The Latte Factor

A few years ago, I read the book The Automatic Homeowner Millionaire by David Bach. He is the "Finish Rich" guy (http://www.finishrich.com/). Bach contends that most people are able to purchase homes and rent them out to make money. Clearly, this book was written a while ago- long before the mortgage crisis we face today. Back then, the author encouraged people to live cheaply and save, and soon, they would find the money they need to put a down payment on a house. Then these people will find renters to cover the mortgage and upkeep, and before you know it, you're a millionaire. I'm being overly simplistic and trite here, but that is the general idea. And in the proper real estate market, I believe it's a strategy worth pursuing. Yet for me, the flatal flaw in this plan is the latte factor.

Early in his book, Bach dicsusses what he calls the latte factor. He wants the reader to take a long, hard look at the things they spend money on which are unnecessary. For a lot of people, it's expensive coffee drinks. This issue is close to my heart, because I love blowing a few bucks on a latte. Bach would encourage me to make coffee at home, or cut down on my caffeine intake for better health, anyway. But it just isn't that simple. I know I can make coffee at home. I know I should consume less caffeine. I don't even love coffee that much. I really like it, but it's not an uncontrollable adoration that draws me to Starbuck's or Caribou Coffee every day.

So what does? A few things. One, I like getting out of my house. Getting a cup makes me feel like I'm out there interacting with the world, which I don't always do when I'm busy working at home. And for people who do work outstide of the home, I think it's a nice break in the day or a part of a daily routine one can look forward to.

Two, it's such a fun premise under which to get together with a friend. When I was a kid, it was totally respectable to go to a pal's house and just hang out. But now, I'm an adult, and my house is not always clean/guest-ready. And there's something less exciting about it. It's hard to keep the momentum up when your at someone's house. It can also be disctracting-- you catch a glimpse of a picture or a new kitchen appliance, and it ends up being a long conversation about Mexico or pizza dough. Which is fine, but it's not the best coffee talk. There is something about disposable cups of coffee at a cafe that is highly condusive to pure gossip. And I love my gossip. It's probably because you know you can't sit there forever and you want to get to the good stuff. Cafes are also far superior to restaurants in this regard, because you don't have to spend a lot of time thinking about what you want, discussing the menu, and being interrupted by the waiter.

Additionally-- I know this is a horribly consumeristic fat American thing to say-- but, I love to spend the money. I mean, it's not a splurge at Bergdoff's, it's only like four bucks. I don't know why, but it feels good to unleash it. Certainly it's good for the economy, but I don't think that's why I do it. Maybe deep down I like throwing away that money because I know I can. On some level, I don't ever believe that things will get so bad for me that I can't get my lattes. Meanwhile, the truth is that considering my financial goals, I really should not be buying coffee. But when I do, the world/my finances does not actually come to an end. And that makes me feel better about my world/finances overall.

I don't know what the reason is, but I don't think I will ever stop with the lattes. If you ever want to grab a cup, just let me know. I can't resist.

Help!

My husband recently got an offer to work for a great Fortune 500 company after he graduates from B-school. He received the phone call with the offer last Friday. Consequently, the last 6 days have been full of excited late-night talks discussing our plans for next year, the upcoming years, and our future endeavors.

The last two years have been full of mostly exciting but also some challenging times in our relationship while he was going to school and I was working. There was so much hard work that has led to this final, great announcement. He has spent countless late nights at the school studying, we have given up weekends so he could prepare for assignments and we have spent hours doing mock interviews together as he prepared for presentations and/or interviews.
We are not sure which location he will be working at. It could be anywhere in the US, however, he will most likely be working in Fairfax, VA or Houston, TX. This, however, puts me in an interesting predicament…

I have been working the last two years while he is in grad school. Although I don’t know if I will stay with my currently company forever, it has given me great resume-building experience, and excellent business-to-business understanding. So, now that we know that we won’t be staying in Pittsburgh past the summer I find myself in a quandary. I can either A) Let my boss know now that we are leaving this summer or I can B) Wait to tell him.

The pros with letting him know now are that when I do eventually leave the company I will leave with a stronger relationship and he will likely appreciate my honesty with him. Also, depending upon where my husband is transferred I may have the opportunity to transfer to a different regional location within the same company.

There are also a few cons associated with letting them know now what I plan to do. The main one being that I will likely be given less accounts to work with in the future. I am in a sales position where the relationship I have with my clients is crucial to generating revenue for the company. I would assume that if he knew I were just going to leave in 8 months he would cease to give me new business and allow a different Account Manager to handle the new customers.
This means less commissions and revenue for me and basically my current salary has no opportunity to grow. Also, the company I work for is a bit cut-throat. I know that in the past, salespeople who have left have tried to give two weeks notice but they were told they had to leave that day – they were not allowed two weeks. So, my fear is that I tell my boss now that I am planning to leave and I am then ostracized within the office.

However, I continue to have this nagging feeling that if I don’t let him know of our departure this summer that I am somehow behaving immorally or dishonestly and I hate that feeling! Has anyone dealt with this situation before? If so, how did you handle this? Reversely, has anyone ever been in the employer’s position and had an employee break this kind of news?? This would be a great time for an “interactive blog”! I would love any and all advice/feedback.

Everything Old is New Again

My mom always taught me that a girl should make a show-stopping entrance.  

In her pre-mommy years, she went to F.I.T., created the dresses she wore to Studio 54, sketched designs, worked in the garment district, traveled to Europe and bought fabrics and patterns.  So she taught me everything I know about sequins and feathers and riding boots and white linen....

Whenever I have someplace to go, like someplace real to go, an event, an opening- my mom and I make a special shopping trip.  We seek out the dress, then the shoes, the accessory.  Sometimes it starts with a pair of earrings that we are instantly obsessed with and we go from there.  I like to remember my mother during these trips- the way she will hold the earrings up to my ear and then pick dress after dress off the rack and hold it up to me and squint and say something like, "This would work but you'll have to put your hair up- like really dramatic."  And I try to picture her vision.  We spend hours doing this.  It feels like by the end we'll have a masterpiece.      

This past Friday I got an email from my coworker that her daughter had a formal sweet sixteen to go to and she had nothing to wear.  She wanted advice.  I said, "Let's go shopping!"  Without skipping a beat.  

Her daughter is 16 years old and very tall, but super dainty and girly.  She's got perfect skin and naturally rosy cheeks-- never wears makeup-- didn't know what "macks" is (I had mentioned MAC makeup).  She runs track and wears retro, knit winter hats and always has a tiny leather purse that resembles an animal.  

When Daughter met us after work on Friday she was carrying a blowfish purse that held her chapstick.  How cute!  Just looking at her makes me think of homecoming and the fall musical.  

I made our first stop French Connection.  Daughter was giddy instantly.  I don't really know what the kids are into these days but she gravitated toward the old-fashioned styles- dresses with bows-- nothing strapless.  Very sweet.  She tried on about 10 dresses and when she came out to show us the last one she had a huge smile on her face.  We asked her what she thought.  She said, "Oh my God I love it.  It's so ME."  And as she did in each dress she tried on, she did a little dance so she could see what she would actually look like at the party.

We left there and headed up 5th Ave.  We were thinking about shoes and somehow got sucked into H&M (I hate that place! Especially in the middle of tourist central!).  We wandered through all three floors and then I found, hidden on a table of skinny jeans, a headband made entirely of black feathers.  It was the detail my mom would have insisted upon.  I showed Daughter how to wear it and when she looked in the mirror her face lit up.

OMG pampering the teenage daughter was becoming addictive.  So I suggested we go to the MAC counter at Henri Bendel.  It was like I was speaking a different language.  

Daughter could not stop blinking as the dressed-in-all-black makeup artist was applying the smoky mocha eyeliner.  I dont' think Daughter knew what to do with herself.  When she was handed a mirror she didn't say a word and then finally said, "It's so shocking..."  Mom bought the eyeliner and the mascara.  By the end of the night Daughter was talking a million miles a minute.

And from what I understand, the sweet sixteen was a huge success.  

I parted ways with them to have a gloriously uneventful weekend that involved watching Practical Magic (a present from Girl Friday yay!) and reading this month's Lucky mag, with Keri Russell on the cover.  On the last page (picture posted) I saw the dress we had just got for Daughter!  I officially felt like the cool Aunt. 

I'm ending this post with a list of the songs from my most recent playlist, which help get me in the mood to wear feathers in my hair, sequins on my scarf, fake mink on my earmuffs and red-red lipstick:

Honey Pie by the Beatles

Remember Me by Diana Ross

Southern Nights by Glen Campbell

Everything Old is New Again by Peter Allen

   

  

Pla.tonic

Adj. [usually] designating or of a relationship, or love, between a man and a woman that is purely spiritual or intellectual and without sexuality.

When I checked cnn.com today, I should have been paying attention to the various headlines. But instead I was drawn to an article today entitled “seven signs you have a work spouse.” It was helpful information for those of you out there with workplace crushes, but I found myself unable to get past the question—why is it any of their coworker’s business??

Perhaps it is my own tendency to form close personal platonic relationships with guys that makes me particularly sensitive to the topic. When I was in graduate school, I had a good friend who I used to chat with each day in the lobby while reading for classes and checking my email. Ever the slave to routine, I would park myself in the lobby each day, set up my computer, and he would tend to stop by between classes and do the same. There was no kissing involved. No late night trysts. Just football, conversation, confidences, and a relationship that didn’t carry the baggage of “I wonder what he’s thinking?” or “Does he want to date me?” Perfectly platonic. Funny, thing is, all of his classmates assumed that we were dating. If you think rumors spread like wildfire on Gossip Girl and the halls of high school, you should try graduate school.

Or even worse, law school—it happened to me again there. Only that time, folks didn’t have the courtesy to ask me to my face if my best guy friend and I were dating. They just assumed. So much so that I think most girls who were interested stayed away, even though they would quickly have learned that we just lived near each other. I had a long distance boyfriend I was very much in love with, and that friendship—innocent. Although I guess I can’t blame them for assuming, yet again. When my friend’s ex-boyfriend had the good sense to ask me what was going on, he still didn’t believe me. It was bad enough that when my fiancé, my best friend, and I showed up at a birthday party for a mutual friend of ours after graduation, some of my former classmates had the gall to sit there and question my best friend to his face when we’d broken up. We would have had to date to break up. . .

I think we know the definition of platonic love, and believe in the concept, but have trouble understanding and believing in its existence. Whether it be rooted in jealousy or unhealthy curiosity, we find ourselves scrutinizing nearly every relationship between two people of opposite sexes to determine the dynamics at play. Does he want to date her but she’s not interested? Is it the reverse? Is one of them married/engaged/dating? Is the other trying to break them up? Are they having *gasp* an affair? Perhaps it was Harry’s declaration to Sally that a man and woman can never be friends. Or maybe it is that, as a culture, we are so infatuated with gossip and drama that we find ourselves reading deeply into honest acts of friendship and kindness and assuming there is more there than friendship. Even though we all know what happens when you assume things. . .

But even for all of my own frustrating experiences, when I came home today, mentioned the article to my fiancé, and found out that his female work friend had suggestively sent him the article, I found myself just as jealous, just as curious about their relationship. I found myself curious as to whether her intentions were pure, or if she views their friendship as innocently as he does. When he told me that his response to her sending the article was to jokingly ask if he needed to buy her a ring, I actually got angry. First at him—then at myself. The logical, rational, and intellectual part of my brain knows that I have nothing to fear. I know that his relationship with her is very much the same as my past and current friendships with my close guy friends. I value the honesty, the willingness to cut past all the bullshit of female relationships and tell me straight to my face when I am thinking with girl-logic or craziness that comes from the lack of a Y chromosome. I am grateful for the times when I’ve been so livid with my fiancé, but my guy friends have helped me see things from a guy’s point of view—helped me accept all the changes that come with moving in together, starting a life together. My own relationships with guys have made me be a better companion, and will make me a better wife. None of those things would be possible for me without the insight of platonic friends who are there to carry you through life. Whose friendship and love means the world to you, but whose lust you have never craved nor would you ever want.

I know all these things, but I was still jealous. . . I guess I’m human.

Lynx Cats, GRRRRR.

My college soccer team is going to the NCAA tournament. For the first time since 1990-ish. Getting into the NCAA tournament in women’s college soccer is a lot like March Madness in basketball. Teams make it based on winning their conference and then there are a number of at-large bids. Well, this year we won the conference. (I say we, but frankly other than the check I sent for $25, I didn’t have anything to do with it). We beat teams we haven’t beaten since the 40s (well probably not the 40s since women’s sports mostly didn’t even exist then, but it might as well have been the 40s). We finished the season 14-4-1, which is pretty amazing.

When I was a wee little GirlMonday soccer player, I played on a boys team. When you grow up in the south in the 80s, if you want to play soccer, you play with boys. I played competitively with girls in middle school and high school, but there still weren’t a lot of teams around. We won our share of tournaments and games, but when we would travel to places like Ohio and Texas we would, well, to put it lightly, get our asses handed to us. When I was in high school I was the star player. Which was nice, except for the fact that over two-thirds of the team was comprised of new girls we recruited every year. I remember losing a game by 12 goals my junior year. We never made the division playoffs (which just required that you be above .500), but it didn’t really bother me that much because I really liked the girls I played with. They were good sports about losing, tried really hard, and always made playing fun.

My senior year of high school I tore all of the ligaments in my left ankle during summer practice and missed all but the last two games. It was heartbreaking. I had been playing since I was 5. So I made the decision to attend a college with just as much soccer history as academic rigor (that would let me in). They were ranked 17th in the nation the year before I got there, and finished 18th the year before that. I wanted to win, so I went to a place that won.

For the first year I was there, we were okay, winning 13 games, but missing out on the tournament (by a mile). But the last three years we won a combined 18 games. We were terrible and we knew it. We had no team chemistry, fought with each other all the time, hated our coach, and couldn’t seem to put together a complete game. I loved college, I loved playing soccer in college, but I spent the majority of four years wishing I wasn’t hurt, wishing I was friends with my teammates, and most of all wishing we would win a game once in awhile.

So this is hard for me. I am so happy for these girls (whom I know nothing about other than I was once in their place), but at the same time it just makes me sad. Their coach sends weekly updates, getting everyone involved in sending the team care packages, inspiring letters from alumni, and homemade dinners on the road. I just wish I’d had the same experience that I hear they’re having – late night games of cards, lots of inside jokes, dinners at parents’ houses on the road, and win after win. All of it coming easily.

But I guess someday someone will tell them about the teams of 1997-2001 and they’ll wish they had our experiences instead: eating at Subway or Luby’s (any Luby’s fans out there??) every weekend day for four years, spending nine hour bus rides not speaking a word, and losing games they once led 4-0.

In the meantime, while I wait, I’ll have a six inch turkey on wheat.