Susan Miller nails it… again.

“You actually read your daily horoscope?” says every friend who has ever listened to me prattle on about the significance of being a water sign.

Given my rather pragmatic approach to life, my devotion to Susan Miller and all her astrological offerings seems slightly paradoxical. Nonetheless, I maintain the woman is on point every month. When she says there will be rainbows and butterflies, I get a job offer. And when she states all hell will break loose, my favorite coffee barista quits his job to pursue a career in the arts (whatever that means…).

Which is why when she predicted that October would be worst month of the 2013 calendar year, I panicked. All the stars were about to misalign, and below is the evidence I have gathered that Miller may, in fact, have a direct line to the Guy Upstairs:

1) One of my interns compared my personality to that of Hannah Horvath’s on GIRLS. Hannah, played by Lena Dunham, is an obsessive-compulsive, rash decision maker with an unnerving q-tip hangup. And while this comparison already gave me reason to pause, my intern proceeded to compare my behavior to that of Hannah’s when she does cocaine for the first time. Sober me is somehow reminiscent of high Hannah.

2) While at a boozy birthday brunch, where I refrain from drinking nearly any alcohol, an intoxicated party-goer accidentally pours the entire contents of her mimosa over my dress, bag, and most notably, shoe. For the first and hopefully last time in my life, I scream, “There is mimosa in my shoe!” And everyone laughs, which I would’ve done as well if my entire foot didn’t reek of Tropicana and cheap champagne.

3) The subway I have grown to rely on since I moved to Brooklyn and away from any other accessible public transportation does not run on the weekends so I am forced to surrender the contents of my first paycheck in nearly three weeks to the indiscriminate taxi gods. Instead of $2.50, I am spending $22.50 to experience the thrill of Bowery Coffee.

4) I am suddenly single again and forced to re-enter the maddening dating jungle that is New York City. And instead of convincing myself that I am at the start of my romantic career (er, wrong word choice?), I sink back into my 22-year old mindset, in which I reside on a desert island with only a coconut tree to sustain me.

5) The 4 month old that I am babysitting decides to throw up the entire contents of her milky dinner on my brand spanking new leather jacket. And I can’t even get mad because the kid can’t even talk or walk yet. So instead I spend more than the cost of the jacket to get it cleaned at the dry cleaners. In other words, I’ve become the poster child for “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

With that, I leave you to create a countdown- to-November calendar. Miller predicts November to be replete with roses and pumpkin pie, and I. Can’t. Freaking. Wait.

On Maybe Someday Quitting New York

I’ll admit it– I’m a commitmentphobe. Except for my daily iced skimmed lattes, I cannot commit to anyone or anything for an extended period of time. I change jobs every 12-18 months; apartments every 18-24 months; and tv show loyalty every 2-3 seasons.

Perhaps this phobia is the reason I returned to New York after college. New York is a city replete with individuals unwilling to settle or accept the status quo. It is where people with insatiable desires pursue limitless possibilities. It is, quite simply, a city that never sits still.

And until recently, it was this very quality that made me feel at home. However, like any New Yorker who has even been trapped between a homeless man and a Jesus freak on a packed subway car, I get sick of it sometimes. Instead of embracing that feeling, and accepting that New York– like every other city– can be imperfect, I feel incredibly guilty for judging it.

This week, though, I read Ann Friedman’s wonderful piece- “Why I’m Glad I Quit New York at 24.” And in her typically succinct prose, she reminded me that I was not alone in my less than enthusiastic sentiment. I didn’t have to defend the city where I spotted my first cockroach or had my first bed bug scare. I could criticize its imperfections. And better yet, I could leave. I could move to any other city, state, or country– and still pursue a meaningful career in media and policy.

While most of my friends consider me the quintessential New York Jew, I realized as I read Friedman’s piece that I could retain that persona outside of New York. As the saying [sort of] goes, you can take the New Yorker out of the City, but you can’t take the City out of the New Yorker.

Now, I’m not booking my one way ticket to Nairobi anytime soon. But, for a brief moment this week, Friedman allowed me to consider the possibility that I could perhaps be true to who I am and not be so entirely committed to just one city.

The Powder Room Refrain

As an aspiring somebody, I am constantly seeking advice from people who have “made it.” And as a senior in college, one such person I sought advice from was Secretary Madeleine Albright. A fellow in a her global leadership program, I had the privilege of soaking in her political wisdom for three short weeks.

However, most of my contact with her was limited to the classroom experience. She was the teacher, and I was one of 40 students fortunate enough to learn from her lifetime of foreign policy experiences.

At the end of a three week intensive,  I attended a gala where my brief but wondrous encounter with Secretary Albright transpired. Between courses I rushed to the powder room (as it is so labeled in Alumnae Hall), and while searching for the paper towels that did not exist, bumped into the woman who I had spent the last three weeks kvelling over.

Being the inquisitive lady that she was, Secretary Albright stopped to ask me about my future career plans. I told her I was uncertain– I had an offer for Teach For America in Texas and an opportunity to study journalism abroad, but that at this point I was all but undecided. Her advice: “Read five media sources every morning– and make sure you disagree with at least two.” In that moment, her advice hardly seemed relevant in choosing a career path, but I smiled politely and thanked her for her wisdom.

Fast forward three years, and I am departing my job at a major entertainment network in New York. With one foot nearly out the door, I ask the executive producer a question I had been pondering since the day she hired me, “Why me? Of all the kids in all the tv industry, why choose me? I wasn’t exactly entertainment material.”

She paused and said, “You were exactly what we were looking for. I knew it the minute I asked you what news sources you read, and you said five names– indicating that at least two of them you disagreed with.” At which point I choked on my Diet Coke. Had Madeleine Albright really been the reason I was working for a music channel, integrating Billboard Top 40 references into my daily scripts?

Perhaps not entirely, but she certainly had taught me a lesson. Sometimes the advice you want isn’t the advice you get. However, if you invoke a little patience and let life take its course, it might just turn out to be useful. And even if it’s not, you’ll have material to write about for years to come.

On a Dr. Meg kick

24 hours ago I made a decision to opt out of the production path I have devoted the last year and a half of my life to pursuing. It was the most terrifying decision I have ever made, and one that has raised all sorts of questions regarding my professional aspirations and personal branding.

One friend remarked, “Yaffa, this will be the third job in three years. When do you hunker down and just accept your present?” A financial consultant, she was used to the ways of an industry that valued loyalty and rewarded quantitative success. But as a woman operating in a complex and ever-changing media space, I knew my path would never be as linear as hers.

This realization can be both an invigorating and debilitating feeling– one that provides freedom, but removes any sense of actual security. And one that inevitably sends me running for the one and only Dr. Meg Jay, a clinical psychologist who specializes in twenty-somethings. Author of “The Defining Decade,” Dr. Meg focuses her research on the importance of the decisions we make before we hit 30.

Nearly half way through my defining decade, I find myself wondering if I am living by the words of Dr. Meg. Am I living with intent? Am I making wise, calculated decisions with some sort of end-game in mind? Would I have something to show for myself by the time I hit 30– something more than a few shares of Starbucks stock and old copies of The New Yorker?

I rewatched Dr. Meg’s TED talk, one that has attracted close to 2.5 million hits since it first appeared in February. And this time I took notes. Though her TED talk focused on three main ideas, I gravitated towards the first two:

1) “Getting some identity capital”–adding value to who you currently are and who you may hope to be

While I am one of many lost New York souls struggling to define what I want out of my professional career, I do believe that each career jump I have made has been somewhat calculated. Each jump has been about getting  me closer to my happy place– a place where I feel fulfilled, challenged, and most importantly, inspired to be the best possible me I can be.

Though to a future employer it may not appear as such, I am exploring AND making it count. I’m “leaning in” and negotiating salaries. I’m playing hard ball and asking tough questions. And most importantly, I’m speaking up– embracing the Wellesley confidence I spent four years developing and two years applying in a professional setting.

2) “The urban trade is overrated”– instead of huddling together with exclusively like-minded people, find others who challenge you and form your “weak ties.” According to Dr. Meg, your weakest ties are the ones who help you advance, professionally and emotionally; who force you to define and refine your views; and who challenge everything you ever assumed to be true.

Unfortunately, my weak ties are pretty weak. After embracing my loony leftie tendencies, dormant during my teenage years, I made the leap, moved to Brooklyn, and now reside with my kind of thinkers. Attending a Muslim wedding in Kansas City was the closest foray into another world that I have gone– and that was only for a long weekend.

And so for the second half of this decade, I’m trying to meet all those out and about conservative-oriented individuals who fear Brooklyn the way I fear Texas; who believe my body is their business; and who actually enjoy watching sports like golf and cricket. Which is all to say I should probably send George W. Bush a get well card post-heart surgery.

Get Thee to a Nunnery!

When I was 17 I discovered the “Nuns Having Fun” calendar series, and my life took a turn for the better. These religious enigmas were suddenly less enigmatic and ever more accessible to an Orthodox Jewess struggling to balance her role in religion with her quest for secular education.

Nuns– and not of the Whoopi Goldberg variety– were capable of taking a break from their marriages to Jesus and letting loose in the bowling alley or local amusement park. While they maintained their primary responsibility– spreading the word of their long-dead husband, the nuns depicted in this calendar also found time for themselves. They quite simply struck a work-life balance; they worked hard, but they also played hard(ish).

I continued to purchase the “Nuns Having Fun” calendar for several years after, but upon graduating college my devotion to the annual publication had dissipated. And then last night happened. While walking back from a restaurant week indulgence which included goat cheese cheesecake and excessive amounts of French breads, I happened upon a midtown convent.

And as I meandered by I noticed several very stylish nuns lurking beyond the church gate. Though sporting the traditional nun garb, they each had managed to customize the otherwise generic robes into something uniquely their own. Employing traditional accessories– belts, bags, and rosary beads– they succeeded in letting their individual personalities shine through.

They soon noticed the gazing Jew in black and politely smiled, exhibiting a look of content I’m pretty sure I have neither felt nor experienced. These nuns were entirely satisfied with their careers and “marriages.” At which point my friend Christine interrupted my jealous reflection and said, “Maybe I should join them? White is kind of  my color.”

I didn’t laugh. It wasn’t all that crazy to me. There are many moments when I dream of living the traditional Orthodox lifestyle– married and with the first or second muffin in the oven. There is both beautiful simplicity and a philosophical complexity in choosing that life.

And now– at 24– well beyond the marriageable threshold, that world has become like that of the convent– something fantastical, but otherwise inaccessible. Peering into it is both a comforting and confusing experience. I admire the tenacity of those who abide by its strict rules and regulations, but perpetually wonder where their sense of fulfillment comes from. Is it their children? Their freshly baked challahs? Their collection of Holy Scriptures?

Like any philosophically religious woman wandering through a secular world, I’m searching for a sense of completion. I’m searching for the kind of content the fashionable nuns were sporting. And I’m praying it doesn’t cost as much as New York City real estate.

The Real World: Ireland

This is the story of 42 strangers who chose to live on a bus and have their lives integrated. Find out what happened when these people stopped being polite and started drinking Guinness.  If I were employed by an international tour company, this is how I would promote my Irish Adventure trip to the masses. Aside from the obvious ode to MTV’s Real World, it captures the essence of a vacation around the Irish countryside– American tourists and beer. (And part of the reason I opted for an escorted tour.)

While I initially hesitated to embark on an escorted tour, I also recognized that Ireland was a country where I had few established contacts. If I wanted to experience the wonders of the isle, I would have to rely on the locals to guide me. And so– with Mama B and 40  strangers in tow– I began a 9 day trip around the Irish coastline.

Aside from the vegetarian struggles I faced (pasta be damned!), I enjoyed the little rendezvous from reality. While I embraced Dublin like it was my own city, I surprised myself by embracing the rural landscapes as well. Normally I flee from greenery like it’s some kind of decaffeinated coffee, but in Ireland I just had to engage with it. From the Cliffs of Moher to the Giant’s Causeway, my mind was repeatedly blown by the beauty of the coastal landscapes:

Cliffs of Moher

Cliffs of Moher

Giant's Causeway

Giant’s Causeway

As much as I hated to admit it to Mama B, I favored these natural  landscapes to the pub-ridden city settings that colored the remainder of our trip. Which is not to say I didn’t wholeheartedly embrace Dublin. After all, it’s a city that encourages artwork and creativity by granting tax breaks to any artist or writer who should pursue his/her craft in the city. It’s the city where you can buy the exact same lemon soap in the same exact pharmacy that Leopold Bloom did in Joyce’s Ulysses. And it’s a city where humor is dark and sarcasm is rich– as evidenced by the lovely little show I previewed at the Abbey Theater entitled “Shush!”

And while I could prattle on about the happy moments, there was one stop that stood out for me: The Death of Innocence mural in (London)Derry. As few Americans know, Northern Ireland was ravaged by three decades of “Troubles,” where Catholics and Protestants fought for control of the region. Annette McGavigan, a 14 old year Catholic girl, was one such victim of the violence– shot by a British officer while en route to school in 1971. The mural, painted in her memory and placed in the Bogside– the site of much of the violence– stands there today as a testament to a bloody history.

Death of Innocence

Death of Innocence

Annette’s father never recovered from the loss of his daughter, and according to locals he visited the mural every day– sitting quietly in front of it and talking to it on occasion. No one ever dared to engage him in conversation, but all watched in sadness as a father struggled to deal with the loss of his baby girl.

Though I am likely several years from parenthood, I teared up as this site. Viking violence in the 800s was one thing, but bloodshed in 1971 was an entirely different matter. Somehow, in an age of civilized society it seemed more barbaric; more intolerable; and perhaps most significantly, more real. Any one of us could have been Annette, walking to school that morning; and any one of us could have been her grief-stricken father.

It was one of those moments when I realized that as terrifying as the future may seem, I have a future. So here’s to Annette McGavigan– the 14 year old who taught me about the gift of tomorrow.

 

Two Jews walk into a Muslim wedding.

And no this is not the beginning of some awful grandpa joke. It’s actually the introduction to my Midwestern adventure, during which I crossed two state lines (what up, Missouri and Kansas?), discovered a small town called La Plata, and experienced the union of two 20somethings in the absence of any alcohol.

I should preface this by saying that my exposure to the Midwest has been limited to the Chicagoland area. As a college intern at PBS, I traversed the city and its immediate suburbs in search of relevant news stories. However friendly the residents were, they still maintained an air of cosmopolitan curiosity.

Kansas City, Missouri- though one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen with its myriad fountains and Spanish stucco architecture- offered a distinct contrast.  Though technically a city, Kansas City maintained a small town charm and conservative idealism I’d never quite experienced before. [In other words, I talked little of politics or religion.]

And while politics and religion color many of  my New York conversations, there was something rather refreshing about taking a break from the same old chit chat with similarly minded people. For once in several months I was outside my comfort zone, and instead of discussing the impending Supreme Court decisions plaguing my sleep I was focusing my attention on arranging a variety of flowers for an impending Muslim wedding.

I then watched in amazement/with amusement as the young Muslim women removed their hard scarves and robes once the men departed; how they danced like they were in the midst of a Beirut disco; and how they seemed perfectly content to adorn their scarves and robes when the  men returned later in the night.

And after the wedding festivities were through, I returned to a beautiful Christian home– where my mom and I were staying- and stared at the taxidermy lining the basement walls. Nothing like a dear’s head to startle you at 1 o’clock in the morning! And to remind you that, Toto, you are indeed in Kansas.

But the most shocking part of the weekend adventure was not the taxidermy collection; it was the reaction I had to the whole Midwestern experience. I genuinely enjoyed it. As I boarded the plane back to New York, I became emotional, unable to embrace the East Coast reality that awaited me. There was something so comforting (and cheap) about this area of the country, and I wasn’t quite ready to depart.

The beauty in the situation is that I can come back; the people who had opened their doors and hearts to me would let me back in again. They valued friends and family and time spent together, and they were willing to stop the corporate madness of everyday life to savor those moments with each other.

After eating my first salad post-Midwestern getaway, I  just had to smile because Little Miss New Yorker had found value in the unlikeliest of places: Chick-fil-A country.

A word on procrastination.

I am awful at the art of procrastinating. As my mother reminded me last night, I was the high school girl who would announce at the dinner table “I have a paper due in three weeks so I think I’m going to start it tonight!” And I wasn’t just giving lip service to the act of immediacy; I actually began and completed assignments well ahead of their due dates.

However, it’s not exclusively because of my get ‘er done personality. A significant factor contributing to my persistent sense of urgency is my inability to enjoyably waste time. Simply put, I stink at doing nothing. Though I work in television, there is not enough good programming to keep me sufficiently distracted. And despite the wide web that is the internet, I am neither compelled nor particularly interested in reading esoteric wikipedia pages in an effort to avoid the inevitable task of the day.

In those moments when I’ve been given a task I don’t want to do– such as cleaning the toilet bowl– I scour my twitter feed for sources of distraction, but as I begin to read a juicy New Yorker column or obscure feminist blog, a sense of guilt envelopes me. This is not what I should be doing. Not here. Not now. And so seconds later I begin the horrid task of scrubbing down the bathroom– toilet bowl, shower head, and sink included.

Now I’m not entirely sure where that sense of urgency comes from– city living, a competitive work environment, a desire to feel and experience everything? But regardless it drives me to create check lists on Friday afternoon and stare proudly at the completed ones on Sunday evening. It propels me out of bed at ungodly hours on Saturday mornings, and it all but guarantees that the term “Lazy Sunday” need never be applied to me.

Which is all to say that when the little boy on the F train looked at my iPhone screen today, he saw the following: Monday Morning Tasks. And being an entirely uninhibited child, he remarked, “Lady, can you just enjoy Sunday and worry about Monday on Monday?”

And though I knew the answer was no, I decided to try an evening experiment, giving myself just one night off from all that’s left to be done. So taking a cue from the boy without a filter, I now raise my skim latte and say, here’s to living in the Sunday evening moment. L’Chaim!

a note on moving: don’t do it.

I’m not sure who Murphy is, but if I ever unlock the identity of the man behind the infamous laws, I’m going to buy him a round. When Murphy remarked, “Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong,” he almost certainly referred to the act of moving apartments in New York City.

Or, as my friend– the Beloved Roommate– recently remarked, “I’l l raise my babies in this apartment before I move out.” Why? Because carrying the contents of your life down a fourth floor walk up and up a fifth floor walk up is masochistic. Because buying curtains to create the semblance of privacy inside a bedroom meant to be a living room is downright absurd. And because standing in line at IKEA for two hours just to buy a spatula and an energy efficient light bulb is all together unfair.

Despite all this, I somehow find myself in the throes of  moving– boxing up two years of post-collegiate life into 8-10 extra large Home Depot boxes. Now the art of placing all my material belongings into flimsy pieces of cardboard is in and of itself a chore, but of course, as Murphy is quick to note, “Whenever you set out to do something, something else must be done first.”

Before I could box up the contents of my old apartment, I needed to create a semblance of a bedroom in my new apartment. The first order of business, given the time of year: uninstall the air conditioner unit in Nolita and re-install it in Brooklyn. A seemingly simple process, right?

Enter Teresa– a robust former stage manager capable of assembling and disassembling entire theatrical sets across the country. Together she and I embarked on removing my AC unit, and together we watched as it plummeted three stories down to its untimely death. And sizzled. So instead of AC installation, the first order of business became acquiring an AC support system to ensure we didn’t send another  indispensable cooling unit to an early demise.

And while Teresa worked on building a sturdy AC support system, I logically turned to my curtains– which according to the package they arrived in– were the exact same size. Well I  suppose this wasn’t China’s finest workmanship because there was actually a 5 inch difference in length between them. Rather than schlep back to the store for an exchange, though, my mother recommended we safety pin the bottom of the longer curtain.

Her idea seemed like sheer brilliance; a classic demonstration of problem solving skills at work. I’d run to the drugstore and pick up a pack. But of course drug store #1 was sold out, drug store #2 was closed for Memorial Day, and drug store #3 only sold an assorted colorful array of pins. And Lord knows how I loathe colors.

Throw in a few crooked windows, some rainy days, and a smashed mirror, and I, too, have resigned myself to raise my future children in my new apartment. I mean, it least it has a stoop.

On crying in public

Very few of my friends and family members can handle seeing me in a tearful state. They try to calm me, comfort me, and otherwise remove the cause of my fit of sadness.

But sometimes a girl needs to have a solid uninterrupted moment to cry. And in an apartment as small as mine, that’s pretty much impossible. So this week I took to the streets, and more specifically a street corner. With an iced latte in hand and nowhere in particular to go, I just stopped and cried.

And the beauty of city streets is that nobody seemed to pause and take notice. In New York, I’m just another overly emotional crazy in a sea of neurotics, lunatics, and all together worry warts. In a twist of logic, I have more privacy on the corner of Bowery and Great Jones than I do in my 11×5.5 bedroom (notably smaller than solitary confinement cells  in the United States). I can assert my emotional state without  third party interference. And I can have a moment that feels all my own, and nobody else’s.

Apparently I am not the first New Yorker to have the realization that you have more privacy in Times Square than you do in your matchbox apartment. Melissa Febos, a contributor to the New York Times Opinionator blog, articulated as such:

“I’ve done it on the subway and at the Museum of Modern Art, in Prospect Park, Tompkins Square Park and leaning against the locked gate of Gramercy Park.If you live in New York, you’re bound to end up crying in public eventually…”

And it’s an unwritten rule among urban dwellers that unless someone’s physical well-being is in danger, you leave a momentarily emotionally unstable individual alone. Consequently, as I stood on this particularly bougie corner, watching men and women with more money than G-d enter and exit the Bowery Hotel, I thought, ‘I can do this. Right here. Right now. And no one will bother me or try to offer me some false sense of comfort.’

So I let all the things terrifying me in that moment– my imminent move, my sense of professional insecurity, and my upcoming quarter life crisis– consume me. And after I had let every last bit of feeling out of me, I slurped up the watery contents of my caffeine and smiled. Like a small child, I had my temper tantrum, and now I was done. I could assume the semblance of a 20something who has her act together. Heck, I could probably prance into the Bowery Hotel lobby and convince some mysterious stranger to buy me a drink.