Do Mi Mi. Mi So So. Re Fa Fa. La Ti Ti.

The first time I bought a Maxwell album I was 16, freshly driver’s licensed, and taking every advantage of summertime self-transportation freedom. After spending the day with my devastatingly handsome, and soon-to-be-16-year-old boyfriend [cradle robber!], my voyage back to The Valley through Hollywood allowed me the joys of traffic and radio “seek” button pushing. The dial landed on the most sensual falsetto tones I had ever heard [take notes, Robin Thicke]. Years away from actually doing the deed, I imagined if it was done correctly, sex would make me feel similar to how mesmerized I was by his incredible harmonies and romantic lyrics. Needless to say, instead of driving straight home, my car found its way to the Tower Records [do they still have those?] near the Beverly Center Mall.

Now, before fancy-schmancy car radios displayed the name of the song & artist you are listening to, one had to wait for the DJ to tell you the name of the artists in the previous set, which could take ages if the set was particularly long and heaven help you if you had to sit through a commercial break. I hadn’t the patience. So, when I walked into the store, I found an employee and sang him the part of the song I could remember; he directed me towards the R&B section and asked me to re-sing it for his co-worker who happened to know Maxwell’s repertoire well because his girlfriend also developed swoon-y tendencies when his voice seeped through the airwaves.

I became a fan for life.

As a writer, sometimes you simply need to give credit where it is due and I feel the screenplay of Forrest Gump [one of the greatest films of my generation] sums up my sentiments well: You know, it's funny what a young man recollects. 'Cause I don't remember being born. I don't recall what I got for my first Christmas and I don't know when I went on my first outdoor picnic. But, I do remember the first time I heard the sweetest voice in the wide world.

While Maxwell can not hold a candle to Jenny Gump’s beauty, I completely understand where he is coming from.

To this day, whenever I hear a song from this particular album, every ounce of me is transported to the sweltering heat of that car, to the longing I had to feel about someone the way the lyrics described, to the contentment with all that traffic, prolonging the time I had to experience his music for the first time.

They say elements of life are cyclical. Music, fashion, and trends more generally are said to rise like a phoenix. Just when you never thought you’d see bellbottoms again, there they are on your teenage daughter. Remakes of films and recycling of other artists’ devotion to their craft are making current “artists” wealthy [ex. Michael Bublé, the poor man’s Frank Sinatra]. My hope is that whatever musical cycle we are in gets thrown off its axis soon because I miss music. I miss lyrics. I miss instrumentation. I miss helplessly turning into the parking lot of Tower Records because my soul refuses to go one more day without listening to that song I just heard. So to anyone reading this: If you are a lyricist, a member of an orchestra, a band member, a lover of real music or an in-the-shower-singer, do not stop creating.

With any luck, we are on the brink of a musical revolution and we all need to be warmed up when the time arrives.

~carter

THE DAILY VICTORIES PROJECT

I do not journal. 

I am fairly certain not journaling is the sole sin a self-proclaimed writer can commit. But, in the interest of complete honesty, there you have it: I am a jotter-downer, a blogger, and a list-maker mais je ne suis pas une journal-er. 

It is no surprise to all who have ears around me that I have embraced the world of weight loss and fitness. This past week, although I ate fairly healthily and exercised, I gained a pound. [I know, I know, call the waaa-mbulance. But to someone who has created a plan and weighs herself every week, on the same day, one entire pound felt like an abysmal failure]. Not only did I feel terribly, I felt terribly about feeling terribly in the first place. Mired in this foolish state, I decided to turn to writing because…well, it couldn’t hurt. I proceeded to write a list of positive occurrences from this week alone: 

1)   I am fitter than I was in high school. Getting better with age trumps peaking at 17.
2)   I have run the farthest I have ever run [in my life] without stopping to walk.
3)   I managed to go an entire day without spending any money
…etc. 

What I was able to deduce from this enumeration is that while I was blindly focused on a scale’s numbers, the life I was leading was not too shabby. 

[Cue The Epiphany] 

[Enter, The Daily Victories Project]

I know I am not the only person who allows herself to become utterly transfixed by one very specific issue of the day and lose sight of the fact that there’s actually a forest amid those trees. Amassing a list of daily positive occurrences is as close as I will ever be to becoming a successful journal-er and I do not want to do it alone. 

Consider this an invitation, blog reader, to join me in our daily affirmation that at least ONE event [no matter how small] has added a modicum of positivity to our own existence. 

Now, this does not have to be fitness related or fall under a larger theme. Anything from I took a different route to work that shaved two minutes off my commute to My son actually brushed his teeth without my saying so to Nothing of note occurred today but a higher power was gracious enough to wake me can find its way to The Daily Victories Project. 

If you are like me and enjoy having a friend [or a few hundred anonymous internet viewers] to help keep you accountable, I would love to see your #theDVP entries grace the wall of the L.O.T. Blog Fan Page [http://www.facebook.com/lotblog] or in the comment section of this post, for you anti-facebookers.

Let’s do this together.

Let’s go viral. 

...And who knows, perhaps if we are all too busy pinpointing our daily victories, we won’t have the time to violently confront unarmed teenagers, plot the destruction of storied athletic competitions or look upon each other with disdain simply because our skin tones don’t match.
Join The Movement.
#theDVP
~carter 

...And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

Clad in businesswoman attire and sneakers, my heels remain tucked away in my messenger bag, situated near the umbrella, trail mix, Nalgene, and iPad.

I am a commuter.

Once a phenomenon as foreign to me as parallel parking, [see post dated May 3^rd] I have grown to admire the public transportation facet of my east coast way of life. While some benefits are monetary, an element that most commuters take for granted is the chance to engage with [and oftentimes literally bump into] those around you. During my Los Angelena life, the world of human interaction was stunted by metal behemoths linearly trapped on the 405. Any “bumping into” that occurs here is expensive, if not fatal, and altogether an unenjoyable experience.

On the T, however, [or Train to you non-Boston residents] a morning trek into the city becomes a series of vignettes that even the most cynical of early-risers could appreciate:

Thursday morning, I ventured underground to find an elderly guitar player whose voice [note for note and tone for tone] is indistinguishable from Steve Perry’s [lead singer of Journey]. At first I was hit with a mixture of surprise and intrigue, but before my train had arrived, these emotions shifted to heart-wrenching disappointment that this man wasn’t a San Francisco native in the early 1970’s when Journey ached for its front man. Who dictates that his fate was meant for the morning commuters’ enjoyment and not for sold-out arenas? I suppose destiny can be categorized as a future post of its own.

Next up, a tweenager with impeccable posture, high-bun, pale pink tights, loose shorts and wrap-around sweater seemed unforgivably late for her Center Stage 3 audition, as her frantic, doting and less well-groomed mother tried to follow her daughter’s long, elegant strides.

This people-watching Elysium is not simply marked by the ability to catch glimpses into the lives of others, it forces complete strangers to occupy the same space; a microcosm of the exterior world. Amid this congested study in human behavior, every individual’s patience, personal spatial relations, and varying levels of courtesy are tested for the duration of the journey. Class systems and racial homogeneity differ from stop to stop; a frequent commuter may recognize what part of town rests above by taking note of those entering or exiting the train car.

One easily concluded notion is that while on the train, every commuter awaits the start of his/her day’s activities. The commute is the means by which the above ground day can begin. But if we all remain on auto-pilot awaiting our final stop, we miss the fact that life and activity are happening around us.

The ballerina’s mother may not have had time to fix her own hair or check her own appearance in the mirror, but she did not forget a single eight-count of her daughter’s choreography which they recited together repeatedly until their stop arrived. While I will never know what monumental performance awaited her or how well she fared, I pray [as a daughter who has spent years and thousands of miles away from her mother] that this young woman remembers the most poignant moment of her day occurred as her selfless recitation partner put the needs and dreams of her daughter before her own. It is not the destination that matters most, kid, it is the commute. And if you are very, very lucky, you will get to disembark the train with the same loving person who frantically pushed others aside for you to make it there on time.

~carter

I Refused To Buy All New Bras [Or, The Catalyst]

Almost two months ago, I decided to make some life adjustments with the hopeful [read: skeptical and anxiety inducing] intent to shed some poundage. And on this blessèd day, I vowed to get my Carrie Bradshaw/Bridget Jones hybrid persona on and write about my first milestone: the mourning of 20 pounds. Well, here it is folks: Me, 20 actual pounds down from the first day I began my new life.

Ta-Da!

I have been looking forward to writing this post partially because I knew I would write it as a fitter, trimmer me, and partially because it has been looming on my Blog Topics To Write list and I do enjoy a good red-pen cross out session, complete with victory dance and relevant musical selection [Today's Choice: Part of Me by Katy Perry].

I have always been a broad [albeit well-proportioned] gal and my consistently sunny personality has never quite been tied to my dress size. So when I began this [ever-evolving] journey, I spent the first few exercise and veggie-filled weeks trying to envision what I would look like. Now that I am on the other side, I do not feel the contentment I imagined would await me; instead, there is a veritable hunger [ironically] for more. I recognize I am just beginning to form the habits that will keep me healthy for the rest of my life and that is what makes me most excited and inspires me to take on the next leg of my weight loss marathon. I would like to make it clear that 20 pounds ago, I did not like myself any less and I will not love myself any more 20 pounds from today. I have, however, discovered a certain pride that comes with keeping myself accountable. As a burgeoning blogger, I find moments in each day to add to my never-ending list of potential topics. However, it is a consistent internal battle when coming to the conclusion of how much of myself I am willing to share. No one wants to read a blog about privileged moments stocked with bunnies and rainbows, yet, exposing insecurities and emotional hardships can seem just as unappealing when it is your life projected across the screen. So it was necessary for me to make a decision: No matter how vulnerable I may feel, write it. Luckily, the inevitable sense of dread occurs for about as long as it takes to hit the SUBMIT button.

...and then there I am, out in the open.

This is the post I promised myself I would write. I wanted to take the mystery away and prove that weight loss is not some magician's trick others have been able to master. I wanted to do real push-ups. I wanted to fit better in my clothes. I wanted to buy new clothes. But I would be damned if my own body would force me to render my cute bras obsolete...the road to healthy living and weight loss begins differently for each individual.

As a writer, the ability to create a precise and well-developed character [from nothing] has haunted every blank page I cross. And for this creator, there is a me in my head that has yet to grace the scene.

Stay tuned,

~carter

Like Gertrude & Ernest

…and then I found myself furiously scribbling away in Paris. I would tote my journal along from the Luxembourg Gardens to every café my shrinking euro stash would allow to Père Lachaise cemetery [but mostly] to the quiet areas of the 6^th arrondissement that will always be my own.

In the heart and mind of a fifteen year old who had never even been to sleep-away camp, this solo summer sojourn meant the world. I planned on having Paris validate all my dreams of Paris. A place so far removed from the culture of home that I could not help but create an alternate persona. Someone who sauntered a little slower, savored even the most fleeting moments, and perpetually pursed her lips between sentences. Utilizing my French speaking skills, I spent my free time pretending I was a native parisienne, aiding tourists with directions or in taking a family photo in front of many a monument [in the age before the “selfie”].

As profound as I attempted to be at the time, I suppose it could be said that being fifteen anywhere in the world has its moments of growth, realization, and coming-into-one’s-own. But since I only have my own experiences from which to draw and since my coming-into-my-own happened to coincide with a once in a lifetime excursion, I am going to conclude that I discovered the sole enduring facet of my life as a teenager in Paris: I am a writer.

Pardon me while I quote myself, but in a school paper that year, I stated the following: Oscar Wilde said that, “When good Americans die, they go to Paris”. He almost got it right. I believe that when good Americans truly live, they go to Paris to find a home, find themselves, and to find a way back. [Boy did that fifteen year old know what’s up] But here’s the thing, to an idealist teenager, it seems every truth will remain so indefinitely and every talent will come swiftly without life’s inevitable intrusions. I was able to feel at home in Paris; the feel of pen and paper did not alter simply because I was 6,000 miles away. I was able to cultivate my creativity because I had the time and I uncovered a generative place within myself to which I could consistently return. I became more confident; while I may have felt a little too dark or too chubby under the Los Angeles sun, in Paris, I was one more Ooo la la away from not making my returning flight. [Shout out to the European men who consistently walked the fine line between respectful and kind of odd advances] see post below for more on my views of male/female interactions.

As I was saying, life discovers a way to try and thwart you from your desired path. I’m sure the fact that for the next seven years I was a slave to academia and did not even want to read a menu or write a grocery list had something to do with why my personal reading and writing took a back seat to more pressing literacy priorities.

It took years to return to Paris-grade Me and I have you, the L.O.T. Blog enthusiast, to thank for my rejuvenated love of doing what makes me feel most at home. I may not be able to host all of you in my living room for bohemian events, but this is the 21^st century and the interwebs can be our salon. We are not the Lost Generation of our great-grandparents, but there remains a dire need to collectively share our thoughts. There must be a place where people won’t look at us strangely for using proper grammar and polysyllabic diction, and where putting your delusions and ingenuity into words can be valued, praised, criticized and re-worked. I thank you for this opportunity and invite you, just like Gertrude and Ernest did before me, to join the conversation.

#writeon

~carter

Excuse Me, Sirs, Who Raised You and Can They Demand a Refund?

Let me start by setting the scene: 
A man and I are walking together and a puddle is obstructing our next steps. If said individual removes any article of clothing to allow me a smoother puddle transition, I will giggle at him and his sodden outerwear. While you are appreciated, hypothetical person, your archaic gestures could use some updating. 

This is not a post bemoaning the absence of chivalry. Chivalry is alive and kicking for those who expect it and choose their mates accordingly. 

This is also not a post enumerating how the boyfriends and husbands of the world could do a better job at being more boyfriend-y or husband-y because quite frankly, ladies, these are the men you have chosen. I would assume you enjoyed something about the factory model so do not complain when they do not change. 

This is, instead, a post about the 21^st century men whose mating rituals leave something to be desired. 

Every bipedal female has experienced it. A catcall here, a car honk there and [for we dazzling urbanites] the occasional, clichéd, construction man hoot-n-holler. Sure, there is a time and a place to feel like a piece of ass, like when you are leaving the gym in your sweatiest sweat pants and someone still manages to find you attractive; that’s perfectly acceptable. Barring this very specific instance, however, women [on average] do not enjoy being treated or gazed upon like juicy burgers to voracious individuals. Flattery is not evoked. Hearts are not aflutter. And your chances of procreating with a woman steadfast in the knowledge of her self worth continues to diminish the moment disrespect masks itself as interest. There are only so many “Hey Baby”, “Let me talk to you for a minute”, “Can I holler”, “So, you got a man?”, and inebriated interactions one can take before she realizes no one has any idea what they’re doing anymore.

As someone without a husband or a son, I am making a pretty bold statement when I say: I believe mothers need to start demanding more of their male progeny. A man with a strong role model [male or female] will recognize that “having game’” is an ephemeral notion that is entirely dependent on current fads. Possessing the characteristics of a gentleman, however, will always be in style. While we are not expecting your best dinner jacket to line the intersection after a rainfall, similar sentiments such as concern, respect, and self-giving are pretty en vogue regardless of the century.  

It has been my dream to [one day] produce enough cultivated, driven, and compassionate male heirs to aid my Alma Mater’s ailing football program [GO BOSTON COLLEGE EAGLES!]. And while I am only somewhat joking, the truth is, I am excited by the possibility of producing strong-willed and strong-minded men who truly comprehend what “being cool” is: I will nurture men who will dress well, men who will look every person in the eye when they are speaking or being spoken to, men who disagree without being disagreeable, men who are proud of their flaws and work each day to contribute positively to the lives around them, and men who understand that their mother demanded to be loved respectfully and did not stop searching for their father until she found it. Strength is gender neutral. A real man has the strength of a woman who reared him and the strength of the woman standing beside him to thank for his ability to have swag [whatever that is] through the ages. And no matter how audible and deliberate the whistling or hollering, a real woman has the strength to keep walking.

~carter

Under Construction

Between the ages of 9 & 12, I managed to both break and sprain my right ankle. The break was clearly a backyard accident but the culpability of the sprain lies entirely on the head of that gargantuan sixth grade girl charging me as I tried to defend the hoop. She didn't get the basket and I didn't get to finish my season.

16 years (of ballet performances, volleyball games, personal training sessions, walking/dancing in heels, before school kickball games, treadmills, running after children, hopscotching and down right existing) later, I was told yesterday, I am missing an entire ligament that connects my ankle to the rest of me.

Sure, my ankle cracks, creaks, aches from time to time and hangs a little funny when I've got my feet up, but missing a ligament sounds kind of serious. Like when a trainer tells you she is surprised you can do everything you can kind of serious. As it turns out, my body [wonder that it is] has discovered a way to protect itself by overcompensating in some ways [tightening my Achilles tendon] to render and entire ligament unnecessary for more than a decade and [hopefully] ages to come.

Self-healed…far from perfect… but completely functional.

We, as humans, spend a lot of time assessing the figurative damages and scars events can leave in their wake. Ankles are fortunate enough to get casts and splints while broken hearts, spirits and promises never quite get the physical therapy they deserve. Aside from the trite notion that hardships build character, it turns out, without lacerations [of both the figurative and literal kind] we would never fully comprehend the joys of how freaking cool it is to depend on yourself. We are constructed to survive; we were not created to depend on external aid for our protection. No ligament? No problem. A victim of infidelity? You will discover a way to love you more than he did and survive to tell the tale of that guy you knew once.

Don’t get me wrong, trusting in your own will and welcoming the unpleasant brings along its own set of challenges...mostly in the form of what is left behind. Just as I might be able to tell you when rain is on the horizon by my gait, an individual who has been disrespected one too many times may take much more convincing that the person confessing his love is genuine. When we are ruptured, we cannot expect healing to return us to what normalcy once meant. Instead, we must have faith that rejuvenation will take us to a place we could have never predicted.

We are undeniably works in progress. 

Walking Under Construction signs preparing for the next great project to give us a reason to uncover our strengths. 

I do not advocate underestimating the strength of a sixth grader charging for a basket nor do I advocate actively seeking relationships which only mean to cause you harm. However, I do recognize the value of a certain self-respect, which only manifests, as the bottom seems to let out from beneath our lowest moments. Because when you are the only one left, you start depending on the right person. Trust yourself to heal, rejuvenate, accept, move past, and ultimately re-enter the game. 

~carter