Twenty Questions

1. Why do airline rates change ever 3.4 seconds?
2. Why is the Bachelor still on the air?
3. And related: Why are the Bachelors ALWAYS white?
4. Why is there so much salt added to ALL processed foods?
5. ​What's the appeal of cats? Or CATS for that matter?
6. Why do women of a certain age give into the hairstyle fondly known as the 'senior afro'?
7. Why is high school pumped as the best of times?
8. Why do the people who need counseling the most, never get it?
9. Why are so many Americans hating on immigrants, while eating pizza?
10. Why are we acting like the social structure of families has no impact on education?
11. Where do babies come from? (Just checking if you're still with me.)
12. Why do talented artists like, say Lenny Kravitz and Jose James, have to go to Europe to sell out shows?
13. What is the fascination with Alex and Ani bangles?
14. How does gay marriage negatively impact you? No. Really.
15. Why are people that are the most religious often the least holy?
16. Why did the Patriots let Wes Welker go?
17. Why do Americans NEVER DRESS UP?
18. Where does the weight go when you lose it?
19. Why do some people assume your life experience is exactly like theirs?
20. What are you wondering about?​ Go on. Comment below.

What Are You Gonna Be When You Grow Up?

What are you gonna be when you grow up?

Standard question. Usually posed to a six-year-old. Generally by someone who doesn't want to be talking to a six-year-old. 

The predictable answers-- a teacher, police officer, whatever profession mommy or daddy are currently 'suggesting'--not so much the problem. The real issue? The casual planting, into young impressionable minds, of a universally belief that can easily torture them for the rest of their lives.

This concept of 'be-ing' when you 'grow up'. 

Because, truth is, aren't you just raising more questions? Like when do you grow up? And how are you supposed to 'be' once you get there? 

I'd hazard a guess most people believe the growing up part is supposed to be over and done with by 40. Wanna hazard a guess at the most depressed group of people in the United States according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention? Yes siree. The grown-ups: ages 40-59. Coincidence? Highly doubtful.

So, hey, here's a radical thought. Maybe we need to stop gauging our progress by preconceived notions and assumptions that are supposed to go along with maturity. You know, those physical, financial and professional benchmarkers ripe for self-comparison and self-loathing.

And maybe if you stop worrying about what you're going to be when you grow up, you can focus on the real task at hand.

 Of just fricken growing.

This Way Out

Rhode Island's claim to fame is vast. The good: Coffee syrup, Del's lemonade, miles of coastline, Miss Universe. And the really, really bad:  The Station nightclub fire. February 20, 2003. One hundred lives lost.

While most of the world plays the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, in the smallest state, we could probably do it in two. In other words, it's odd to meet someone whom you don't share any common relationships. Consequently, in times of tragedy, we all hurt.

Last weekend, when the news came about the Brazil blaze, it really hit home, maybe even harder than a tragedy over five thousand miless away from our shores, typically would. That's because the similarities between Saturday's Brazil tragedy and the one in my home state were sickeningly similar. 

John P. Barylick, a trial lawyer at Wistow, Barylick, Sheehan & Loveley PC and author of Killer Show: The Station Nightclub Fire, America's Deadliest Rock Concert, lays it all out in an outstanding essay for USA Today. 

If you're pressed for time, the most important take-away, to me anyway, is this:

"One of the most important lessons I learned from my experience in this case was that we all need to be aware that we cannot count on bands, concert promoters, club owners, bouncers -- or even fire officials -- to ensure our safety. We need to be our own best fire marshals. To be safe, go with your gut. If it feels wrong, or dangerous, leave. No show is worth your life."

After the fire at the Station, this was my mantra. I had a hard time returning to the live music scene at all, and when I did, it certainly wasn't belly up to the bar. I spent the evening two feet from the emergency exit, ready to bust open the escape hatch. I remember thinking: Will I ever be able to just enjoy the experience again?

Thankfully, yes. But, I realized this weekend, as the fear dissipated, so did my vigilance to develop an exit strategy. This, I am not proud of. So, I'm taking the Brazil nightclub incident as my own personal wake-up call. I will, once again be that, some would say, Debbie Downer, pointing out where the closest exit is and designating a meeting space outside, should something go horribly wrong.

 And if anything gets lit inside, beyond a birthday candle on a cake, trust, my crew is out.

I challenge you to do the same.

Your life might depend on it.

New Year's Resolution: Adios Passive-Aggressives

The BEST thing that ever happened to me (besides discovering Ouidad)? Having my boyfriend, now husband, call out my fighting style. 

Back in the day, I met any sort of conflict or difference of opinion with stone cold, painful silence. A zipping of the lips. An 'I'll Show You' mentality. When we got together, twenty plus years ago, Andre had every frustrated right to kick me to the curb. 

I would have been really pissed about that. 

And he SHOULD have known why. 

Crazy, right? Indeed it was. The idea that you can disagree with someone, not engage in ANY discussion and somehow the other party should not only just KNOW why you're angry, but instinctively know how to fix it. 

And while my communication skills have vastly improved since those days, the last remaining bastion of the past, has been my willingness to be verbally assaulted by passive-aggressives. Case in point. A recent conversation, if you can even call it that:

"Dawn. I didn't even know you were here."

"Yeah. I was at the kids' table for a while."

"Stranger." Pause. "Strange."

 "Ah, yeah. Do you know who my parents are? You'd be strange too."

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not really in the habit of calling people 'strange'. Especially outloud. Especially during holiday celebrations. In my (mentally sound/balanced) world, not only does that classify as socially unacceptable behavior, but 'them sort of seem like fighting words'.

Yet, instead of busting out with a perfectly well deserved, 'what's with the word association?' or 'um, why exactly are you insulting me to my face'. Or even, 'hmm, you seem a little angry; what are you really trying to say', I opted for my standard coping mechanism:  deflection by humor. You know, so no one feels uncomfortable, or anything.

Seriously? No. More.

Don't worry. I'm not giving up my insight or understanding of the pained person actually hurling the insults. I will still realize that these quick, mean spirited digs have much more to do with repressed years of deep hurt of their own doing, and really nothing to do with me. At all. 

But this year, I've actively decided not to play along. Nope. Sorry. Not only am I refusing to accept blame for anyone's personal failures, other than my own, I am no longer going to believe that somehow this is my penance to pay for having the gift of self-awareness. Or for choosing to be happy. Or for having a solid marriage, loving relationships, the ability to make good financial decisions, being committed to health, learning more about the world around me, enjoying a good lip gloss or whatever it is about my life that seems to make it okay for you, to hate on me.

So, passive-aggressives, in 2013, you can continue to hurl your most angry fastball my way, but be aware that this chick is ready to play. And if you don't want me to go all Dr. Phil on your ass, how about we just agree to the most simple of adages:  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

Role Play

For two years, this has been the view from my office chair:

My husband Andre shelled out ten bucks to a Washington Square Park street vendor in New York City, on a sweltering June day, to buy this 1950's tin goddess. Once home, I gleefully hung her directly over my desk. 

This became my motto.

Not because I'm a bitch, but because, drum roll please, I'm not.

Of course, at times I can be bitchy (usually when I'm hungry or tired). Or impatient (usually when I'm crafting a wreath out of dollar store ornaments at 4:30am). But I can also be thoughtful, generous and just plain silly. Truth is, my personality runs the gamut in the calm, controlled way of a well-adjusted, usually happy, always self-reflective person, living a full, beautiful life.

 The slickness of my wise, all-knowing, retro muse, with full-on red lips and nails to make her naturally more authoritative, is that she's not actually commenting about bitchiness at all. Nope. To fully understand this chick, sort of like her owner, you've got to look beyond the obvious first layer, to uncover a message that goes a whole lot deeper. 

To me, as she rests casually, elbow on knee, bangles a-dangling, my girl is issuing a warning about the danger of perceptions, or more accurately, misperceptions. Her message? A plea to carefully consider the movies of our lives, examine the roles given to each member of our supporting cast, then ask if theirs is a honest, accurate and up-to-date depiction. 

And rest assured. If you haven't auditioned for the part, you should never accept it.