At the Heart of It

The Child

Larissa lytwyn — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 21:00:13 GMT

Kids once made me nervous. The last time I held a baby, I was cradling my now 17-year-old nephew. Then, last week in Seattle, I spent a day sightseeing with my friend Joy Laydback and her eight-year-old daughter, Epona. Everything changed.

When they knocked on my hotel room door, I had more butterflies than I do on a first date. “Hello,” I said shyly. Epona’s warm little face broke into a toothy grin, green eyes brimming with mischief. And I fell in love. By the time we’d pulled onto the highway, Epona and I had chatted about her travels (“San Diego is so cool!”) and what she likes about Seattle (“The scenery is great!”).

I’ve always had an affinity for the West. Its physical openness renders a unique sense of freedom. After twenty minutes of driving on I-90, I caught my first glimpse of “real” mountains—the Cascades. Beneath dark sunglasses, my vision blurred with tears. I had never seen something so majestic up close. “Wow,” I mumbled. “Just…wow.”
“What’s your favorite color, pink or yellow?” Epona asked suddenly.
“Yellow.”
We stopped for gas. I got out and snapped about thirty pictures of the same peak. As I slid back into the front seat, Epona presented me with a giant picture of—you guessed it—the word “Wow!”—flanked by three smiling figures. I couldn’t remember the last time a child made me a drawing. Epona captured the moment perfectly. Children have a knack for reminding grown-ups to “know the Now.”

We drove about 150 miles into the country, witnessing three distinct landscapes: pine forest, snowy mountains and desert canyons. A highlight was hiking to the top of a small cliff dotted with sculptures of wild mustangs. On the way down, it was so steep Epona and I had to slide on our butts. “It feels good!” Epona cried happily, clouds of dust spilling around us. “It’s like a butt massage!” I laughed, no longer caring about the gravel biting into my hands or the soil staining my jeans. Heading back to the car, Epona started running. “Why do you run?” I asked rhetorically. “I run when I’m happy,” she said simply. I often burst into a run, too, when I’m excited about something. Certain things never change.

“So, what are you studying in school?” I asked Epona on the way back. “Math,” she said. I learned she was doing basic multiplication. “What’s two and two?” I quizzed, amused by the irony of giving math lessons when I scored a 500 on the math portion of the SAT. “Four,” Epona answered promptly. About an hour later, I noticed how quiet she was. “How you doin’ back there?” I asked. “Good,” she replied, distracted. Returning to Seattle’s outskirts, Epona presented her latest creation: multiplication tables. “Can you check my work?” she asked. I ended up correcting her paper. “You did great!” I said.

We returned to Joy’s condo shortly after nightfall. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt such joy, nor so laidback (sorry, couldn’t resist), especially with a girl young enough to be my daughter. It’s been said children are an excellent barometer of reality. If they say you look tired, you probably do. If they act happy, it’s because they genuinely are. They’re still innocent from the world’s looming expectations threatening to seize their confidence by pre-adolescence. I hope Epona retains her peaceful, carefree spirit no matter how old she is. The older we are, the more important it is to remember to act like a child: free, nonjudgmental and happy “as is.”

Still Beating

Larissa lytwyn — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 07:08:48 GMT

There’s a great line in the Alanis Morrisette song, “You Live, You Learn,” in which she recommends “getting your heart trampled on to anyone.” It’s a good philosophy. Heartbreak can be an excellent impetus for change. In between privately spending the majority of February through June sobbing a la Diane Keaton in “Something’s Gotta Give,” I pushed myself in ways I never had. I went hot air ballooning; I started my novel; I joined a writers’ group; I volunteered. In short, I started living life for myself for the first time, as opposed to living vicariously through someone else.

The bittersweet part is all this growth was the result of a broken romantic relationship, too late, it appears, to ever rectify. He was the first person in years I was Really Excited About, capturing the elusive qualities I’d long searched for: warm, genuine, artistic, funny, smart, romantic, easygoing, ambitious. Sparks initially flew. I remember compiling a play list filled with love songs, Elton John and Ray LaMontagne and Etta James. I was falling hard, and, strangely, I was consumed with fear. It felt like we were on a train barreling to imminent disaster. He withdrew and didn’t open up about what was bothering him. After a few months, the growing tension came to a head. “I need someone who has validation from within,” he said in one of several “a-ha moment” observations. The proverbial light bulb went off. I wrote a piece that night called “Want,” based on the notion we have everything we want because we appreciate what we have.

Naturally, I was determined to win him back. Trouble was, by the time he’d told me those life-changing words, he was already gone, at least in a romantic sense. Our initial “break” (“I’m keeping the door open”) was really a break-up. Still, I tried, like a desperate puppy, to make him understand I was changing—because I was. But his feelings had changed to solely one of respect and friendship, something I cherished but simultaneously hated because my deeper feelings hadn’t changed at all.

Looking back, I’m grateful for everything I’ve learned. I would not have accomplished half of what I did this year without the inspiration caused by this pain. Interestingly, as I’ve slowly healed I’ve become my friends’ Love Yoda (tongue-in-cheek, yes). My friends were certainly there for me during the worst of my heartbreak, and now I’ve helped them cope with their recent breakups. As for my future relationships, I’m looking forward to moving ahead and not repeating the same mistakes. I know I won’t because I’m simply a different person now: a truly self-fulfilled one.

On that note, I’m quite pleased to be out West again. I enjoy traveling on my own, meeting up with old friends and meeting new ones. This week in Seattle, I met Hali and Cheryl from PNN at Chopstix Piano Bar. These ladies are as warm in person as they are in their blogs. Hali’s boyfriend, Max, is also very sweet. Cheryl’s friend Karla has this fantastically dry, sharp sense of humor. The piano bar highlight was being serenaded for my birthday! It was kind of spectacular.

Earlier that day, I took a road trip exploring Eastern Washington. (Even better, I went with my friend Joy Laydback, and her beautiful eight-year-old daughter). I loved the varied geography, from the Cascades’ snow-capped pines to the canyons framing the Columbia River. I have always loved the West, and spending time out here, I honestly feel more at home in some ways than I do in my home state, Connecticut! There is nothing like the mountains, the open space and abiding sense of freedom. I suppose it captures the way I feel these days, unfettered, at last, from the past and looking ahead to what’s next, by making the most of what is “now.”

Election Day!

Larissa lytwyn — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 00:15:17 GMT

I paid a much-needed visit to Town Hall today.

“Hi,” I said a little shyly to the clerk. “I know I may be too late to register, but I’m relatively new to town and wanted to vote.”

The clerk was amazingly nice, considering she lived in Connecticut. “Of course, sweetie! What district do you live in?”

“Uh—I’m not sure.”

“Let me call the Registrar of Voters. They’re next door.”

“That’s really nice of you to call.”

“No problem!”

Moments later: “Hello, yes. I have a lady here who wanted to vote…no, she isn’t registered in town yet….right…she doesn’t know where she lives.”

Didn’t know where I lived? I started chuckling. It’s true I once got lost returning to my apartment in New Haven a few years ago. And, yes, I just admitted that.

Today my location is easy to get to, at an address that isn’t on an actual street. Many condominium complexes list addresses on faux roads off the main drag. (After all, “Sunshine Glen” sounds far prettier than Industrial Avenue).

The clerk returned. “Where about do you live?” Out of habit, I offered my address. The woman’s face, of course, went blank. I quickly told her the cross street and the name of my complex.

The clerk returned to the phone, coming back a few minutes later. My district was irrelevant. Voters have to register in their new town at least two weeks before Election Day. I wasn’t able to vote, but the clerk jotted down the Secretary of State Office’s website. Back at home, I hopped on the web, visited the site, printed and filled out the form and mailed it. Done!

Since registering to vote ten years ago, I’ve voted in almost every election, including the presidential election last year. During my fulltime reporter years, election night was always fun to cover. I remember staking out the polls for hours, gathering quotes from voters and politicians. I remember the behind-the-scenes details of every player, every political “upset,” that, on the inside, was rarely surprising at all. No matter how apathetic we feel, or how busy, I believe it’s our responsibility to educate ourselves on candidates and be a part of the democratic process. So while I didn't vote this year, I certainly tried. Now I'm all set for our next election!

My family, in the meantime, will be pleased to learn I returned to my traditional roots today. I changed parties for the second, and, I’m sure, final, time. The older I’ve gotten, especially since becoming a homeowner, the more fiscally conscientious I’ve become. My politics reflect that.

How about you? Did you vote today? Is your political affiliation similar to everyone else in your family?

The Link Between Lust And Love

Larissa lytwyn — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 05:14:38 GMT

In the beginning of Woody Allen’s Match Point, a tennis ball freezes in time over the edge of a net. With a bit of luck, the ball will fall forward and the player will win. However, there is equal chance the ball will drop backwards to inevitable loss. Life itself is the metaphor. While contemporary philosophers like Malcolm Gladwell (Tipping Point) have written about the power of circumstance, rarely has a film so perfectly captured the tenuous core of human nature.

Match Point is the story of a man torn between love (in the form of an adoring wife) and lust (in the form of a tempestuous mistress). Yes, it’s literally that Shakespearean. Each scene is a volley between shifting power plays: the carnal-crazed protagonist cools toward his increasingly needy mistress. The sweet, albeit slightly vacuous, wife becomes a shelter against his emotional storms.

As I watched, I began to wonder about the link between lust and love. We often hear about the storied “love at first sight,” although more seem to experience “lust leading to love.” Lust is also commonly mistaken for love. Just as typical, however, is the surprise of finding lasting love from seemingly fleeting sparks.

Age-old advice recommends finding a mate who is your best friend. The pursuit catches fire with a mutually strong physical attraction. Is it possible to find friendship in a relationship driven by lust? Of course, but a relationship driven by friendship is ultimately far less dangerous. Lust can easily die; friendship—and love—is what endures.

Is the link between love and lust, then, friendship? I believe it’s actually an element more specific: compassion. Compassion is the caring that connects lust and love together. It’s the sensitivity providing equilibrium. Without compassion, neither love nor lust can survive. With compassion, we can salvage broken relationships, foster new friendships and forge fresh beginnings. With compassion, we can trust each other to communicate openly to conquer challenges before they create distances too great to reduce. Match Point is markedly devoid of compassion. Fortunately, most real-life people use compassion to manage their shortcomings.

Psychologists believe we choose friends and lovers with characteristics we wish to emulate. I recently acquired a new perspective on this. A friend is reading a book suggesting we often choose partners who view us the way we view ourselves. The concept is “mirroring.” For example, if we are judgmental we tend to draw partners who may unfairly judge us. It may seem paradoxical; however, we often reject behavior we exhibit ourselves.

I believe a steady commitment to living with compassion can release us from these old judgments. Passion, including lust, may be reckless and primitive. Developing “conscious passion,” however, is living with compassion. Living compassionately, in fact, is perhaps the greatest passion we could ever keep.

Confessions of a Would-Be News Anchor

Larissa lytwyn — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 01:34:50 GMT

Almost ten years have passed since the afternoon my Introduction to Public Speaking professor approached me after class. “So!” he boomed, waxy lips pulled back in a lazy grin. “What kind of career are you thinking about?”

“Television,” I answered immediately. “Broadcasting.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat as he hesitated. “You…have to be pretty to be a news anchor.”

My skin burned with shame.

I always said I liked newspapers because print journalism allows a reporter to develop a story more deeply than even the best newscast. During an internship that summer at a local newspaper, I wrote a weekly column, “Musings of a Media Hound.” While the sting of the professor’s words still hurt, my bio still included a plan to “be the next Oprah.”

Over the next few years, however, something got lost in translation. Despite my potential, I held myself back believing I wasn’t pretty enough, smart enough or, in essence, good enough. While I understood life included disappointment and rejection, I ultimately began to believe the negativity until I became a negative person I no longer recognized.

Once I realized I was lost, I worked to reclaim the person I was, the person with ambition and dreams. I saw how my lack of belief in myself changed others’ belief in me. You cannot build a relationship with someone else when you’re working from a foundation comprised almost entirely of the relationship itself, used as a status symbol, an affirmation of self-worth.

I have learned no matter where I am in life, regardless of where I work, what I do, or whom I choose to be with, my worth is internal. I do wish to have a family of my own someday. I want to write books people can relate to. I want to be the best woman I can possibly be.

As we build ourselves into better and stronger people, how can we combat the rejection that makes us feel inadequate and replaceable? The answer is simple, and often challenging to sustain. No matter what, we must remember we are always good enough. We may blame others for holding us down, but it’s really our self-doubt keeping us moored in the mud of our mistakes.

We should also refrain from jumping to conclusions or making assumptions about others or ourselves. I frequently used to assume the worst. Now I usually assume the best. Life, however, isn’t about success or failure.

It’s about growth and the proverbial journey.

After all, to borrow an apt cliché, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.

Surprise!

Larissa lytwyn — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 05:47:59 GMT

I’ve been feeling rather nostalgic lately, reviewing my past with much more appreciation than regret. It’s autumn, my favorite season. It’s also Halloween time. I love the holiday’s sense of fun and excitement, the idea that anything (or anyone) can literally pop out of nowhere.

My Most Terrified Pop-Out Moment (oh, that sounds wrong!) occurred when I was six-years-old trick-or-treating with a neighborhood pal, Jon (I wish I could find him on Facebook)! I remember I was Snow White that year. I think Jon was a pirate. We decided to visit our neighborhood's premier haunted house, decked out with fake gravestones, cobwebs and scary music.

Sitting motionless on the house's (fake) blood stained front porch was a werewolf of dubious origin. Was he real? I remember Jon going up the stairs first, holding my breath as I crept behind him. Suddenly the werewolf jumped to his full height, seizing Jon. I shrieked and almost fell off the porch. Jon wrenched free and half-ran, half-tumbled down the steps. I have a distinct memory of feeling vaguely proud as I managed to hold up my skirt, lady-like, to keep from tripping while I ran. My father, laughing, shouted at us to stop running. We watched him shake the werewolf's hand. A lot of extra candy was collected that night. ;) As we get older, we experience how life is full of surprises, both challenging and wonderful. We learn what at first seems scary often isn't at all.

Tonight I went on a ghost hunting tour in upstate Connecticut with two close friends from college, Kim and Kristen. As a kid, I devoured R.L. Stine books and anything I could get my hands on involving ghosts, witches and David Duchovny from the X-files. ;) In recent years, the interest waned under the more important focus of job security and mortgage payments. (God, I’m getting old). Nevertheless, I’ve always enjoyed history, psychology and the idea of the supernatural. A ghost hunting adventure potentially involved all three. My inner nerd rejoiced.

The tour itself was as fascinating as I’d expected. I took many decidedly unique pictures, several featuring strange colors and circles (known as “ectoplasm” and “orbs” among ghost hunting folk). The cemetery was bonafide creepy.

But the real surprise had nothing to do with the ghost tour or Halloween itself. It happened post-ghost hunting at a local Olive Garden we decided to hit for dinner. Somewhere between the breadsticks and the appetizer, Kim nonchalantly asked if we wanted to see her belated birthday present. (She recently turned 30).

We nodded.

Kim dramatically dropped an envelope stuffed with pictures on the center of the table. I plucked one up; it was the outside of a townhouse. Why was she showing us a picture of a condo? I couldn’t imagine her being ready to move. After college, she moved back with her family. She hadn’t seemed quite ready to leave, much to the well-meaning consternation of her dear friends. ;)

Then I heard Kim’s voice: “I’m closing on Thursday.”

Kristen and I stared at each other. My eyes filled with tears. I have never felt as fully happy for a friend as I did for Kim at that moment. Kim went on about the details, her voice filled with excitement and purpose. I was practically dancing in the booth and eventually darted out to the lobby to share the news with two mutual friends and even my parents.

I see Kim’s moving into the condo as a symbolic establishment of her growth as a person and independence as a woman. After years of renting, having my own condo has been a great blessing. It seems the more settled I've become in my home, the more settled I've become in my own skin. I look forward to Kim embarking on this similar journey. She deserves so much, and I know she will get there. Because she already is.

Yes, surprises are a good thing. Most of all when we surprise ourselves.

You Might Be A Douche If....

Larissa lytwyn — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 02:13:43 GMT

So this morning I turn on the computer and check my email. Surprise! Someone I dated back in 2007 indicated they were "interested" when I came up in their "Daily Five" on Match.com. How flattering. Now, anyone who knows me understands I'm a professional mushball. So it took a relatively high amount of estrogen for me to take a deep breath and say: "No." I blocked him. Yes! Progress.

Stepping into the shower, I thought of Jeff Foxworthy and mused "You Know You're A Douche If..."

Voila! Out came this list (the short version). ;) To be fair, I also included "You know You're A Crazy Bitch If..." because, let's face it, we all have our douche/bitch moments. Some a lot more than others. ;) But at the end of the day we're all human (again, some more than others). So...sit back...enjoy. After all, if we don't laugh at ourselves, we're gonna cork off a helluva lot sooner. Who wants that?

Life's too short, my dear peeps.

Humbly Yours,
Larissa

You Might Be A Douche If…..

Your Online Dating Profile….

….Features multiple pictures of yourself (a) shirtless, (b) making “hot” faces in six different self-portraits (c) with your ex-girlfriend and/or (d) current girlfriend (face conveniently blacked out).
….Boasts the headline: “I’m gonna jump you like a Spider Monkey!” (Oooh, I feel tingly already).
……Notes you drink “regularly.”

Your Idea Of Being A Catch Is……
….Keying a stranger’s car because they cut your friend off in the parking lot
….Bragging about the number of women you’ve “banged”
….Talking on the phone to a girl you’re seeing while you’re on a first date with someone else

Your Idea of Feminist Empowerment Is….
….Having your girlfriend pay for her own birthday dinner
….Asking your girlfriend for money to pay the insurance copay after you accidentally crash her car

Your Romantic Side Includes….
…..Admitting you’ve been to confession after having sex because you promised God you’d wait until marriage
…..Hiding your online dating profile so you can secretly “keep your options open” while you’re "with" someone
…..Asking someone out to a wine tasting in Manhattan….and telling another girl you’re dating it’s the reason you can’t make dinner tonight.
……Dumping your fiancé on national television so you can give the runner-up “a second chance”

You Might Be A Crazy Bitch If….

Your Online Dating/Internet Etiquette Includes….
…..Revealing every detail about your last relationship....and you haven't even met in person
….Asking your prospective boyfriend how many women he’s met online…and why he’s not dating them
….Insisting your boyfriend change his relationship status on Facebook ASAP because you’ve been seeing each other a whopping month

Your Idea Of Being A Catch Is……
…..Sexting your “good friend” while you’re on a first date to establish you’re “desirable.”
.…Revealing every detail about yourself in general, down to your bathroom habits. Because you want an “honest relationship.”

You Believe Chivalry is….
…..Making your guy pay for everything because you don’t expect anything less from a man who makes six figures

Your Romantic Side Includes…
…..Forbidding your boyfriend to speak to other women. Even if he’s a bartender.
…..Pretending you were struck with a potentially fatal illness to win sympathy so you can hang on to him longer
…..Trying to get pregnant while assuring him you’re on the pill
…..Getting hitched after a month (Here’s looking at you, Khloe Kardashian)

Anyone got anymore?? :)

The Muppet Show

Larissa lytwyn — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 14:39:52 GMT

Recently my dear coworkers found a picture of the Muppets and labeled each of us accordingly. We have our resident Fozzie Bear, Kermit the Frog, Beeker, Gonzo and even Oscar the Grouch. I was awarded the distinction of being Pepe the King Prawn. I don't know much about Pepe's personality, but I do have that hair first thing in the morning! All I need is a sex change! ;)

Thanks to the gang for starting my morning off with a smile.

I'm gonna start singing "Hustle & Flow." ;)

Judging a Book By Its Cover

Larissa lytwyn — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 05:07:30 GMT

Tuesday night I saw two of my favorite authors, Jennifer Weiner and Candace Bushnell, catching up like old friends onstage. Weiner is a bestselling “chick-lit” novelist. (I'm in queue position 5,678 at my local library for a copy of Weiner's latest, Best Friends Forever). Bushnell’s 1996 novel Sex and the City became the basis of a bonafide cultural phenomenon. Touted as a conversation on the creative process, self-esteem, “and of course, shoes,” I couldn’t wait to see the two seeming polar opposites connect.

I arrived in the city about an hour before showtime. Climbing out of the subway, I spotted Sebastian, the high school lothario from Bravo’s NYC Prep. He was loitering on the corner of Lexington and 86^th with a nymph-like blonde. I watched him grab her ass, squeezing as if he was testing a ripe melon. She giggled appreciatively. I marveled at how puny he was in real life. He caught me staring and gave me his trademark dead fish look. I averted my eyes and tried not to laugh. So much for getting an autograph.

The crowd at the 92^nd Street Y, of course, was predominantly young women. Settling into the fourth row, I noticed two empty seats in the second one, directly across from the stage. Did I dare? There were no seating assignments. I took a deep breath. Once in elementary school a group of kids literally pushed me to the ground to reach the ice cream truck faster. For much of my life I’ve held back. It was time to move forward. “Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” I asked the portly man in the second row aisle seat. “Nope,” he grunted, getting up and letting me slide past.

And that’s how I ended up sitting two seats down from the Antichrist--cleverly disguised as a grandmother.

The evening began innocently enough. Jennifer is as effervescent and witty as her novels, intelligent without being pretentious. Candace is fifty but looks thirty-five. As the discussion turned from child rearing to the pitfalls of Brazilian waxing, the deceptively cute grandma began rumbling like an impending earthquake. “Vaat is the purpose of this?” she muttered, vicious as a wet cat. “I thought this was Sex and the City!” In addition to looking like Dr. Ruth Westheimer, she had the sex doctor’s thick accent down pat. It was official. I was sitting next to Dr. Ruth’s Evil Twin. Four different women shushed her. I wondered if the staff was going to kick her out.

The Twin raised a tiny gnarled fist. “Hellooo!” she shouted, waving her bejeweled hand. “I thought this was SEX. AND. THE. CITY!” There was a precious moment of stunned silence. Candace began stammering about how there would be Sex and the City “a little later.” Jennifer pointed out the title of the discussion was actually about friendship and writing. The Twin left in a copiously perfumed huff. The room exploded into applause.

Moments later, listening to Jennifer reflect on the value of “women supporting women,” I thought how deceiving images could be. A sweet grandmother looking type, for example, could turn out to be Satan. Hailed as a patron saint of the sexually empowered woman, Candace was slightly reserved and almost shy in person. One of my favorite moments was when Candace discussed her fascination with the different ways people use the cards they’re dealt. Sometimes we spend so much time wishing we had someone else’s Ace of Spades we miss our own Ace of Hearts. Candace also has a wicked sense of humor. One of the book ideas her publisher rejected involved a status-chasing couple losing their child to sudden death because of their frivolous ways.

Jennifer was gregarious throughout, joking on the struggles of becoming a writer (“Writing was the only thing I was good at.”). When she tells her mother Simon & Schuster is picking up her first novel, her mother asks what the title is.

“Um…Good in Bed,” Jennifer admits.

“Good and Bad?” her mother repeats.

The auditorium erupted in laughter.

I didn’t ask any questions during the Q&A period. I prefer to sit back and observe. I listened to a woman reveal how Jennifer and Candace’s books helped her through a difficult period in her life. Another woman seemed in awe of Candace and couldn’t understand why someone so attractive wasn’t more active in the Sex and the City television series and films. Though Candace was very involved in the television incarnation of her novel Lipstick Jungle, I get the sense she is as much an observer as the rest of us. She simply enjoys being a writer, not the founder of a cultural movement. Plus, she swears she can’t act.

I enjoyed the easy camaraderie of the evening (including The Twin, purely for entertainment purposes). I like to think of writers as observers, societal anthropologists if you want to get hoity-toity about it. ;) After all, we’re more comfortingly alike then we think. Underneath the images we create, we’re all just making the best of the cards we’re dealt. Want to be a published writer? Write about what you know. Write about what we all know. Write about us, the joys, the struggles, the heartbreaks, the redemption. Write, work hard, never give up and before long you may score the perfect hand.

'Sex and the City' Author Lecture

Larissa lytwyn — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 16:30:38 GMT

So on Tuesday, Sept 8 I am thinking about attending a lecture featuring two of my favorite writers, Jennifer Weiner (author of Good in Bed, as well as scores of other bestselling chick-lit) and Candace Bushnell (creator of Sex and the City).

It starts at 8:15pm. Tix are $27:

http://www.92y.org/shop/event_detail.asp?productid=T-LC5CA17&xAd=rss_T-LC5CA17&rss=Lectures_and_Conversations_T-LC5CA17

If you're in the area and love these ladies as much as I do, you should definitely go! :)

All A-Twitter

Larissa lytwyn — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 00:03:12 GMT

I recently decided to experiment and join Twitter. (I'm also on Facebook).

You can "follow" me at http://www.twitter.com/larissalytwyn

Hmm...I think I just joined so I could say I "Tweet."

During my brief days here, the one thing to note is the high number of celebrities on this site. The Hollywood mystique of old has been replaced with a "letting-it-all-hang-out" relatability.

For example, Sen. John McCain's daughter frets about using her hotel pool because of her bootylicious bottom being captured by a pap's unforgiving lens. And so on.

....Anyone a faithful twitterer? Do you like it? Hate it?

For Love or for Money?

Larissa lytwyn — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 19:44:20 GMT

Does society celebrate women who pass up the boys with the big bucks for the boys-next-door? According to the authors of Smart Girls Marry Money: How Women Have Been Duped Into the Romantic Dream and How They’re Paying For It, women are sacrificing practical notions like economic security for the flowery promises of “for richer or poorer.”

Therefore, the authors encourage women to find a Mr. Right with a sizeable bank account. I was surprised a book like this exists. In a world where the girl gets Mr. Big and Goldman Sachs bails us out of a recession, I believe we’re more status-conscious than ever before. The pursuit of riches has always been society’s Golden Calf, and, unfortunately, our values have tended to follow the money.

Recently a coworker suggested the benefits of marrying for wealth. “You need a sugar daddy!” she laughed. “No way,” I chuckled. Sugar daddies aren’t practical. They’re a form of entrapment. I’ve always taken pride in supporting myself, even while making a sub-living as a fulltime journalist. At one point I moved back home for several months to save up so I could move out again. Once I found a well-paying job in aviation, freelancing on the side, I rented a cheap apartment. I continued saving until I was able to buy a condo (albeit with the help of a first time homebuyers’ grant and a little support from my family). It may seem hypocritical to talk about being independent and in the next sentence write about my parents helping me. However, I believe there is a huge difference between someone offering to help you and expecting someone to.

My family knows I am sincerely appreciative of everything they’ve done. I have used their support as a "stimulus package," you could say. Because of their past assistance, I am now completely financially independent. Though I'm not able to save or travel as much as I'd like, I live comfortably within my means.

Nevertheless, I realize living independently can sometimes come at the cost of dreams. One of my high school classmates recently blogged on how she related to the “Smart Girls” message. She wants to afford a certain lifestyle. But should her goal be dependent on someone else? Another blogger vilified her for being a gold digger. This wasn’t a very kind or fair assessment. (The blogosphere can be so merciless)!

But, hey, life has a way of throwing out curveballs. It’s the very reason I want to stay as fiscally autonomous as possible. Fortunes can turn in an instant, especially in this economy. While I appreciate a person with passion and ambition, I don’t judge them for their vocation or the size of their bank account. As a writer, I’ve done everything I can to make ends meet. I simply expect someone to work hard, too.

Having a relatively traditional world-view, I’m also a great fan of chivalry. I appreciate gentlemen who open doors for women and offer to pay for dinner. I don’t view chivalry as an anti-feminist means for dependency. It’s simply a form of respect. In the same way, I also believe it’s important for women to pay sometimes, too. After all, relationships are about equitable partnership.

So taking an extreme view on reasons to marry can be illusive. Aren’t we in this together? What about love? Commitment? What if things change? At the end of the day, as long as the bills are being paid (in a legal and morally upstanding way, of course), ;) what does it matter? Besides, money doesn’t always stay and love doesn’t always last. If we don’t learn to rely on ourselves, our debts to someone else will always be bigger in the long run.

Is Giving Up Something Giving Up Yourself?

Larissa lytwyn — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 03:51:41 GMT

Have you ever been in a situation where you felt the other person wasn't trying hard enough? I think we all have. The reason it bothers me so much is because I often don't try hard enough myself. I realized this over a steak dinner I made for my parents tonite (that's me earlier with Mom).

I once had a "grass is greener" mentality. I once felt if I were in a "better position" I'd instantly be happier. Yes, happiness was a destination, not a journey decreed by a bumper sticker. As I've noted in previous posts, it took reaching a certain pinnacle: good job, home ownership and a very special someone--to realize there was still something missing. Me. I was gone, somehow. I mean, I was there in bits and pieces. But I wasn't whole the way I used to be. Something had gotten lost.

Fast forward six months to now. I've pretty much changed my life, and the way I did it wasn't just about external change. It was about consistently changing my attitude. Real change happens from the inside out. Sure, there's always room for improvement. But overall, I'm happy again. Tonite's meal reflected that.

When I was a kid, I was a true meat-and-potatoes girl. I loved hot dogs and cake and ice cream. My childhood supper of choice was steak, mashed potatoes and corn. I remember sliding a thick slab of butter in the center of a creamy mountain of spuds, scooping up a giant forkful and dipping it into the molten butter-pool. Slowly, I would raise the fork to my lips. Heaven.

But as years passed, I began rejecting fatty foods, and, by proxy, other things. Fortunately, more recently, my healthy eating habits have been healthily punctuated by the occassional pizza or steak dinner. I've become more honest with myself, and that means being a girl who loves red meat every once in a while. And then some!

As a result, I'm more honest with my parents. (There is a difference between openness and honesty. We are sometimes too open to try to conceal being honest. It's best to be honest first and open second). Tonite I addressed their concerns over my fair number of guy friends, especially those with girlfriends. "But don't you think..." they often say, eyebrows raised. Being an only child, however, I've often defined my friends by sibling roles. Over the years I've adopted at least three surrogate brothers.

One's crashed at my condo twice. In both cases it was getting late; in at least one case he'd had a bit too much to drink. So I lent him my couch, blanket and pillow, no questions asked. In the morning he took a shower and we shared breakfast. When I told my parents, their mouths went agape.

"Are you sure there isn't more there?" Mom probed.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I decided to have some fun. "Well," I said. "I tried picturing being with him in the shower. And I just couldn't do it."

"TMI!" Mom shrieked while my father turned progressively ashen. Believe me, I never would've let my friend sleep over if I suspected either of us had romantic feelings. Nevertheless, I understood where my parents were coming from. I can be very trusting and haven't always made the best choices. But as I've learned from my mistakes, I've become more confident in my decisions. I'm not afraid to fail. I'm afraid of failing to grow.

So it was incredibly fitting my parents and I dined on sirloin steak, oven-baked potato and corn this evening! I made it on my recently purchased (and quickly indispensable!) George Foreman grill. The next time I start thinking about giving up something, I'll remember what I'm potentially risking: giving up myself. Growth, after all, isn't always about changing. It's about remembering, too.

Dog Days of Summer

Larissa lytwyn — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 17:27:55 GMT

Today I had to make a difficult phone call. I turned down an opportunity to adopt a rescue dog. Growing up, my family always had cats. Later we began raising chickens, ducks and geese. During my apartment-renting days I had cats, parakeets and at one point a rabbit.

Having settled into my condo, I thought it would be a good time for a four-legged companion. This time, it would be of the canine variety. I wanted the companionship. I wanted to meet more of my neighbors, many of whom are dog-owners. This week I contacted a local shelter to find out more about Sadie, a beautiful Corgi/Beagle mix. Sadie was pending adoption; nevertheless the handler introduced me to her. She was affectionate but also very rambunctious and barked a lot.

"I think you'll enjoy meeting Sasha," the handler said. "She's very mellow." Sasha was a four-year-old Yellow Lab mix, only about 30 pounds and sweet as pie.

"She's very quiet," I said approvingly. (I'd hate to bother my neighbors with excessive yapping...from dogs, at least). When she lifted her paw to shake my hand, I just about melted into the grass. "You know how they say dogs look like their owners?" asked the handler. I nodded, amused by the selling point. "Well, in the sun your hair matches her coat!" My red hair gets blonde highlights in the summer and can look almost golden yellow in the sun. Sasha's coat was the same way.

Her name was uncanny. For a short time, my family owned a dog named Sasha. I was eleven and dreaming of a puppy. During our visit to an animal-rescue organization we met one who squirmed right out of my arms. I dropped her, almost head first, on the floor! (Luckily, I've never done that with baby people). The official reason for turning us down, however, was on our application. My parents indicated we'd keep the dog in a doghouse. Not primarily, of course. But my parents didn't really agree with the idea of animals living in a house 24/7 with people. Our cats had all been indoor/outdoor. Hell, we raised farm animals!

A few weeks later my father and I impulsively picked up one of several puppies being given away for free in our neighborhood. We christened her "Sasha." Puppies, of course, need a lot of attention. I remember how it seemed Sasha would never stop barking, whining or otherwise crying. For various reasons, the responsibility of raising Sasha got to be too much. Especially after she pooped on my mother's white couch. So, about a month after we adopted her, we gave her to a shelter with high hopes she'd be adopted quickly. I'm sure she was.

Now, 16 years later, I stood in the doggie yard with Sasha 2.0:

I could easily picture myself walking her, rubbing her belly, reading with her at my feet. All I needed was a pipe and a roaring fireplace. But the practical part of me didn't think it was fair for Sasha to be alone ten hours a day while I worked five days a week. I thought about the cost of boarding her if I traveled. I thought about bringing her to the vet for expensive routine checkups. I thought about her shedding on the expensive couch my mother helped buy me as a housewarming present. And I began having second thoughts.

My parents, meanwhile, acted as though I were threatening to shoot heroin. "DON'T DO IT!" my father begged on the phone. "I mean, it's your place, you can do what you want. But it's not a good idea." I could hear my mother clucking in agreement in the background. Their biggest concern was financial (not to mention the potential impact on my thick white carpets). It's true I have a steady, decent-paying job. But while I earn enough money to pay my mortgage and bills, I don't have a lot of extra money to save--or spend. Acquiring a dog would make any potential savings nil.

So, this afternoon, I gave Sasha 2.0's handler my decision. Though I couldn't make the ownership commitment, I volunteered to walk Sasha on Saturdays. I also promised to do my best to help find her a home.

In the meantime, I'm considering adopting a hedgehog (aka "Hedgies"). Note this round cutie from Connecticut's own Hedgehog Welfare Society:

No shedding, no potential allergic reactions and no walking! ;) There's also always fish....and, once I patent the invention of a chicken diaper, indoor barnyard pets...

Incident-al Growth

Larissa lytwyn — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 03:07:31 GMT

It all started with the Chai Incident. I’m usually exceptionally nice when I’m out and about, engaging waiters, bartenders and baristas with equal warmth. The Chai Incident was a jarring exception. It happened this past winter. I happened to be craving a Starbucks chai latte like a baby craves warm milk. Yes, the extreme metaphor is intentional. Because when I learned they were out of chai, I acted like a complete infant.

“What?!?” I barked. “You don’t have CHAI? That’s like a McDonald’s not having FRENCH FRIES!” In retrospect, I was so over-the-top it was almost comical. But it certainly wasn’t funny to the cowering barista. It also wasn’t funny to my companion, who looked like he wanted to scramble under the counter and hide. “Do you want something else?” he asked instead.

I shot him a death glare. “No,” I snapped. “I want chai.” I could have had hot chocolate, a variety of teas or even coffee. But I wasn’t satisfied until we’d gone to another Starbucks and I’d gotten my beverage of choice.

While I realize my reaction was based in failed gratification, I’m still disturbed by its excessiveness. We live in a time in which technology hasn’t only made instant gratification possible….it’s made it the expectation. Need directions? GPS. Movie times? Blackberry. Future wife? Match.com. And so on. But as real life reminds us daily, there is no magic bullet against unhappiness or disappointment. We’re not infallible; how can life be? Sometimes happiness is simply making the best of our less-happy times. The Chai Incident forced me to reject my instant gratification tendencies. I’ve made progress.

One day after work last month I drove to the beach to take a walk. The beach, however, closes at sunset. Blocking my path was a man who made Archie Bunker look like Mr. Rogers. “You!” he rumbled, emerging from his vehicle. “You can’t park here! We’re closing!” Suspiciously, he wasn’t in one of the jeeps the patrolmen usually drive. I'd admittedly been on the cellie with Mom.

“And you should get off that cell phone when you’re driving, too!” Super Archie screamed. “Er, Mom, I gotta go,” I said hastily. “Sorry. I’ll call you back.” By the time I looked back at Super Archie, I could feel the heat burning through my cheeks. Hackles rising, I was spoiling for a fight. “I see a lot of cars here,” I blurted, waving my hand vaguely to the cars peppering the lot.

“Yes,” Super Archie affirmed gruffly. “But they should be leaving soon, too.” I literally had to press my lips together—hard—to keep from responding. My heart slammed around in my chest. Thoughts pierced my mind like darts. Is he even for real? Who does he think he is? And the sun’s not even begun to set! Finally, I took a long, slightly shaky breath, and exhaled deeply. Okay, I concluded. Asshole on a power trip. Don’t give him more fuel. So I turned my car around and gave Super Archie what had to have been the fakest smile of all time. “Thanks!” I exclaimed. “I appreciate the heads-up! Have a fantastic evening!” And you know...he smiled back.

But the moment of truth, it seemed, came today. I was returning from a meeting in Hartford. Traffic was crawling. My head throbbed from a blossoming headache. The line of cars slowly moved forward. I eased ahead. Brake lights flashed. I slid to a stop. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I noticed a gray minivan coming toward me way too fast. He’s gonna hit me, I thought, rather matter-of-factly. I really think he’s gonna hit me. I heard the last-minute cry of brakes. And then, just like that, I felt the crunch of metal-on-metal. I lurched forward; fell back. Sighed. “This can’t be happening,” I muttered.

The driver got out of his car. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. To my disbelief, he was smiling. Smiling! He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t apologize. He just grinned, smarmy. But anger, I realized, was useless. Instead, I inspected the damage. My bumper was pretty much hanging off the car. “Do you have insurance?” I asked. He showed me his insurance card. By the time the police arrived and a case report was made, more than an hour had passed. Fortunately I was close enough home to drive there safely. Once settled, I quickly got to work on making the necessary calls. I filed a report with my insurance company. I had my car towed to a body shop. I spoke to the adjuster assigned to my case. Best of all, I acquired a sweet-ass rental: an adorable, sky-blue 2008 PT Cruiser.

I’m really lucky everything went as smoothly as it did. Yes, even stressful situations can bring out the best outcomes, like cool rental cars. Coming from a long line of (similarly recovering) hotheads, it wasn’t always easy growing up. If blessed with a family of my own someday, I want to emphasize the importance of going with the flow. Most things in life don’t matter. We put so much focus on appearance and status and material possessions. We’re expected to have it all, and have it all now. But I want to someday tell my son or daughter that so much of that is ephemeral. It's certainly never a means to justify a bad attitude. Behaving disrespecfully, even when seemingly warranted, is never a wise course of action. It creates an even more hostile environment and debases us to our protagonist’s level, whether it’s an ornery old man or a blasé teenager.

I still think about the Chai Incident. Recently I went by that Starbucks and actually checked who was working. I still remember the girl’s face. I figured I’d buy her a chai latte. Then again, it’s doubtful she’d recognize me. So I’d probably just buy anything but a latte. And be extra nice.