All posts filed under: Margit’s Note

Margit’s Note: 50 Ain’t Nothing but a #

A few weeks ago, I attended a 50th birthday bash replete with beer, karaoke, ‘80s music, wigs (of course) and a freshly minted AARP card. As a drunken reveler wrapped me in crepe paper while singing “99 Luftballons” in German (don’t ask), I realized that my friend’s party was the first of what promised to be a slew of half-century parties over the next few years as I, myself, will turn 50 next year. I needed to pace myself. Nurse a seltzer. Fifty? Seriously? I’m in this strange mash-up of a grand denial and a “no kidding; I’m 50, kiddo” kind of headspace. Many days I wonder when I stopped being 22, and other days I feel like, oh have I been there and, oh, have I done THAT. Many lives have been lived. As I live out this final year of 40s, it has already been a scary mix of illness and renovation. (Literal and figurative – we’re renovating our kitchen! Right after cancer! I am crazy!) My body is recovering, my mind is …

Margit’s Note: Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?

Take a stroll around your block (or your subdivision, or your farm). Or drive. What do you see? Whether you’ve chosen to live here — or your environment chose you — your neighborhood is a key piece of who you are. And you are an integral part of shaping its ecosystem. Like when my neighbor spilled white paint on our sidewalk the other day. Yeegads. Now think about the neighborhood you grew up in. I’d reckon that few of us live there anymore — and even if you do, time has left its mark. They changed a street name, they put in a Starbucks, but, ok, the kid who used to eat glue still lives next door, now with his four kids. A neighborhood is not just an assemblage of houses, streets and cul de sacs, it’s people and relationships. There are legendary lives that existed before you lived there, and there will be lives after. Your neighborhood is an organic, dynamic thing and, paradoxically, a memory. It is a place fixed in time and …

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Margit’s Note: Career Criminal

Our first jobs teach us the value of a dollar and the crap we have to put up with to earn that dollar. Punch a time card. Be nice. Don’t steal the candy. We start to amass data about what we do and don’t want to do when we grow up. Watching the world share their #FirstSevenJobs has been thoroughly entertaining and enlightening — so many VPs were once babysitters, waiters and paper kids. By and large, my first jobs were menial — meant to show me the value of hard work, a way to afford my Tiger Beat addiction and often, stamp-lickingly dull. As I counted, I realized all of them occurred before I’d even left college. There was no rhyme or reason to the mix of gigs, but they probably influenced me in ways I still don’t fully understand. The things I recall about my #FirstSevenJobs have little to do with the job itself and more about the ways I avoided those jobs and/or found little deviant distractions in a strange new adult …

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Margit’s Note: The Summer of Side-Eye

I see you there. You and the mini casualties you’re creating on Facebook. Judging the way she parents, the guy she’s dating, the purple pants he’s wearing, the politics she espouses. You’re judging me right now aren’t you… Or wait, is that me? Am I doing the judging? Being judgy is dirty. It’s mostly wrong, casting stones and such. (Wait, did I just judge there?) But it’s as easy as a raised brow, and we all do it. Maybe it’s, unfortunately, part of being human. Is judging ever a good thing? Sure, in life we have to assign values to things, gather data so that we can carefully to select the right path to take — it helps us create intuition. “Use good judgment!” my dad has told me since the day I could open a can of beer. But judgy is more about the lack of data and personal bias. The world works the way I see it. Period. It’s a “should” on steroids. It’s not open-minded, and it doesn’t listen. AT ALL. And …

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Margit’s Note: An Affair to Remember

A fling means nothing. A dare. A tossed-away kiss. A happy mess you got yourself into. Temporary and mindless. It’s just a fling, after all. In the very last year of the 1980s, right after college was over, I had a purposeful fling — an oxymoron, but so it was. C and I stuck around State College. He waited tables at Ye Olde College Diner (that’s really the name); I worked at the college paper and the local department store — and we had no idea what we were going to do for the rest of our lives. We were both in the mood for temporary. Somehow we knew we weren’t made for each other, but a fling is a chance to be someone else. What a delight! Several mix tapes, deep kisses, boozy nights at Zeno’s and a month-long bout of mono later… A fling is exciting until it’s not exciting. And then, yikes. But even if the result of a fling is feeling a little too flung, the lasting memories  — and at the …

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Margit’s Note: Everyday America

The driver from Enterprise picked us up at our hotel in Richmond, Virginia to bring us to the rental car office. We were on our way down south to North Carolina for our annual summer beach vacation with my husband’s family. Five minutes into our trip, I asked the driver, “Can you believe what’s happening?” Given Baton Rouge, Minnesota, Dallas — given that our driver was black — he didn’t need any more detail to know what I meant. He shook his head. “Let me tell you a story…” He proceeded to explain that he was part of a car club and was recently pulled over by a state trooper for going five miles over the speed limit. At which point the entire flotilla of cars pulled over — all 40 of them — and the state trooper got a little nervous. “Who are all these people?” He told our driver that he and his car club friends needed to move along or he’d give each and every one of them a ticket. “If I …

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Margit’s Note: Ms. Independence

Writing about independence is no easy task. I’ve written this little note to you three or four times, scrapping each edition and littering the page with words like “Liberty” “Freedom” and “Inalienable Rights.” It’s like Thomas Jefferson is all up in my grill. Come on Tom, back off. I’m trying to explain to my readers about we women of a certain age and independence, that the word means something particular to us because we’ve cultivated it over the years — and we fight for it every damn day. We can’t take it for granted. The point is, we need to light the sparklers and fist pump to Freedom — the freedom that a woman earns over the course of her life, that guides her decisions and allows her to forge and determine her own crazy, sexy path. As we see this week on TueNight, our path might be on a boat, on a motorcycle, in a van or even in a wheelchair. Yeah, I found independence in a wheelchair for a day. Go figure. I …

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Margit’s Note: Take a Bite

The word “Foodie” is super annoying, right? You imagine a person obsessed with the cultivation of cuisine — how it looks, smells, is plated, is grown, is sourced, is, of course, chronicled for social media. A foodie doesn’t eat to live; a foodie lives to eat… that avocado toast donut mash-up. (It’s a real thing.) Credit for the term is hotly debated, but most cite Gael Greene as first to coin the term in a 1980 New York Magazine article. She writes of a character who “slips into the small Art Deco dining room of Restaurant d’Olympe … to graze cheeks with her devotees, serious foodies.” Since then, the word has spawned three million Instagram accounts and a smattering of Portlandia episodes. Is there room for a much less discerning foodie? I’ve been known to entertain that day old slice of pizza or the questionable street cart egg sandwich. I was in Philly this past weekend, and whenever in my hometown, I must acquire a hoagie. A Wawa shortie to be exact. A true foodie …

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Margit’s Note: Tattoo You (Not Me)

I’m on a fast track to 50 and yet… when I half-jokingly ask my mother, as a preface to this issue, how she would feel if I got a tattoo she swiftly responds with a “No.” Okay, Mom. What about a commemorative, post-chemo… “Nope.” Despite Mom’s protestations, I’ve considered it. I just have zero idea of what I’d get. What’s worth a perma-doodle for my forearm? What witty, sums-it-all-up phrase could I see peeking out of a backless dress? (If I wore backless dresses.) There are plenty of tattoos I see and think, “Now why didn’t I think of that??” See this week’s theme image for the perfect example. Yet, nothing has me rushing to get needle and inked. More than likely, I’d get a tattoo, tire of it and end up with a Johnny Depp “Wino Forever” travesty. I have a poor track record with body modifications in general — a heavy, dangling feather earring in 10th grade resulted in a torn earlobe. I’ve been a clip-ons wearer ever since. But never say never. “Never.” …

Margit’s Note: Are You Up?

I am too tired to write this editor’s note for our second SLEEP issue. So I decided to delegate. You fancy folks call it “crowdsourcing.” To that end, I posed seven very important questions on Facebook: The respondents numbered 50. Forty-seven women and three dudes. I cut it off there because it’s a nice number and time’s a-ticking. You snooze, you lose. To outsource this even further, I enlisted FancyHands.com to turn my Facebook post into a spreadsheet so I could easily sort the data. Perhaps this issue should have been called LAZY… Nonetheless, the answers were fascinating-ish. Here’s what we uncovered: Favorite Sleeping Position: Thirty-three (66%) of you are side sleepers. Six (12%) of you noted “always on the left,” and four (8%) of you noted “always on the right.” You four might want to read this article because apparently you’re doing it all wrong according to this very reputable site called OMGFacts. Seven (14%) of you are back sleepers, and one of those described her prone position thusly: “Flat on my back arms …

Margit’s Note: What a Mess

Spring cleaning! One of my favorite times of year — no joke. It’s when I go all Kondo on my apartment, roll up my socks, fold them ever so nicely into drawers, parse out items designated for donations or the annual stoop sale and generally de-clutter my world. Of course this year I haven’t exactly felt up to the task, but I’ve enlisted a friend Stormy (aptly named — to tackle a whirlwind of mess) to help me out. Stormy’s been coming twice a week to help me with some basic tasks as I go through chemo (making freezable meals, running to the post office and dry cleaners etc) but on the weeks I feel better we’ve been organizing. It’s truly her strength and something that genuinely gets me focused on the future – and excited. Watching stacks of old magazines get the boot. Witnessing a pantry filled with expired cans of beans get transformed into a thing of useable beauty. “This shelf is for cans, this section for cereal and snacks, here are your towels” …

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Margit’s Note: The Prince Issue

Over the weekend, I watched the MTV broadcast of Purple Rain (more than a few times). Listening to the song, “Beautiful Ones,” I was thrown back to my shag-carpeted, high school-era bedroom, lifting the needle to play the song over and over, tearing up over an unrequited crush, caterwauling along with Prince. “Do you want him? Or do you want me? Cause I want you…Baby, baby, baby listen to me…” Prince was passion. Purple, ruffle-sleeved passion. He evangelized it. Over-the-top emotion infused his lyrics, music, guitar licks and that knowingly seductive glare (that Fred Armisen hilariously captures in his SNL impression). And as impressionable youngins, we learned everything we ever wanted to know about sex from Prince. Wendy? Yes, Lisa. For me, along with Bowie (stop taking them away!), Prince was a musical vanguard who launched my own fascination in the possibilities of music and sound. Like any true artist, he’s given us a gift that will outlive his time on planet earth. And, guaranteed, if we’re all still here we’ll be dancing to “1999” in …

Rachel’s Note: What Embarrasses This Erotica Writer?

Our guest editor this week is erotica author and editor Rachel Kramer Bussel You might think someone who writes about sex for a living wouldn’t be prone to blushing, but I most certainly am. When I’m faced with situations where I don’t know how to respond, my extremely pale cheeks turn traitor. I feel heat sweep across my face before anyone else can confirm it. The source could be a compliment, a flirtation or a faux pas, but most often, I blush in a professional context, when I’ve taken my sexy words off the page and read them to a live audience, unfiltered. Merriam-Webster’s first definition for blush reads, “the red color that spreads over your face when you are ashamed, embarrassed, confused, etc.” But I think there’s more to it than that. I wouldn’t say I’m any of those qualities when I blush; rather, it’s my body speaking up for me in a way my mind can’t. Most of the time, I’m not blushing because I’m embarrassed; I’m embarrassed that I’m blushing. In my …

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Margit’s Note: Nothing to See Here

Chances are when you hear the word “Censored”, you think of the PMRC, 1985, Tipper Gore, Frank Zappa, 2 Live Crew and the beginning of parental advisory labels — if you’re a Gen-Xer. If you’re under 35 you’re probably like, huh? It’s funny to think back on how little effect the PMRC ultimately had on shutting down artistic expression; you just have to watch a tv zombie get a spike through its eye or sing along with the “explicit” version of Nicki Minaj’s “Starships” to know we’re in a brave new world. We spent the night inside Sheena Easton’s coulda-been-censored  “Sugar Walls” and never looked back. Or, did we. (I mean, I didn’t. But anyway….) Censorship may have a shiny new banner. It was reported recently that Apple has developed new technology that automatically scans and removes swear words from music — and books. Of course that’s by choice, for now. Stand-up comics at colleges are being required to “keep it clean.” And as we watch social media grow in influence, we see governments try, try …

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Margit’s Note: Are We Halfway to the Rainy Day?

  I don’t plan on retiring. Or maybe I’ve just never put much thought into it. Ok, let’s be honest. I actively avoid thinking about it. My mom, a septuagenarian, still works and my Dad, just a bit older than that (though he’s told me he’s 29 for as long as I can remember) only recently retired in the last few years. He still does volunteer work at such a clip that it might as well be a full-time job. They love what they do, it isn’t exactly work, it’s a livelihood. I feel the same way about my work — writing, editing and making fabulous web sites. So why retire? I know — life has a way of interrupting the best laid plans. I’m hopeful I can do what I do until I keel over and, ideally, get paid for it. It’s a terrible course of action. It’s the classic Gen-X approach to retirement: “Gen-X is sleeping through its retirement wake-up call. Starting to turn 50, they’re acting like they’re 30.” Who, me? Don’t …

Karen’s Note: The Beginning of Adulthood

In 1996, we officially became adults. We went to friends’ weddings where we reluctantly did the Macarena. We watched Ross and Rachel FINALLY get together. We talked about how all the things in Ironic by Alanis Morrissette weren’t really ironic. We fell in love with Frances McDormand in Fargo and Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. We started hearing about this new musical phenomenon called Rent and the tragic story of its creator Jonathan Larson, who died the morning of its first off-Broadway preview. That was my 1996 — and probably yours too. The idea of 1996 as a theme came up during the blizzard in January. Remember the blizzard of 1996? That was 20 years ago. Ugh, we’re so fucking old. It got us thinking about that year and realizing it was a time when our lives, careers and relationships started to take shape. Early onset adulting. A look back at my own trajectory: January: My husband and I had recently moved to New York from D.C. for real big city jobs in advertising and …

Margit’s Note: How to Get Away With Bingeing

I’ve watched everything. All of the shows. Jessica Jones, Episodes, Billions, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (genius), House of Cards (finally)… you know what, I’m not even going to list them. You know what they are, and it’s all of them. As I’ve had up days and many more down days lately (due to this stuff), I’ve spent a lot of time streaming TV, movies, podcasts and anything else that is entertaining, distracting and pleasantly sedative. I’ll admit, it got kind of strange when I started DVRing The People’s Couch on Bravo, an actually hilarious show where you watch real families, best friends, sisters, etc. watch must-see or cringe-worthy TV like Scandal, Jane the Virgin, Grease Live or #HTGAWM (and if you don’t know what that is, well, maybe it’s time to close this issue.) Seriously. I’d never heard of the People’s Couch, but it’s been on for like four years, so clearly I’m not alone in being entertained. Although my fellow TV addict and our social media manager Karen Gerwin chides me, “I feel bad enough about …

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Margit’s Note: Votes, Valentines and Vuitton

This week we’re going for a 3-for-1 theme: Politics, Love and Fashion. With the primaries in full swing, Fashion Week taking over NYC tomorrow and Valentine’s Day around the corner, they all kinda go together in some strange way, don’t they? Just ask Derek Zoolander and Hansel who explained this eloquently on Weekend Update (“Bernie’s a big fan of the 99%. 99% off at J.C. Penny.”). We love — or love to hate — our candidates, and we are so wrapped up in the way they present themselves. A comfy mauve pantsuit, a stacked high heel cowboy boot, a fluttering orange toupee. One minute a candidate is in vogue, the next she’s yesterday’s SNL skit. But we do our best to avoid the 24-hour Twitter-induced panic and remember who really deserves our vote. We travel to far-flung places to do the right thing, buck trends to stay true to the styles we love and share a stylish obsession with a candidate we’d never vote for. Hailing from a family of staunch Republicans, I left for …

Margit’s Note: Altered States

As someone who is going through a crazy mixed-up illness, drugs have become my lifeline and a new curiosity. The last time I smoked pot in earnest (am I sure I’m not running for president ever? No? Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore? Ok, continue…) was several lifetimes ago, but with New York now making medicinal marijuana legal, my interest is piqued. Also, because a friend told me her chemo treatment was saved by smoking pot, that the opiates her docs prescribed made her ill. While legal for medicinal reasons, it’s still not easy to access — there’s only one dispensary and there are convoluted protocols and an online course you have to take before your doctor can write that particular prescription. Not easy. In lieu of that, friends have offered to hook me up. One pal texted me that she’d happily drop off some “special legal chocolate… if I like that sort of thing. I was like, “sure, I looove chocolate. But um, isn’t it always legal?” not getting her gist for the first five …

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Margit’s Note: The C Word

Hey you, it’s been a while. I’m back and back with a bang. You can see why here. Spoiler alert, though, this week is all about the C Word. That word we hate to hear, to utter: Cancer. It’s a big, spreading, ugly black mass of a concept, and something we know very little about — until we have to know something about it. And then we Google. A lot. As we get older, we know more and more people who have it — our friends and loved ones, our freaking musical heroes. We harangue our doctors to check out every inch of our bodies (justifiably, I might add), we have elective surgery to prevent any possible sightings. Something I’ve learned in the last month: Cancer is a big thing, but it’s also just a thing. I used to look at people who’d experienced cancer from a distance. If I’d met them at the same time that I learned they had cancer, it was the cancer that overshadowed them, walked into the room first. But …

Ann’s Note: Honor Your Inner 25-Year-Old

Once a month for the last year, I’ve hosted a series of dinners at my place with young women in their 20s. Dinner is overselling it; it’s fancy frozen pizza and many bottles of rosé. We talk about the itchy emotions you feel around being young, hungry and ambitious — it’s a continuation of the conversation I had with young women for more than a decade as editor-in-chief of Seventeen and, before that, as one of the founding editors of CosmoGIRL. The young women are from different parts of the country and work in different industries (but they all have the most amazing hair I’ve ever seen — truth!). Some are paying the bills with crappy by-the-hour jobs, hoping that their side-hustle start-ups will pay off. Some are forging new territory in digital jobs that didn’t exist five years ago. Some have finally found the gig that allows them to marry their passion with getting paid, and now they want to know when the relationship part of their lives will get sorted. The details of …

Adrianna’s Note: I’ll Be Seeing You

Why are we competitive over our bad eyesight? People who are slightly nearsighted swap glasses, laughing, “Oh my god, I’m so blind!” Those of us with more serious numbers turn a gimlet eye toward the amateurs. We’re a different club, and our humor is grim. “Nice coke bottles, Johnson. Seven? Eight?” We recognize the natural selection implications behind the plastic frames: teasing, problems playing group sports (anything with a ball is potentially traumatic) and a likely dose of self-hatred. Our lack of visual acuity is our cross to bear. (Mine is -8.50 in both eyes, if you think you’ve got me beat.) And let’s not even start with bifocals, or progressives as they’re called now for us vain Gen-Xers. Going out to dinner post-40 means grabbing a candle from the next table just to read the menu. Did you increase the font on your phone? For nearly two decades, I read newspapers, books, magazines, prescriptions and mail (everything) to James, a partially sighted man. I learned a lot about the complicated world of the visually impaired. There are levels of blindness, and those …

Karen’s Note: Best of TueNight 2015

Here we are, two years after launching this site, looking at another year’s worth of amazing storytelling from our spectacularly talented and diverse group of contributors. It was not easy for Margit, Adrianna and me to narrow down our list to only twelve posts to represent the best of this year. As we started to think about your year-end “best of” post, I jumped at the chance to write the Editor’s Note, since I’m coming up on my one-year anniversary of joining Team TueNight (woot woot!). For inspiration (er, procrastination), I checked Facebook and Twitter to see what people are talking about this morning (oof, Steve Harvey), listened to Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne,” then watched a YouTube clip of the final scene of When Harry Met Sally, and now I’m listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. I also went back and read the post that launched it all back in 2013, wherein Margit so brilliantly distills who we are: “You aren’t dead yet. Not even close. In fact, you’re living life the way it …

Rachel’s Note: Peace Is The Word

When Margit first suggested the topic of “Peace” for my guest-edited issue, I rolled my eyes. I envisioned big peace signs on garish tie-dye with that hippy-dippy bubble font, maybe worn by long-haired hippies burning incense and telling each other they were blessed. Think Don Draper on a mountaintop. It just seemed so banal and saccharine, the “thoughts and prayers” of holiday topics. Then I remembered that I have a baby daughter and that every time we leave our home I am terrified about what might happen to her in this world. Then I remembered that this relatively new fear for me is old hat for a black person running into a cop. Then I remembered that I maxed out my personal giving donating to the refugee crisis, though then there were other reasons to donate: to Planned Parenthood, to Sandy Hook Promise and Everytown USA. And there always seems to be a GoFundMe campaign supporting mass shooting victims, at best for wounded survivors, at worst for funeral expenses. Then I remembered Donald Fucking Trump. At that point I was starting to feel really bad …

Margit’s Note: I’ll Be Home For Christmas

  Last weekend, I stood in front of a slew of bulb-emblazoned items and felt the rush of retail — I wanted it all. A tinsel pig. A glowing paper lantern. A stormtrooper tree skirt! (Seriously, so cool and actually quite tasteful.) I purchased the latter two, though I still covet the pig. Turns out my brother who lives in Philly bought two tinsel pigs. Weird sibling serendipity. I can’t remember the last time I stayed put for Christmas. Maybe never? My husband and I are usually on the road to one of our family homes. Our own apartment decorations have only ever been teensy little Charlie Brown table trees and holiday cards on the fridge. This year, however, because of some unforeseen, aforementioned health-related snafus, I’ll be Brooklyn-based. And I figure if I’m going to feel like crap, I might as well Santa-up my surroundings. This means, finally, a real TREE. The hubs and I nabbed the biggest we could find from one of those French Canadian guys who sell them on the sidewalk …

Margit’s Note: Let’s Go Shopping!

It’s our third annual, two-week extravaganza called the TueNight Gift Guide! Hard to believe we’ve hit year three. Whee! As per usual, our quirky little gift guide is different in that it’s personality-driven. Our contributors select the gifts of a particular type (books, home, beauty) or for a finicky recipient (the urban outdoorsman and even well, um, a few passive aggressive suggestions). We know how to please. Speaking of giving, today, December 1, is still #GivingTuesday. Consider this your friendly evening reminder that there’s still time to give to the charities that are important to you — and maybe even break a world record for gratitude. Here are just a handful of our favorite charities. You could: Save the lives of refugees at sea [Moas.eu] Plant a virtual tree in Paris [1heart1tree.org] Support girls’ education in Sierra Leone [ShesTheFirst.org] Help NYC students become better writers [826NYC.org] Feed children, the homeless and seniors [FoodBankNYC.org] Help fight for laws and policies to protect women’s rights and health [PlannedParenthood.org] There are so many ways to help — think …

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Stacy’s Note: Saying Grace

Gratitude we practice. Grace we are given. Sometime it appears when bidden. Sometimes it appears when it seems all is lost. And plenty of times, grace arrives on our doorstep even when we thought we had no use for it. We can be thankful for grace — and so many other things — as we head into this first week of the holiday season and prepare to sit down with our families (chosen or otherwise) and have the luxury of quibbling over who forgot buy the extra tube of rolls and who has to clean all the dishes, amid the plenty that surrounds us. But before we get to all that hubbub, the chaos and indulgence of our feasts, before we say grace at the Thanksgiving table, let us dwell on the very idea of grace and try to conjure this untouchable sensation that can lace the most quotidian of exchanges with the poignant call to: Stop. Breathe. Pay Attention. Feel the tingle of something you can’t quite explain run up your spine and alight …

Stacy’s Note: Breaking the Habit

In this brave new era of the quantified self — as we mine data about ourselves from sleep trackers, FitBits and productivity apps galore — one thing is frighteningly clear: We are the sum total of our habits. This is not particularly good news for many of us, as we teeter-totter on the seesaw of Good Habits and Bad Habits, trying to adopt the former and shed the latter in a way that will balance out, making us one step (or, okay, 375 FitBit steps) closer to our imagined ideal. The data we collect may tell one story — such as the symbiotic relationship between my recent weight gain and my also-recent inability to go more than one night a week without a drink or two with dinner — but it’s the other stories these habits tell that we are after this week at TueNight. The stories we tell ourselves as we wrassle with these habits. Such as… Lindsay Bell-Wheeler on never quitting…on quitting. Rita Arens on using the very mental tricks that pulled her …

Margit’s Note: Stories Out of Office

One of the nice things about working for myself, as opposed to working for Le Man, is that I can navigate my own schedule, all while wearing yoga pants. So when something pops up—oh, say, like, maybe a tennis-ball-sized ovarian cyst?— it’s a bit easier to schedule surgery. Well, at least logistically it is. But independent or not, I still have to find coverage for all manner of TueNight and Gyrate Media-related tasks. Consider this my out of the office message (or OOO, for you corporate bingo types). I’ll be offline for two weeks, recovering and — hidden bonus! — finally getting to watch House of Cards. * I’m sure I’ll eventually write about the departure of this little blob that has been hitching a ride on my right ovary for who knows how long. By that time, I can share whether I tossed out a few other things while my doc was poking around in there. “We’re going in anyway; you don’t need those tubes, right?” Ah, the indignities of midlife. But that is a …

Margit’s Note: We’ll Be Your Bae If You Tell Us What it Means

Long before Mean Girls tried to make ‘fetch’ happen, a coworker of mine was determined to make us all say everything was ‘box.’ “Huh? That is the worst word ever. No one will say that,” I said. “Yes they will. You are so ‘box.’ It is so ‘box.” “First of all, box already means like three different things,” said another coworker. “An actual box. The shape of a dress is, say, boxy. And I’m pretty sure it’s already slang for lady parts.” “Whatever. Box.” Here we were in our little Philadelphia cubby of an office, and my coworker had such lofty, zeitgeisty ambitions. Needless to say, it never took off. Over a decade later, I asked him about his botched box: “I realized the word had to be fun to say.” Slang is nothing if not fun to say. You’re part of the “in-crowd” (’50s slang!) when you know what bae means. (By the way, what does it mean?) And it’s typically the marker of the young. Sadly, you won’t find too many olds inventing new …