You are overdrawn ...

Off on a tanget
Issue #98: Debt sucks

I really needed that shirt. Oh, and those concert tickets, and, all that girly-stuff from Sophora. No really, I did. And all those purchases from iTunes are totally necessary.

OK, they aren't, but that's what I tell myself when I have to look at my bank statement each month. Even now I'm getting chills down my spine just thinking about it.

So here's the thing about being in your 20s. It seems no matter what we do, we're always in debt.

I don't know if it's our failure to see the big picture, massive student loans, the constant need to upgrade our technology, or just our inability to balance a checkbook that's left many of us in this situation.

A good number of my friends have been able to save money, but it's been an uphill battle to do so. We're constantly bled dry with all of the post-college expenses of moving, job hunting, graduate school or simply trying to stay afloat in this economy. (Not to mention gas prices!)

Some (including I) have given up going out to dinner, to bars -- actually, going out period -- in hopes of saving something. Anything. Just realizing how much money I threw down on beer and vodka while in the City freaked me out. Now I'm dryer than the prohibition.

I know what some people are saying. We don't know the value of a dollar. We need to learn to save better. We need to learn to spend wisely.

Well let me tell you.

I KNOW. I KNOW. I KNOW THIS ... NOW.

It took more than 10 years for me to grasp this concept.

It's like an unending cycle of pain. Just when you think you've paid off all the bills, some "life event" screws up your plans -- and there you are, giving up beer again to save money.

Even the BFF who's known for her wise monetary investments is going to be like me soon --because of grad school. "Being poor sucks. I'm not even broke yet, and I can sense the pain," she said. Grad school is a money hungry machine that takes everything you've got, and then asks for your first-born.

So here I am, realizing I didn't need that shirt or all that makeup. What I needed was to be out of debt so I could lease a car or think about buying a home. Maybe I didn't need those tickets to the Foo Fighters ... well, I did need those.

On the iPod: Ashley Parker Angel, "Let U Go"

I have gas problems

Most of the time, 26 doesn't feel old to me; then again most times I'm not talking about gas prices. When it comes to that topic, I feel freaking ancient.

See, I remember the good old days (imagine me in a rocking chair, knitting) when I could fill my tank for fewer than 20 bucks. Then again, at the time, I was also listening to alternative music, wearing flannel and waxing poetic with Angela Chase.

Simply put, I was in high school and had just gotten my drivers license. It was a rite of passage, as was learning the value of a dollar each time I went to the pump.

Plus, you get to play that game where you see if you can get the price to be exactly $5.00 ... $10.00 ... $35.00. It's a fun game; I got really good at it in college.

So a little more than 10 years later, I feel like I'm getting robbed each time I fill my tank.

In fact, I feel like the frat guys in "Animal House." Thank you sir, may I have another?

So what does this all have to do with Jersey? Well beyond soaring gas prices that leave me choosing between filling up and buying groceries, I find myself feeling awk-weird every time I go to the pump.

Why you ask? Simple. I'm not allowed to pump my own gas.

Now listen, I know you guys are used to it, but it's weird for me. W-E-I-R-D.

First off, when someone else pumps my gas in Austin, it's because I'm in a full service station. Where they also check the fluids in my car, wash the windows and check the air in the tires. You pay more for the service and tip the attendant.

The thing is, finding a full service station in Austin is like finding the Holy Grail, the diamond in the rough, queso in Jersey. It's impossible.

While in Jersey, there's always a good chance I'll forget and start to get out of my car. In turn, I'll get peculiar looks and slowly pretend that I needed something from the convenience store. (I didn't really need those CornNuts, but I'll take them.)

It really boggles the mind of visiting friends and family. I tried explaining it to my mom, but it was about as successful as explaining a jug handle. (Another thing I just don't get, AT ALL!)

She asked all the same questions I did. "Do you tip them? Do they check the tires? Why do they do this? Does gas cost more or less because of it? Can we tip them? Will they check the oil?"

All great questions, and I had the same answer for all.

"I don't know."

So today as I filled up the tank for $30 I realized something -- who needs groceries this week anyways? Good thing I bought those CornNuts.

On TV: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Let the fighting begin ...

There are a few controversial issues I don't like talking about; I always end up in fights, and that's just not healthy for friendships. In fact I make it a rule not to talk about politics, religion or the death penalty. I believe people have the right to their own opinions and beliefs, but seriously, I don't want to get into it.

That said, I'm about to do something I hate. Talk about a controversial issue. I'm about to unleash Pandora's box. I'm sorry.

So here we go: dating in the workplace.

There, I said it. I mean it's no TomKat, but it's a controversial topic. Everyone's got an opinion. Everyone. It doesn't matter what your age, race, sexual orientation or gender are, because this topic is universal.

A good number of people I know are PDC (pro dating co-workers) and ADC (against dating co-workers).

PDCs are totally for it; they date co-workers (or are willing too) and don't feel it's a problem. Some say it's never an issue if they work with their significant other; it's great to have them around and see so much of each other. Sure working with them 'could' cause problems, but so could a lot of things. You have to work at it, just like other relationships. Many say it's the PDA levels they need to watch at work, as kissy-kissy face can lead to a gag reflex among co-workers.

ADCs say they'll never do it (or do it again); dating a co-worker is just never a good idea. Things can end up messy. Seeing someone for that much time can drive you mad or lead you to more drinking. (No really, people have told me that.) What happens if one of you has more power or status in the workplace? What happens if you break up -- could you bring yourself to still work with them? It's not like you could "just avoid them" or ship them to a small island off the coast of Guam.

Then there are people like me who straddle the fence.

I'm not saying I would, but I'm not saying I wouldn't. I've seen it go both ways.

One of the best couples I know met at work (years and years ago) and got engaged recently. Back in the day, I saw them interact in and out of the work place and it gave me hope. They somehow found a balance, as she was in charge of the place and he was an underling.

Then again, I've seen the worst: where the two break-up and hate each other. No, REALLY HATE EACH OTHER and make the environment hostile for everyone. Dude, I never like choosing side, much less at work. Come on, do I really need to be dragged into this?

A good friend put it this way: I don't think anyone is really looking to date a co-worker. It just seems like we fall into it; it's proximity. It happens.

Here's hoping if I do fall, that I land softly.

On the iPod: Damone, "Out Here All Night"

You looked hotter on MySpace

Off on a tangent:
ISSUE #78 - MySpace

Living away from home you find ways to reconnect and stay in touch with people.

I found salvation in MySpace. But now it seems to have stolen my soul, as I check daily to see if there are new comments, friend requests and blog entries.

Before I moved here, it was one of those things I checked every now and then. But since moving to Jersey, it's become like breathing.

Why has it stolen my soul?

Well, it really hasn't.

But one of my friends told me that, and I'm pretty sure she's right. It seems like all I do is check that freakin' site.

Another told me it was like getting a new toy, you'll play with it for a while and then it'll get boring.

I hope so; I can only be witty on people's comment section for so long.

Have you ever had a random person message you or try to post a comment?

You know, when they look you up because you're in the "area" and they want to say "Hi." But they don't have a picture in their profile and their only friend is Tom. That's a red flag, and the reason "Block User" was invented.

On the iPod: Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, "Show Your Bones"

Do your thing on the runway.

There was a catwalk, a DJ, a bar, some food, awards and the press.

No, it wasn't the Oscars, Globes or New York Fashion Week.

This was the NJPA Awards in Trenton last night. That's the New Jersey Press Association for you non-newspaper types.

As a first-place winner, I was extended an invitation to the banquet to receive my award and mingle with peers and, unbeknownst to me, to walk a runway.

Now, from the moment I walked into the place, I knew this was going to have to be a blog. Heck, the journey there made me realize I needed to get this on the Web.

So here we go:

* I leave more than an hour early to get to Trenton. Come on, it's me -- I'm always late, but for some reason not only did I arrive on time, but early. I know. Most of you who know me well might assume that hell has just frozen over.

* I get my nametag and feel underdressed. Guys are in suits, women are in heels; I'm in pants and some flats. Now I know to break out the Kenneth Cole shoes next time.

* I attempt to mingle with people. Here's the problem: I don't really know that many people. (Hello, this was my first social event with other Jersey journalists, and I'm from Texas. Cut me some slack.) As that seems to not work, I go outside and call my friend in the City; I want to make an attempt to at least "look" cool. I don't think it worked.

* Someone I know talks to me and introduces me to other people. Hallelujah. I explain my Southern roots, how to pronounce my last name and the "fried Twinkie." The lights begin to flicker like at an opera house, alerting us to dinner. Pretty fancy.

* The Asbury bunch sit together, and dinner is served. It's chicken, the safety entree; it always is at banquets like these. You know what I'm talking about. The only thing was we couldn't identify the vegetable. It was green and small and oozing some sort of sauce. We asked the waitress what it was; she had to get a menu and still couldn't tell us. I left it on the plate.

* There was a "Woo-Hoo Girl." While one of the Journalist of the Years is awarded and while this guy talks about the war in Iraq and the environment, she woo hoos as loud as possible. Come on, it was a serious moment; you don't "WOO HOO" a serious moment. I don't know who it was, but I figured it was time to cut her off from the bar.

* The awards start, and I don't understand what category is being award. What I did find out: We must walk down a RUNWAY to get our award. Yeah, you read that right. Us journalist types strutted our stuff to get our award after our names were called, while a DJ spun some tunes. It was strange, but also sort of awesome. It may have not been "Project Runway," but I'll take it.

* Runway moments included four "Entourage" dudes standing on stage and strutting their stuff with their Vincent Chase-like leader, everything from The Beatles to Sean Paul blaring while awardees walked the catwalk, and some dude rockin' the runway -- arms up, award over his head and pumping the crowed up. Dude, you rocked!

I know this is long, but come on -- you know you laughed at the idea of journalists walking a catwalk. And if nothing else, you learned that fried Twinkies exist.

No iPod, but music I heard during the night: Sean Paul, "Temperature"; The Beatles "Hard Days Night"; KC and the Sunshine Band, "Play That Funky Music"; Kenny Loggins, "Footloose"; "Do You Love Me" from "Dirty Dancing" and some sort of techno music (and me without my glow sticks!)

I blog; therefore I am

I knew at some point this would happen: I would blog about blogging.

So here we go.

I think blogging is like cheap therapy.

No really, I think it's becoming our new version of journaling.

Sometimes you really need to get things off your chest; you just need to put it out there.

And in this day and age, the "there" is becoming the great abyss of the World Wide Web.

There are blogs for everything, and for everyone. I've got friends with photo blogs (she's actually getting her Ph.D. in neuroscience), and photo friends with "word" blogs.

I've seen some by grandparents boasting about their grandkids. And some about travels to exotic lands, like Milwaukee.

But many seem to be about day-to-day life and how people are dealing with pressures of work, school, dating and such.

Now back to the whole cheap therapy thing.

I think in some ways this is awesome. If it helps relieve some of the stress and gets your blood pressure down, that's awesom-rific.

Then again, if you're like me, you could constantly wonder if people are getting the wrong impression of you. You start to wonder, "is this funny, is this too serious, is it too much or to little? Do they 'get' me?"

But if you're like me, you'll end up throwing your hands up and saying "whatever."

The thing about blogging: you're almost always guaranteed to have someone blogging about a worse topic than yours.

Like the dude blogging about Milwaukee.

On the iPod: Lostprophets, "Start something"

Cigars, cigarettes, the Patch?

***LUCY GETS SERIOUS. SERIOUSLY.***

"Table for four please."

"Do you want SMOKING or NONSMOKING?"

The girls (smokers) and I (nonsmoker) look at each other dumbfounded and mouths open, all thinking the same thing: "You can smoke in here?" No one says anything, and instead we look at one another in bewilderment.

My friend steps up, "NONSMOKING?"

"How archaic," I thought when this happened last summer. I had no idea until that moment you could even smoke at restaurants anymore. Did they need special permits, did they need air filtration systems, and was it like this everywhere in Jersey?

I figured you could smoke at bars and concert venues; places where most of the money came from liquor sales.

I was wrong. You could smoke almost anywhere, or it seemed like it.

Austin, my hometown, has had a smoking ban for a while. While some of the larger bars and establishments fell under a grandfather clause, others need special air filtration systems to allow smoking in their facilities.

That was until last year, when Austin went smoke free. Now only a handful of places have special permits.

When I moved to the Garden State and was asked, "smoking or nonsmoking," it was more than a little shocking.

I wondered if there were dividing lines between the sections, like when you get mad at a sibling and lay a piece of masking tape on the floor. What was to stop the smoke coming into our area, what did the wait staff think of this, what did patrons think of this?

Now, I can tell some smokers are getting irate with me. But listen, 80 to 90 percent of my friends have smoked at one time or another. I've been in the "smoking sections" of bars, club, diners, bowling alleys and restaurants. I know it's your choice to smoke, and why should it be taken away?

But times, they are a-changing. With new information about smoking, its link to cancer and how harmful secondhand smoke is, is it any wonder the state of New Jersey enacted this smoking ban?

Gone are the days of Joe Camel, smoking on airplanes and cigarettes being recommended by doctors. Instead we have things like truth.com, surgeon general warnings and the Patch.

To all my smoking friends out there who haven't been told this enough this week: Thank you for not smoking.

***SERIOUS MOMENT OVER. SERIOUSLY.***

On the iPod: Queens of the Stone Age, "Songs for the deaf"

Where are my sesame sticks?

When the Whole Foods Market opened in Middletown, saying I was ecstatic would be an understatement. Going into a WFM is like being home, if only for a moment.

When I found out, I did what some may call a "happy dance."

I was hoping for things like gelato, raw foods, and sushi and sandwich bars to be included in the floor plans. But then again, when it comes to Whole Foods, I'm somewhat spoiled.

I grew up near the original store in Austin, and as a kid frequented it to get my two favorite snacks: banana chips and sesame sticks. Now, some 25 years after it opened, the remodeled flagship store sits on a city block with underground parking and valet grocery service. Oh and the gelato, raw foods, sandwich and sushi bars are also there.

This made me super happy, but there was one thing that I couldn't escape ...

Now repeat after me: Whole Foods originated in Austin, Texas.

Go on. Repeat it. I'll wait.

Good.

Now, why am I making you do this? Well, it seems on a monthly basis someone tries to tell me or convince me Whole Foods is from California. Now, this happened a few times while I was in Florida, but since moving up here, it's taken on a life of its own.

The conversation usually goes like this, "Dude, you know Whole Foods started in California. It's so West Coast, don't you think so?" Now this is said with so much assurance that challenging them almost seems like a fool's errand.

Hello, my name is Fool.

I then proceed into a diatribe that rivals most political officials. I take a deep breath and go into the whole story: How the original story opened in Austin, how it was a small shack on Lamar in 1980, how it grew into the legend it is now.

It's only when I produce photographical proof of the landmark store and world headquarters at 5th and Lamar (pictued above) that people seemed satisfied. Seriously.

Now, if you excuse me, I have some banana chips calling my name.

On the iPod: Kelly Clarkson, "Breakaway"

Confetti head: An Easter tradition

In Texas, we have an Easter tradition of making Cascarones.

First off, it's pronounced kas-ka-ron-nes.

What are these gems? They're hollowed out eggshells filled with confetti and designed to be cracked on someone else's head.

This is the moment when you look puzzled, much like I do when people mention pork roll. But trust me -- this is one tradition you'll want to get in on.

The 10-second history: Historians traced their roots to China, where eggshells were filled with perfume power and often given as gifts. Marco Polo then brought them from Asia to Europe. Carlotta, wife of Emperor Maximilian, took them from Europe to Mexico during her husband's rule of Mexico. When in Mexico, the perfume power was replaced with confetti. Then in the 1970s, South Texans revived the tradition, helping it spread through the Southwest.

How do I make these wonderful treats? I'm glad you asked.

What your need: dye color tabs, vinegar, paper towels, spoon, confetti and eggs (*Note: My family will save eggshells all year long to have dozens of Cascarones for Easter. But you can make as many or as few as you want.),

STEP 1: Drain eggs by cutting a small hole in one end of the egg with a kitchen knife. WASH EGG SHELL VERY WELL WITH DISH SOAP/ HANDLE WITH CARE. (TIP: My BFF suggests poking a pin-sized hole at the top end of the egg, and blow the yoak and whites out the larger opening.)

STEP 2: Dye the empty, dry eggshells. You can use the same dye you would for hard-boiled eggs. Just make sure you're gentle with the eggshells. (TIP: Use two or three dye tablets instead of one for more vibrant colors.)

STEP 3: Take your DRY dyed eggshells and get them ready to be stuffed with confetti. The best way is to dump the confetti in a bowl and fill each egg with a spoon or your fingers.

STEP 4 (OPTIONAL): There is some debate about this step. Some, like me, skip this step; others swear by it. Simply take a small piece of tissue paper and glue it to the egg to cover the hole. Let it dry completely.

TIP: Smash the egg in your hand then rub it into the other person's hair. This will optimize confetti coverage.

Now, if I can only get y'all to barbecue on Easter; that would be awesome.

On the iPod: Damien Rice, "O"

Sorry, soul mate unavailable ...

Off on a tangent
Issue # 54 Online dating

My sister used one of those online dating services.

My sister is UNMATCHABLE so they say.

My sister's not even old enough to get into a bar.

Now, before any of this started, I was skeptical of online dating services.

You know the ones where they tell you there's a perfect match for everyone. Where the happy couples hold hands and laugh and make lovey-dovey eyes at each other. The ones more and more people are using to find a date, to find a match, to find their soul mates based on a "profile."

Now, if you're reading this and saying, "Hey, that's me. It worked for me." Then please know this ... I'm happy for you. Really. I just wish my sister could have found the same happiness and not been told she's UNMATCHABLE.

Let's note that my sister is smart, creative, funny and a knockout. She's the one who frequently gets hit on by well-known recording artists and has Hollywood-types put their number in her cell phone.

In the day of speed dating and the age of divorce, should we turn to online dating to help us find our one and only? Should we take the time to fill out a profile -- that makes us rank our life in order of importance -- to help us find a suitable match? Or should we do what we've done for ages and go to a bar?

I wish I knew the answer to these questions. I wish there were an easy way to find that perfect person for each of us, but "date" seems to be a four-letter word for most. It seems more and more, we need a little push in the pursuit of a significant other.

Now my sister has another push toward finding a relationship: A friend is playing matchmaker for her.

At least they're not promising to find her a perfect match; just a date for Friday night.

On the iPod: Jack's Mannequin, "The Lights and Buzz"

I'm a sucker for guys in eyeliner

Billie Joe Armstrong. Mike Dirnt. Tre Cool.

Green Day.

One of the perks of living in this area is the line-up of concerts that come our way. Had I not moved up here, I would have never had one of the best concert experiences to date.

Now, I'm no concert rookie; my top-10 includes Pearl Jam, the Ramones, Beastie Boys, NIN, David Bowie, Weezer and REM.

Simply put: I'm a concert junkie. This being said, I wanted -- no, needed -- to see Green Day. But I missed my opportunity to get tickets to the Atlantic City show. There I was like an addict thinking about throwing down $200+ for a ticket from an "online ticket agent."

But I didn't. I figured I didn't get the tickets for a reason.

I was right. I ended up with more than I could have imagined: four floor tickets to Green Day at Giants Stadium.

GIANTS STADIUM! GREEN DAY!

Before I knew it, the concert was upon us. I was skeptical. Stadium shows are notorious for being bad; unless you get really good seats, you usually can't even see the band. I didn't know if I would be able to see anything from the floor.

My friend Stephanie and I arrived early to stake out a place on the floor and to get some over-priced food in our stomachs.

This was it, the moment of truth.

The truth was awesome.

Unbeknownst to me, we were able to get arms' length from the stage. There they were in full view; it was mind-blowing. I had been waiting to see them since I was in high school.

And like a schoolgirl, I screamed with glee the moment they took the stage. I sang my heart out to each song and threw my hands up when Billie Joe told us too. It was a moment.

During one of the sets, I did a 360-degree turn. When else was I going to be on the turf of Giants Stadium with a sold-out crowd? It was one of those moments where I realized, "Dude, I'm living in Jersey."

So there it was, one of the best shows I've seen, fireworks and all.

THANK YOU NEW JERSEY!
*Imagine a microphone in hand, standing on a stage*

On the iPod: Bush, "Sixteen Stone"

Shacking up, living alone and all that

Off on a tangent:
ISSUE #15 - Relationships in Your 20s

For some reason, dating in your 20s has been a big topic with people this week. I don't know where it's coming from. But there it is, like the elephant in the room that no one likes to talk about, but we do anyway.

A good number of people I know are living together, engaged, married or married with kids. I think it's awesome that they can find someone in this crazy mixed-up world. Plus the girly-girl in me loves to romanticize about things like soul mates and "the one."

The winter issue of Jetty got me wondering: Is moving in with someone something I should be thinking about? Heck, is dating someone long-term something I really need to consider?

And then it hit me. I don't like to share. Chalk it up to being an only child. Whatever it is, I like to have sole possession of the remote control, and I never keep my apartment clean.

My BFF told me she didn't want to go to her 10-year high school reunion because she wasn't married with kids. That's what most people expected from her and her classmates. I told her it was ridiculous. If these people really cared about her, they wouldn't be concerned about her social life, but would congratulate her on all her accomplishments. (*Note: She's about to get her second master's degree.)

After I had been here awhile, someone asked me if my mom wanted me to settle down. I remarked that she would be happy if I stopped moving every year to a new apartment or city. This was settled for me, for now: Living in the same place for more than a year and buying "grown-up" furniture. (Thank you, IKEA.)

Last year, I renewed the lease on my current apartment. It may not be shacking up with someone, but it's a long-term relationship to me.

On the iPod: Artic Monkeys, "Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not"

When Lucy met HBO ...

So I did it.

I got HBO.

I had to. It was a moral imperative. I never listened to the chatter about "The Sopranos" before. I didn't care who was sick or who got whacked.

Then Season Six began, and it started to get spoiled. All the TV channels flashed Tony getting shot. My co-workers/friends/family talked about the show. I tried to tune them out; I wanted to watch the whole season -- not just hear about bits and pieces.

It's worse than missing an episode of "Lost" and trying to not get people to talk about it.

Then it happened. During the Good Life photo shoot, someone said, "Can you believe Tony's in a coma?"

I couldn't believe it. There it was. It was spoiled. The dude apologized. But I was mad. Not even two episodes into the show, and it was spoiled.

That night I was still fuming and wanted to watch the new season.

Instead I tried to On Demand a movie. But, I didn't have the pin to purchase it. I didn't even know there was a pin, much less the actual number. So I had to call the cable company at 11:53 p.m. (yeah, I know -- I can't believe I remember that either).

After the pin matter was settled, I asked casually, "How much for HBO?"

She gave me a price. But I didn't hear it -- I only remember that it was under $20 -- I didn't care. She said could I get HBO On Demand for a month for free. FREE.

My mind raced to watching "The Sopranos" whenever I wanted. I was sold. Eleven HBOs and HBO On Demand. Then came the cherry. I got them in seconds. SECONDS.

And what would be starting at that exact moment? That's right: "The Sopranos."

Sometime things just fall into place and are meant to be. This was one of them.

I don't know why it took me so long to get into this show. Maybe moving to Jersey gave me more reason to watch, or helped me appreciate it more. Whatever it was, I'm lovin' Tony S. in my life.

On the iPod: My Chemical Romance, "Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge"

You spring forward I'll fall back

I'm all for falling back; I love gaining an hour. It's this whole spring forward thing that sucks.

I didn't even know until midnight that it was going to happen.

Now your saying "Lucy, this happens each year. How can you possibly be surprised?"

Well, I knew at some point the time gods would make us spring forward; I just didn't know it was going to happen this morning.

Now there are only three clocks in my life that are right -- cell phone, cable box and computer -- and they all reset automatically.

Even when I got to work today the clocks were wrong. I was so confused.

Not to mention my internal clock is still set to Central Time, an hour behind Jersey time.

Now lets make matters worse.

I'm notorious for being late to everything and anything. Really, check it out:
1) My mom says this started in the womb, as I was two weeks late.
2) Friends have taken to telling me to be at places 30 minute before I really need to be. Some have even started to make it an hour.
3) People say I have my own time; "Lucy time" is half an hour after normal time. Much like party time, less like Miller time.

Currently telling time for me is like a bad SAT word problem:

If you take the actual time, subtract one hour for Central Time, add 30 minutes for Lucy time, and add 30 minutes for being late, what time is it?
a) Lucy time
b) Daylight Savings Time
c) Party time
d) None of the above

If I did the math correctly, then I'm on time. Who would have known?

On the iPod: Gorillaz, "Demon Days"