The Endorsement Games

The Beijing Olympic Games made us emotional, swell with American pride, and rekindled our inner Angelina Jolie complexes with every next adorable Chinese child we wanted to adopt (and I'm not talking about the underage gymnasts).

But now, as most things do, marketing and advertising are taking the world's stage.

Who better to represent the USA than the 12,000 calorie a day ingesting, Bob Costas interview cop-out extraordinaire (that overused decree of "I'm at a loss of words"), abnormally built (torso of a 6'8" man, legs of a 6'0" man...and he's 6'4") swimming phenom....
Michael Phelps!!

Disturbia in Suburbia

I'm back in Utah.

On my 10-hour sojourn through the bleak desert vistas of California, Nevada and Arizona, while blasting everything from The Devil Wears Prada soundtrack to Joshua Radin to Backstreet Boys (crazy things happen when you put your ipod on shuffle), I came up with a list of my four greatest fears:

1- heights (the original fear of my life, as made known atop diving platforms, 'amusement' park rides, and the Eiffel Tower)

2- ignorance (it just doesn't wear well on anyone)

3- apathy (it's appalling and disgusting)


and...


4- wide open spaces.


To elaborate, I am one of the few I know who is not claustrophobic.

Sure, a packed subway may be uncomfortable and smelly, but it does not give me anxiety.

The couple times I've had MRIs in my life, I remember thinking how cozy it was to be blanketed, just hanging out in that tube.

Baseball stadiums, concert halls, even hallways: they're only fun if they're crowded.


So now I sign off as a suburban survivor, the one who found herself wistfully longing for a root canal than having to make pillow and rug decisions at the Draper, Utah IKEA, where facetious comfort was found only in repeating the phrase "I love suburbia" over and over again in my head.

Fake it 'til you make it, right?

People watching is like candy

People watching on People.com is like candy.

Considering I've never liked candy (or soda).

But regardless, it is people.com where I get my daily fix of what Suri Cruise is wearing (I'm not too proud to say I'm jealous of her wardrobe), where Blake Lively and Penn Badgley were last spotted canoodling, or who is on the celebrity baby bump watch list (don't worry, there's a whole section devoted to it).



And I love Tim Gunn.
Like, with all my heart. I think he is lovely, inquisitive, hilarious and such a kind human being.

This week on Project Runway, this line was so GENIUS I believe I was on the floor from laughter.

Amen, Tim. And if you ever swing my way, call me...

Transitions Transitions

The dreaded time in a gallivanter’s life comes in the transition.

Another living situation to pack up, more logistics to fret about, a flight to catch, baggage to check, transportation to arrange.

In those uncomfortable stressful moments racked with anxiety about how you are going to compartmentalize everything back into the duffels and knowing you have to push through your stress and worry until you’re sitting down at the airport gate, I have found it reassuring to remember the age-old adage of “this too shall pass”...

Even when I’m climbing up and down four flights of stairs three times, getting into a smelly shuttle service van and about to puke from residual vertigo from spinning around packing up in the pint-sized confines that were my “bedroom” for the last almost two weeks, and general car sickness as we screeched and lurched through the nothing short of colorful neighborhoods of Brooklyn and Queens (and the cherry on top being the always hellish experience that is JFK airport).

To say I was exhausted when I’m finally sitting at the gate is laughable. I am downright ready to render unconscious from anxiety-induced sleep deprivation and the elation that has come from meeting baggage weight requirements and making it through security without too much hassle.

I strongly believe that moment was the closest I've come in my 20- something virginal years of life to post-childbirth euphoria.

I felt the breeze upon my face, as we drove past the San Diego Harbor. My urban instincts are thrown off- everything at home is so sparkling clean and quiet (and never has driving in a car felt so luxurious).

But then I thumbed through an old diary this morning of when I was about 12, and something written in caps jumped out at me “I DON’T WANT TO BE NORMAL!!!”

Appears I haven’t changed.

To the NY'ers who nourished me...

This post is dedicated to the many people who fed my hunger and curiosity this summer.


Max Brenner:
Your Willy Wonka complex permeating your whimsical-chic namesake restaurant is endearingly sassy! You gave me a reason to believe in milk chocolate (no small feat) and your roast beef sandwich with horseradish and guacamole on brioche bun is no ordinary cold cut sammy.




Linda at Regal Cinemas, (13th and Broadway):
The first time I witnessed a whole theater of New Yorkers being led in singing Happy Birthday, I didn't think it could be true. But one thing is for sure that night: Linda, you definitely had Adam Sandler in his pitiful "Zohan" performance. The second time we ventured to the Regal, you graced us with your presence again, this time collecting donations in mail tubes. Maybe it was the dim lights, maybe something was in the popcorn, but Emily, Alli and I were so captivated that we each coughed up a dollar, disregarding the sheer elusiveness of your cause (something "for the children").
Linda, you are a gem. And bless your heart, you didn't forget to lead us in a round of birthday singing again.


The Union Square Greenmarket vendors:
Thanks for your locally grown, organic, freshly baked goodness that I will sorely miss. Every Monday, Wednesday.........Friday.........Saturday........A special thanks to Ronnybrook Farms for making me believe in milk again!


To the Whole Foods Salad Bar- More than one time I found myself at your counters in a Oliver Twist-like hunger, going wild over your bountiful orzo pasta concoctions, bok choy coleslaws, and vegan chicken salads. You were the manna of my culinary heaven after a 3 month Spanish study abroad onslaught of french fries, many-a-bland crema, and and gross tapas.


To the homeless who called me everything from "rock star" to "fashion queen" to giving me a one-over and proclaiming "excellent"...
You all made me giggle, and sometimes gag.


To Steve- my boss's little white-haired Irish doorman:
Thanks for always opening the door for me. You are adorable.


To the gay black culture on Christopher Street:
Thanks for the spectacle and good conversation that arose from such. Take care of yourselves.


The bagel and schmear dude at a Union Square coffee shop the day Tara and I ate the city- About this whole "poppy" business: is there some innuendo I'm not picking up on??


The piano player at Father Demo Square (6th Ave & Bleecker):
You are great. Do you roll your piano all the way home too?


Sabon of Spring Street:
After a long afternoon gallivanting about with my cousin LC, we both found ourselves in dire need of handwashing. No sooner than we entered through your doors we were led to your huge trough and given 6 options in which to scrub clean. Glorious.
"Welcome to Sabon, would you like to wash your hands?!" As a matter of fact...


Kirna Zabete:
How I will miss working next door to your photography studio, eying your shipments of Thakoon and watching you photograph Chloe duds as I pranced down the hall to the restroom, and then going outside to your flagship street gallery store to look at your your Lanvin on my lunch break- Actually I only did that once, because I felt bad thumbing the Derek Lam and Proenza Schouler donned in humble Anthropologie separates.
(Gwynnie and LaLo love KZ too.)


The six cabbies who denied me and all my stuff when I was trying to get from Union Square to Park Slope:
#2 was kind enough to pull over only to inform me he was off duty (Can I ask why you stopped then?).
#3 took a look at my stuff and waved goodbye.
#5 said he was going downtown. What?! Aren't I the one employing your services?
To the Bangladeshi saint who finally picked me up, I hope you enjoyed my 40% tip because you deserved it. Mazel tov.


Dean and Deluca and your $6 raw cashews. Enough said.

(It was Adrian Grenier who proclaimed his contempt for D&D's $5 strawberries in Devil Wears Prada. Luckily, I was not the one duped by this.)

Olive's of 120 Prince Street:
I knew I'd found a good thing when I was still menu-indecisive on my 3rd visit. Thank you for your yummy to-go lunches, even if your speedy service left me a little flustered on more than one occasion (wait, do I want the sandwich of marinated artichoke on pizza bianche or the goat cheese salad with asparagus......"NEXT!!!"...oh no, that's me!).
One thing was always certain, I could always rely on your savory Hero sandwich's smattering of genoa salami, prosciutto, watercress and caramelized onions to satisfy my appetite.


Yogurtland of Bleecker Street (at Morton St).
Your 16 oz. cups are sneaky sneaky sneaky, sitting there in all their free loving, one-size-fits-all, non-committal, we'll-take-any-quantity-you-fill-us-with glory. But did you really think with all your flavor offerings and plethora of toppings, we wouldn't fill the whole darn thing?!
Well, I loved every last spoonful (Pinkberry, who?).


To my publisher:
Thanks for informing (reminding) me that one time you small-talked me waiting for the elevator that my college town "probably doesn't even have good sushi" (yes, I'm quite aware). I'll overlook the fact you never remembered my name to the fact you gave me many bylines. For that, I (and my portfolio) thank you.


To my editors and the advertising girls:
Thanks for giving me hotel and restaurant recommendations, laughing at my jokes and imitations, inviting me to sample sales, telling Kanye West horror stories, and for rolling your eyes with me at the aforementioned publisher.


Prada of SoHo-
I loved ogling at your lace in the windows. You truly are what's in for fall. Hopefully, forever...



Thanks to the man who shouted at me "Why the frown? No reason to smile?!" after my first day of work.
Truly, there never was, nor is there any reason.

Don't Knock my New Yawk!

Quintessential New York City elitism...


Fabulous.



As for me, I see the inescapable dirt & grime, seriously old-school buildings, less than ideal weather conditions, and extortionate rent for closet-like living spaces as ruling out my own life-long residency.

But to all those who can't imagine leaving, mazel tov.


In other news, you should know that this past Wednesday, I was lunching at Pastis with Tara: half a block away from THIS. Ah.

Couture de Toros

OLE!

Salutations from The Slope

A few things:

Exhibit A:

My 'viva la vida loca' New Yorker compatriots and I are OBSESSED with the new Coldplay album.


So what if they have the same producer as U2. They're still awesome.


Exhibit B:
Brooklyn: Never mind it took 5 or 6 (?) cab rejections before one would drive me and my stuff to Park Slope (a story coming to a future post), I love this place.

I think it was Carrie B herself who said "I heard Manhattan is the new Brooklyn."
When Miranda retorted begrudgingly "Whoever said that has never been to Brooklyn," she was right.

But that's just FINE because Brooklyn has it's own flavor: you can't get tree-lined streets, kids on scooters, AND cute little shops on the Upper East Side.

To get even more confused about that banter (and the economy), read this.

And I may add that Kings (Brooklyn) is still chock full of the yarmulke-clad Jews and the too-enlightened-for-makeup intellectual East Coasters I love.

Also, screeching cab brakes don't ring in your ear all day. Now that's an upgrade all on it's own.


Exhibit C: The Beijing Olympics

a) Opening Ceremonies. Took my breath away, aesthetically and thematically. It made me ponder a lot of things. I remember I was all goosebumped (and not just freezing) at the SLC Opening Ceremonies 6 years ago, but wow, China, you pulled it out!

And then when Yao Ming and the little Sichuan boy came out with the Chinese flags, I almost shed a tear (and I'm not a crier).


And not to mention I think this girl is the most adorable thing in the world. Even more so than Suri Cruise, methinks.


I don't care if her voice was dubbed- could you sing while suspended in the air in front of 6 billion viewers?

Didn't think so.


And then you know, the sports...

b) Beach Volleyballers Misty May and Kerri Walsh dominating. Again.


I'm still very upset my own beach volleyball playing mother did not recognize them playing in the court next to her a year ago at Mission Beach, San Diego. AH!


c) Jason Lezak of the US men's swimming team in the last 10 meters of the 4X100 Freestyle Relay race. Whoa.

If you are of the world's minority who did not see that race, Lezak on the left beat the French swimmer on the right.
Yes, from that far behind.
Yes, 10 meters (30 feet) from the end.

Take that and your trashtalking, France. Even if you are the motherland of all epicurean tradition (read: butter, baguette, and cheese) you're really not good for much else.


That is all for now!

Favorite Summer Quotes

I used to update my facebook profile obsessively to put up new funny quotes to make people virtually lol, but then I discovered blogging.

So here are some favorite quotes from this summer here in the great city of New York:

"Whoever made the F train must have been very angry" - Krystyna

"This isn't Idaho or something" - guy who took our picture on a stoop in Greenwich Village

"You're Mormon, and naked all the time. I don't know how I feel about this." -my roommate Liz

"Where did all my money go"
"New York ate it" - eavesdroppage

"Much of the time I'm convinced I have no mojo...like, I'm asexual" - Tara

"Now they are in Mormon marital blogging bliss" - relief society lesson, which evoked collective eyeball rollage + laughter

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!" - Emily

"This is the funnest day of my life!!" -kid at Alli's UES summer camp, after a simple boiled egg science experiment

"I think the fact he speaks Japanese makes it okay" -Chantelle

"I love the first hot day of summer- it's like stepping out into a warm bath" - my roommate Sarah

"I was starstruck- it felt so L.A." - Sarah, on meeting Blake Lively and Penn Badgley in the lobby of their apartment building at 3AM (heading off to shoot GG in the Hamptons)

"I'm doing monogamously, how are you" - Collin

"Green is the new black" - global warming shirt

"Black is the new black" - African-American man's shirt

"He described himself as 'a banker.' Who describes themselves as 'a banker'?! It sounds like that Guess Who game you played when you were little: Does your person have glasses? Is your person wearing red? Is your person... a banker?!"
- Tara, on a guy our childhood friend married

"Wherever you are, it's friends that make your world" - magnet on Tara's fridge



To hear/see more, move to NYC.

It's a hilarious place.

The New Olympic Sport

I think HUMAN TETRIS should be the new Olympic sport.

It's comin' to America, ya know...

You know you've been in NYC too long when...

1) When you think Armani's underwear models are fat at first glance... (and they are most definitely not)


2) When you consider the price of JFK airport food a good deal.



3) When Bloomberg, de la Renta, AND Secret Service were across the street from you on Monday...

and you didn't notice.

Clever ways to bring home the Birkin

Some think that Mormonism is archaic brainwashing trying to corral everybody in Zionistic hopes to keep people from the evils of the world.

But never fear, I have heard a lot of dissent and I am still Mormon, and some may be surprised to know some of my best fellow Mormon friends happen to be Iranian, from divorced families, and even pro-choice.

Gasp, yes, we are Christian, and yes, it is someone named Jesus Christ whom we follow, and He taught us how to love everyone (That's what I try to remember when I'm in Utah and the hypocritical Mormons there frown at my frappuccino).

Bottom line: Any true Christian loves those who live "alternative" lifestyles, be they agnostics or Jews or sinners.
Novel concept, I know.


Before we all get defensive about whether or not Joseph Smith would approve a Diet Coke or baked goods addiction over alcoholism, let's talk about coveting...

Coveting handbags...

or, as a popular fictional novel has recently been titled, bringing home the Birkin
(and no, I'm not trying to stir up a feminist discussion).


Case 1: The quintessential NYC couple exists at our LDS (Mormon) singles' ward here in Manhattan. They are both immaculately polished, well put together, wearing lots of black or dark colors (and it's summer) as they punch away on their Blackberries in Sunday School.

But most noticeably, she has a different designer bag every Sunday.



Case 2: After Sacrament Meeting last week, my friend Tara and I saw a 20-something young woman with exotic looks coupled with a tall, delicately toned waifish body (which as we all know, equals model).

She was probably 5'11" in heels and for all we knew, jetting off to Ibiza for a photo shoot.

(on a side note, the most cheesy-confident guy was trying to pick her up, and she was only half-amused. It was right out of a bar scene in a movie, granted it was in the most holy of innocent places as the lobby of church. Hilarious.)

But her Hermes.... the Birkin......



My friend Tara and I like to ogle at these people, for their beauty and impeccable presentation is of museum quality.

So to make ourselves feel better about ourselves, every week we can be overheard hissing to each other something along the lines of "How can she have Marc Jacobs this week and YSL last?"


Then, as if it's some celestial epiphany, our heads turn to each other and smile knowingly, nodding to each other,

"Borrowed."

What? From who?

No, your heiress friend is not employing her sharing skill set we all learned in preschool.

Just as Ms. Carrie Bradshaw tells Louise to 'grab her rental,' THIS IS HOW.



So, now the new question is not "Where did you buy" but rather "Where did you borrow?"

Because if you weren't given the bag by Gabbana himself, chances are nowadays it's the latter.

3 Days...

It's that time again.

Who else can't wait?!

Every day at the gym, I see the little NBC icon on the bottom of the screen counting down the days until 8/8/08.

It makes my feet tread harder, heart beat faster, and not just because of Michael Phelps (though I swear if he weren't so buff, he'd be a total oaf. I say bring back Thorpedo).

They'll be Russian gymnasts a plenty.
They'll be track and fielders galore.
But who cares, no big deal, I want Dara TORRes!

Incontestably, the greatest story is that of 41-year-old swimmer Dara Torres.
This is her 5th Olympics, she had a baby less than 2 years ago, she retired back in the 90s.

But thanks to her team of personal trainers (including two stretchers who mush her muscles around for 2-3 hours a day), her most genetically-predisposed-to-muscle-twitching body on the planet, she still DOMINATES.

Not only is she motivating her other 40-year-old mommies to the gym, she makes my own quads, however faintly they may resemble the definition of my former Junior Olympic volleyball days, look like BUTTA.


My favorite pre-games coverage came out of Glamour Magazine's spread entitled: "The 11 Greatest Bodies on Earth."

11 women Olympians struck poses from their sports, all wearing couture. The seamless integration of athletics and fashion to create art is inspiring and awestriking.


So here, I leave you with Mrs. Dara T herself. Go check out the article.