LinkedIn, Linked How?

Dear Friends,

If you’ve tried to find me on Facebook and failed, it’s because I’m not on it. I relinquished the control that social media had on my life (except this website) about six months ago and it feels great! No more can I stalk the random girl I did not care about in college and internalize minute jealousy that she’s engaged before me, and no longer do I keep tabs on every drunken hook-up I had in college. Because the reality of it is, who the ___ cares?

So you can imagine my surprise when I sign onto LinkedIn for work more frequently, and see a button pop up that says, “People you may know.” I always look because, well, social media is like a bad car accident: if it’s in front of you, you’re going to stare. It used to creep me out a little bit, given that it linked me to people I may have had one or less class in college with, and maybe my rabbi popped up once or twice. But, nothing compared to how it creeped me out since I’ve moved to New York.

I logged in yesteday and the “People you may know” button pops up. I take a look, and my mouth drops. Here lies some random person I met at a party, and the last three set-ups I’ve had. All with a click of a button, as if Big Brother is following me around Manhattan and taking everybody’s business card to whom I share fake laughter with. Then, I realize something: LinkedIn IS Facebook for smart people (or at least for whom have job titles) and then I’m defeated. I haven’t been relinquished of social media for six months — LinkedIn has invaded my privacy — it knows who I’m dating!! Can I get some privacy settings please?

At least LinkedIn doesn’t have status updates with people “out of your network” even though LinkedIn knows damn well they’re theoretically in my network that’s why they patronize me with such people listed under “People I may know.” It’d be like, “Josh Goldberg – “I liked my other set-up better, and please make me a 5th connection to Jessica Barraco.” LinkedIn is exclusive that way. It would be.

I’m at a standstill, I mean, I need LinkedIn, but I don’t need it to patrnoize me with the events of last weekend on a professional sector. I’m a damsel in social media distress. I guess at the end of the day, though, LinkedIn has a point. Those people out of my network, should probably stay there.

Kisses,

Jessica

Surprises Are Not Overrated

Dear Friends,

As I enjoy my last bits of the weekend, I think about how much my life has changed in the past year. I think about people in the last year who I no longer speak to, and people in my life that I’ve currently questioned; where in previous times, I never did once. Recently, a few people have turned a new and hopeful leaf about our relationships, and I’m not sure how long or IF it will last, but what I do know is that I feel more peaceful and I trust myself and my judgment more as these things develop.

It’s a new month, a new dawn, a new May. I am tired of wondering, but I guess that’s part of the fun because where would we all be if life did not surprise us? We’d all be bored. Happy, but bored. I could use some more pleasant surprises in my life. Yesterday, walking along the Hudson River line, I felt serene and comfortable. I felt so happy to be in this city I never thought I could make it in – and so relieved that I feel that way. And then, two very unexpected things happened that made my day. And just like that, the frown I’d been sporting for most of the month of April, was turned upside down.

Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the bigger person in me that believes in staying connected to certain people, or maybe it’s the Hudson. But whatever it is, I feel freer than I have in months.

‘Tis the season to share a smile, take a deep breath, and believe. You never know what kind of surprise will await you once you exhale.

Kisses,

Jessica

Raindrops

Dear Friends,

It’s raining outside. Like the sky is mad. I have no clue why the sky is so mad given that the two states I’ve spent the most time in are California and Colorado, and the sky is always shining and smiling there. Also has a close relationship to the sun I’ve heard before. I also have no idea why the sky is mad considering it’s April. Having never truly witnessed April showers, boy am I getting a taste of them now, in where else but New York.

I thought that things were shitty before. I mean, I moved across the country, started a new job, wrote a book, bought new stuff, and have moved apartments more times than I’d like to admit – all in under one year. Frankly, I’m bleepin’ exhausted. But it wasn’t until April that the thunderstorms really started coming. April and I have never really gotten along. Since its predominant zodiac sign is Aries, God of War, it’s no wonder that April brings full-fledged war and stress. This one has been a scorcher.

It’s almost like my life needs to be lubricated. That’s probably gross that I said that, but I at least need a film of Crisco to protect me from harsh things like thunderstorms, bad people, no foreseeable publishing deal, and tears. My mom used to tell me the sky rained because it was sad – it could feel your pain. Some of you may remember my blog post a couple of months ago about my Penny Friend. I ran into him last night. He’s worth less than a penny now – he’s worthless. He’s a bad person I’m not protected from, he’s my heart and soul following the opposite of its intuition, and a big heartbreak for me.  Moreover, he proves me wrong. I thought he was somebody he’s not for many years of my life, and honestly, I could have used some PAM spray to shield me from the Tribeca Grand last night.

I’m sad for him. I’m sad for our friendship – all over again. The sky is too. I’m sad for the people who cannot take care of themselves well enough to shield and protect the people who mean the most to them – or should. I’m sad for the people that think light-heartedness is the key to happiness. God knows I’ve dated all of the guys who follow that principle. And mostly, I’m sad for the people, like my ex Penny Friend, who are incapable of understanding that all life needs sometimes is a little lube, just to lessen the blow. No pun intended.

Kisses,

Jessica

Meaningless Coincidence

Dear Friends,

Meaningless coincidences. Isn’t the world full of them? I’m constantly running into someone, making note of something with valid, mystic connection, and wondering about the time sequence of something that truly translates into meaningless nothing. Someone crosses my mind, and that second they answer my call or I receive an email from them; I think about someone who lives in California, and then I see them in my neighborhood in NYC, just crossing the street. I tell a story and then read a magazine article or see a movie that has the same exact plot with the same exact name or number. Or is it the other way around? But in the end of it, what does it matter? What does it all mean? It’s taken me years to contemplate this fact. And it’s taken me up until this very moment to realize that meaningless coincidences are wonderful. Even if they mean nothing, it’s the universe reminding us that even though I’m in the West Village and my thoughts are in a suburb in LA, or for my book, lost in 1964 in Westcheser, the universe is just giving us a wink and a smile. It’s saying to us, “We hear you, we know, you are doing the right thing.” The universe is saying, “Congratulations, Jessica – you’re finally living in the moment.”

Losing my mom at such a young age, I feel connected to her as well. I feel coincidences with my mother’s spirit – or does she plant them there and I’m just a sucker for spirituality? I’ll never know. But I think I do. As winter turns to spring and blossoms are finally hatched in the trees, some trees I’ve never ever seen before, my breath is stolen from me. New York is constantly stealing it. I’m quiet and lost in thought. And kind of laughing at how many times I said to myself when I was younger, “If this song comes on, then that boy likes me at school,” “If I don’t miss stepping on this crack in the sidewalk, I’ll do well in my dance recital tomorrow,” and ever still, “If a cherry blossom sprouts on my street, I will have a lucky spring.” What does that even mean? We’re constantly making bets with ourself – with the universe. We’re always hanging onto the universe, whether we “believe” in it or not. Even when people say they have “good parking karma,” “beginner’s luck,” or when my adorable Grandma Ann used to say, “You just dropped a fork – someone is talking about you!” It all amounts to the same thing: meaningless coincidences where people justify them into superstitions or trite sayings, as if there is no universe connecting us all with our thoughts, with our hearts.

You might think I have no idea what I’m saying right now, and I might not. But at least I’m living in the moment, coming to you from a very good coffee shop on the west side. Quiet the mind, and just believe. Even if it’s for a moment. You are fooling yourself if you think you already don’t.

Kisses,

Jessica

Makeup Robber

Dear Friends,

Hold onto your bronzer, get a Kung-Fu grip on that mascara, and watch your lipstick’s back. I am sorry to report that there is a makeup robber loose in NYC.

Who steals makeup? That is my frantic thought on Monday morning when I cannot find my favorite Laura Mercier tinted moisturizer (which, if you don’t know already, is the best invention and lasts forever). The only catch? It’s $45 per bottle and I have two. Well, being the struggling writer I am and having no God take pity on my finances, I get makeup robbed. I believe it happened between the hours of 3 am and 11 am on Saturday morning. A new “friend” of mine stole them from right under my nose. Good thing I keep all of my really expensive things to myself in my room.

How crazy is that? I was makeup robbed. Earlier this month, I was umbrella-robbed too by someone who lives on my floor and has a classic eye for Coach umbrellas. I was borrowing my colleague’s and I didn’t even realize it was designer. Who has time to consider what’s over their head in Manhattan? You just are thankful you have something.

I have never been a super trustworthy person, but here’s to all the people who say that going home with a stranger is ever so dangerous. I no longer believe in that. Having a girlfriend sleep over is dangerous, and leaving your umbrella out to dry on a rainy week in the city is dangerous. Go home with strangers all you want. Chances are, if you’re not the clepto-maniac, everyone’s probably good to go.

I feel so crossed. I’ve never been robbed before, thank god, and this is a terrible feeling. To have one of your favorite things stolen from you, albeit replacible, is such BS. What is wrong with my generation and seeing something shiny and wanting it and using that as a justification? I just can’t believe that some random girl is running around the city unsuccessfully covering up her acne (I don’t have any, my makeup is not applicable to her), wearing the wrong skin tone (it was a customized mixture) and thinking she got away with something. Someone is wearing my face – it feels so wrong. This is like the missing joke from Clueless. I was makeup punk’d.

Guard that caboodle, polka-dotted travel bag, wherever your prized possessions are, sleep with one eye open. Don’t say you weren’t warned. Everyone’s so afraid of that cobra who escaped from the Bronx Zoo last week. At least it doesn’t wear expensive tinted moisturizer.

Kisses,
Jessica

Spring Beginnings

Dear Friends,

Spring will not make up its mind. It wants to be apart of winter’s existence, but won’t commit to becoming its own season. This is why I am freezing in the end of March. I know for some of you, you might be in LA, not freezing, however that is not real weather and you all know it. People who live in southern California think they’re cheating the Earth out of its normal, seasonal cycle. In some ways, they are. But I personally like seasons. It’s nice to feel like different things are happening as the weather changes. You can say things like, “It was a cold and stormy night,” without sounding like Stephen King, because it actually was a cold and stormy night. You can also say, “I feel as foggy as the layer above my apartment,” because sometimes you do, and fog layer is actually on top of your apartment because you live on the thirtieth floor. But mostly I like seasons because you feel renewed. Or muggy and disgusting, but that’s not for another few months. You can say clothes and outfits are, “So last season,” because they are. Growing up in California, I didn’t have seasons and everything seemed the same. I could not decipher a memory from February or July because the weather was the same. So, if anything, seasons heighten your sensory memories and expand your wardrobe.

I just started something new. I’m not sure what it all means yet, but I am excited. No, I’m not talking about a man – I’m talking about an enhancement in my career. A chance to finally bring The Butterfly Groove to the people! A chance to unwind all of the thoughts in my head that I might not have been able to articulate during the whirlwind of the six months it took me to write my book. Any writer or editor will say that writing is a process, but it doesn’t have to take forever to cultivate. I don’t really believe in following rules that stringently when it comes to creativity. Sure, things take time, but they don’t always have to. This is how I calm myself down when things seem far away. Time is a figment of our imagination – we don’t have to adhere to deadlines we make up just because we have clocks on all of our technological devices. People ask me: did you write every day, all day? And the answer is no. I thought about writing each day, was conducting interviews each day, and so when I went to write, I was productive. I can remember one moment I stared at my blinking cursor, getting lost in the painfully white Word document. Just one time. It was a cold day in October and I think it was raining (it actually was even though I was in LA). I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the rain, thinking I could never finish the book by December. But then, something amazing happened, and I was able to finish with great ease. And eventually, it stopped raining. Weather is surreal because it’s something that is happening to you that makes up the framework of your life. You don’t really have a choice but to break out the umbrella, and brave the atmosphere.

 I can remember the very first time I wrote about 1964 and Westchester. It was last summer. All I wanted to do was write a piece of realistic fiction about my mom’s life and I am amazed at what it has turned into. The book was born in summer, finished in winter, and will be tamed in the spring. By this summer, it will be well on its way to fluttering to a store near you. Cross your wings for me, and stay tuned!

 Kisses,

Jessica

When I Woke Up This Morning…

You were on my mind. Yeah, you were on my mind.

Dear Friends,

The song I’m quoting is by We Five, a one-hit wonder band of 1965. This was me and my mom’s song. We used to listen to it on K-EARTH 101.1, the Oldies station. I have the fondest memories of riding around in my mom’s silver Volvo station wagon with her, listening to Oldies. But especially this song. It was “our song.” It was the first experience I had had with “our song.” I love that idea. Music is so moving, and touches so many people. Why not connect to a special someone through it? This song is all about going through a hard time and struggling with an internal conflict, and then thinking of this one person, and having everything be OK. Or maybe everything is not OK, rather, it is what it is. “I woke up this morning, and I thought of you.” What could be more flattering than that? To be someone’s first thought of the day? This song is so powerful for me to this day because every morning when I wake up, my mother is on my mind.

Writing this book for/with her has been the most rewarding process there ever could be customized for me. I loved spending eight months of my life just focusing on hers, and my struggles to get to it. I enjoyed every minute of the decades-scavenger hunt I was on because it was the most natural thing I ever did in life. My book was the only thing I never thought twice about…except my move to New York. I’m the girl who has trouble picking a nail polish color for a mani-pedi, I never could have predicted that moving across the country would be a no-brainer for me.

Man, do I love it here. Words cannot explain how much more at ease I feel every day, and how things keep falling into my life in such powerful ways. I really feel at home in my Big Apple. A lesser known fact about apples that no one predicates to the Big Apple is that apples are sweet. And my life is sweeter by the day, each time I get closer and closer to the core of this city. Just like a relationship. You start nibbling away at a person, and pretty soon you’re at the core, and you get to know all of the intricate seeds and structure that supports this apple. Is it Gala, is it Pink Lady, is it Granny Smith? Plant the seeds somewhere deep in your heart, and see what grows. Nobody can lose by being that brave, someone very wise told me.

When I woke up this morning, my mom was on my mind. I went to breakfast with a male companion, and I sat down and “Jack and Diane” was playing. You know the tune by John Mellencamp. My mom loved this song – and her name was Dianne. Whenever it comes on, I know she’s there. I wanted to ask her what she thought of said male. I wanted to know if she was just saying hi, or was trying to prepare me or show me something further about my life and who’s in it. Not until recently did I get to my mother’s core, and now I’m just learning how to plant her seeds into my life.

My mom gave me so much: she taught me how to dance and groove to Oldies, how to write, how to dress, how to carry myself, and how to respect myself. But the most valuable lesson she could have ever taught me was how to love. Her love was sweeter than any apple, and one day, someday soon, hopefully I will get to the core of this Big Apple I’m living in, and feel her love radiating through someone else. And when I wake up that next morning…he will be on my mind. Cherish whoever is on your mind at dawn tomorrow. Chances are, they are irreplacable.

Kisses,

Jessica

Dirty Dancing

Dear Friends,

I watched one of my favorite movies tonight: Dirty Dancing (do not tell me I’m predictable). I wasn’t even born when it came out. But, there’s something about the music, the moves, the charm, and the tongue-in-cheek simplicity that sets those Catskills on fire. Or wherever the hell they are. (Does any one actually know?) The truth is, no one seems to care about location in movies. They just care how pretty it is, how big the budget was, and how smooth Patrick Swayze’s pelvic thrusts are.

Which begs the question: What happened to good, solid effort? Swayze earned those thrusts, did he not? What happened to it? When we watch movies, why don’t we think about how much the actors have to give up in their personal life to go on this location and shoot, secluded from their friends and family. Why don’t we care about the camera crew, and the behind-the-scenes action that has to happen to set this movie in motion? Is it not important enough to us? We certainly waste 120 minutes (at least) of our lives watching these peoples’ work. So why don’t we care about them? Because people somehow stopped qualifying effort. I don’t know when, and I don’t know why, but they did.

We all used to try harder when things mattered less. We wanted to ace the spelling bee, we wanted to get a 95% on our vocabulary test. We busted our asses to get into college (in a good economy, mind you). We worked hard to write that college essay – to make sure that the beloved gatekeepers, the same gatekeepers who granted Mark Zuckerberg access into Harvard, wouldn’t be able to shut us down. Then, we go to college and we joined groups, clubs, specific schools, Greek life. We did all these things to “create” our oh-so original “persona.” Because we cared. And some of us, still care. But sometimes in life, more often than I’d like to see, you meet that person who’s an actor. Who means well, but can’t quite make it to the spelling bee. But he looks like a great speller. He really, really wants to win the spelling bee one day, and the next day lets himself forget/be distracted/be irresponsible such that he turns around and says, “What spelling bee?” Suddenly, you realize you’ve just gone on a date with someone who was once enthusiastic, and then you have to remind them to care. You feel fooled. You feel like a loser. You feel crossed. And, in the back of your mind, you feel kinda nuts. “Did last weekend really happen,” you might ask yourself. “Was I blowing it out of proportion? Was it something I did or said? Or did I commit the ultimate error and be genuine with somewhat of a stranger?” G-d forbid, right?

I have to say, screw that. I am a person who really wants to go to the spelling bee, and really wanted to get into college, and really wants to write another book. I am someone who will keep telling you that for the next week, month, year, because when a genuine person is genuinely interested in something, it takes a whole hell of a lot longer than a week to fizzle. So make sure you’re genuine because if you are, you will eventually ward off the irresponsible shmucks who change their mind every day, and bite off more than they can chew. And if you’re lucky, you’ll see their mouths are full in one week or less. (And if you don’t, write a blog post about them). 🙂

But promise me two things: don’t be afraid to give ’em energy, said my Uncle Monte, an incredibly smart man (and flirt), and also, don’t be afraid to be genuine with your heart.

Kisses,

Jessica

Crazy Love

Dear Friends,

Writing about your life gets tricky when you’re seeing someone. I don’t know how Carrie Bradshaw did it for so long. I guess Mr. Big really, really didn’t give a shit, and if she had a website back in the 90’s, he would not have read it, but I try to avoid his types. I had an ex who hated the fact that I wrote about my relationships and experiences. In fact, he once broke into my “diary” AKA book that I was working on and confronted me about a dream I wrote about. I had dreamed that I was living in New York (when I was in LA and had no plans to move here whatsoever), and that I was running around the city trying to locate my fiance. I ended up getting to the top of maybe the Chrysler Building, and the doors opened, and I saw him. But I couldn’t actually see him. But I was happy; but I didn’t know who I was happy about. All I knew was that in my dreamland, I wasn’t engaged to my ex boyfriend, and therefore I broke up with him. He extrapolated that this was because I wanted to marry my other ex. I extrapolated that he was an extremely paranoid human being.

Remember when life and dating was simple? I know – I don’t either. But really, remember when it was way simpler, to put in those terms? I had my first kiss when I was 14 years old. It was to a little Catholic boy, who had a raging Catholic mother who was not happy with me. I couldn’t understand it. I was practically angelic – did she have a sixth sense of what I would turn into 10 years later? Doubtful. But, for whatever reason, she severely disliked me and her son was severely into me. Into me in a way, I just don’t see that much anymore. “Into me.” People use the phrase, but I haven’t been proven this for awhile. For lack of a better word, we gave each other butterflies. Kissing was like a dream. And we did not see a need to do much more. It was very PG, but I totally felt like I was in one of those teenage movies I sought after, and that he was my Freddie Prinze Jr. or something. The whole thing was tinged with innocence, but more importantly, it was all brand new. It was like floating on a cloud, and I didn’t know that I might have to worry if he didn’t call me every day at 3:35 p.m. after school, on my second line that went directly to my room attached to my purple phone (so cool, don’t even try to argue with me). I never worried that he’d call – because he always did. Dating used to be reliable. Dating used to be worry-free. Now it’s all about games and headaches, and stomach-turning sensations, and then sometimes, if you’re very, very lucky, it clicks. He calls you every day on your purple phone – well it might be a Blackberry now but you get the picture. Also, let me just comment on the length of the phone conversations. OMG. It’s like I either had THE best first boyfriend ever, or it was just easy. We’d talk about my Spanish homework and the fact that he had smooched someone at summer camp when he was 12, but how the kiss didn’t feel real until he shared one with me. This thought of course made me jealous, but then so reassured. It was like magic. Somehow at 14 a man knew exactly what to say to me? I don’t have enough time in a day to solve that conundrum. Feel free to comment if you do.

Everything tasted better too. I would pour lemonade and it was like, the best lemonade ever. I was able to go to bed every night thinking about him, and not feel like I was some sort of loser-stalker because I had checked his Facebook page that day, or whatever. I don’t even have FB anymore, but you get the picture. I didn’t have friends trying to see if they had mutual friends with him, and if he quoted Napoleon Dynamite or not (ick). I had one responsibility and that was to dream and fantasize, and make sure that every time I saw him and we’d go to the movies to make-out and hold hands in the back row (duh), I made sure I felt that same electricity when he touched me every time. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with that chemistry. But I knew it was there, and I knew it was reliable. And I loved it.

Some days, I wish I could come home from work, and expect to see my Spanish homework and my purple phone. Instead, I sit down and reflect on when I was young, and hope that some day soon, my Blackberry will buzz every day at 3:35 p.m. Now, I just hope it doesn’t buzz at 3:35 a.m…

Remember your first love? I hope you find your second one soon.

Kisses,

Jessica

Big Apple Baggage

Dear Friends,

Baggage. Why do people have so much of it? Every day in New York City, I walk to and from work and see, five, maybe ten people dragging suitcases. I don’t mean laptop cases because you have scoliosis or something (G-d forbid), I mean, big, honkin’ Samsonite pieces of luggage. First of all: Samsonite? Really? I thought that brand peaked in 1991 when “Dumb & Dumber” plugged them. Haven’t seen much from them since. Secondly: we have these vehicles all over the city called Cabs (pronounced phonetically “K-aaaa-b-s”). This is how you can get from Point A to Point B without tripping me in my stilettos on the way to work, or forcing me to spill my coffee through the cheap lids that the coffee men in New York hand-out thinking you don’t notice that these lids are cheap, and that coffee will periodically spill out of the miniscule opening and onto your coat or scarf in thirty seconds or less. Or if you’re me, it will spill all over the silk sleeve of your favorite Rebecca Taylor coat, that’s beige, mind you. If those coffee carts ever stayed in one place, I’d hand one of the guys my dry cleaning bill. But of course, they keep moving around, never setting up on the same street corner probably because they know they would have a line up of at least twelve people with dry cleaning tickets demanding free lid-less coffee for their traumatic, emotional and garment-al damages. The coffee cart men are no different than the people with luggage tramping through the city – they’re always moving so you can’t hold them accountable for anything. Kind of like men, but I won’t go there today.

As I was pondering the sheer amount of physical baggage that New Yorkers carry around each day (or even more frightening – tourists), I realized something. If physical baggage is running rampant through the city, I wonder how much emotional baggage weaves its way through the crowds as well. For many people, baggage is the tension in their shoulders, the cramp in their neck, the ache in their stomach. For others, baggage is what they blog about (I am the living example of this), or cry about, or have anxiety attacks over. But, I guess for everyone else, they just drag Samsonites through New York City, ignoring the heavy weight they are lugging with them in the Big Apple.

Speaking of the Big Apple, I was watching “When Harry Met Sally” this past weekend (god bless Nora Ephron) and I feel as though I’ve already slept with Harry. I feel like we’ve dated. In fact, I feel like I know him so well, he seems more like a Barry or a Ben to me. I feel like he’s already ignored our sexual chemistry, and after Sally, just moved onto me. There’s this great line in the end when Harry (or Barry or Ben) is in the middle of professing his love to Sally, and “Auld Lang Syne” comes on and he goes, “What does this song even mean?” It’s as if Larry David came in and took over his romantic gesture. It’s a lot like how I feel when I see the people with the baggage on the streets, or at a bar – physical or emotional – people need to deal with their baggage. Harry clearly didn’t deal with his – he had to interrupt a love scene to go off on a tangent.

The biggest reason why I resent these people who carry luggage is that they distract me from my thoughts. Sometimes I just want to stroll through the streets, carrying a cup of coffee, taking in the sights, potentially wearing my beige coat, without having to worry about dodging these people with Samsonites. But, at least these people are upfront about their baggage – it’s rolling right behind them. What about all of the others whose baggage is hiding in the furrow in their brow, or in the back of their minds? They should just shove it all in a big, honkin’ Samsonite and throw it in the Hudson.

Kisses,

Jessica