As part of my major sociological experiment – being single – I’d like to share this observation.

After this whole entire week of turbulent emotions stemming from a man who kind of stomped on my heart, something is ringing apparent to me. Every male I’ve been romantically involved with has, at some point, regardless of how honest or conniving he is, tried to spare my emotions by being economical with the truth. And finding out he did that was usually the most hurtful part of the relationship, and it killed me a little each time it happened.

What I wish I could tell men is that the truth is much easier to handle than being played. I do not like being played – it’s an insult to my character. I can handle the truth. If he thinks something is on a need-to-know basis, that’s his prerogative, and it’s not something I can control. But when he gets found out, it sucks! All men lie. Men are dogs: they’ll get away with whatever they can.

Okay – so the opposite of love is indifference. When I harden myself and become indifferent to whether I was played or got the whole truth, then what good is it sustaining the relationship, anyway? There’s no love left.

I guess the only thing I could do to safeguard my heart in the future is to state it up front: don’t play games with me. If there’s something out there calling your name, just talk to me about it. I’d rather know you’re going to go do that thing than find out later you lied to me. Plus it’s uncomfortable for you to be tiptoeing around. Let’s be happy! If you’re unhappy with me, stop wasting both your time and mine, and let’s adjust.

I love distractions, perhaps a little too much. I act annoyed by them, but somehow I keep finding more to occupy my otherwise productive brain. This usually happens when I’m a little stuck or have something less than a long stretch of time to concentrate on the problem. 

So anyway, I’m overtly trying to get some work done, though covertly distracting myself at an independent coffee shop in a working-class part of town. I find that I’m less distracted by the people and conversations around me when I know they’ll be shallow and uninteresting. Call me an elitist, but if that’s what works to get my fill of a great, easy-priced, socially responsible latte, free wi-fi and ambience away from the cave, so be it.

I’m at the Twist lounge, next door to Pigall’s, the most prestigious French restaurant in Cincinnati, by Jean-Robert de Cavel. I love all of his restaurants. I like this bar because it offers living-room situations that can easily be rearranged for whatever social or unsociable situation one finds oneself in. 

It’s the hippest bar in Cincinnati. I’m having a reasonably priced glass of Cotes du Rhone, paid for by a nice guy who felt like buying me (and the people in earshot) drinks. There’s a lot of “free” in this world, if one is adventurous enough to stumble upon it. Life can otherwise be so expensive, difficult and FUCKING BORING for those who are too opposed to adventure and uncertainty. 

Tonight, I have arrived as usual: late, dateless, and laptop in hand. I have no agenda, just to meet whatever strangers with candy (free drinks) may come my way, to observe peeps, soak in some ambience, and decompress. It’s been a long week, I’ve earned my gin martini, and I even went to the gym before I came. 

When I got here, I thought I saw a parking spot, but it was valet. So I parked valet. What, 5-10 bucks? Big deal! Beats walking around in my high heels in snow drifts, freezing, and plus it gives me a sense of control over the world I’m in – over the lifestyle I choose for myself. Such a small price to pay. I have to put such expenses in perspective with other things I pay for – the incidental latte at Barnes and Noble, for instance. Something I perpetually can’t resist. Hello, David Bach… “The Latte Factor ™”.

You’re only as good as the company you keep. If I can’t keep good enough company, I keep to myself. I spend so much time alone, with my own water cooler (which I tore through 5 gallons in 5 days this past week – I was sick). Facebook is my virtual water cooler. It reminds me of the Gary Numan song, “Are Friends Electric?” Yes, we can now turn them off.

I seriously considered canceling this blog, since my original intent was my venture into electronic music. I haven’t given up that dream. My friend Brandon keeps encouraging me to do music. My friend Robin keeps encouraging me to blog. My own conscience keeps encouraging me to maintain balance in my life, create, and don’t lose touch with who I am and what I truly want. The original premise is still intact: the pursuit of happiness. It’s still as important as ever. Blog on.

There is so much going on in our subconscious that we’ll never comprehend.

I was cleaning out my file cabinet today, throwing away burned CDs and emptying out manila folders to be reused (save a tree!). I estimated I was tossing about 20 discs – and then I counted. Exactly 20. (That’s not the point – only anecdotal). Then I had about that many manila folders I’d emptied out, and I was erasing their labels, since I always write them in pencil. Once I got to sorting them according to tab position, a strange thing occurred to me. 

Usually when I start a project, I try to grab a folder that seems to be the minority of the three tab positions to choose from, so it can be easily found among the other projects in my current “irons in the fire” box. What I realized among these past projects (and some were only potential clients), was that the ones occupying the tabs on the right were great clients/projects that went well and I enjoyed. The centered tabs were so-so projects and/or so-so clients that I wasn’t in love with or it didn’t go smoothly for some reason. The far-left tabs were for projects that never came to fruition. oooOOOOOooooo…

This is what’s on my desk right now:

• Plastic stacking trays. In the top tray: about ten manila folders for each design job I have on the burner. Never too many irons in the fire. The next tray below: individual bundles of business cards from all the networking events I’ve attended in the past year. Tray three: store cards, credit cards, vouchers, gift certificates, coupons. Four: a couple bumper stickers and some free emollient samples from the mall. This is the luxuriously almost-empty shelf. Five: sketch book, paperwork that’s hard to file because I haven’t created a category for it yet, past scheduling calendars. Six: notebook for longhand free-writing—the kind I do away from the computer, often by the fountain when it’s nice and I need to get out.

• Two stainless steel desk lamps, each broken in their unique way because they’re cheap and made in China.

• Inspiring ink-jet printouts tucked under my clear Vyco (Danish, thank you) desk cover. 

• Harman Kardon speakers, the kind that are still for sale at the MoMa design store in NYC. Love them.

• Apple 30″ monitor, elevated on a temple of black Strathmore paper wrapped particle board and industrial-looking metal boxes. On said temple: lavender L’Occitane lotion, shocked-face bottle opener, Bic lighter, Blistex, three iTunes vouchers for free DeVotchKa songs, Wausau Paper free notepad, wire-mesh thingy full of paper clips, with binder clips clipped around the edges, post-it notes, Listerine cool mint PocketPak, pencil, highlighter, black Sharpies, both thick and thin, cordless phone, stand-up stapler, Kleenexes, toenail clippers, a golf pencil and a postcard of Zion Canyon to remind me that the outside world exists. 

• Papers for current project scattered to the left of the keyboard. The keyboard, mouse, and accompanying squishy pads, front and center. Mouse charger, bamboo plant, incense burner, noise-canceling headphones, and Franklin Covey planner to the right of the keyboard. 

I had to write something. Actually I’m supposed to be working. Whatever.

My better half tends to be more of a shaker than a hugger, which is a good thing, in the long run. Frustrating in the short term, however, depending on his delivery. But who am I to talk? I’m really good at saying all the wrong things at precisely the wrong time.

You never know when you’re hearing something profound until a few days later when you realize it’s become a subliminal haze among your thoughts. The other night he and I went for a walk and ended up having a few drinks at a bar nearby. He understands me in ways I don’t even know. He explained that I don’t trust my footing. When we go hiking together along the edge of a cliff, I become tentative, and he points it out then, too. He said his mom also didn’t trust her footing, and often slipped because of it. So basically it’s fatalistic. This mentality is present in all my cognitive reasoning.

I don’t have a strong opinion, and I allow it to change freely. I’m both stubborn and mutable at the same time. I run on pure emotion. If I change my mind about something, so be it. Deal with it. I’m not the same person I was yesterday. He also explained how true to my sign that is (Pisces). As astrological ruler of the feet, it doesn’t necessarily mean we come with solid ground. I’m a mutable water sign, and I don’t have a solid foundation across which I flow. A long time ago, I decided that holding beliefs eliminates freedom, and I’ve since chosen to disbelieve most things. Unfortunately, I don’t even trust my own judgment. My mother didn’t trust my judgment, either, but we won’t get into the whole nature vs. nurture thing just yet.

So far, what I’ve concluded from this hypothesis is that if you watch your step too much, you’ll miss out on the purpose of the experience. I spent 18+ years missing out, and I hate missing out. So I’m generally unhappy with being consumed with details. (This also applies to a bittersweet career pitfall I suffer from.) You just need to trust that your foot will land squarely on the next stair without watching your feet. Like in 8th grade typing class, the teacher told us to stop looking at our hands while we type. Don’t look at what you’re typing; look at what you’re going to type. Watch where you’re going, not where you are. Trust your ability to motor through details. Trust your footing.

Of trivial things that consume time and have no measurable value, I am compelled to keep the blog going. Back on the macro topic… The pursuit of happiness involves increasing consciousness of the human condition. It may be a common fallacy that to be happy, we have to overcome our weaknesses and appreciate our strengths, but alas, that’s way too utopian for humankind.

My goal is to face who I am, admit it, and love it in spite. At this point, I’m just going to say I’m not interested in changing my behavior; rather, I’d like to understand it first, then decide what to change in order to be happier. It helps to keep in mind that there is no right or wrong, which weeds out the tainted thoughts indoctrinated by our experiences throughout life. It’s a chore in itself to avoid feeling shame or guilt for our true feelings.

If the pursuit of happiness were a 12-step program, the first step would be identifying the problem. For example, I am selfish and self-indulged. To what degree is relative and depends entirely on who you ask. If I happen to know a lot of people who affect me as extremely self-indulged, then I might see myself as pretty humble. We see everyone around us as one extreme or another of a trait we recognize in ourselves. My mom likes to say that if you point your finger at someone, three more are pointing back at you.

Anyway, I am the type who enjoys devoting energy to self-actualization. I appreciate the tools mankind has come up with to understand ourselves better. I take online personality quizzes that may or may not be developed by professional psychiatrists. I took a Myers-Briggs, Enneagram, and even one of those online IQ tests. I read my horoscope. I did my star chart. All with a grain a of salt. Being the objective person I am, this type of stuff is entertaining at least, and revealing at best. You take what you want from it, ultimately. Life is full of little clues, if you just look for them. If I decide this behavior harms the people I love and yields negative effects, then I’ll focus on changing.

<digression>
If I could learn to play a new instrument, it would be the cello. It’s such a lonesome, soulful sound. It would be so surreal to have a sunlit atrium with stone tile in which to practice, for the acoustics and moody surroundings. My second choice would be the vibraphone for its über-mod, retro sound.
</digression>

I dedicate this title to those who honestly believe the damage we’ve caused our earth is reversible. Now let’s talk about clothing made in China.

As I was hanging up some new clothes from White House Black Market, I came up with this title. I was imagining my new satin tunic-style shirt concealing—I’m embarrassed to admit—the elastic waistband on a ten-year-old skirt. I suppose if that’s the worst thing hanging in my closet, then I’m not doing too bad.

The new White House Black Market in my neighborhood is going to be like black clothing crack. I’ll bet if people had to choose black over white, black would win 3 to 1. If there were other stores that carried the same styles, I would never know it because the combination of too many colors I don’t like and nothing in either black or my size may have overwhelmed me, and I’d never give them a chance.

The overall concept of the store is brilliant. Artistically speaking, once you remove the element of color, you’re down to only the variable of style, which makes shopping more definitive and easier to deduct a solution. (In my drawing class I prefer to stick to one type of media until I feel more at ease with interpreting the human figure.) The design of the store is not opulent, but it’s nothing short of alluring; the clothes are the heroes. It’s such a novelty in itself that only black and white are on display. The fitting area is like a “Best Of” women’s clothing retail environments: they have the deluxe lighted mirrors from Ann Taylor and the inviting, open-style fitting area from Anthropologie, all with dramatic but flattering lighting. Anyway, I made off with a fair armload for my 29.95th un-birthday. It’s enough to tide me over till 30.

Ikea opens on March 12 (daily f-ing news in Cin City), and Crate & Barrell is coming soon to my neighborhood as well. The only thing that would make me happier is Scandinavian Designs. (Oh, and a Tokyo Joe’s. Or Yo! Sushi, but I’m not sure if they have those on stateside.) Lord have mercy. Capitalism at its best. Recessions are caused by rumors of recession. If people shop enough to ignore the news, they’ll just keep shopping. Look at me go!

I signed up for the Art Academy’s Saturday figure drawing class for a second season. It’s such a great release of creative energy with a range of skill levels, from high schoolers to art directors to IT professors. Everyone has their unique reasons for being there, contrary to working amongst art school students that only run the gamut from shrinking violets to vehement egos, all with one common goal.

Art school is an oxymoron. It implies that there is a right and a wrong way of creative expression. As long as the curriculum resists rigid instruction and encourages freedom of thought, it’s beneficial to be encouraged to challenge your comfort zone and explore different types of media and methods. The other side to that coin is art history, which is important for understanding art’s place in this world and appreciating how far it’s come in response to the history surrounding it. However [enter soapbox, stage left], if you can’t learn it from a book on your own, your parents paying for someone to spoon-feed it to you won’t do much good, either.

Today’s class was great. I like drawing this particular model; I usually get good drawings from her poses. She has an imperfect body but, in the straightest way possible, such a sassy style that makes her sexier than the usual fashion-magazine suspects. Her poses provide great lines and shapes that are interesting to draw. Overall, her appeal is more modern than classical, which suits my needs better, since I’m more interested in drawing for graphic design purposes than for fine art.

My parents came to visit for a week.

They are the most amazing guests. They are content to entertain themselves when the inevitable, shameless deadline wedges its way into my week off with the folks. Furthermore, I live in the best apartment complex a 29.93-year-old could ask for. Mom and Dad had their own guest room at the club house: over 1000 square feet of fully furnished, granny-cozy splendor, complete with two soft-as-a-cloud, four-poster queen beds. All for a deal much better than a corporate discount at the nearest hotel. Our club house has its own gym and pub, which worked out splendidly. They have no problem getting to know the locals and making new friends. It’s actually quite impressive for a couple of small-town Idahoans. Both of them seemed very content to be here, hang out and chill. It was a great reason to spend a cold evening together at home, order pizza, build a fire, shoot Nerf guns and watch reruns of Sarah Silverman, Reno 911, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Okay. Let’s be real, here. I stressed out about my parents coming to visit because I didn’t want to have my nose to the grindstone the whole time. Things get complicated on their own, so I tried to start as far up the hill as possible. Naturally, a project I was trying to work on around this schedule got right in the middle of it. I was still able to make a fabulous prime rib on Sunday, but I worked every other waking hour through the weekend to make my Monday deadline. As far as the job was concerned, it went swimmingly and as expected: a slow ramp up to inspiration followed by denial and procrastination, then fear and loathing, then adrenaline-charged, sink-or-swim breakthrough, then 3 a.m. burnout to Monday morning presentation.

“Procrastination to Presentation” is the new “Concept to Completion.”