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Full Disclosure: How I Learned What the Word “Slut” Really Means

amanda_lee — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 08:08:19 +0000

I had a best friend in grade school who was, in addition to being a bona-fide mean girl and a bad influence, very misinformed about what grown-up words meant. She frequently used the word “slut”, and I didn’t know what it meant, so one time I asked her. After she ridiculed me for a few minutes for my naivety, she gave me this definition: “A slut is someone who’s lazy and sits around and watches TV all the time.” Brilliant!

Cut to the following week. My dad was watching a Cubs game in our den. I wanted him to get out so I could watch Babysitter’s Club videos. I asked him several times nicely, and when he refused, I let him have it: “Gosh, Dennis, you’re acting like such a slut!”

Well.

He got up and walked out of the room. Presumably he told my mom about this interaction, because later in the day, she pulled me aside. “I need to talk to you.”

I knew I was in trouble.

“You need to know what the word ‘slut’ really means. It’s a word that describes a woman who’s very free with her body and lets men take advantage of her. So don’t say it to your dad again, okay?”

My dad never looked at me the same way again. And that was how I came to learn that my best friend was full of it.

Slutty hijinks aside, I found this article on the economics of slut-shaming, and loved it. Makes perfect sense. Go read it!

Full Disclosure: In Which I Am a Complete and Total Creeper at the Dentist’s Office

amanda_lee — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 01:14:35 +0000

Chris has just gotten dental insurance for the first time in his adult life, and pretty soon he’s going to have to get his wisdom teeth extracted. He’s looking forward to the pain meds¹; not so much to the procedure. I’m looking forward to seeing what he says when he’s taking the pain meds. Because anyone who makes something like this is going to do some reeeeeeally interesting stuff when he’s on pain meds, ya dig?

I had my wisdom teeth extracted when I was 20. I’d never had laughing gas before, and the experience was wholly bizarre. I imagine it’s what truth serum feels like: you’re perfectly aware of what’s coming out of your mouth, but you have no control whatsoever of how to change it or stop it. The words just keep coming. And in this painfully honest state, I had the following conversation with the technician before I went completely under for surgery:

Me, woozy: What do you do with the wisdom teeth after you take them out?
Her: We usually just throw them away.
Me, head lolling back and forth: You mean, in your garbage?
Her: Yes.
Me, my eyes starting to droop: So…like…theoretically…if I wanted to…like, make a necklace out of human teeth, I could just go through your dumpster? Just theoretically, you know.
Her: [a terrified look the likes of which I've never seen since that day]

After the surgery, I was angry and in pain, and I refused to be carted out in a wheelchair – I preferred walking like a normal person, thankyouverymuch. Luckily, my dad had his hands too full to try and grab me by the hand to steer me…because the technician, probably in an effort to dissuade me from returning to the clinic that night and going through their garbage, had given him the teeth she’d helped take out of my head.

¹ For the record, Chris would like me to make sure you all know that he is not a drug addict.

Full Disclosure: On Cool

amanda_lee — Sun, 15 May 2011 00:34:08 +0000

The first place I recognized what Cool was was in Mrs. Jackson’s third-grade classroom. Oh, yeah, I’d used the word “cool” ad nauseum before. My babysitter had given me a My Little Pony paper doll kit in kindergarden and I’d immediately exclaimed, “Cool!” I wore cool shoes that had panda-shaped velcro closures and cool black stone-washed jeans with bedazzling along the pockets. I thought it was cool that my parents were musicians. I thought that, in no particular order, cool included things like ballet, Papa Johns pizza at slumber parties, and pink-paged diaries.

But it wasn’t until I met Katie in Mrs. Jackson’s third-grade class that I knew the difference between cool and Cool.

Typically in my school, the Tyranny of the Cool came in a package deal with the Monarchy of the Pretty, the {{}} of the Smart, and the {{}} of Having Your Shit Together as much as a third-grader could. But not for Katie.

Katie had moved from Arizona over the summer. She wasn’t exotic, or sophisticated, or in possession of any adjectives that are synonyms for “better than the rest of us”. She had a weird perm and glasses, and she wore cowgirl boots unironically about a decade before that became cool in Kentucky. She was clumsy and she wasn’t good at music, or dance, or throwing parties, or making anyone laugh.

But Katie made up for it with an inimitable insouciance I’d never seen anyone match. I’d never seen anything like it before – before she arrived, the A-list of my class was always filled with pretty, smart, well-dressed girls who were decent at sports and who Generally Had Their Shit Together. They were nice. We had play dates after school sometimes. They all came to my birthday parties, and I went to theirs. I might have been considered a member of their group, if it had been codified in that way. But it wasn’t. Katie was the start of the in/out mentality, even though prior to her arrival, she’d have been Out by anyone else’s standards.

She waltzed into recess one day and announced that she was going to be the president of a new club, and now she was accepting applications for membership. Of course we wanted in – we hadn’t been a part of something this formal since the one year we were in Brownies together. So, she continued, everyone who wanted in had to design a poster for the group, and whoever out of all of us made the best ones would get to be in her club. The club would be called Kool Kats, she said. With a K [which also stands for "Katie", I figured out later].

I wasn’t a great artist, but I did love drawing. So I made a hand-lettered sign with a confetti-style background. I may have even used scented markers. I had somehow left my glitter and puff paint at home that day, so a two-dimensional, non-sparkly poster was the best I could do. Some of the other girls – the ones who’d been my friends before Katie arrived, and still were at that point – had stashes of glitter, puff paint, hole punches shaped like stars and dinosaurs, and possibly even dust from the Hope Diamond in their desks. And it was this stuff that they used to make their Kool Kats posters, the Kourtly, Klassy, Kolossal, Konspicuously Krazy-Kool Kats.

I walked across the playground with my poor little hand-drawn poster in tow. I knew what was about to happen. And I did it anyway. It was drawn on one poor piece of computer paper, and it wrinkled in my sweaty hand, which made it look even shabbier next to al that sparkle and diamond dust that the others had drawn. When I arrived at the cluster of girls in stonewashed jeans and backcombed bangs and Lisa Frank-themed sweaters, she raised her eyebrows. I offered my poster.

She took it. She looked for what seemed like a full minute. She looked back at me with no expression. “Thanks, but I think we’ve got enough.” She hardly spoke to me again. Neither did most of the other girls.

For the rest of the year, those Kats congregated on the playground, a tight little group singing songs together, occasionally monopolizing the slide, and practicing their Kat Koreography for the routine they were planning for the talent show. It never came to fruition. Eventually I stopped watching, focusing on the books I brought out to the playground or trying to play kickball with the boys. They didn’t want me any more than the Kats did, but they were a lot nicer about it.

Katie probably didn’t mean to be what she was. From an adult’s perspective, her behavior was nothing more than overcompensation – she was new in town, with funny hair, funny boots, glasses and no after-school sports she could join. Still, if she were in school now, she’d be classified as a Queen Bee – a glorified little tempest who despite having neither the coordination nor the courage to punch someone, was a bully all the same.

Full Disclosure on My Ex and The Internet

amanda_lee — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 17:27:05 +0000

[source]

Quitting a person I love on the Internet is harder than it should be. As a blogger, a large portion of my identity is carefully distilled and curated to reach an Internet audience – my tweets, my Facebook, my Tumblr all show people a bit of who I am. This isn’t always true for others, but I feel edified to read what someone writes on their blog, because I feel – probably falsely – that they might be sharing something intimate, essential to who they are.

What’s more, when I meet people who are quiet and/or good listeners, they are imbued with a new sense of depth. This person is wise! This person has secret knowledge that people like me, who talk effusively (even excessively when they’re nervous), will never be able to know! There’s more mystery. Mystery is something I’ve never achieved – I’m pretty much a WYSIWYG kind of girl.

So when I met Y, a lot of the mystery was solved when I read his blog. All the things he didn’t say (and probably more) were easily accessible – and searchable by date and keyword. He wasn’t a blogger like I’m a blogger; he’d have died before posting, for instance, “How to Look Busy at Work (And Dodge Responsibility!)”, or “8 Things You Never Knew You Needed to Kill Zombies.” His blog was actually a journal. He wrote about his drunk mishaps and his existential crises, his one-night stands and his grown-up woes. His self-proclaimed idol was Hunter S. Thompson; he loved to write. None of his blog was private (in fact, it was clearly linked on his Facebook); he respected his cohorts’ privacy by calling them by their initials. I was completely honest about reading his (totally public) blog (a favor he didn’t return when he read a private journal of mine later on).

We were friends; then we weren’t. We were friends again; he sent me some drunk emails; we dated. He was happy; I was happy; and then he was miserable, and to this day I can’t tell you why.

When we broke it off, he left it open-ended. “I need to move out,” he said, his eyes not meeting mine. I agreed to it, and then felt utterly foolish when I realized he’d broken it off without actually telling me what was what. On his last night living in our shared apartment, he didn’t come home, and he never told me where he’d been.

I kept his blog in my RSS reader, more out of carelessness than curiosity – it had been so long since he posted, I’d forgotten about it – and for awhile, it looked like we could be friends. I’d started dating someone, so it wasn’t shocking or hurtful to read that he’d moved on. What was, though, was reading what he wrote about how it ended. He said a lot of things about me: none of them were true. Implications included my never being happy [false]; and my being happy with how things were rather than striving for better [also false, and contradictory of his prior complaint] – both issues that he never brought up with me when we were dating. How’s that for mystery?

Disgusted, I unsubscribed. We had a brief, frustrating conversation via email, and several months later when he emailed me, I clicked “ignore all future mail”.

It was well over a year before I went back to his blog, but oh yeah . . . I went back, just like a bad child returning from the yard after picking out a switch for a forthcoming spanking. I reread everything – all the crazy stories that attracted me to him and all the lies that hurt me. Every bit. And then the mystery that was Y was gone.

His lies weren’t lies at all. He wasn’t malicious; he didn’t even have very many readers who knew who he was offline, so there’s no way he was trying to save face by looking like the good guy. He did what every good Hunter Thompson-wannabe does: he wrote what he thought he knew.

He saw complacency where I was actually working my ass off to save money and take some classes. He saw misery where I was really just too focused on working 70-hour weeks and writing to fuck around. He saw an attitude problem that was solely mine, without being able to admit that when he stopped trying, it made the relationship suck.

It shouldn’t have taken me this long to see it, but he never really knew me at all. I was the mystery he didn’t care enough to solve, and instead of being inscrutable, he was just wrong.

Things I Do At Work To Make The Days Better, Happier, and More Productive

amanda_lee — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 23:28:12 +0000

[source]

Wear clothing that makes me happy. I’ve already been over exactly what I think of office dress codes ad nauseum. I push the line every day with bright colors, scarves around my wrists, textured and colorful tights, big hair, and rings large enough to break noses if I were inclined to throw punches. No one’s raised an eyebrow yet. [Sidenote: Fasshonaburu has posted a great list of challenges she uses to push herself to dress amazingly every day—despite a dress code.]
Set my BlackBerry’s alarm for every ninety minutes. When it goes off, I take a break from staring at the screen and walk around the office for ten minutes. Good for my eyes, posture, concentration, and metabolism. Allows me to stretch. Get water. Moisturize. Think about something that doesn’t involve contracts, content management system implementation, or PowerPoint webinars [cringe!].
Spend a couple minutes at the end of the day straightening up. I loathe disorganization in a workspace, and it’s a drag to arrive to a messy office. Plus, you all know how I much I love cleaning and organization [they tell me I'm a Virgo at heart], so it gives me a good, stress-free way to wrap up each day. Extraneous paper goes to the recycling; dishes to the office kitchen; email box cleaned out to Inbox Zero levels; and desktop wiped down with a damp cloth. Yum.
Bring a good lunch, and enjoy every bite work-free. I guess somewhere in some part of the world, there are people who eat at their desks with their email account open and their work spread in front of them and their BlackBerries at their fingertips. I am not one of these. My twenty-minute lunch is spent solely on my own – working on non-work-related writing, making phone calls, catching up with my personal email, and stretching after the meal is over.
Work out every day in the office gym after hours. The free gym in my building is a perk that I’m determined not to take for granted. After all, the minute this contract gig is up, I’ll have to start paying for a gym membership. [Because, honestly? I'm liking working out so much that the idea of not doing it makes me sad.] So as long as it’s free, I’m using the hell out of it. And after wrapping up a nine-hour work day with a clean office and a clear head, this is my favorite way to re-energize after work and make sure I don’t just go straight home and crash for the night.
Limit my office coffee intake. The coffee, like the gym, is free. However, unlike the gym, the coffee sucks. So I’m skipping it altogether in favor of two tall glasses of ice water on my desk at all times. If I wake up groggy and really need the caffeine, the gentleman friend and I make a quick Dunkin’ Donuts stop on the way to our respective offices.
Maintain my extracurriculars. Yes,The Minor Leagues are amidst heavy rehearsals in preparation for our upcoming tour dates, EP release, and video shoot. Yes, I’m supplying both Fabricate and Chicken Lays an Egg with a steady stream of handmade goods, plus keeping up with a bunch of custom orders. Yes, my blog updates have been more regular than they’ve ever been in the entire seven years I’ve called myself a blogger. Yes, Chris and I have found time to learn new design skills together. Know why? Because although I’m loving what I’m doing, this gig is temporary. And I’m going to feel really crappy if, when this gig is up, I’ve neglected everything else I love. So I’m not going to.

Full Disclosure: Breakup + Breakup

amanda_lee — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 02:16:43 +0000

I’m all moved.

I’ve been a little bit in shock at the change. I had a temp gig consisting of nearly two weeks nonstop [yes, Saturday and Sunday too] of twelve-hour days involving lots of running back and forth and climbing stairs carrying mountains of file folders and booklets, a 7:45 arrival time, and only the slightest bit of interpersonal interaction allowed. And now that that’s done and my work has reverted to freelancer schedule [read: sleeping until ten, long lazy lunches, and late nights of writing with wine], I’m focused on the important stuff—how much my life has changed and the magnitude of what I’ve done with this decision.

There was a breakup. And there was—is—a fair amount of pain, confusion, self-doubt, and second-guessing. There was also a ton of self-work and examination and redefining what I want and being really honest about what I can and can’t handle. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I do. I miss the way he introduced me to cool music and good beers, shot pictures of me [many of which found their way onto this site], accompanied me on trans-Manhattan night walks, and always had a perfect grilled cheese sandwich waiting when I came by after work—muenster, with tomatoes and occasionally avocados, on an everything bagel. I miss his ideas about architecture and work and art, as well as his presence—the way he did back handsprings in the park once, or always texted me about the cute dogs he saw when he walked to work.

There’s also a lot of homesickness—another breakup, this time with a city instead of with a person. I had to leave the city where I knew I belonged because I knew that in order to stay there, I needed to pick up a lot more skills to earn a lot more money. But in leaving, I’ve left behind so much that I love—great public transit, diversity, open-mindedness, drop-off laundry. The city yielded me so much entertainment, romanticism, inspiration, and fun—long days spent skimboarding and sunning myself until I burned in Rockaway; so many delicious trips to Pinkberry; acquaintance with some of the best artists in the world [some of whom are still emailing me to see when I'm coming back]; an appreciation for adventure and infinitude.

I’m not doing well with either breakup. I miss both the boy and the city, even though it’s probably right, and even though I know I’ll be okay soon.

Because there are also good things. My rent decreased by almost seventy-five percent when I moved into my new place in Cincinnati. I have a basement studio/workout space, and I’m riding a stationary bike every day [one day, I'm going to learn how to ride a bike for real, too]. My dog and I go for long walks every morning, and sometimes when I feel like it, I pick mulberries to eat later in the day with ice cream. I’ve found that I can reasonably eat out occasionally without guilt about blowing my budget. The thrift stores are a gold mine, because compared to New York, practically no one seeks out secondhand awesomeness. I am surrounded by creative, intelligent, helpful, generous, inspiring people who despite not living in a major metropolitan art center spend a ton of time creating and making awesome things happen, because they don’t have to work eighty-hour weeks just to pay their rent. There is karaoke and dive bars and cheap rock and roll shows and all-night cook-a-thons and midnight sing-alongs involving The Magnetic Fields, cheap wine, pineapple sorbet, and bouncing on the bed.

So I’ll be okay. It’s good to be back.

Full Disclosure: I Take Off My Clothes For Money

amanda_lee — Thu, 14 May 2009 04:29:39 +0000

My good friends already know. My family knows, for the most part, although I lied to them about it for a good year after I started. All my boyfriends have known, and some have had serious issues about it.

But it’s always something that I hesitate to tell people when I first meet them, at least until I can ascertain how they’ll react. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you guys.

Because…yeah. Taking off my clothes is part of my job. As a figure model, I take my clothes off in front of several art classes a week—classes in drawing, painting, and sculpture.

Ever since I started doing it, though, it’s been something that I regularly felt I had to lie about in certain company. When I started doing it, my boyfriend at the time knew about it [he was less than thrilled, by the way]…but I sure as hell didn’t tell my parents. [They thought I was working in the design school library.] When I finally told them, it was after I’d moved to New York and was far enough away that I could be sure my dad wouldn’t come after me threatening punishment. [His actual reaction? "Well, okay, " he said dubiously. "As long as you're getting paid okay." Thanks, Dennis!]

When I applied for my current apartment, I wrote “teaching assistant” as my job title. It wasn’t exactly a lie—after all, I assist the teacher [albeit in a completely inanimate capacity]. My supervisor, very much accustomed to the gymnastic effort required in obtaining the proverbial New York apartment, was willing to corroborate to back me up in the case that my landlord actually checked my references. [He didn't.]

My good friend Daniel, whom I dated earlier this year, told his parents that I was an art model without consulting me first. I looked on in horror as the following ensued:

Mrs. D: Oh, that’s too bad. What does Amanda Lee do again?

Boyfriend: She’s a figure model.

Mrs. D: Oh my goodness!

*silence*

Mrs. D: And does she model…[whispered] nude?

Boyfriend: Well, yeah. Sometimes.

Mrs. D: [shocked silence. We think perhaps she's fainted. She speaks again after a twenty-second lull.] Hmmm.

When I met her several weeks later, though, she had a million questions about it—do I get paid a lot? Is it safe? Does anyone touch me? Do I like doing it? Does anyone ever ask me to pose with my clothes on? Is it awkward? Do I have any funny or cool stories about doing it? How did I start, and why?

The short answers, in order: kind of. Yes. Emphatically not. Yes, of course. All the time. Sometimes. Tons. And, mostly on the suggestion of a friend.

I got the idea of figure modeling from my friend Sarah. She was crazy fun—always taking road trips to raves and concerts and telling long-winded, hilarious stories about travel and Japanese class and parties and fashion. She had moved to Cincinnati at around the same time I had, and she held down more jobs than I could count—oil pastel factory? bagel shop? who knew? But one of her gigs was a stint at figure modeling. She posed nude for art classes and sketch groups, earning more per hour than I’d ever heard of at any one of my part-time jobs.

One time I was hanging out with her and, offhand, she tossed off, “You could model, you know.”

I snorted.

“No, they’d love it. A dancer? They’d love you. You’re so muscular. Great for anatomy classes. ”

I put her advice aside until a few months later, I found myself too broke for comfort. And then I started checking around. Three weeks after, I found myself in a robe in front of a group of my peers (no, seriously, these kids were my age; I’d seen a few of them at rock and roll shows before). And at that point, it seemed way too late to back down. So I dropped the robe to the floor. And I never looked back.

The wage I started with was admirable by Ohio standards. And when I moved to New York and started posing here, I began making a wage equivalent to that of a beginner architect or journalist. And since New York is where everyone moves when they want to break into the art world, there’s never a shortage of work for models that are experienced and reasonably easy to work with. In short, it’s kind of a middle-class gig, as far as taking off your clothes goes.

By that I mean I’ve never felt unsafe or had an artist try to take advantage of me. I currently work for one of the most renowned art schools in the world, which has a really strong tradition of taking really good care of their models. For instance, when I’m on the model stand, no one’s allowed to touch me, not even the instructor. This helps keep me both safe and sane. I’d generally consider it an occupational hazard if someone tried to grab my ass while I was working, and I’d likely seek other means of employment. But also, the safety issue of staying in one position for hours at a stretch, though, is obvious, — some people who draw the figure have vast imaginations that are completely unfounded on what the human body is actually capable of. I modeled once for an artist who loved drawing women in ridiculous Lucian Freud-esque, twisty, contorted poses. In an attempt to show me what he wanted one time, he took my arm and twisted it behind my back trying to achieve a certain tortured aesthetic. I stopped working for him after this.

The safety issues of having strange men stalk me are implicit, but the security at the school is really strong, and students have actually been kicked out of the school for unwanted advances at models, so I’m lucky that most of the creepy dudes looking for a free show have been filtered out [however, I know people that have had problems working with artists privately and at other schools, which is why I only pose at my current school and I no longer work privately]. Also, I’m super-careful every time I leave, making sure no one follows me and typically having someone walk me to the station. So, really, the majority of safety issues have to do with avoiding injuries—making sure to stretch during breaks, not committing to a standing pose for too long, and not bearing weight on limbs that aren’t designed for weight-bearing [you'd be really surprised how many artists think it's a good idea to ask for a pose in which I'm leaning most of my weight onto one wrist].

What about clothed poses? Oh, yeah. All the time. Sometimes an artist or an instructor will have a specific idea about a painting of a sculpture he or she wants to do, and will request that I bring clothing to fit with that concept. For instance, one three-week oil painting class involved me posing in a bathing suit and sunglasses, reading a magazine. Another time a sculptor wanted to practice making drapery out of clay, so I wore a heavy velvety cloak she brought for me. Some of the watercolorists love painting large, bold floral patterns, so I always make sure to bring a handful of colorful dresses when I pose in their classes.

The artists I work with range from being super-bitchy to super-agreeable, most tending toward the latter. In general, the most temperamental ones lash out at me whenever they’re painting poorly. They justify their off day by telling themselves that the model is moving [which, by the way, should never matter if you're decently skilled] or isn’t holding the same position that she started in, so it clearly has everything to do with me, rather than their lack of skill knowledge. But those cases are few and far between. Most everyone is kind to me—some bring me meals or coffee, dozens have brought me books or magazines or old fabric to work with, and some even read my blog and tell me every time they see me how much they enjoy it.

Awkwardness? Well, yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes I get on the model stand and I feel horrible about my body. Sometimes I get a little tired of people staring at me all the time. Sometimes people complain that my hair doesn’t look the same way from one day to another, and I consider for the millionth time posing with a paper bag over my head in protest. But honestly? The most awkward part is having to tell the details of my job to people that I don’t know or trust, and whose predictions I can’t predict. Will they behave like D’s mum did, and act horrified that people see me nude? Or will they act supportively?

The most touching response I get is always admiration. So many of the girls I’ve told say something like, “I wish I could do that. I’m glad you appreciate your body that way.” In particular, this reaction comes from older women who are dealing with the physical manifestations of the aging process and mourning the loss of the looks they once had. To which I reply: Because of this job, I’m learning to appreciate my body in ways that I never thought were possible when I was merely a dancer. The aspects of myself that used to grate on my nerves—my knobby knees, my ugly bony feet, my upturned nose, my broad shoulders and relatively thick waist—are met with such affirmation that I don’t even really need to listen to my own body issues anymore. When I was a dancer, I merely mourned the ways that I looked different from everyone else. Now that I’ve spent three and a half years as a model, I can see the value in the uniqueness of my own body, and see it celebrated by other people every day.

Which isn’t all that bad. And when I think about my job in that context, it makes me never want to lie about it or hide it again. So that’s why I told you guys.

Full Disclosure: New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down

amanda_lee — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 12:52:29 +0000

[video via lafourte. awesome work.]

I don’t know how to say this, other than to put it out there. So here you go: A month from today, I’m leaving New York for awhile and heading for Cincinnati.

Yeah, I get it. You’re disappointed. My friends are disappointed. My boyfriend is way disappointed. But no one’s as disappointed as I am…

…or, I was. I’m not really that disappointed anymore. I feel strangely relieved. The pace of this city is a lot to handle, and if you’re not ahead of the curve in every way, you’re pretty much statistically guaranteed to slip further behind. So I’m taking some time off to catch up and generally regroup.

In addition to Skyline Chili, Findlay Market, the moonbow at Cumberland Falls, and Yeah! nights. I’m looking forward to all-night laugh-a-thons with the best roomies ever. I’m looking forward to day trips to see my parents in Kentucky, and weekend trips to see my cousins in Chicago. I’m looking forward to living by my dog’s absolute favorite park, and spending early evenings walking around the lake there with him. I’m looking forward to using my New York copy editing experience to convey me into a really fun job. But mostly I’m looking forward to sorting myself out, working well, getting things done, and getting the hell back here where I know I belong.

See, I’m a midwesterner by birth, but definitely not by nature. But the car-centric culture doesn’t appeal to me [fact: I moved to New York mostly so I could get rid of my car], and New York has so many more creative opportunities than anywhere else. So this is still my ultimate destination, and it’ll be on my mind constantly until I get my shit together and get back up here.

New York, you’re perfect. Please don’t change a thing. I’ll be right back.

Full Disclosure #001: In Which Amanda Lee Begins Speaking Her Mind About Fashion, Finance, and Writer’s Block

amanda_lee — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 13:39:10 +0000

[This is the first of a series in which I try to make this blog more personal. Because it's mine, damn it, and I owe it to you guys and myself not to sound like everyone else.]

[Also, I didn't think writer's block existed until now. Shows how much I know.]

I’ve been staring at the screen for close to twenty minutes trying to figure out how to begin a post on money. Personal finance, for you Ramit-minded readers. I was trying this awesome technique where you deal with your writing issues by writing them in a separate document, and I was writing more in the separate document than I was on the original post.

See, in my family, we don’t talk about money. We never have. I never knew how much our house cost. I never knew what my parents paid for utilities, let alone their salaries. One time when I was about eight, I asked my dad point-blank how much money he had. “Enough,” he answered curtly, and changed the subject.

And of course, no one ever talked to me about credit cards.

In high school, when I got a job, my mum encouraged me to save my money, but didn’t show me how—or why. I worked through most of college, sometimes two and three jobs, but it never occurred to me to keep track of where my money went, or to keep much of it around.

And then there was the credit card. In short, what started as a joint credit account with my dad became completely my responsibility…out of nowhere, and at the worst possible time. So I’m still working on paying that off. And somewhere along the way, I had an emergency…and another one…and another one…and I made the mistake of going deeper into debt instead of working with what I had.

Yes, you heard that correctly. I’m in debt.

No, it’s not that bad. It’s way, way less than it was a year ago. It’s about a tenth of what some good friends of mine owe in school loans. But it’s still something. And it’s weighing on me. Making me worry. Awhile back, I started playing with these online calculators, and when I saw how much money I was losing in interest by paying my purchases off every month, I about burst into tears. My money issues have a huge emotional component, I guess.

Since then, my finances have consumed my thoughts. How much can I pay off this week? If I work ten more hours this week, or get two more freelance gigs, how much sooner is the credit card going to be done and completely out of my life? How much do I have to earn in order to finish paying it all off by my next birthday?

It’s so bad, in fact, that I’ve had a really hard time writing about anything but finance. Have I ever shown you guys how I work on my blog? Each of the article drafts I’m working on at any given time are saved on a Sticky on my desktop. At present, I have about 175 Stickies with article notes in various stages of un-editedness. (Yes, I know this is a really inefficient way to work. I’m working on coming up with a better system.) And in the past couple of months, I’ve clicked here and there on various near-finished blog posts and found myself unable…to write…anything…about the things that I really do love: fashion, New York, productive work habits, and making yourself happy.

Seriously. It’s disturbing. And it’s a big part of the reason why you guys haven’t heard much from me lately on any of the topics I usually write about—because I’m too busy doing debt math in my head to actually write much of anything interesting.

Thoughts? Criticisms? Things left unsaid?