What I really Learned in Grade School

As young ones, tots, and teenagers make their way through their first week of school, I wanted to take a moment to reassure them and their parents that their public grade-school education is worth every tax-payer dollar. The truth is, I learned more about life traveling through grades k-12 than in college, grad school, and “the real world” combined. Here are a few highlights of my suburban, middle-class primary education, wherein I learned…

fallout
Thanks to middle school, I learned where to go in the event of a nuclear attack — our choral room. #Glee

The choral room of my junior high school was in a subterranean, double concrete enforced room. At the entrance to the stairwell was not only a sign that said “Chorus,” but a yellow configuration of triangles signalling that the room was a remnant of the building’s Cold War construction.

2. Gym Class isn’t long enough and should be every day.

3. Nap time isn’t long enough and should be every day.

4. How to right a capsized canoe.

We had a pool. It was fancy and indoors and you could paddle around it in a canoe. During the swimming rotation of gym class, we had one day dedicated to water safety and water rescue. As a member of the swim team, I was made “captain” of a rescue team. 4 of us got in a canoe. Flipped it. Righted it. Then rescued the one idiot who got smacked in the head with the paddle when we capsized. This is a skill set that has come in handy more than once, I hate to admit.

5. Sumac that points down is poisonous. Sumac berry clusters that point up make great lemonade.

My 7th grade science teacher used to build bow & arrows and hunt deer with spears. He was the original Bear Grylls. As a result, our class curriculum was less NY State mandated and more wild-life survival.

6. Homemade cards for mom always trump something from Hallmark… even if they make absolutely no sense and look like something your dog painted.

westside-story
If I ever find myself in a rumble, I’ll be more than a little prepared.

I had an old school Bronx Italian English teacher for 2 back to back years. It was Romeo and Juliette year, so we watched West Side Story in class. He wanted to make sure we’d be prepared if we were ever in a rumble.

8. It’s not about what you’re selling. It’s all about how it’s marketed.

As part of a social studies project, I had to set up a company with a team of classmates. We made “organic, all-natural, handmade soap.” By handmade I meant we purchased bars of pre-made glycerin soap, melted it down and poured it into molds, with hand-selected trinkets scattered within the forms. Technically, we didn’t make the soap, but we did do 2/3 of the work by hand. Including the branded paper-bags I created by rolling brown lunch bags through my printer. We made a killing — at the end of the assignment, we had the highest profits. As CEO and Creative Director, I was pretty well convinced I’d end up with an MBA from Wharton before my 18th birthday.

9.  Frozen pizza on Fridays is delicious, if not horrendously lazy.

10. Nothing holds more potential than the first page of a new notebook (let’s just say, I consider this a metaphor for life in general)

The Life of the Young and Fabulous? Or, #KeepingUpAppearances?

IMG_20130518_120819“Promise me, Joe: when I get married, you’ll do my wedding.”

One of the great advantages to my job is that I have a roladex full of caterers, event photographers, and florists. When weddings happen, I’m your go-to gal for the essentials. When my turn comes, I won’t need a planner. I’ll just call a few friends and ask them to show up with their talents. Joe is a florist. A fantastic florist — the kind that takes you into Wonderland and deposits you among fanciful, gorgeous flowers.

“Of course! But don’t hurry to get married too fast. If your facebook is anything to go by, you’re pretty busy being fabulous and not married.”

It’s (mostly) true.

Artful adventures are just  another day in the life
Artful adventures are just another day in the life

If you follow my (arguably) overactive (and private) instagram account, you’d say I was living the life. Roof-top, top-shelf cocktails. Midweek museum outings. Designer dresses. Center ice playoff tickets. Legends boxes at Yankee Stadium. Michelin star restaurants. Jaunts across Europe. Exhibition openings. Beautiful men always at my side.

You said it, Macklemore: We’re here to live life like nobody’s watching.

Are we, am I, really?

Maybe it’s more like everybody in the club, all eyes on us... and that club is our ever-reaching, ever-expanding internet audience.

When I was a freshman in college, facebook was still a kind of exclusive club. High schoolers and employers had yet to infiltrate it. I was the designated photographer at parties (this was largely because I didn’t drink and was, therefore, the one most likely to be sober enough to remember to take off the lens cap) which meant that, come Sunday morning, mine was the album holding all the documentary evidence. In those days, albums could only have 50 photos — so I was selective. 50 photos came to represent an entire year, not a single night out the way it does now for some college kids. Also, facebook wasn’t linked with our smart phones… in fact, there were no smartphones… my laptop didn’t even come equipped with WiFi. There was no instantaneous sharing. Everything was a #latergram.

That was then. Fast forward a decade, and I’m a curator with an instagram handle, 2 twitter accounts, a pintrest, 3 blogs, a vine, and a facebook. My internet imprint has grown ten fold. So what does that mean?

"I knew it was you!" Thanks to social media, people think I have style.
“I knew it was you!” Thanks to social media, people think I have style.

“I knew that post was from you, even before I saw the name!” my friend living the other side of the world commented on a photo I posted.

It was of a pair of high-heel peep-toe oxfords and my recent neon pedicure.

In thinking about my addiction to all things visual, I realized my decisions on what to share is dictated by a kind of personal branding. A kind of play at keeping up appearances. I guess I want people to see a picture of great shoes, intriguing art, foreign locales, and haute cuisine and think — Kathleen’s at it again!

It’s true that I think my life is pretty interesting — the people in it, the places we go, etc — and why not share it. But it’s also true that, believe it or not, you don’t see everything. After all, sometimes I like to see the sunrise through both my eyes.

40 Days of Dating, When Harry Met Sally, and Plato, or: Let’s Talk about Platonic Relationships

40 Days of Dating is my new blog obsession. Get hooked.
40 Days of Dating is my new blog obsession. Get hooked.

If you haven’t caught whiff of 40 Days of Dating, then you’re probably living under a rock. It’s more addictive than Pringles. This is largely thanks to well-stylized type treatments, a highly readable format, and its extreme relatability — we’ve all been there, we’ve all had that friend we sometimes wonder if we should be dating.

A quick summary for those of you living under a rock: two designer friends, Jess and Tim, decide that their romantic lives have been an utter failure. They embark on an experiment. They’ll see each other every day for 40 days, as if they’re in a relationship, and see what happens. They keep a kind of diary. That diary gets shared with us.

What become apparent quickly to readers is that despite their compatibility as friends, and their genuine affection for each other, is that they really are like oil and water when it comes to love. Being in a relationship is hard. The things you can ignore when you’re just friends become deal breakers when you’re lovers. In short, at about the mid way point Tim decides that being in a relationship is killing their relationship.

Considering the Platonic “Problem”

For anyone that’s had a friend of the opposite sex (or same sex — yay death to DOMA!) this is what we fear most — taking a great friendship and killing it in the name of happily ever after.

Where's Bacchus when you need him?
Where’s Bacchus when you need him?

The stakes are higher when you get involved with friends… but of course, when the stakes are higher, so is the potential payback.

Shortly after discovering 40 Days, I picked up my copy of Plato’s Symposium — the slim book that’s supposed to define a Platonic relationship — wondering if I could find anything in it that applied to Jess and Tim.

“‘Love’ is the name for our pursuit of wholeness, for our desire to be complete.” 

This is from a speech by Aristophanes, and if you read the speech in his entirety, that sense of wholeness comes from a relationship that transcends physical intimacy. The bond is greater.

The Mirror Has Two Faces

“You know what we need to do? Go back to my place and watch that scene in When Harry Met Sally. The one where he explains to her that men and women CAN’T be friends because of the sex problem. We’ll get a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.”

When you're talking about Plato, some how, Greek froyo seems the best side dish
When you’re talking about Plato, some how, Greek froyo seems the best side dish

Nothing beats best girlfriends. After they ask the tough questions you need to be asked, they always find a way to keep you smiling.

Pause. Rewind.

I had been talking about 40 Days of Dating with my favorite girl over meze and wine when she flipped Jess and Tim’s situation back on me.

“I just don’t get you two,” she had said earlier that night, part way into our bottle of wine. “You go out on dates, but you’re not dating. You wonder why you’re both single, and it’s never occurred to you that it might be because you’re not dating each other. Which one of you is scared to like the other?”

As someone whose relationship history is made up mostly of Platonic relationships, which always seem to inspire confusion, I was armed for this.

“The stuff he and I do together isn’t any different than what you and I do together. The only reason you think it’s a date when I see him is because he’s attractive. We work because there’s no pressure and no expectations.”

“That makes sense. I just don’t want you waking up one morning wanting more than he does. I don’t want you getting hurt… but I think he’s missing out.”

She might be on to something — one of us might get hurt and maybe he is missing out. But if he’s missing out, then so am I. I guess that’s why I applaud Jess and Tim for having the balls to make the leap to see if their friendship will lead to that wholeness. They’re braver than the rest of us. My fingers are crossed for them.

Anchors Away: We all have a type

These days, it takes a sailor or two to rock this boat...
These days, it takes a sailor or two to rock this boat…

Whether we want to admit it or not, we all have a type.

Tall + Dark + Handsome.

Architects.

Blonde hair + blue eyes.

Drummers.

For most women, it’s the wrong guy. For me, it’s sailors…

It used to be cowboys. Macho, wild-bull-wrangling types who lived by a creed and by their own making. Men with stetsons who wore their jeans like they were poured into them.

Yum.

My cowboy phase infiltrated my wardobe
My cowboy phase infiltrated my wardobe

This was mostly the result of what I can only define as my “John Wayne Phase” —  a period in my life when I’d abandoned romantic comedies (I mean, how many times can you really watch Knotting Hill?) and turned to westerns. I queued up classics like The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and contemporary remakes like 3:10 to Yuma (did I mention I was also going through a Russel Crowe phase… which I’m still in…) I even went so far as to stage a version of Othello set in the wild west. (Did you know I once wanted to be a screen-writer/director?)

As a result of this phase, I can single-handedly outfit the entire cast of Dead Wood.

But eventually, like Paul Cole* I came to ask: where have all the cowboys gone?

A light bulb went off: with the exception of the “supply-buying” round of Oregon Trail, they were never in New York.

Enter Fleet Week.

He mistook my RL Crest for my sailing club... I probably should have lied, but then I might have drowned...
He mistook my RL Crest for my sailing club… I probably should have lied, but then I might have drowned…

“So what club do you sail with?”

The question came from a tall, blonde, exceedingly handsome lawyer from New Zealand who was a good friend’s older brother.

“The Ralph Lauren Yacht Club.”

He had seen the crest on my blazer, and assumed I raced sailing vessels. He did. And that was kinda hot.

Shiver me timbers…

I did not race sailboats. I was simply embarking on my nautical wardrobe phase.**

I grew up around boats. Mostly speed boats and kayaks, but I had heard stories about my parents as a young, married couple learning to sail in Vancouver harbor.

This always appealed to me — the idea of working together to navigate around troubled waters… or to buried treasure. It certainly felt like a more appropriate metaphor for life than taming a wild mustang.

There’s that and then there’s the romanticism of the man at sea coming home to his loyal girl. A sort of Penelope and Ulysses. And then there’s the Navy uniform…

Yea, it’s really just about the uniform.

A girl is always a sucker for a man in a sailor's hat
A girl is always a sucker for a man in a sailor’s hat

__

*”This Fire” was one of the defining albums of my teenage years, along with Globe Sessions and Jagged Little Pill — both of which still have at least one song on every playlist I create…
**Apparently, the choices I make when I shop are completely analogous to the choices I make when I date (let’s not get me started on my “hippy” summer…)
Apparently my wardrobe choices and my taste in men go hand in hand...
Apparently my wardrobe choices and my taste in men go hand in hand…

An additional note:

My favorite Jane Austen hero is Captain Wentworth, from her final novel Persuasion. Not coincidentally, Wentworth raised himself from meager beginnings by distinguishing himself in the Royal Navy, where he eventually became, well, a Captain… and the object of every gal’s affection. Duh. Anne Elliot is the Austen heroin I most relate to. Over the decades, there have been several excellent screen adaptations of the novel… most recently starring Mi-5’s (or Spooks, for all you UK folks) Rupert Penry Jones as Captain Wentworth… swooooooooon. This might actually explain it all.

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not: Considering a Romantic’s Romantic Past

All it takes is a rose to answer the question: does he like me? It's more complicated than that...
All it takes is a rose to answer the question: does he like me? It’s more complicated than that…

Oh! How many flowers have lost their rosy petals in an attempt to answer a simple question: am I the apple of his eye?

He loves me.

(petal down)

He loves me not.

(another petal down)

You can learn a lot of things from the flowers, Alice taught us when she fell down the rabbit hole. So surely if the falling petals tell you so, he must love you.

Not so fast…

I used to cheat. My flowers always told me exactly what I wanted them to. Somehow, whether I’d count the decapitated stem or count the petals ahead so I could “accidentally” pull off two petals at once, I’d always land on “he loves me.”

Of course, he rarely did. But when you’re young and your eyes are blinded by infatuation, you’re always optimistic.

Staying an optimist when you’re older: Or, enter “It’s complicated”

As I was deadheading my rosebushes this afternoon, I flashbacked to playground crushes and flowers as  Magic 8 Balls shedding light onto my romantic fate. It occurred to me that whenever I respond with an “it’s complicated” to an  inquiry into my relationship status, I was employing the grown-up equivalent of cheating at the “he loves me/he loves me not” game.

Let me explain: saying “it’s complicated” is giving yourself a sense of hope that eventually it’ll all work out. “It’s complicated” is the optimist’s definition of an enigmatic, most likely dead-end relationship.

This realization occurred to me when “the one that got away” magically resurfaced after years of silence. For the first time since he was in my life, I was finally able to evaluate what we were without a biased heart.

For a long time, I defined our relationship to outsiders and even our friends as “complicated.” When I say complicated, what I really mean is that we were close friends, I liked him and wanted more from our relationship. We never talked about our fate or our feelings, in fact we avoided talking about those things even though everyone around us tried to instigate a happily ever after. For months, nay, years I believed we were teeter-tottering on the edge of “something.”

In my mind I had attached an “it’s complicated” status to us because it kept the possibility of an Us open. We weren’t complicated. We wanted different things. And while I waited for him to get on the same page (because, of course that was going to happen), I missed out on a few good, uncomplicated men.

Here is a basic truth: Relationships can be complicated, but feelings are not.

I’ll probably never really stop being an optimist when it comes to love — I’ll never stop cheating at the “he loves me/he loves me not” game. But hanging around in an “it’s complicated?” I think I’ve finally learned to keep it simple.

Yup, that's me.
Yup, that’s me.

Home Improvement: When Tim “the Tool Man” Taylor is MIA, Heidi takes the Helm

I own a tool belt and I know how to swing a hammer. You might even go so far as to call me handy. This you already know if you’ve been following  long, even halfheartedly, with my adventures in Gallery Land.

You might recall that when I was a kid, my favorite toys were a block of wood, a box of nails and some hammers. So you’re not surprised when I tell you that I’m a DIY-er when it comes to home improvement.

She’s a Gallery Girl. Of course she wants to paint her own walls…

Pause.

Did you know I’m also a landlord? It’s one thing being a Home Improvement DIY-er when you’re responsible for one home. It’s entirely another when you’re responsible for 2.

Enter: Plan Handyman Boyfriend

Construction worker summer boyfriend? Looks like a good plan to me...
Construction worker summer boyfriend? Looks like a good plan to me…

When my family got word that our tenants would be moving out in the middle of the summer, 2 years and 1 month after we finished hardcore renovations and upgrades on the property, we knew the turn-over pace would be frantic. Hurricane Sandy had left its mark. Our tenants were messy, nay, dirty. So a plan was devised:

I would use the spring to track down a burly, handy, good-natured man to date. By the summer, I’d be able to leverage the promises of grilled meats, cold beer and sex to con him into helping tear-down and re-sheetrock garage walls or install new handles on our kitchen cabinets or basically lift and carry upstairs anything that weighted as much as me.

This was no damsel in distress call. This was a team recruiting endeavor and seemed like a reasonably easy mission.

Sure, my dating resume reeked of pampered suit types who were more accustomed to “hiring someone to do that.” But there were enough former athletes/body-builders/chefs/artists on there to suggest  I did indeed know where to go to find at least ONE guy that could not only help with heavy lifting, but could be actually useful with handtools too.

Alas! The computer programmers and ad execs and consultants and musicians I found, while exceedingly likable, were not going to let me pull a Tom Sawyer on them. There was no way they were white-washing any fences for me… at least not in a heatwave… even if I promised to wear only a bikini while I hand waxed the hardwood floors.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m not afraid of power tools…

To be continued…

She's armed with a drill. Watch out.
She’s armed with a drill. Watch out.