Word of the Week: Ominous : being or exhibiting an omen : portentous; especially : foreboding or foreshadowing evil : inauspicious
July 14th, 2011
Oftentimes, I’ll discuss a book I once read with a fellow reader. We’ll rack our brains for details, exhaust our resources trying to remember characters’ names and eventually either give up or give in to Googling whatever fact it is we seemed to gloss over while page turning. Sadly, most readers are quite superficial. And unfortunately, some stories are as well.
But in 1998, when Trevor Albertson came to school on reading presentation day with a diorama of a Lego character on a broomstick reaching out for a tiny ball of red-painted-foil, a story entered my life; a story so saturated with details, it would appear nearly impossible for a 10-year-old not to gloss over them. It seemed that one would need a higher power to get 10-year-olds into reading. Magic, perhaps, would be the only thing to do the trick.
I left fourth grade, a week or so after Trevor’s diorama made its debut, telling my entire class I was writing the sequel to Harry Potter. My mom and I still can’t find the manuscript as it’s probably long lost on a floppy drive.
And just as I fell in love with Harry Potter as a ten-year-old with frizzy curls a la Hermione (admittedly pronounced Her-MEE-own by me and my fellow fourth-grade friends), I’m still—if not more—in love with the little wizard I grew up with.
As the final movie of the Harry Potter series hits theaters this Friday (or for true devotees, like myself, at midnight Thursday), the Harry Potter generation can’t help but feel nostalgic. A colleague of mine recently said she felt as if her childhood was coming to an end. And while I do understand the longing for the days when I would read Harry’s story while sipping on cream soda I passed off as butterbeer, I like to think of it as just closing the door to my childhood, a winged key slipped in my pocket for an inevitable look back in.
At the London premiere of the final film, Jo Rowling, the true wizard who penned the spellbound series, told fans, “Whether you return by page or by screen, Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home.”
The series instills in all of us a childlike fancy incapable of being crushed and even more so, incapable of being forgotten. A few weeks ago, when I visited The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal, I stood in line waiting for Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey. When holograms of Harry, Ron and Herimone’s characters vanished in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom after slipping on Harry’s invisibility cloak, the child in front of me began tugging on his mother’s shirt so worried as to where the trio had gone. As his mother ignored him, I bent down and whispered, “They put on the invisibility cloak,” and his face lit up with understanding. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not You-Know-Who.”
He smiled with relief. And for a second I felt as if I almost believed it myself. Perhaps I even did.
Because that’s what Rowling’s characters do for us. The world she created and the characters we’ve grown up with and have learned to love or detest—ahem, Draco—have made her characters and her story far from just imaginary.
The childhood fancy might technically be closing a door with this last film, but little does it mean it’s closed forever. Whether it’s in ten years or twenty, for our own children or just for a friend who was never lucky enough to discover Harry way back when, we’ll certainly find ourselves reunited with our long lost friends, with the pages of the spellbound books turning just as fast as the first time.
May 31st, 2011
When I was in high school my parents took my sister and I to see Jerry Seinfeld perform live. One of his jokes was about how people act when their phones are dying. I can’t remember his exact phrasing, but he said something along the lines of, “You know when people’s cell phone batteries are dying? It’s like, as the little bars get smaller and smaller, they start gasping for air. They’re just not going to make it!”
Clearly, his rendition was far more exaggerated and hysterical. But go with me.
This is exactly how I felt when, a few Sundays ago—in a hangover haze of misjudgment—I dropped my phone as I was getting off the 1 train. Of course, my phone didn’t fall in the train nor did it make it to the platform. Instead, it found its way to slip through the crack between the two and land down in the tracks.
As soon as the doors to the train shut and it buzzed by, I stood there, en route to brunch sans communication device. As a woman who works in communication, this was clearly a problem. And as a geographically challenged baby New Yorker stranded in the west village, it was an even bigger problem.
I could clearly see my phone in the tracks, still lit up, still working. But my hangover haze didn’t cloud my brain enough to lure me down to the tracks. In fact, I even thought, “Well, it won’t be so bad to finally upgrade to the iPhone 4…”
I made my way to brunch—only after asking a dog walker how to get to my destination—where a frothy gin fizz and a giant plate of eggs Benedict calmed my nerves.
I’ll admit I did feel quite detached and lost from the world, filled with worry that I’d miss an email from my editor or, even worse, miss a text from the cute Clark Kent look-alike who I gave my number to the night before. If I never got the text, how would he ever know I was his Lois Lane?!
But in my relaxed post-brunch state, I lethargically dragged myself to the nearest ATT store (which I looked up on my friend’s iPhone), where the manager proceeded to tell me it would be $399 to get a new phone.
Luckily, the store had a landline—I know, I forgot they existed, too—for me to use to call my mom.
This is when the Long Island JAPiness in her came out, which led me to hand the phone to the manager for him She made what sounded to me like Charlie Brown womp-womp sounds into the manager’s ear. And when I finally spoke to her, she said the manager was wrong, that it should have only been $99 to upgrade me and not to take the phone unless it was for that price.
As my hangover headache was creeping back in between my eyes, I sighed and hung up with her. Normally, I would have used my mother’s JAP skills mixed with my father’s power-attorney arguing techniques to get my way. But it just wasn’t the day.
Clearly, the manager wasn’t up for arguing either. So, he said, “Can I just come see if I can get to the phone?”
At this point, the headache was pounding in my forehead and temples and any shot at getting my phone back (you know, so I could make sure my editor didn’t email me…) sounded good to me.
Mr. Manager left the store in the hands of his colleague and walked the few blocks to Christopher Street Station, where we found my phone still sitting safe and sound in the tracks. After a train came and went, he jumped in the tracks and rescued the phone! It was in perfect condition! Well, aside from the fact that there were no texts from Clark Kent.
Editor’s Note: The New York Metropolitan Transit Authority notes it is illegal to jump on the tracks for any reason but this time, I say it was worth it. Clearly, so would this guy.
Editor’s Note: The ATT manager who jumped in the tracks to get my phone didn’t have an iPhone because he used Sprint.
May 13th, 2011
Long ago boyfriends typically leave you with, well, nothing but memories (and/or heartbreak). One thing I’ve always taken for granted is not what memories I have with these ex boyfriends, but instead, what lessons I’ve learned from them.
One ex kept an endless list in his mind of ‘rules’ one should follow. Few rules were followed, as you could have guessed. But one that stuck was the double texting rule. Huh?
That was my initial reaction, too.
A double text is when one person texts the other two times in a row sans response in between each text. The rule is against it ie. Don’t text someone twice if they haven’t responded to your first text yet. It’s the equivalent of calling a guy over and over until he picks up. Yes, a biiiigg no no.
So, for some reason, I thought everyone knew not to double text. Shocked was I when (since my recentlyish single self started dating in Manhattan a number of months ago) boys I started seeing were not only double texting, but triple and quadruple texting! And these were texts that didn’t even warrant a response. Note to everyone in the world: The text “Mondays are the worst.” Does not warrant a response.
After divulging my double-texting frustrating to a wise friend—also a journalist—she advised me that communication is not so easy for people who don’t well, work in communication.
So, I’ve been bewildered by the double text (the double email…that’s a whole different blog post, but it exists). Some friends have claimed that BBM—which, as an iPhone user, I still don’t really understand—is to blame for the double text. Blackberry addicts think of texting as the same as BBMing and, therefore, text like they’d IM or Gchat, if you will.
But where should we draw the line? Is it okay to double IM but not to double text? Or is it okay to double text and just not okay to double call? Is it actually okay to double email and I’m just overly critical of people’s communication skills?
But more importantly, do we want to draw the line? There I was, actually complaining about getting too many texts from one guy. My dad would tell me I was crazy. Maybe I am crazy to complain. But it is annoying. Friends gave varying reactions. Most said it was too much, some said I was being too harsh.
What I’ve come to terms with is that I think I’d rather have a guy I’m interested in not text me at all than double text. Let me be clear, I won’t deny that the less one texts, the more one hopes to hear from them, but I will say that double texting is just straight up annoying. And not just because it’s too much texting—don’t get me wrong, it is super annoying and is too much texting—but it also gives us even more texts to over analyze. Don’t pretend you don’t know we don’t over analyze the hell out of everything.
I think the real problem here is not the double texting but the fact that any text at all is now a substitute for a phone call. The whole double-texting problem would easily be solved if we could all communicate via the old fashioned way of–GASP!–calling each other. Double texting only occurs when (well, aside from when the guy is just unnecessarily annoying) someone wants to get across too many thoughts at once. But in our modern age of asking each other out over Facebook messages and Gchats, I think we’re stuck dealing with texting and, unfortunately, with double texting.
So, is it okay for a new guy you’re seeing to double text you? Is it too much to ask for him to either call once or text once? And, if we are stuck in this cyber world of communication, are two texts better than none?
April 30th, 2011
My sophomore year of college, when I moved into my first real apartment, I spent the week before classes decorating my new room. As I hung up my new memo board, covered in Gator football tickets, silly memorabilia and photos of my friends and I sipping out of solo cups with wide grins spread over our bronzed faces, I realized it was missing a little something. Naturally, I pulled out the scissors and began cutting away at my favorite magazines for a little sprinkle of fashion to oomph it up.
 A clipping from Vogue's 2007 September issue. As the years went by, I moved my memo board from apartment to storage to apartment and finally up to New York City with me after graduation. The contents of my memo board changed: the pictures went from chubby freshman girls to grown-up girls sipping out of martini glasses (legally, I must add) and the Gator football tickets changed to postcards sent from friends studying abroad. One thing, however, stayed on the memo board and remains there today (I believe it was from Vogue’s September 2007 issue—its monstrous size warranted my snipping from its pages): just a small slice of glossy paper reading “Editor’s Note” chopped from the top page of Anna Wintour’s words of wisdom for just a little reminder of what I hoped to become one day.
At 19, it seemed a little foolish to think that one day I’d actually reach my goal of filling glossy paper with my own words; but, hey, a girl can dream.
It truly seems like just yesterday I sat on my extra long twin size bed in Jennings Hall reading the introduction to Rick Bragg’s Somebody Told Me, the required reading for my intro to journalism class. His quote, “The only thing that made it worthwhile was the words,” jumped off the pages, churning my desire to get out in the field, reporter’s notebook in hand, questions eagerly swimming in my mind ready to jump out and challenge a source to divulge the truth. Well, I learned, there was a lot of work to be done before I’d get there.
There would be the nights I spent on the floor of my room, wasting ink and paper and hours by printing out my Reporting articles ten or so times, highlighting every possible word or phrase or punctuation mark that needed to be checked in the AP Style Book. There would be the time I’d never leave the editors at The Alligator alone until they published my stories, proving I was talented even if I did have blonde hair and was in a sorority. There would be the endless hours I spent at Weimer Hall designing and redesigning a magazine prototype for class with my group. There would be the time my roommates almost killed me when I left popcorn in the microwave for too long, causing a (small, I might add) fire in our house after a source called and I simply had to get the interview.
The memories I have from the University of Florida are infinite. But between the football games, the party scene and the friendships, most alumnae’s memories of their academic experience seem to get lost in the shuffle. I was lucky enough not to forget. And I was even luckier to have professors who helped me make that “Editor’s Note” dream of mine a reality.
 Fellow J-School graduates with magazine professor Ted Spiker. One year ago today, I walked the stage at the Stephen C. O’Connell Center. A little more than a year ago, I sat on my bed with a giant pile of fresh laundry, fat tears falling down my cheeks, mascara running, eyes puffy and red, snot dripping all over the place so I blew my nose in freshly laundered tee shirts because I was too upset to get out of bed.
The cause? I didn’t have a job yet. I was so upset, I blew my nose into freshly laundered Gator tee shirts. Little did I know, weeks later, I’d look back on this moment rolling my eyes.
Thanks to the journalism program at UF, I not only proved to the editors at the college’s newspaper that I could write and edit, I became one of them. Thanks to the journalism program at UF, I finally was that girl, out in the field, reporter’s notebook in hand, firing questions at sources. Thanks to the journalism program at UF, I landed my absolute dream job, where my words actually fill the glossy pages. Thanks to the journalism program at UF, my 19-year-old dream became a reality.
April 18th, 2011
 The finished product (sans nuts because of my allergies). Years ago, my mom and I were cleaning out our freezer after a hurricane left us powerless. As we rid the freezer of rancid meats and goods, I came across a plastic container that left me wide-eyed and smiling, even in the midst of the hurricane aftermath. This tiny container of chocolate matzoh (that was probably years old) brought me such excitement I couldn’t contain myself! It’s crunchy, sweet yumminess just made me smile.
Every Passover, my mom bakes up her infamous chocolate-covered matzoh (it’s for real a big deal in our tiny town during the holiday), and since I’ve been on my own, I’ve been following in her footsteps. In fact, I kept her delicious tradition alive throughout college, leaving my girlfriends and sorority sisters to hate me for stocking their freezers with this delectable treat that made their jeans a little too snug the week after the holiday.
Skeptics, beware: this isn’t just any store-bought chocolate matzoh. And it’s probably not so Kosher considering no Rabbi has blessed it. But that does not mean it isn’t heavenly. This is sticky, toffee, semi-sweet chocolate, crunchy, frozen pure deliciousness. Chocolate cake, cookies, cupcakes? Who needs it when you’ve got chocolate matzoh! Forger the flour, seriously.
The reason for its deliciousness, well, aside from the fact that it is just So. Damn. Good. is that you only ever have it once a year. It’s kind of like eating turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. A Thanksgiving feast can be devoured year round but hits its yummy peak in November. Same with chocolate matzoh. As friends near and far begged me for the recipe, I decided to put it up for the world to see.
WARNING: This treat is absolutely addicting. It should ONLY be made once a year on Passover and is most enjoyable during Passover.
Ingredients:
- 3-4 boards matzoh
- 3/4 cup margarine or butter
- 1/2 cup brown sugar
- 1-1/2 cups semisweet or dark chocolate chips
- 1 cup chopped walnuts, hazelnuts, pecans or pistachios (optional)
Directions:
-Line a cookie sheet with tinfoil and spray with cooking spray
-Line the cookie sheet with the matzoh and break pieces to fit so it’s entirely covered
-Preheat oven to 350 degrees
-Boil butter and brown sugar on the stove until frothy and bubbling and pour over matzoh (I sometimes use more butter or sugar than my mom says to use above just because I think it tastes better with more toffee)
-Bake matzoh for 8 minutes
-Pour chocolate chips over the matzoh and spread with a spatula over entire sheet of matzoh as it melts
-If using nuts, sprinkle on top of the mixture (salted or toasted nuts taste best, my favorite is pistachio, plus, it looks the prettiest)
-Freeze for at least two hours and break into pieces (size of your choice)
-Store in an airtight container in freezer
January 17th, 2011
In honor of last night’s kick-off event for awards season, I dedicate this post not to those who went home with a Golden Globe last night but to those who didn’t. Although I agreed with almost every winner, I must say that each category was packed with talent. But what is most impressive about the award show is that many actors and actresses who didn’t win big still seemed genuinely happy for their peers who did.
When I was in tenth grade, I played Flossie in my high school’s production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying (I can’t wait for it to hit Broadway in February!).
 Me, left, as Flossie and my friend, Jaclyn, pointing to our fake movie-star moles we applied in the dressing room. Flossie, if you’re unfamiliar, is the show’s comedic relief, a New York-accented bimbo who complains about her boss “Mr. Gadolphin” (pronounced, Ga-dawhl-fin, in true New York style). After each rant, her sidekick, dressed in the same polka-dotted outfit in a different color, inquires every time with, “So, what did he say?” which garners the same response each time from Flossie: “So, I said…” and yada yada yada, Flossie complains, yet again, about Mr. Gadolphin.
Anyway, every year, the best high school actors and actresses were nominated for Blazing Star Awards (an amateur TONY Awards if you will). Having grown up listening to my mother’s thick New York accent, my rendition of Flossie earned me a nomination for best comedic actress for 2004. So, after playing (and winning!) a flag football game for my high school’s varsity team, I quickly threw on a pink tube top dress and raced to the awards show. I sat with my fellow cast mates enjoying the ambiance of the night having forgotten all about the fact I was nominated until the lights dimmed and it all began. As soon as the drum rolls started and the speeches were given, I grew nervous and realized that every nominee around me was just as anxious and awkward. What was worse was everyone in the room bearing funny and fake smiles and shooting out nerve-filled giggles while people clapped their clammy hands just waiting to hear if their name would be announced the winner. Needless to say, I didn’t land myself a Blazing Star Award, and thankfully no one caught me on camera to show the world my bummed-but-pretending-to-be-happy-for-the-winner-because-really-do-I-want-to-give-an-acceptance-speech-after-just-playing-a-football-game face.
In all honesty, I don’t blame those who make awkward faces and are caught on camera at award shows because it’s simply human nature. However, they are professional actors! You’d think they’d at least be able to feign genuine happiness for those who win. Below, I reveal the class and crap acts of the night.
Class Act:
Amy Adams
When the fairy-princess-turned-college-dropout-bartender lost best supporting actress to The Fighter co-star Melissa Leo, she was legitimately happy for the winner. When Leo said Adams should have been up there with her, Adams smiled, shook her head no and pointed at Leo as if to say, “No, you deserve it!”
Crap Act:
Helena Bonham Carter
This is hard for me to say as I’ve been a huge fan of hers in everything, especially The King’s Speech, which I felt was a departure from her typical roles (ahem, Bellatrix Lestrange), but when Annette Bening won for best actress in a motion picture, comedy or musical, Bonham Carter made a very awful face on camera. She scrunched up her nose and wrinkled her eyebrows out of what seemed like rude confusion as to what Bening was talking about and if she even deserved to be up there.
Class Act:
Michael Douglas
Not only did he show up to the awards cancer-free, Douglas also presented the final award earning himself the longest and loudest standing ovation of the night, which was well-deserved. And just when the Wallstreet superstar could have choked up in an emotional moment, he joked, “There’s gotta be an easier way to get a standing ovation.”
Crap Act:
Lea Michele
I’ve also been a fan of this Broadway baby since I saw Spring Awakening, but she seemed to be pulling a John Boehner last night with oh-so-many tears. It was as if she turned on the waterworks every time the camera was on her or as if she was a little too aware that the camera was on her. Cited by the press for her snobby attitude, Michele didn’t surprise anyone as she put on an act all night.
Class Act:
Ryan Gosling
Gosling’s portrayal of a high school dropout husband in a failed marriage in Blue Valentine has flown far under the radar. Still, though I’m sure he knows he was worthy of the award for best actor, the heartthrob we all grew to love in The Notebook kept it cool alongside co-star Michelle Williams and clapped honestly for the ever deserving Colin Firth.
Crap Act:
Angelina Jolie
I’ve always been on Team Jen so this might come across a bit biased. Regardless, Jolie initially gave a crap act when it was reported that she laughed after hearing of her nomination for The Tourist. Again, people, let’s at least try to act genuinely happy. Secondly, nearly the entire night she was seen cuddling up in Brad Pitt’s nook like she was thinking, “This is boring and I know I won’t win for my mediocre performance, can we please go home and possibly order another child from a third-world country?”
Class Act:
Andrew Garfield
When the adorable new Spidey presented The Social Network as one of the contenders for best picture, he struggled (with his delightful accent) to get out the word “inspiringly.” But instead of cursing himself on stage, he flashed a cute smile, repeated the word to reiterate that yes, he was capable of saying it! and moved on to finish the presentation. Though he didn’t personally win anything, he also showed authentic joy for the four awards the movie did earn.
Crap Act:
Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth
These two presenters, stars of Captain America and Thor, respectively, proved that they were extremely big and boring. I’ll applaud at least the attempt of those who failed but at least tried to make their presentations interesting. These guys just stood tall, quite big and even more boring, especially when reciting their very-obvious-that-it-was-written-for-them line: “These women are the superheroes of acting.”
January 13th, 2011
I have always been a foodie, but it wasn’t until a little over a year ago that I became a cookie, too. After interning in the features department at Country Living magazine and  extensively researching how to prep and cook pumpkins for the October issue, I began my quest for cooking connoisseurship. I mastered recipe after recipe during my senior year in college, a feat my roommates thoroughly enjoyed. And now that I’m living on my own in Manhattan and can barely afford a cupcake, I have to cook nearly every night. The ‘having’ to cook has taken a bit of the spark out of my affection for the kitchen.
But due to a yucky flu that hit me late in December (yes, the week EVERY TV show was already playing repeats) I spent a few days watching nothing but The Cooking Channel, little sister of The Food Network. And let me tell you, Bobby Flay’s new brunch show—think lemon ricotta fritters—never gets old. An unfamiliar trend that kept popping up, though, was Indian food. So when watching Bal Arneson’s “Spice Goddess” show that focuses on Indian cooking, I realized a few new spices would hopefully get me my spark back.
What I’ve noticed about Indian cooking is that it really isn’t hard if you have all the ingredients. It’s getting out of the salt-pepper-garlic-oregano-basil mindset we’re used to. So, come the first week back to NYC after a lovely break in sunny Florida, I stopped in at Kalustyan’s, a specialty food store in the Gramercy/Murray Hill area. Headed home with a handful of new spices, fresh ginger and a bottle of coconut oil, I was ready to tackle one of Arneson’s recipes.
Within minutes of sautéing ginger in the coconut oil (not so easy to get out of the bottle, by the way), my studio became unbelievably fragrant. But it was when I tossed in a teaspoon each of fennel seeds, cardamom seeds, brown mustards seeds and ground coriander than the smell—and the spark!—really kicked in. I have to say it was quite awkward to omit the salt and pepper but the smell and tastes were mouth watering.
According to Serious Eats, the five spices you need to get going on the Indian food are:
Cumin seeds, Coriander seeds, Black mustard seeds, Cayenne pepper, Turmeric
Splurge on some of these spices and you’ll be able to whip up a delicious Indian meal faster than you can say raita. Next on my Indian-food-to-tackle list? Chicken Tikka Masala.
Note: Listening to this may or may not increase the delicious factor of your dishes…
January 11th, 2011
I remember visiting cousins in Long Island one summer and slipping into the bathroom to wash my hands before dinner. What I thought would be a simple task of pumping soap  and washing came to a halt as I rummaged through piles and piles of curly hair products in search of the soap. My family’s curly hair (that stem from my father’s grandmother) is one of our signature traits. There’s even a photo of my father and uncle circa 1970ish, both bearing huge fros looking quite Andy Samberg-esque.
All through elementary and middle school, I wore my hair in a pony tail. It wasn’t for fear of curl but more for misunderstanding the curl itself.
When I was home for the week between Christmas and New Year’s, I stumbled across an old friend from middle school on Facebook who had the craziest brown curly hair. I always envied her curls because, well, I couldn’t quite figure mine out. I stopped in confusion as I clicked on her profile. Her hair was straight! I sent her a message inquiring. I mean, we curly girls must stick together. Her response: my hair just wouldn’t curl normally anymore.
We curly girls spend so much time trying to achieve the opposite of what we’re given that all the ironing, the blow drying, the serums and so on and so on and so on end up ruining the natural beauty of our curl. Lucky for me, I patiently pony-tailed until I mastered the art of my curls. What started with endless supplies of Rave gel moved slowly but surely to the Aussie line of hair products eventually ended up with a happy marriage of DevaCurl, Redken and a touch of conditioner. Below, find my seven steps to the art of the curl.
Note: It really depends what kind of curl you have. You can have kinky, wavy, tight, loose and the list goes on. Mine are a loose curl, kind of like Carrie Bradshaw or Alyson Michalka from “Hell Cats”. My curly tips might not work for everyone but they could get you going in the right direction. If you’ve been graced with loose curls, like moi, follow below. If not, the tips could still help you find your inner curl you never knew was there!
1. Shampoo and condition your hair with any non-smoothing product but do not brush or comb it. When you comb through your curls, they become and stringy and gross, or, um, mine do.
2. Squeeze out excess water and wrap hair in a towel for fiveish minutes.
3. If your beauty routine requires any moisturizers, serums etc. (which it should!) be sure to wash the remnants of those products off your hands before putting any product in your hair.
4. Take your hair out of the towel and, depending on hair length (I use two/three pumps), pump DevaCurl AnGEL accordingly into hands. Rub hands together and scrunch hair with your head upside down. Then, scrunch hair with a towel** with your head still upside down.
5. Blow hair dry for five to ten minutes with or without a diffuser based on your preference.
6. Spritz hair with Redken Fresh Curls Spray Gel. The more your spray, the crunchier the curl so be cautious of getting spritz happy.
7. Once hair is completely dry, put a dime size (more or less depending on hair length) of your everyday conditioner on palm. Use your fingertips to tame excess frizz. Don’t waste your money on expensive curl crèmes! I’ve found that regular conditioner really does the trick when taming frizz.
Have a curly Q for me? Email me questions about curls at ashbrooke.ross@gmail.com
**In order to reduce frizz, you can use a microfiber towel or old tee shirt. The loops in regular towels tend to grab on to strands and frizz them up a little more. So, if you’re prone to frizz, it might be worth digging up an old shirt or investing in a microfiber alternative.
January 7th, 2011
 My senior year of high school I had to give an impromptu speech in speech class on a topic I picked out of a hat. The theme for the day was to use transitions. My topic fell under the broad umbrella of: What is your favorite thing to do? Creative, I know. Known as the girl always in heels or wearing some crazy outfit from H&M (which, in 2006, was an unheard of label to Floridians who didn’t frequent NYC), I began my speech with: Most people would think my favorite thing to do is shop. However, (transition!) my favorite thing to do is read. After class, my teacher pulled me aside and said, “I know your friends now don’t understand your passion for literature but just wait until you go to college, you’ll have friends who do.”
Well, fast forward through college and Madame Speech Teacher was right. My girlfriends at UF certainly understood my passion and, as such, filled the void of not having anyone to share my love of lit with. Between tears over Dumbledore’s fate and audio-book swaps for our long drives home, I found my lit clique (well, despite that time on our senior spring break cruise when I was reading “The Help” and they were all reading “Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang”).
Having moved to Manhattan just after graduation with only a close friend in Hoboken (I know, I know, it’s not that far), I miss my little clan of book worms. This is why I’ve joined a book club that meets for the first time at the end of the month. Despite the book club, I don’t plan on sticking to only one title per month. I’m the kind of girl who reads at least two books at once and listens to one (audio books are my workout music…this way, I don’t stop running because I have to find out what happens next). I’m currently in the middle of “Cutting for Stone,” (for the club) “Super Sad True Love Story” (or should I say, SSTLS, as Shteyngart probably would have written it…if we were in the future) and “Water for Elephants” (on audio because I have to read/listen to it before the movie comes out). So, what’s next on my list of page turners for 2011?
1. “The New Yorker Stories” by Anne Beattie (because how could I not….really)
2. “Born Round” by Frank Bruni (because deep down, many writers secretly and not-so-secretly wish they were food writers)
3. “Just Kids” by Patti Smith (because I’ve had it sitting on my shelf for six months and have yet to jump on the bandwagon)
4. “Summer and the City” by Candace Bushnell (because Carrie Bradshaw, at any age, never gets old; this will be a great audio book to run to)
5. “Swamplandia!” by Karen Russell (because I’m from Florida and simply cannot ignore this title or the author’s talent)
6. “The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald (because I’ve got to read it again before Carey Mulligan plays Daisy on screen)
7. “The Glamour of Grammar” by Roy Peter Clark (because the Poynter professional has a way with words I wish I had)
8. “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks” by Rebecca Skloot (because who doesn’t love nonfiction that reads like a novel?)
9. “J.D. Salinger: A Life” by Kenneth Slawenski (because well, J.D Salinger, enough said)
10. “Freedom” by Jonathan Franzen (same as #3 and now I will be that girl on the subway reading last season’s book…better late than never?)
January 6th, 2011
 Writing typically stems from an extreme amount of inspiration: a political milestone the masses need to learn about, a feature story of someone so brave it would be a crime not to tell, a funny trend worth looking into or heartbreak so painful that putting pen to paper is the only way to alleviate the ache. Though I’ve been abandoning my website for far too long (ahem, it’s almost been a year…), I’ve found inspiration in the most unfortunate of places. When 2011 hit, I thought I’d be escaping the sadness of death. After losing my grandfather to cancer just before Thanksgiving and my 14-year-old Bichon Frise, Monet, just weeks before that, I was looking forward to a new year to focus on life rather than death. Sadly, just a few days into the New Year, I learned that a dear friend passed. While I’m usually good with words, explaining the role she played in my life leaves me with a blank page. But with heartbreak comes the inspiration to put pen to paper and try to explain, even if words will never fully do justice.
There’s a quote often seen on the back of sorority tee shirts that reads, “From the outside looking in, you can never understand it. From the inside looking out, you can never explain it.” But since I’m usually good with words, trying to explaining it is the best I can do. What people often hear about sororities revolves around paying for friends, dressing up in silly costumes for parties and spending time with fraternity boys. What people rarely focus on is the woman who holds it all together, the woman who inspires the group of blond (and some brunette) Barbies to live their lives the right way, the woman who stands in when times are tough and is there to laugh with when times aren’t. Contrary to Hollywood, house moms are not like Anna Faris dressed in a Playboy costume teaching Emma Stone how to be hot. This is why I wept quietly at my desk at work when I learned that Miss Ann, my sorority’s beloved house mom, passed away from brain cancer she’d been diagnosed with just months before her death. I couldn’t openly cry or ask for a hug from a colleague because I knew I couldn’t describe Miss Ann’s importance in my life to someone on the outside.
What you learn in a sorority is that there’s a bond between sisters that one can’t find elsewhere. But while you can go to nearly any university and join any sorority in search of that bond, you can’t bond with an amazing house mom quite as easily. Miss Ann wasn’t sworn in during our secret initiation and never learned the password or recited the creed, but she didn’t need any of that. She was more than a sister, more than a friend and more than a mother. This post will hardly do her justice because such an inspirational woman deserves only the best of the best words to recount her legacy. So, as I continue to ramble with words that barely tell her story, I’m aware that from the inside looking out, Miss Ann’s meaning just cannot be explained.
The ones who knew her will understand, though, that it’s not every day you can have her Santa Fe soup. It’s not every day you can knock on her door seeking advice about your boy problems. It’s not every day she’s in the stands at every intramural game, rain or shine, being the mother you left at home. It’s not every day you have someone looking out for your best interests. It’s not every day you have a support system who’s not catty, not selfish and never ignoring you. It’s not every day you have someone to pour your heart out to when you’re having a bad week. And it’s not every day you come across someone so close to perfect, she can be more than a sister, a friend and a mother to hundreds of girls.
In the Delta Zeta creed we proclaim a promise “to [our] friends, understanding and appreciation, to those closer ones, love that is ever steadfast.” Even though Miss Ann didn’t recite the creed with us during meetings and rituals, she still upheld the promises we made. Her love for her life, her family and friends and the sisters of Delta Zeta was so steadfast, in fact, that if trying to explain it, one wouldn’t be able to put it into words.
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