puts them in a business suit, I’ve chosen to opt for a swimsuit instead. Beach volleyball remains my number one passion in my twenty-three years of living, but that passion has been saturated with doubt. Like a flickering candle, so too was my conviction about pursuing this non-traditional dream. I would describe my first season as a fighter jet spiraling downwards uncontrollably. What I endured was months of feeling like a failure, the word L-O-S-E-R seemingly tattooed on my forehead. And it was all because I internalized everything around me and twisted it into self-defeating mantras that I couldn’t shake.

Though just shy of 5’11’, a gift from mother nature by most standards, failure ripped that gift from my hands. I lost inches. I felt small. And the worst part was that for some time I wanted to be small. If I made myself small, nobody would notice whether I succeeded or not. I shied away from competition, from practice, from playing just for fun. I vividly remember a morning in bed before a scheduled session, hoping that one of the other three girls would cancel so that I could stay under the covers and avoid feeling worse about myself by making mistakes. I was like a dog being pulled by the collar to go sleep outside for the night. Out on the court, I became incapable of seeing the faults in others; I was always the one to blame. Even on the cloudiest days, my sunglasses would stay on to shield the tears in my eyes. I was as broken as an athlete could be. And I put it on myself.

Feeling like a failure forced me to create a new definition of failure and examine what it’s role would be in my life. Over time, I started championing myself. I was “failing” so often that I grew proud of each attempt and rebuilt my confidence one try after another. I realized that failure was taking me out of the game so I started putting up a fight against my negative thoughts and began to see how well I was playing. It was during a morning session in early November when I literally felt the physical and psychological switch turn from “off” to “on”. I was swinging at balls. I wasn’t afraid of my opponents. I was smiling, for God’s sake.

Failure can be scary, yes, but it is present. It is real. And it is here to stay. It is my understanding that you can choose to live in a world in which failure exists and crushes you or a world in which failure exists but does not cause you to turn and run the other way.

Like a boomerang, the question appears again and again: What if i fail? What if i never set foot on center court of a professional championship match? What if, years from now, people remember me as being a good player, but not a great one?

My sister has always reminded me that by not trying I’ve already failed. I filed this advice in the category of trite. Corny. In the same family as, “If you fall off the horse, get back on”. But it’s true. Failure is not trying. So, What if I fail? Do you know what frightens me more? What if I don’t try? That’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Whatever your passion in life, whatever you are pouring your heart into right now, don’t take yourself out of the game. Some people prefer cupcakes that are gooey in the center anyways.

fly back to me

the word i'm thinking of right now is stale. does this blog seem stale to you?

i totally get it. i'm not the boomeranger who just graduated from college to move back in with her parents. i can re-live the quirky, dysfunctional generational moments with mom and dad but i can no longer experience them firsthand. i don't suffer from nearly as many expectation hangovers as i used to (have yet to hear back from caribou coffee regarding my application) because i've pulled back from expecting that my four-year degree from an excellent university is like being in a celebrity's entourage on the evening of the grand opening of a new restaurant. i have to put my name on the list like everybody else. either i've hardened, become more realistic, or both. fact is, i'm not the same girl that i was when i started this blog, and i think i'm struggling with finding a voice that is the perfect mix of then and now...that explores my new curiosities and adventures without relying on an "ahah!" moment to validate my thoughts.

all i know is that i haven't been doing a good job lately. one of the reasons i've been distant is because i'm actively pursuing other writing outlets. i've also been training more on the beach and working longer hours during the week.

oh boomeranger...where are you? fly back to me.

soft

note to self:

if a customer wants their omelet to be prepared not well-done, do not type "not well-done" into the computer...your kitchen staff will mentally ignore the "not" part of the message, cook a well-done omelet, and then have to annoyingly cook another omelet.

next time, try using a word that means the opposite of "hard". like "soft". that would've been a wise word to use.

i have my dumb moments. i think waitressing is making me soft.