Change is hard. 

It’s awkward. Clunky. Uncomfortable. Even if it’s the good kind of change! There are always growing pains.

This week, my name officially changed. The name I was born with and the one my parents custom-picked just for little old me, is no more. I am no longer Elyse Gibson. I am now Elyse Ash.

And it’s weird.

I mean, it’s happy. I CHOSE it, ya know? At least these days women get a choice. We get to decide which sounds better. Which we like better. What we want to do. We don’t just become the property of some guy we didn’t even choose in the first place. So that’s pretty rad. And, for the most part, we are not judged by our decision to change or not change our name. I’ve had friends take their husband’s last name, keep their maiden name, tie the names together with a hyphen, and create an all-new name. THERE ARE NO RULES ANYMORE.  If you really wanted to, you could change your name to Princess Consuela Banana Hammock like Phoebe from Friends.

But after a lot of internal back and forth, I decided to change my name and take Brad’s last name. For a few reasons:

• • Going from a last name that begins with “G” to one that begins with “A” is basically like getting a social promotion. Let’s do everything in alphabetical order now, guys!
• • A last name with three letters? Think of all the time I’ll save by not having to write out three additional letters on forms and applications. I am all about efficiency!
• • And now for the actual, non-joke reason. Thinking long term; if Brad and I are lucky enough to have children, I want to have the same last name as the rest of my family. This is very important to me. I don’t want to feel like an outsider. I want us to be the Ash family. Not the Ash family—and Elyse.

As someone who calls herself a feminist, it was a little weird to change my name, since it seems on the surface  to be making a huge, annoying change for a guy. But feminism is not about standing up to “The Man.” It’s about making your own choices. Celebrating your right to decide what is right for you. So that’s what I did. I made my own choice. Brad never pushed or bullied or manipulated. He let me decide which felt right to me (which, he shouldn’t really get kudos for doing since that should be expected, but what the hell; go Brad!) And I decided, on my own, to make the change. To merge our last names along with our lives. To put on our united front. To be the Ash household.

And yet, it’s STILL weird. There was something about Elyse Gibson. The cadence. The way it looks. The comfort of the letters being arranged just so. It’s like when you do a major renovation on your house; and it just doesn’t FEEL right. Of course it’s beautiful and still your home. It just takes a while to get used to where the new drawer handles are, where you keep the oven mitts now, and the way the floor feels.

I was in the elevator the other day and was basically bullied into introducing myself, and wasn’t sure how to do it. Elyse Gibson just came so quickly and naturally! It was a reflex. Elyse Ash I have to prepare to say. To write. To sign. It’s not instinctive yet. I know that will come with time and that now is just the funny, odd in-between time. But still. It’s a big change. A hard change.

So now I’m Elyse Ash. I still think Elyse Gibson just SOUNDS better. The rhythm. The two syllables followed obediently by another two syllables. It rolls off the tongue. Elyse Ash is kind of tricky to say. The soft “s” followed immediately by the “sh” makes me sound like I have a serious lisp. This is why it was such a great consolation to hear the following words from a dear friend/true feminist/amazing writer: “I actually think you went from the name of a restaurateur heiress to a novel character.  So I am good with the change.”

Novel character, eh? Ok. I’m sold.

My annual review is just around the corner here at work. Every year you fill out a self-evaluation form in which you’re supposed to list your professional goals for the next year so your manager and your team can help you obtain said professional goals. But honestly? Everyone just kinda writes down some bullshit and calls it a day.

So I felt compelled to write my own, off-the-record (yet not off-the-blog) Personal Professional Goals. Just some things to keep in mind as I navigate this jungle of an industry; with weasels, snakes, charlatans, sycophants, grand-standers plus a lot of ego and a lot of stress…it can be a squirrely place (how many animal references did you count in that sentence?) Anyway. Here we go.

Elyse’s Personal Professional Goals

• Be Myself, Always. Do NOT give this industry, this office, these people the opportunity to change who I am. I will not let them beat down my spirit. Suck out my life force. Take my joy and my hope and my wild eyes. I will always—always—stay passionate, hungry, enthusiastic and joyful. Stay myself. Be authentic. Allow myself to be vulnerable so I may truly connect with others on a human-to-human level. Be true to myself, to my taste, to my morals.

• Keep My Shit Together. Control my emotions when I get frustrated. Don’t lose my cool or downward spiral fast and furiously. Sometimes things don’t happen the way you want them to. That’s ok.

• Don’t Be Manipulated. Don’t let managers or fear or higher ups or threats or bullies scare me into listening to my inner voice. My intuition. Listen to that above all else. Don’t allow myself to be emotionally manipulated by small, petty people who are insecure and have way too much to prove. You know your shit. Trust it.

• Be a Badass. Above all else, be a rockstar. Be first string. Be THE writer of choice for projects due to my smarts, my fun, myself. Bring amazing ideas. Bring energy. Bring enthusiasm. Bring effort and positivity. Bring my best, savvy self.

• Have Fun. But being a rockstar doesn’t mean I have to be serious. Be silly. Make jokes. Make fun. This is JUST advertising. It’s not brain surgery. No lives depend on this. Everything we make is just a word printed on a piece of paper or projected onto a screen. No babies or puppies will ever be harmed in the making of banner ads. Relax!

• Make It the Best It Can Be. Sometimes clients just want to make crap. But it’s our job—my GOAL—to make the crap as artful and inspired (and least crapful? crappy?) as it can be. Create work I respect. Help people FEEL things. Activate communities. Get people talking. Be authentic to the brand. To the client. To the goals of the project. Try my hardest to make even the smallest project, as highly impactful as possible.

• Be Reliable. Follow through with what I say and what I do. Be the kind of team player that everyone loves. That works their ass off. That knows the client. Knows the work. Knows it all. And can be the voice of reason. The expert. The go-to girl. And be this more often than not.

• Find Strong Mentors and Latch On. I must find my people here. My people: experienced, strong, don’t conform, are honest, are themselves, are really fucking smart. And it’s helpful if they are funny, too. Learn from these people. Ask questions. Don’t be afraid. Get advice. Let them guide you. Open up to them. Connect in a real way. Let them help.

• Remember: It’s Just a Job. Don’t let work control or impact my REAL life (Brad, Puck, my family, my friends, my home, my hobbies, my writing, my adventures, myself). Don’t let it affect my health. My relationships. My self-worth. My body. My spirit. Go, plug in and do the best I can every day. Be strong and helpful and awesome. But then go home and recharge and leave all the stress, frustrations and paper cuts at the office.

We’ve all been there.

You’re REALLY excited about something—sometimes it’s large (I GOT AN ‘A’ ON MY ORGANIC CHEMISTRY FINAL! I GOT A PROMOTION! I’M ENGAGED!); sometimes it’s small (THEY HAVE A NEW FLAVOR OF GELATO! MY FAVORITE MUSICIAN IS COMING INTO TOWN!)—but honestly, the size does not matter. You’re jazzed. You’re pumped. You’re typing or talking in ALL CAPS! WITH EXTRA EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then someone swoops right in and not only kills your buzz, they straight up rape and murder it violently. Special Victims Unit-style.

“Oh you got an A on your final? That’s cool. I had that professor last year. He gave A’s to EVERYONE.”

“Oh you’re getting married? Have fun never having sex again.”

“Oh I’ve seen that musician live. She’s AWFUL in concert. I had to leave the show early.”

Wow. Really?

Your joy just evaporates. Leaving as quickly as it probably arrived. Not only has your excitement been completely rejected, but it’s also been kicked in the shins multiple times with a sledgehammer doused in acid.

Ouch.

When you’re a naturally enthusiastic, passionate person, this happens ALL the time. It’s part of the cost of being a thirsty-for-life, excited-no-matter-what kind of human. People intentionally, or unintentionally, kill your buzz. Throw off your mojo. Trample your chi.

So how do you fix it? How do you take back those good vibes? How do you ignore what those grinches and bitches said? Ha. It’s easy! Kind of…or maybe you just get used to it; either way, here are a couple of things to realize the next time you find yourself floundering in one of these funks:

• Eye roll (internally) ALL you want. This is usually the first thing I do after someone shoots word daggers right into my expectations. I eye roll and cuss them out and throw a total temper tantrum—in my mind. I don’t say any of this. I usually try to smile and nod politely. Oh really? I’ll keep that in mind. Good to know. I’ll admit that this part is next-to-impossible for me. I have the worst poker face ever and my instinct is to get defensive. To go on the attack. But however badly I want to word smack this idiot around, it’s not mature and it never makes me feel better. Sure I think How DARE you. How DARE you try to ruin this for me! But I also understand that it’s not about me.

• Take their opinion with a grain of salt. In fact, take it with the biggest grain of salt in existence (a salt lick? Salt mines? Not sure what this would technically be, but you get the idea.) How does this person know the teacher gave out A’s to EVERYONE? What makes them an expert? Maybe the musician they saw in concert had strep throat. Or had just been dumped. Or was off her meds. Oh yeah? Married people don’t have sex anymore? That sounds like a pretty loaded assumption by someone who’s been there pretty intimately.

• Remember that it’s just that; an opinion. Brad really didn’t like the Hunger Games movie. He just didn’t. He thought it wasn’t epic enough and that it felt more like a teenage action movie than something as dramatic and awesome as the books themselves. Now luckily I had seen the movie before Brad. So I had already formed my own opinion about it (AWESOME!). But what if I hadn’t? What if Brad had seen it first and he had told me it was terrible and not to bother? “Don’t get excited. It’s pretty much the worst movie ever.” Then what? We’re allowed to have different opinions and different tastes. We’re different people! Now Brad wouldn’t have TRIED to burst my bubble or be a jerk; but it might have disappointed me anyway. Which leads to:

• Most importantly, do not let this person, or ANY person, ruin your experience. Ever. Even if, for a flicker of a moment, you were bummed or disappointed about the buzz kill, take back your buzz. Be proactive. Don’t fall into their funk. Keep your spirits high and keep yourself excited. There’s absolutely no reason why one person’s opinion should ruin or taint your experience. The end.

In life, there are cynics, know-it-alls, bullies, insecure idiots, debbie downers and all other kinds of joy thieves who hate to see genuine joy. It reminds them of what they are unable to experience: authentic excitement that’s not colored by fear or anxiety.

Sure, sometimes, it’s not about any of that. It’s about someone who’s just having a bad day or who is actually trying to WARN you about something or set up your expectations. They might be your best friend or your mom or your husband. They might be totally great 99% of the time. But just don’t let them and their judgments/opinions/outlooks affect your level of excitement.

It doesn’t matter if what was said was said with malice or not. All that matters is that you stay true to you. Stand by your excitement. Don’t let your heart get broken by some cynical, clueless, insecure dipshit. You can’t let negative energy ruin experiences or life for you. You just can’t. So don’t.

At first, we’re polite.
Swapping “good mornings” in the elevator,
Our closed-lipped smiles playing ping pong.
Reserved demeanors,
Itsy bitsy small talk.
Yet, unintentionally revealing 
Clues about our likes and lives.

Then I’ll make a joke and you’ll laugh.
Or I’ll impulsively comment on something controversial,
Or overly personal,
That just slipped out—I didn’t mean to say that!
Releasing an authentic piece of me into the wild,
And you pick it up and put it in your pocket.
I’ll sigh from relief.

Then I’ll ask you to the movies.
We’ll debate and decide which flick to click over.
Chit chatting through the previews,
Annoying the older gentleman in front of us.
He’ll shush and we’ll giggle.
With every day, we open a little more, like a stubborn jar of jam—
Working to reach the fruit inside.

Then I’ll invite you over for dinner.
You’ll insist I tell you where I got those adorable pillows!
You’ll compliment my taste,
The taste of the meal,
We’ll spill wine and secrets,
Exchange stories and support,
Snapping mental photographs.

Then I’ll call you in the middle of the night.
When my eyes are swollen,
And my heart is broken.
I’ll look ugly and sound crazy,
Coughing up conspiracy theories.
You’ll tell me I’m right and the world is wrong,
And hold up a tissue while I blow with all my strength.

Then you’ll stand before wet, mourning eyes,
And speak the kindest words, because that’s what you do.
You’ll list my strengths using superfluous superlatives,
Blatantly ignoring the times I was selfish, sullen, sour.
Because you always testify on my behalf,
No matter whether I killed a man or ate the last muffin,
Even when you really, really wanted it.

- Elyse Gibson

“Perfect is boring.”

I grew up hearing this phrase on repeat. Probably more frequently than the Sesame Street theme song—which is really saying something. My mom would utter it like a mantra whenever my sister or I got frustrated with our fingers, clumsily navigating them through a messy drawing or messy hair day. She told us that not only is being perfect a completely unrealistic goal—but that even if you achieved it—you’d find it so utterly dull that all your work and worry would be for nothing.

The woman was onto something.

I’m not sure how she knew that my Great War with Perfection would be a psychologically bloody battle throughout my life. I don’t know if she’s a psychic or soothsayer or if she’s just always known me really, really well. Maybe she spotted my mini-OCD moments—the organization of my toys in a perfect line at the age of 2 or how I cared for my dolls or how I hated being dirty or disorganized—and she added them up, deciding to take a more proactive parenting approach.

No matter what kind of clairvoyance my mother may or may not possess, I’ve been losing the battle against Perfection for years. I’ve been her prisoner for as long as I can remember, developing a sort of Stockholm Syndrome, “No, you don’t understand. Perfection is actually really nice once you get to know her.”

The most frustrating part is that I rationally understand that perfection is unachievable. That there are always flaws, blemishes, nicks, typos and creases—in plans, in pants, in people. That it’s impossible to control all aspects of life and manufacture real emotions the way I would manipulate images in Photoshop. And yet, I can’t let go of this longing for the unattainable. That skinny siren calls my name with every Pinterest photo, magazine cover, Pottery Barn brochure and skin cream ad (oh the irony).

I blame the wedding for bringing out this compulsion in me recently. Sure it’s usually stirring around inside of me—pushing for straight A’s and such—but all of the wedding planning and pressure (self-inflicted, of course) has been making my Perfection Reflex flare up more dramatically, like a weak ankle at the end of a marathon.

It’s pathetic, really. This compulsive need to achieve the illusion of perfection. Because it IS an illusion. My mother was totally right: there’s no such thing as perfect—and if there was, it’d be BORING AS SHIT. If everything went according to plan, and everything was done by the books, there’d be no room for joyful surprises, unexpected moments of tension and drama. None of that spontaneous joie de vivre. No poorly timed thunderstorms or snow days. And where is the humor, delight and fun in a surprise-less script that you wrote yourself? There’s beauty in the random and unexpected and even the unpleasant.

And don’t even get me started about how this whole concept of life being perfect if you’re in the puppeteer seat is deeply hubristic. It just reeks of arrogance…thinking that you know better. That you could better craft a perfect evening with friends—more so than if you just simply let go and let plans unfold naturally. If you let the stars and the mood and the magic just happen on its own.

These last few months before our wedding, I’m choosing to let go. Instead of fighting the uphill battle every day, I choose to find beauty and joy in the unexpected and in the real. In real life. Real emotions. Gritty, messy, ugly, hard, scary, stressful, unexpected life. It’s time to put on my brave face and not be afraid to get dirty. To get the hiccups. To get a pimple. To let go and have fun. Stop stressing about where we’re going to park. About getting straight 5.0’s on my performance review. Why can’t I just be my authentic self? My obnoxious, too loud, too curious, too quirky self?

One of my goals this year is to be more authentic. More honest. Less uptight and less controlled. To let go and embrace the realness and ugliness and awkwardness.
To just let go and let life. Unclench. Breathe. Live.

Yes, I am ditching Perfect. Leaving her for Authentic.

And it’s going to be divine.

Last night I was driving back home from guest speaking for a friend’s design class. It was late. I was exhausted. And yet I was also pretty amped up. Guest teaching had really gotten my creative juices flowing. After all, I love talking about creative advertising and copywriting, and I had just spent most of the day preparing what I was going to say to these young design minds. How could I cram everything I know about copywriting and concepting into one three-hour class? (Spoiler alert: No one can!) But I had been noodling all day about what makes good copy and what makes someone a good copywriter.

So there I am in my car, hugging the curves of Lake of the Isles. Mind racing. Empty streets. Just me and iTunes shuffle.

Then all of a sudden one of my favorite songs began:

“I sit back with this pack of zigzags, and this bag of this weed, it gives me the shit needed to be 
the most meanest M-C on this, on this Earth. 
And since birth I’ve been cursed with this curse to just curse and just blurt this berserk and bizarre shit that works. 
And it sells and it helps in itself 
to relieve all this tension dispensing me…”

The song is called The Way I Am. The artist? Eminem.

And it hit me:

Eminem would have been an insanely good copywriter.

No, I’m not on crack. This totally makes sense. Stick with me.

It’s no secret that Eminem is one of the most talented rappers that ever existed. He single-handedly changed the rap industry in this country about 15 years ago—selling millions of records, shattering all sorts of statistics and not giving a flying cuss what people thought about him or his work. Sure I might not politically agree with every word in every song (particularly ones about rape and killing his mom), but I DO agree that Eminem is a genius. He’s a brilliant writer, thinker and performer—which are the three things that essentially make someone a successful copywriter.

Here are just a few other reasons why I think Eminem would have climbed the corporate ladder in creative advertising quite quickly:

-    He’s an amazing storyteller.
Eminem has had a ridiculous life. He came from essentially nothing. No money. No supervision. No support. No hope. And he shares a lot of his life experiences through his writing and rapping. Eminem knows how to set the stage for stories by exploring three-dimensional characters, creating drama and using story arches (I would particularly argue these points in his song “Stan” which is a narrative about a desperate, suicidal fan). So not only does Eminem have a lot of stories—he knows how to make them sound as dramatic, authentic and poetic as possible. And these are traits that make good creative advertising particularly engaging and endearing.

-    He understands metaphor, irony, juxtaposition and other writing techniques and utilizes them creatively and effectively.
Eminem is smart. He references all kinds of pop culture and literary works in his own work, (“I cannot grow old in Salem’s lot…”). He understands irony. Alliteration. Metaphor. He makes sure every rhyme is perfect. Every literary device is relevant. The man is clearly a control freak in the best possible way. There are no sloppy syllables that don’t fit. Every word is carefully picked. This is the work of a true artist. And something that is very important to copywriting—not just having a big vocabulary, but writing creatively. Pushing your words. Hand selecting them so they communicate the PRECISE emotion you want to communicate.

-    He thinks differently.
Eminem is not a man of clichés. In his song, “Lose Yourself” from the movie 8 Mile, he doesn’t rap about how he has butterflies in his stomach before taking the stage. Instead, he says “His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy. There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti.” Eminem finds new ways to communicate very common emotions and themes: fear, isolation, frustration, despair. He doesn’t rely on crutches or tired ideas. He thinks of new ideas. Which is perhaps the hardest, yet most important part, of being a good artist and a good writer.

-    He communicates clearly.
Eminem enunciates. He makes very clear, succinct points. He doesn’t mumble or mutter. He doesn’t use words like “maybe” or “possibly” or “sometimes.” He speaks with conviction and confidence. With passion and purpose. He’s easy to understand (for a rapper, at least). He doesn’t waiver or worry. Nope. He says what he means and he means what he says. Dr. Seuss would approve.

-    He’s fearless.
He doesn’t edit himself or his thoughts for anyone. Ever. Sometimes even to his detriment. He’s not afraid to be himself. To put himself out there. To share his art, his words, his purpose. He stands behind what he does, even in the late 1990s when moms would form picket lines and boycott his albums. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t back down. He didn’t edit or censor his creativity. Now you never really get this luxury when clients are involved. You don’t just get to spit out whatever you want…but the fearlessness to communicate your opinion is something that’s very valuable in client meetings and in the work itself. Because people respect fearlessness. They listen to it. They appreciate it.

Of course I’m relieved Eminem isn’t a copywriter. It would have been a shame to have missed out on all his creative insight just so he could have written an edgy spot for Old Spice. (Now that’s a depressing thought). Worst case scenario, it’d make a great back-up career for him.

So in honor of my weird late-night epiphany, for the rest of this week my goal at work is to be a little more Eminem.

But maybe without all the curse words.

When I wore ponytails and wanted a pony,
We called it a jungle for a reason.
A metal forest of monkey bars,
Where herds of girls schemed in teams—
Dispatching soldiers onto the battlefield
To sniper boys with kisses—
The original biological warfare.
My favorite part of the jungle,
The back corner where the pavement stopped
And the weeds began,
An oasis—where balls didn’t fly like bombs.
I played on the cusp,
Clinging to the chain link fence, draped in a knot of vines
As tangled as my hair—
Singing to myself,
Smelling honeysuckles.

‘Tis the season for lists. The Best Music 2011. The Worst Movies of 2011. The Biggest Pimples of 2011. Whatever. Lists of resolutions, regrets, to-be’s and to-do’s—they’re everywhere. Well, after reading an article on the Huffington Post, I thought it might be fun to create my own Reverse Bucket List. Call me closed minded. Call me cowardly. But here are the top 10 things I hope to never, ever do before I die.

10. Run a Marathon: I don’t really understand how or why this has become a thing. 26.2 miles is really, really, REALLY far. I don’t even think human beings are supposed to run that far. I just hope this isn’t some type of contagious goal that people in their late 20s can cough onto you…

9. Give Up My TV: I love my TV. I love watching everything from high-quality, high-brow programming like Game of Thrones and Mad Men, to the trashy, unclassy Real Housewives franchise, and I’m not ashamed. Sure, I COULD live without it, but why would I want to?

8. Join the Military: I respect every person who serves this country immensely. Seriously.  The work they do and the sacrifices our soldiers make to protect our freedom and liberties is one of the bravest, most selfless things a person can do. I’m just not a brave, selfless person.

7. Do a Juice/Detox “Cleanse”: No thanks to the whole weird juice/detox cleanse craze. I like to chew my food. And also the word “cleanse” just makes me think of ethnic cleansing…

6. Go Bungee Jumping: Seriously, how is this even a thing? They should just call it Death Jumping.

5. Help Deliver a Baby: I am not good with blood. I am not good with emergencies. I would pretty much be the last person you’d want delivering your child in an elevator. Beware, 9-month pregnant ladies traveling in elevators with me. Not that I wouldn’t try…I just really, really don’t want to be in this situation, ever.

4. Attend Bonaroo or Any Other Large, Multi-Day Outdoor Summer Music Festival:  No bathrooms or running water. No air conditioning. No sober people. Sounds like pretty much the worst thing ever. Even if The Beatles, Buddy Holly, Regina Spektor, Fiona Apple and The Weepies were all headlining, I’d still have to pass.

3. Run With the Bulls: I really like living. So, I’m gonna probably avoid Spain during this time period every year.

2. Go Back to Grad School or Any Other Kind of School: I’m never doing homework again. Unless it’s my kid’s homework. And even then…

1. Play Golf: Why would I want to spoil an afternoon drinking outside by getting frustrated? Yeahhhhhhhhhhh, I’m good on golf.

Last Friday I went into my favorite store, Anthropologie, and spent way too much money on a dress that I didn’t really need. Rationality returned on Sunday morning and I knew I had to do the hard thing. The sad thing. The right thing.

I had to bring back the dress.

This situation is not foreign to me. Anthro and I do this little dance quite frequently. My judgment and bank statements, temporarily blinded by the glitz and the glam, the magic and mystery of walking into an Anthropologie store. It’s like a drug. I don’t make good decisions. I’m both blind and have a heightened sense of sight. Nothing makes sense. Nothing else matters. My priorities shift. There’s only ribbon, wood, lace, glitter and the smell of coconut wax. My senses overpower me.

It’s like being in love.

Anthropologie is both my favorite, and most hated, store. A sort of sad happy place, if you will. It’s my heaven and hell. What’s crueler than creating a million brilliant, beautiful clothes, home décor items and accessories—but then overpricing them so that only the 1% can guiltlessly enjoy their shimmering and glittery brilliance?

So what is Anthropologie? If you don’t have a daughter or girlfriend or wife, you might not know. It’s an amazing wonderland of new vintage-looking products displayed by the most dazzlingly cruel store display designers ever. Want a dress that will get you so many compliments that you’ll need a bigger sized ego-case (which they probably sell)? Want a colorful ceramic, “hand” painted Mexico-meets-Tuscany set of outdoor dining plates? Want a gorgeous coffee table book you can find at Amazon for literally half the price if you just did one two-minute search on your phone? Anthropolgie is your place.

My love affair began after college. The huge, tree branch door knobs. The wine glass chandeliers. The millions of candles and headbands and pretty party dresses that would be perfect for high tea (if I was a girl who ever attended high tea). I didn’t stand a chance. It was like an art class had exploded and a magical fairyland was left in its place. But I was a poor junior copywriter and couldn’t afford any of it. Not one little hair clip or belt or pair of tights. Nope. Anthro was for looking, lusting and crushing. Not for buying.

Sometimes my adorable mom would take pity on me. “Ok, one dress! For that wedding you want to go to.” These dresses, to this day, are my most prized wardrobe staples. My favorites. The ones my H&M dresses look at with envy. The ones I get dry-cleaned.

To this day, Anthro’s beauty, curiosity and magic continue to tease and tempt me—like sweet, mystical sirens. It calls to me. And sure maybe today I can “afford” certain articles (certainly not the $3,000 wrought-iron bed I adore) but a cardigan here or a pair of flats there. And yet, the guilt (and my greed) still cloud my judgment. I don’t trust myself in Anthro. I talk myself into things. I lose the ability to form rational thoughts. And this is all very, very scary.

My friend Melanie said it best, back in our just-out-of-college years and mentalities. She said, “Anthropologie doesn’t sell products. It sells a lifestyle. An unattainable lifestyle. It sells a fantasy that does not exist.” And you know what? She’s right. Sure you can buy a few headbands or aprons or candles. But you can’t buy the wooden floors or the dreamy chandeliers or the rich quilts or costume jewelry. I mean, I’m sure some people can, that’s why they are still in business. But most people just think that they can. And even worse, they think that buying these overpriced, mass-manufactured trinkets will transform them into the interesting, boho-chic stylish poet-artist-gypsy-singer-sex-goddess that they desperately want to be.

But who says you need overpriced clothing and furniture to be anybody that you want to be?

These last few weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about bullies. What is a bully? What makes someone a bully? What does all this bully babble mean?

And I’ve come to an important conclusion: no one thinks that they’re a bully. Even famous bullies like Lucy Van Pelt, Nelson Muntz, Regina George, and Biff Tannen. Those “ha ha” taunting, swirly giving, burn book writing, football gagging bullies—yeah, they don’t think they’re bullies.

And that’s the thing about “bullies.” They don’t really exist.

People can bully other people. People can act like bullies. But no one is a bully 100% of the time. And conversely, no one is free from being a bully 100% of the time. We’ve all been bullied and we’ve all played the bully—whether we’d like to admit it or not.

Of course there are varying degrees of bullies. Some throw slushees in people’s faces. Others spread rumors. Others write mean-spirited Facebook wall posts or make merciless prank calls or punch people in the leg or fake ask someone to prom or make physical threats. These are all types of bullying. And none of us are innocent.

That’s why this whole Stand Up Against Bullies movement thing makes me feel…hypocritical in a way. I don’t think I’ve been responsible for the suicide of someone due to bullying (God, I hope not). And yet, I know I’ve uttered hurtful words to people. I’ve gossiped about people behind their backs. I’ve teased. I’ve made passive aggressive comments and just regular aggressive comments. I’ve made off-the-cuff comments. Flippant comments. Malicious comments. Many, many, many comments I am not proud of. And why? Because I was insecure. Or uncomfortable. Or nervous. Or wanted to seem cool. Or whatever. No excuses. This is not right. It’s never right.

But I feel like so many of us get caught up in that. In high school and college and even at work. We band together within our social cliques and bond over a joint hatred of someone. Maybe not even hatred, maybe just teasing. But it’s not right. We’ve all been the one that people were laughing at…and it never feels good.

So it’s easy to say “stop the bullies” and go on some sort of crusade—but that almost feels like bullying the bullies (woah. I just blew my own mind.) But really, the only way we can stop “the bullies” is by controlling what WE ourselves say. By taking responsibility for our actions and our words. We must control how we talk to and treat those around us. Are we respecting others and their rights to be themselves unconditionally? Or are we constantly teasing and mocking and judging them and their life choices? Until we can all check ourselves, we’ll just keep wrecking ourselves.

The important thing to remember is to mind your manners. Mind your mouth. Be yourself unconditionally and allow others to be themselves as well. No judgments. No eye rolls. No comments. Just accept one another. Respect one another. We don’t have to all love one another—but we do have to be respectful and try to understand that no one is evil or bad. That we all have our ugly moments and that deep down there IS good in everyone. Even in bullies.

Today I made a truly depressing revelation. The year you stop trick-or-treating—that’s pretty much the year your childhood ends.
 
Halloween is the quintessential children’s holiday. I’m not talking about “adult” Halloween which pretty much consists of bloody slasher movies, Zombie Pub Crawls and drunken parties where women dress like prostitutes. Not that Halloween. But REAL Halloween. The silly ghosts, googly eyes, chocolate, candy corn and every sugary sweet in between. Remember that one? The one where you got to dress up as your favorite character or even a made up one (What? What’s wrong with being a vampire fairy detective!?) Where you got to eat the equivalent of 12 king size candy bars all in one night? Without judgment? The whole holiday is a fantasy. A day/night you get to dress up and pig out. The ultimate children’s holiday.
 
Then you start to feel a little too old for Halloween. You get self-conscious. Asking yourself (à la Roger Murtaugh) am I too old for this shi…I mean, stuff? And then, one day, your Mom pretty much tells you that yes, you are too old for that stuff and no you can’t go trick or treating anymore. It’s a CHILDREN’S holiday, sweetheart and you’re beginning to grow a moustache. And then it’s over. It’s all over.

That’s the day you can’t get away with little kid things anymore. You can’t order off the kid’s menu. You can’t leave the dinner table prematurely to go play by yourself. You can’t watch Disney movies unless you’re babysitting. No more shenanigans. You have to grow up. Or at least appear to grow up. You can still secretly play with Barbies in your room—but you must hide them away quickly when you hear your Mom coming up the stairs. You must be ashamed that you’re not interested in lip gloss or TweenSeventeen Beat magazines. It’s that awkward age. The bridge between childhood and teen-hood. When you’re half trying to be cool and half trying to milk every last “kid” thing you possible can before it’s too late.

Oh, growing up. Why do you suck so badly?

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Not a billion percent sure what this means (especially since I found this link on Melanie’s Facebook page and hers said she writes like Kurt Vonnegut, and now I’m disappointed since I wanted to write like Vonnegut). Honestly, I’ve never read Palahniuk so I don’t know whether to be offended or complimented—and since I don’t understand it, I’m taking it as an insult.

I am deeply, deeply offended.

Ok, so I read this article that Gawker published called The 10 Worst Things About Summer and I could not agree LESS with any of the things they posted! The ice cream truck sound? Flip flops? Seriously!? Brian Moylan is SUCH a debbie downer! Does he not find joy in anything?

So after that terribly depressing article, I challenged myself to come up with my own 10 Worst Things About Summer.

The 10 Worst Things About Summer Elyse Style

1. Stickiness. EVERYTHING in the summer is sticky. From popsicle sticks to the back of my neck…everything is sticky. And it’s disgusting.

2. Mosquitoes. Gross, annoying AND painful. Awesome…

3. Weird Schedules. It’s so hard to make plans with people in the summer because everyone has very weird schedules. “Oh, I can’t go that week I’m going to the beach.” “Oh, that week sucks cuz I’m at some three-day long concert.” Blah blah blah. This particularly makes one bitter when they have a summer birthday (ahem).

4. No Air Conditioning. So MOST of the time, we are blessed with God’s greatest gift to mankind, air conditioning. But every once in a while you step into a shop or a store or a restaurant whose A/C is broken and GODDAMN IT…it’s so friggin MISERABLE. I always get the HELL out of the establishment ASAP…it’s just too unbearable.

5. Children EVERYWHERE. I remember being little and LOVING summer. So much time to go to the pool and be outside and just be everywhere. Now, this is what sucks about summer. There are kids everywhere. This sucks mainly because I am jealous. They don’t have work or responsibilities. It’s all chalk and water guns for them. YIPPEE! Jerks. I am so bitter. Also, there was nothing worse than going to the pool on a weekend to be surrounded by kids doing cannonballs and getting my reading material all wet. I can’t wait to be rich and have my own pool. My own children-free pool. Sigh…

6. Accidentally Touching the Metal Part of the Seat Belt in the Car. Need I say more?

7. Toe Nail Polish. It is such a pain in the ass to keep up with toe nail polish. Everytime I try to make my toes look all pretty and painted, ONE day later, they are all ghetto looking and busted. It is WAY too much effort to keep it up all summer long, but my toe nails always feel naked when there’s no polish on them at all. It’s a serious problem.

8. Bathing Suits. Unless you’re Heidi Klum or Mario Lopez, you probably dread wearing bathing suits as much as I do. There is seriously no other article of clothing that makes me want to end it all more.

9. You Try Being a Vegetarian at a BBQ. You pretty much have to pray to the BBQ gods that someone brought coleslaw and/or chips. Burgers. Hot dogs. Sausages. Meat really is the summer go-to food for all occasions. Which means that for us non-meat eaters, we have a lot of explaining to do to random strangers as to WHY we don’t eat meat. And it never gets old or annoying…

10. Summer Dieting. Inevitably, I am ALWAYS on a diet in the summer. Since I was 14, probably. But summers are the most depressing time of the year to diet because all I want to eat is ice cream, and frappaccinos, and slurpees, and everything else cold and calorie-filled. Total blowage.

This year, Brad and I have developed a very close friendship with a couple that I would not have pictured us being so close with. Friendly? Of course. Friends? Sure. But get-together-once-a-week BFFs? Not so much.

So, why did I never envision Stu + Hayley and Brad + Elyse being the poster children for perfect double dating?

Simple.

We are on completely different planets when it comes to politics—which might not matter most places, but in DC it matters. Oh boy, does it matter.

First of all, when I say “we” I am mostly referring to Stu and myself. Stu is a pro-life, pro-gun libertarian with Anne Coulter creepily peering at me from his bookshelves. Essentially, Stu agrees with Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, but not when it comes to immigrants in Arizona. As for me, I’m a pro-gay rights, pro-women’s rights, pro-everything-except-the-right rights, so yeah…it makes for some pretty intense tongue-holding when it comes to socializing.

But we have a mutual understanding. We never talk politics. Never. Not on Twitter. Not on Gchat. Not in real life.

Anyway, the point of all of this back-story is that one little television show with a giant cultural impact stranded us all on our own little island of obsession.

Yes, I’m talking about LOST.

Every Tuesday for the last several months, the four of us gather around the television. We pop open a (few) bottle(s) of wine, do some home cooking (on the non-lazy nights) and talk about our weeks—our job frustrations, our big life decisions, our mutual friend gossip until 8:58. Then we shut the hell up (as best as we possibly can) and LOST comes on.

I can safely say that this ritual is the highlight of all four of our weeks—because more than loving the show itself, we love watching it together. We bond through the joint confusion (“Wait, didn’t that guy die? Is this in the future?”)

For us, watching LOST is a team effort. After all, no single brain could possibly soak up all the easter eggs, plot twists and inter-personal relationships of such an epic, long-winded, non-linear show like LOST. We depend on one another to fill in the gaps. To predict future plot twists. To spot the inconsistencies, ironies, themes, and moments of deep, ominous foreshadowing.

It’s funny to me how we disagree on such huge issues, but that we can come together every week to agree on how obnoxious Jack is, how creepy Mocke is and how J.J. Abrams better have a damn good explanation for all this in 2 weeks.

The irony? LOST in itself can be incredibly polarizing, having nothing to do with political platforms. It sharply divides people into camps—the LOST-lovers and the Others (the ones who don’t get it, don’t care and don’t want to hear one more damn thing about polar bears on a damn island in the damn South Pacific).

It’s nice to know that Stu and I are finally on the same side on an issue. We are both deeply, deeply pro-LOST.

Maybe some of the bigwig politicians should start doing LOST nights or something. Might help ease some of the tension.

Just a suggestion.