Last year I had the good fortune to work with a great group of creative folks on a short film for the 48 Hour Film Project competition. There were 92 submissions for Boston. Only one person on our team had entered the competition before. No one in our group had collaborated previously unless you count burger eating as collaborative, in which case the director and I had a great rapport established.

Regardless of the above factors, it turned out to be my most fun and challenging experience of 2007. Also, quite relevant to the direction I see for my professional life. My official role was that of wardrobe consultant. (FYI – I am the biggest Halloweenie and play the role of ad hoc stylist for those nearest and dearest.) For those unfamiliar with the competition, the film genre isn’t known until it is drawn out of a hat at 6:30pm on Friday night. Shortly thereafter, the three elements that all teams must incorporate are announced: a character, prop and line of dialog.

The one (and only) genre option that struck fear into my heart from a wardrobing standpoint was Sci-fi. Naturally, it was the option that we drew.

I won’t lie: almost birthed a litter of kittens right there. 48 hours flashed before my eyes and each terrifying moment involved fashioning aluminum foil suits for an army of robots. I controlled the urge to skew my plot suggestions for brainstorming session to fit into the caricatures I knew I could deliver: “How bout ‘Space Odyssesy of L’il Bo Peep/Beauty Pageant Contestant/Beer Wench’?”

As it turned out there was little need for costumes and I was tapped to write the background story used in the final scene. My trusty iBook (may she rest in peace) and I locked ourselves in my car and “borrowed” someone’s WiFi connection. It ended up being my first writing credit! (Look out, IMDB – here I come.)

Several of the people from last year’s Chili Willy Posse have signed on to Chocolate Gorilla. At some point during the frantic all nighter I hope to learn the origin of the team name. Regardless of the answer, I like chocolate and gorillas are cute. It’s all cool as far as I’m concerned – especially since I’m on the writing team. (YAY!)

So right now, I’m really stoked and nervous to boot. The nerves thing ought to subside once I’m in the thick of it since the whole point is to push myself and write in a format currently outside my comfort zone. You never know till ya try, right?

….right???

Write.

Tags: Boston, Chili Willy Posse, director, wardrobe consultant

Last Christmas Santa helped me to boldly burst to the forefront of modern technology… circa 2003. I got a lovely little Plantronics bluetooth device designed to connect me to the world at large while running errands and sitting in traffic. My no-nonsense stance on driving and talking is such that I won’t even talk to friends while they’re driving unless they are using their hands-free thingy.

As a proponent of preach practicing, (with very few exceptions) I hold myself to the same standard. I also tend to lose small inanimate objects. Lipsticks… computer cables… pens… cell phone headsets. My last one was of the wired variety and went the way of the dodo two or three years ago.

After so many replacements I just decided that driving should be considered ‘me time’.

I sing along to the radio or my iPod. It’s great – no one has to hear when my attempts at figuring out the harmony fall a half step below the actual note. Granted, I would look a whole lot less crazy if I had an earpiece but that’s neither here nor there.

Being the luddite that I apparently have become, last week was the first time I used my new toy. (I thought about it at the 3 month point, but didn’t want to rush into anything.) Everything went well. The person with whom I was speaking could hear me. Score!

Here’s the tricky part – the lone on/off button would lead one to believe that there were two modes, namely on and off. There are actually four (count ‘em four) settings.

• On
• Off
• Inactive Stealth
• Social Butterfly

I’m okay with the first two. Those are standard. The last two… not so much.

Number three is problematic since chances are it’ll be tuckered out from silently partying in my purse by the time I need to use it.

Number four is problematic ’cause if your number is in my phone, chances are you will be getting a call from me. Normally this would be good news. I have been told on several occasions that I am an engaging person with whom to converse on the phone. It’s true: I am equal parts chatty and nosy inquisitive.

Off the bat, you’ll notice that I’m not talkative. I may even be downright rude.

More likely than not, you will hear me paying for a cab at 3AM or belting out a Pat Benatar ballad Jamiroquai song. For that, my dear friend, I am/will be truly sorry.

Tags: bluetooth, bluetooth device, cellular telephone, Pat Benatar

The other day I took the 83 bus to Inman Square (Cambridge).  I’m not typically a bus rider, but my colors are changing.  It’s not having to worry about parking that sold me.  Add to that the benefit of not having to schlep to and fro a remote/most likely resident permit spot and you have a no-brainer.

When I sat down I rested my umbrella near my feet and reminded myself several times not to space out and forget it.  Hey- it happens… to me… a lot.  Many moons ago (1999) I kicked myself very hard when I left my Monet umbrella on the PATH train.  In addition to my love of impressionist imagery, this particular umbrella had sentimental value.  My mentor and first boss gave it to me as a send off gift when I left for New York “so that (I) would always be covered.”  It’s nice to have such reminders in the big city.  [The real utility ended up being less about staying dry than shielding against having an eye poked out when charged by a herd of harried commuters with their own rain gear.] 

Lately I’ve chosen to stop beating myself up about misplacing that particular possession.  Thanks to emotional object permanence, I don’t need it.  Better yet, I’m glad I lost it.  Now I am reminded of the thought behind the gift every time it rains.   Furthermore, acknowledging that umbrellas are transitory objects is a more positive way to frame the issue.  They belong to the planet at large instead of the individuals who carry them.  

One is blown away by the wind and boomerangs back with live-in childcare.

Don’t have kids? 
Grieve your lost umbrella with a fruity cocktail.  You’ll likely get a small one as a lovely garnish.

Tags: bus rider, Cambridge, Inman Square, New York

More thoughts run through my head in 60 seconds of blank staring than most people process in a day. Very few of these musings resemble my actual life. Actually, there is marked disparity. (Think: apples and orangatans.)

The most recent collision of reality and my inner world happened as I accompanied my best pal (Winnie*) on a shopping sortie to Copley. Cast in the role of consumerist wing woman, I kept my eyes peeled for classic silhouettes that fell within her color palette.

Of course, altruism takes a back seat once I cross through the threshold of a BCBG Max Azria store. The back of that store has a gravitational pull under which I am powerless. Their party frocks are fab and I can immediately visualize myself coyly sipping a cocktail served in impractically shaped glassware. As I thumb through the racks of floor length gowns Winnie quips in her affably sarcastic sing-songy tone: “Never too early to plan for prom, eh?”

Touché, my dear friend; touché indeed. After 20 years of best friendship, she knows me all too well. The thought of another person knowing the floor plan of one’s mangled psyche may be terrifying to some, it is one of my greatest comforts to share this reciprocal shorthand. I just laughed and lobbed it back: “Hey- ya never know. This could be my year.”

Here’s the kicker: already, I have enough formal wear that you’d think I was an aspiring game show hostess investing vowel money in a professional wardrobe. That makes perfect sense considering:

*Tuesday 1/2 price burger night is the social highlight of my week

*My boyfriend:
—lives in Asia.
—takes pride in not owning a pair of shoes.

The storm in my brain came up with two possible solutions as impractical as they are warped.

*Host a Spinster Gala.
Breathe mints optional;
Cat required.

*Check with Vanna White to inquire about a closet swap: her wash-and-wear travel clothing for my finery.

“Yo Whitey- hit me back, ahhh-ight? I gots a favor to axe.”

N.B.: Alternate suggestions welcome as class participation is encouraged and will count for 30% of your final grade.

Tags: Asia, aspiring game show hostess, BCBG Max Azria store, head, kicker, New Brunswick, possible solutions, Vanna White, wash-and-wear travel clothing

“I met my boyfriend at the airport last month.”

That statement looks simple enough but like most things in life, the true meaning is open to interpretation. To wit:

➥ The narrator is romantically involved in a serious enough capacity that the threshold of tentative exclusivity* had been crossed. (Travel concierge services are typically reserved for phase 2** or 3*** of a relationship.)

➥ A flame was kindled in a TSA detention cell – an impressive feté of personal chemistry considering lighters are contraband in any international airport of significance.

➥ Hypothetically, one could imagine mutual literary pursuits forging a connection. While not ‘literally’ ‘official’ it wouldn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure that several indicators symptomatic of a figurative phase 2 were present.

Let’s re-cap:
Phase 1*
Beta Faze

Phase 2**
Two individuals wearing synchronous dopey/addled looks as if in a constant state of running open-armed-daisy-field marathons.

Phase 3***
Flannel pajama pants are donned in lieu of wearing make-up. (Well for women that is… men wearing makeup is usually a pre-cursor to phase 4b****.) Shlep and fetch duties have become an unspoken mandate.

Phase 4a
Happily ever after – two individuals fuse to form a collective entity. (Oh Whitnard- if only I had the time and motivation for a photoshoperama session.)

Phase 4b****
Unhappily ever after – while I am very supportive of alternative lifestyles I, personally, do not wish to date a man who would borrow, stretch and ruin any of my favorite apparel. (A provisional exemption was granted once for Halloween but I don’t see that permit being renewed.)

Tags: concierge services, Halloween, rocket surgeon

Growing up, everyone struggles with something. My teen years were no different. Concerns that ranked the highest on my barometer of importance are clearly superficial in retrospect. That’s kinda the point. Nothing was clear back then.

Marked with a special kind of awkward, I experienced the typical insecurities regarding body image that made it tough to feel comfortable in my oh-so-problematic combination skin. As if being flat-footed, flat-chested, knock-kneed and woefully uncoordinated weren’t enough, right?

Apparently not. Some people complain about bad hair days; I had bad hair years. This era spanned a decade and not unlike the dark ages from days of yore, there was much suffering. One well intentioned hairdresser in Braintree, MA (the bang capital of Boston’s South Shore suburbs) gave me what I dubbed “the mushroom cut”. This unfortunate hair condition now has a name and hopefully a U.N. resolution to ban it will follow. The trauma to which I refer is now called “the she-mullet” by beauty industry trend analysts. At the time of my affliction, there were no support groups for unsuspecting clientele stricken with the emerging social plague. I suffered alone, albeit not in silence. (I would provide a picture but I put media black-out into effect.)

Funny enough- the biggest missteps were of my own choosing. Crimpers, curling irons and hot rollers were like gateway drugs leading down the primrose path. All of the cool girls in junior high had permanents. It was “the thing” to do and yes- if all the girls at school were gonna to jump off a bridge, my knees woulda been knocking as I ran behind, breathless and squeeking: “Hey guys- wait for MEEEEEEE!!!!”

My mother gave up trying to protect me from myself on the heels of a Sun-in indiscretion which left uneven light orange streaks throughout once lovely chesnut locks. I was a pain-in-the-ass and she gave the stylist the go-ahead. What followed was the perfect storm of ugliness: the poodle perm joined with the straw-like streaks. I had spiral-curled to rock bottom before the tender age of thirteen. Served me right: I followed the herd and came out looking like a sheep.

Oh well. Learned that lesson. No biggie… even a perm grows out eventually, right? Usually, but nope – not this one. It was the most permanent of permanents. Twenty years later, my hair is still curly. There are two schools of thought regarding how this came to pass. Buckle up: both of ‘em drop some serious science.

EXPLANATION #1: Nurture
• Somewhere between the chemical and neutralizer phases, the solution leaked through my scalp to the root.
• Double-helix boo-yakasha – At that very moment the stars aligned: Mercury was in Uranus causing the ammonium thioglycolate to fuse to the follicle, thus altering the genetic material otherwise known as the hair chromosome.

EXPLANATION #2: Nature
• Dormant ringlet curls (from my short-haired-tater-tot phase) were reactivated after the hormone tsunami hit at age thirteen.
• The sheer force of angst unleashed scared my hair curly and permanently made “boy crazy” a default setting.

This debate has divided the scientific community, both sides equally entrenched in the validity of their argument. Will we ever ever have an answer to this query?

I dunno… I’m quite busy in the lab conducting cutting edge research on the whole chicken/egg thing.

I leave it for you, the reader, to decide. Good day and God’s speed.

***For the uninitiated, here’s a crash course in PRMT 101 to get you up to speed:
1. Tightly wrap hair on curling rods. When the client is unable to blink proceed to the Chemical Phase.
2. Apply ammonium thioglycolate lotion. Allow 30 minutes for the chemicals to break open the disulfide linkages between the polypeptide bonds in the keratin (the protein structure) in the hair. (The disulfide bonds give hair its elasticity and breaking this bond allows hair shape to be reset.)
3. Grab a seat and some popcorn and watch as the perm recipient’s wide-open eyes tear from the noxious chemicals permeating the air. (Good times.)
4. Apply the acid neutralizer to bring down the pH of the solution and close the disulfide bridge. Hair rebonds and is reformed to the shape of the rod. Voila!

Tags: Boston, Braintree, chemicals, curling, noxious chemicals, United Nations, well intentioned hairdresser

Date of Original Publication:
Mon 07 Aug 2006 06:35 PM EDT
Multiple Choice Section of Your Pre-Flight Examination

TSA Officer: Do you have a butter knife in your bag?

Winnie:

A) I butter not.
B) All the better to eat you with!
C) Allah Akbar?

(Upon finding and confiscating said knife)
TSA: Technically, I’m supposed to call a state trooper over to clear you for your flight…

Winnie:
A) Is he single?
B) Will this involve a full body-cavity search? In that case, there’s something I need to tell you….
C) Go ahead, tell him there’s a Sheriff in Nevada that’s got dibs.

Tags: body-cavity search, Nevada, Sheriff, TSA Officer

Earlier this month I had the pleasure of accompanying my best friend on a shopping excursion. She needed work separates, and I needed the exercise. The weather was okay, but iffy (you know the drill: partly cloudy, precipitation coming and going… then coming again, ad infinitum). When she called that morning she proposed heading to the Burlington Mall and I was amenable. It’d been a while since I’d been to T.J. Maxx so I threw in that maybe we could stop there afterwards so I could have a look around.

This is where I fly the flag showing my true colors as a style/bargain shopping geek: I just like looking around. The stuff on the racks and shelves at discount retailers says something about the business cycle. You can see what trends from the previous two or so years took off and which ones went bust. It starts with couture, trickles down to lower price point designer labels, shows up in higher end national retail chains, and is then liquidated so that consumers get the Maxx for the minimum while cheap imitations show up in teen/tween targeted stores. I could get further into the murky waters of the Rashomon sartorial equivalent. I’ll refrain for now since this story is more anecdotal than economic/social commentary.

After I hit the shoe section I wandered over to the mess that is the panty section. Several months ago, while killing time between appointments I happened upon a set of two boyshorts for girls. They would be completely unremarkable but for the mere 2″ of extra fabric at the leg make them great summer jammies. The criteria for that is left over from 4 years of living in college dorms: “If I were stranded outside on the street wearing this at 4am with municipal authorities and everyone I know, how ridiculous would I look?” I haven’t lived with fire alarm pulling infants for 10 years, but somehow that script is still a part of my operating system. It just so happens that these St. Eve jammie-like items are impossible to find elsewhere. (Trust me- I’ve looked.)

Internal monologue: I am writing about underwear shopping semi-publicly beecuuzzz I…
A) have a latent genetic cognitive defect
B) am temporary insane
C) ate one too many twinkies
D) am setting the background for yet another story about how I’m a weirdo magnet
E) all of the above

The answer is E) all of the above, natch. As I scanned the rack for wholesome-cottony-faux-boxer-briefs, I saw a dude at the other end of the aisle glancing from me to the handful of trashy bargain panties, and back again. [Checklist: fly? buttoned. shoe check? toilet paper free. "I'm not looking at you. Please stop looking at me. Are you staring at my maroon smock and nametag? Oh- that's right, I'm not wearing either... 'cause I don't work here. Please go away..."]

Gruff, strange dude: “Wot sy-ze r theese?” He totally interupted my imagining a happy place where there was no big dude with an outstretched hand full o’ cheap thongs.

L’il ole me: “Uh… the tag says medium.” How did I know? What tipped me off? That would be the CAPITAL M.

Pause. Look straight ahead.

This clearly was not over. Strange dude: “How would these fit u?”

Uhhhh… Uhhhh… Uhhh… “Uhhh… too big.”
[Keep looking forward. Slowly move further away.]

So, you might wonder why I answered. (OMG- me too!) My best guess:
1. Delayed reaction. My brain took a vacation and didn’t even get me a lousy T-shirt.
2. Well known fact: do not look crazy in the eye.
3. Never make crazy angry… or pensive… or sad… or annoyed/otherwise irritable.

Just when I thought that it couldn’t get more awkard he held his arm out, started mumbling to himself and holding the panties at arms length while squinting towards me… then the panties… back to me… then the panties. Near as I can tell he was saying something about me being the same as his girl. I choose to believe that he’s talking about the panty size of his girl (“girlnospaceorhyphenfriend” as opposed to “daddy’s little”).

After an eternal minute of being pictured 1/2 naked in a unusual, slightly clinical manner, the strange dude walked away in just as jarring a fashion as he first appeared. Perfect timing: fun as it was, just looking at that black lacy floss was starting to make me chafe.

Figures… I finally meet the man of my nightmares dreams and he’s taken.

Tags: Burlington Mall, designer, looking forward, operating system, retail chains

After I published my previous entry, I wasted no time descending deeper (and deeper) into my trusty bag of worst case scenarios. This person had travelled the globe, remained in one piece and it only took me a few days to loose her. It was, far and away, the most catastrophic thing to happen on my watch. D. was clearly unconscious/bleeding/lost in a ditch/alley/quarry because I had failed miserably at being a hostess with the mostest.

Standard operating procedure was followed and I called the Cambridge, Somerville and MBTA police with a description of my friend. Better safe than sorry, though I wish filing a “delayed persons” report was an option. The label of going through “missing persons” procedure gave me the push I needed to dive face first into my crazy. Maybe that’s an exagerration. I did feel a little bit better after having performed due diligence and eventually passed out around 3:30/4 AM.

Do you get the sense that I’m avoiding getting to the point? If not… check your pulse and have your cognitive ability tested. I actually started drafting this post the morning after my full scale freak out. It wasn’t that I wanted to build tension and drama for my band of loyal followers brother and best friend. You’ll find no shades of Grey’s Anatomy here. No salary negotiations to follow trying to gleam if I’ll sign on for another season. As protagonista and proprietor of this here monoblog I am locked into a lifelong contract with… well, me.

Originally uploaded by Jess Cartwright.

I guess I’m feeling a bit, shall we say, sheepish. What I am about to share is humbling to say the least. I suspect that events of last week unfolded as they did in order to bring about karmic balance for the high level of amusement I get from watching season after season of “The Bachelor”. It goes without saying that there’s a chance I may not be the brightest bulb. I am, however, determined to look on the bright side; focusing on the wisdom I’ve garnered in hindsight. (I have also racked up another cute story for use as conversational fodder at a high brow cocktail party 1/2 price burger night.) Lessons learned are as follows:

1- D. is not 6′ tall. She is 5′ 10″. For the record, I believe this still qualifies her as an Amazon for those of us 5′ 6″ and under.

2- Sometimes stealthy people cover themselves with a down comforter in such a way as to be completely undetectable to the naked eye. (Again- for the record, the bed was unmade but it didn’t have the usual signs of occupation: hair/appendages jutting out in plain sight and that overall lumpy appearance.)

3- D. is a really sound sleeper who is unaffected by a crazy girl poking her head in and out of the guest bedroom where she had passed out cold at 6 PM after an afternoon of exploring my neighborhood by foot.

4- Had I been a tad calmer I might have noticed that the only two pairs of shoes D. brought with her were in front of the shoe rack on the landing next to the front door.

In other words, I have a perfectly good brain. I just need to actually use it to reap the rewards of the ironically atypical phenomenon known as ‘common sense’.

Tags: 3- D, Cambridge, head, hostess, Jess Cartwright, proprietor, Somerville, Somerville and MBTA police

In the course of my life, I have lost several things: love, earrings, cell phones, trivia contests, lip gloss, foolish bets and, oh yeah- my innocense. Please note that until this evening, that list did not include a human being.

So, I’ve lost a friend. Don’t get me wrong – I have had friendships run their course and end. Those “lost” friends continued on their way and save 2 or 3 of them, I wish them the best. This isn’t one of those cases. Perhaps “misplaced” is a better term for the current predicament. D. flew in Thursday from Shanghai for our 10 year college reunion. Hadn’t seen her since way back when. We caught up, traded new stories, looked at pictures and recounted adventures from the mid-nineties. It was a long overdue slumber party.

Everyone met for lunch yesterday afternoon in Framingham before departing for campus where dorm rooms were reserved in our names. My accomodations were made, how you say, last minute – quite literally. I didn’t book in time to do it online and called Alumni Affairs at…. 4:55 PM on Friday. (blush) My room was in the same quad, but a different building.

There was the cocktail reception, class pictures, the always popular “Dance Under the Stars”. (It should technically be called “dance under the tent” now, but I guess that doesn’t flow.) It was weird being back. My last visit was for my oft overlooked 6 year reunion that about 20 of us living in Boston drove in to attend. ‘Crazy’ comes close to describing the events of the weekend. This time was different. The weather probably deterred a couple dozen folks within driving range from jumping off the fence. Either that or they’re too busy mating and having babies.

Last night’s main event started off a little shaky. 3 of the 4 public/social scenarios that tweak me out were present:

1. Waiting in lines – I don’t think I’m above them, but nevertheless – I get antsy. No double fisting drinks allowed and the beer truck lady was yelling at everyone to keep things moving. (FYI, being yelled at gets an honorable mention on my pet peeves list.)
2. Being stepped on. Everybody hates that except folks who have slightly alternative preferences.
3. Being spilled on. Insult meets injury when someone knocks into me, steps on my foot and causes me to spill a portion of MY beer ration down my blouse.

Luckily, there were plenty of restrooms so the set up wasn’t a complete wash. There’s a good chance the above conditions wouldn’t have registered if I hadn’t been so acutely aware that 95% of the people there were born in the (late) 1980s. You always know things are constantly changing but it’s strange to be in a setting that has changed little when life has moved much faster.

It only took two beers to chill me out and finding a few more familiar faces gave fun momentum. Midnight brunch ended it all. Finsy and I giggled/chatted before falling asleep at the reasonable time of 2:30/3:00 AM. Back in the day we’d have still been out, flirting with boys and getting the scoop on after party options as the bar staff pushed everyone out to the street. Even so, it was jarring to be woken at 10 AM for check out. Unfortunately, that is always the time we alums get the boot from our deluxe accomodations.

After I checked out, I went to the diner on Main to say my goodbyes. I made sure D. had a ride back to Boston and the keys to my place. Even having turned in “early” I was in need of several more winks, so I headed home to nap.

Now here’s where things get dicey: as I was about to nod off I got a call from the women’s retail store I work at 10-15 hours a week. (I’d say the name, but I’m pretty sure a smartly dressed flacker in corporate HQ would have no choice but to fill out a purchase order for a contract on my life. Plus- the discount is FAB and I can’t jeopardize that) People were sick and they needed someone to cover last minute. I went in for 3 hours to help out.

My friend does not have a cell phone, and I know I should’ve left a note. Between rushing to get out the door and the residual exhaustion, it slipped my mind. According to my roommate, D. was in the house as of 5 PM and said she was going to go walk around the neighborhood. Around 10:30 PM, I began to worry and called our mutual friend. No word there. In college it wasn’t unusual from D. to disappear for days or weeks at a time. She’d always surface with an interesting story of what she had been up to. Part of her charm is that she’s a wild card. Benevolent, free spirited drifting is her specialty elevated to an art form – covering many continents and all whilest remaining in one piece.

Even though I know this, I worry. At 11 PM, I drove around Davis and Porter Squares. My thinking was that a striking 6′ asian woman with hair all the way down her back would be easy to spot if she were outside a bar having a smoke. No luck. So, I dropped my car in the driveway and stuck my head into all the establishments still open within a 4 block radius. No luck. I even asked some random people on the front porch of the house next store if someone fitting her description had crashed the party. Not out of the question; she makes friends wherever she goes. (BTW- They hadn’t.) What if she doesn’t have my phone number… or address… and took the T somewhere but didn’t know how ungodly early it shuts down???

Every noise in the stairwell sets of my spidey sense. Can you issue an amber alert for someone over the age of 30? I’m seriously considering checking in with the police and it hasn’t even been 12 hours since her last citing. If she doesn’t show by sunrise, her pretty little picture is going to be on a milk carton. Yeah- when I have kids I’m gonna be a bundle of tangled nerves. So, if you see my girl – please tell her to come home… Momma’s worried. :-S

Tags: Boston, cell phones, cellular telephone, Porter, retail store, Shanghai