You Thought

I’d be back sooner — with tales of splendor and laughter.

Didn’t you?

But consider the evidence:

3 days.

48 bands.

45,000 people.

100+ degree afternoons/mornings/evenings/all fahhreaking hours of all fahhreaking days.

A million beers, jack & cokes, mimosas, screwdrivers [I'm starting to get nauseous again], bloody mary’s, shots of tequila and whatever came after those.

A million more fits of laughter.

1 party-size bag of peanut m&m’s.

Hours of the best [no seriously, we're, um, awesome] do-si-do’ing Southern California had ever seen.

And as much fun as I’d ever had.

Really, it’s a miracle I’m awake at all.

Thank you [again and again and again] to a great group of friends that feel like family. I miss you, and it, all.

Also, to Toby Keith, you were amazing.

How to Pack for a Music Festival

Posted by Madison Vain

Go to the dark corners of your closet. Find the bag full of swimsuits you naïvely assumed you’d need in New York.

Grab all the suits.

Get them? All of them?

Excellent. Throw them in your suitcase — forget folding, they don’t wrinkle.

Now, where are your jean cutoffs?

Wait, first…did you do something about how pale your legs have become since moving north?

No? Alright well, yeesh, um, too late now! Grab extra sunscreen.

Do you have a cowboy hat? Awesome, add it to the pile. You’ll have to wear it on the plane, seeing as how your heart would crush with it in your luggage.

Where are your tank tops? You know, the Coca-Cola red one? The Budweiser one? What about that lace one you can’t actually ever wear because it’s see-through? Justify the purchase of each and pack them.

Call your friends — make sure they’re doing the same thing.

Get distracted, start talking about jobs/bills/boys/moms/dads.

Realize you’re leaving for the airport in 2 short hours — panic, hang up on everyone, plug in your computer, update your travel playlist, triple-check the whereabouts of your I.D.

Take a shower. Chances are you didn’t this morning.

Dust off your cowboy boots. Yes, it will be 95 degrees this weekend. Yes, you will wear cowboy boots and socks the entire time.

Ponder your travel outfit. Why is this so hard?

Revert back to your trusty black vans, black leggings, black tank top and cargo jacket — whatever, comfort is key and you’re still a six-hour flight from the California sun.

Zip the bag, grab a snack, pat your purse until you hear the familiar jingle of apartment keys, and you’re off to a weekend of disproportionate fun.

WAIT! The wristbands! You need the wristbands!

Now you’re ready.

Off to Stagecoach — see y’all on the other side!

Leaving My First [Real] Job

Posted by Madison Vain

I’ve done it. I’ve been employed by a real company long enough that I can now leave it, and work for a new, also real company.

During this tenure, I like to think I’ve wizened up a bit. I mean, I must have, right? No, seriously, I must have, ask my mom — she needs it to happen.

My biggest lessons, thus far:

1. Though I once likened it to Greek mythology…it turns out bank account balances can have more than three digits.

2. Except for right after you move to New York, find an apartment, grocery shop once and buy an unlimited metro pass…then three digits returns to a seemingly impossible luxury.

3. It takes a while to figure out exactly what time you need to wake up in the morning, but once you have, you’ll get up at that precise moment every.single.day. Never will you stray from this minute. For me, 22 minutes is perfect. 22, not 21. 21 is a crisis.

4. It is possible to simultaneously love and loathe free time. I love it because it’s rare and I’m tired and my computer crashed this week so I’m behind on emails and I’ve got that fahhhreaking presentation later and what I really need [NEED!] to do is take a minute and find myself in a mug/pot of coffee on the couch. But then I loathe it because…wtf do you do with it? How was I never bored in undergrad? So much free time. I think I actually transcended the space-time continuum with the amount of unobstructed, obligation-free time I had — especially that one afternoon when I made 100 homemade, vegan, almond joys.

5. There is NO gossip like work gossip. I mean, you heard what she said, right?

6. Just because you are gainfully employed does not mean you suddenly acquire the other necessary skills of adulthood, like the Ability to File Taxes or the Ability to Understand Your Credit Score.

7. Friday afternoon from 4:00-5:00pm is often more fun than anything you do over the weekend. The anticipation. The stolen glances at the clock. The way the 45-year-old down the hall plays the Best of the 80′s radio on Spotify…it’s a magical combination and the closest thing we get to Christmas morning as adults [are we calling ourselves that now? are we?].

8. When you spend eight hours a day less than ten steps from an unlimited source of free coffee, it only takes a few weeks before you’re a shade or two shy of meth addiction.

9. It doesn’t matter how many times your bosses, parents, or bank tellers urge you to start putting money away for retirement, it still feels like you’re lighting a significant portion of your paycheck on fire.

10. oh TAXES. I get it now.

11. Sometimes, you want to define yourself by what you do from 9-5: “I tend gardens, therefore I am a gardener.” Yes, you are a great gardener [go you!], but you’re so much more than that! You may also find your self-worth becoming inextricably tied to your salary. It’s important to remember, should this begin happening to you, to smack yourself clear across your face. Twice, for good measure.

12. When in doubt, shut your mouth. Shut.your.mouth.

13. For sheer, unadulterated adrenaline, replacing one of those enormous Poland Springs water jugs has to be right up there with base jumping.

14. There are two kinds of people in the world: the people who hold full-time, demanding desk jobs and manage to not gain weight and people I don’t irrationally hate.

15. You better hope you work with some cool people — so far it’s been the best [only?] way to make friends post-college. Stop staring at their cubicle and talk to them! They’re yours for as long as neither of you get fired…or leave [sorry Alyssa!].

16. The buzz words you used to laugh at — they start falling out of your mouth fairly quickly. One day you find yourself in a meeting dropping “synergy” this and “future-focus” that, with a completely straight face. Your boss nods. Brilliant, he thinks. Suddenly you’re hyper aware of what you’re saying. The meeting ends. Numbly, you shake hands with everyone and walk, slowly, back to your desk, dumbfounded by what you’ve become. Two more hours until you can go home.

17. No matter how many afternoons ended with your forehead glued to your keyboard in defeat, you’ll be sad to go. Packing up your desk will be no fun. Many thanks to Sports Illustrated and everyone who made it as rewarding as it was — if all else fails, we’ll always have Vegas.

The Lone Bellow

Posted by Madison Vain

I once told myself a tale…a grand tale, really…one in which I would stop writing posts on Americana music and my weird/undying/never-ending/verging-on-creepy obsession with it.

I swear it sounded real when I told it, but as it turns out, ’twas nothing more than a myth.

The Lone Bellow is my new band and they are Americana in the best and finest sense of the word — hazy, nostalgic, raw.

I admit, they’ve got a lot in common with their contemporaries: The Civil Wars [may they rest in peace], Mumford & Sons, Lady Antebellum, The Giving Tree Project and The Lumineers.

But that doesn’t tell the whole story. Because you listen, and while you get it — you get the southern, woodsy soul they’re laying on you — you’re acutely aware that something…something is different here…

So, like any burgeoning fan, you research. And here’s what you come up with:

…they’re from Brooklyn — I mean, no one saw that one coming. Brooklyn Country Music…is not even a thing. But positing northern roots in decidedly southern sounds is perhaps the secret sauce?

…there’s a banjo and a mandolin in this outfit — whoa! crafty! Is this the trick?

And you furrow your brow, scrunch your nose and try to make sense of it all — how it works, why it works, what about it keeps you craving more…but then you just sort of get lost in it — the banjos plinking, the voices rolling, the contemplative piano cords…cording?

Anyway, the lyrics wash over you, swell in your chest, and you give in.

That’s what makes them different, irresistible. They’re open and available and endearing in ways that are largely, and disappointingly, unfamiliar in today’s music landscape.

Like that song, that hurts. That’s tears in your craft beer, right there, and it makes as much sense in the depths of a Brooklyn winter as it does as a Music City soundtrack.

I love Zach Williams’ voice. I love mandolin player Kanene Pipkin’s smokey harmonies a bit more. And I love that guitarist Brian Elmquist so clearly understands the pluck of each song’s emotional center.

There’s not a whole lot more to say. It’s a simple outfit singing simple songs about simple emotions that all the simple people [namely, us] just get.

The Slim Life [Review]

Posted by Madison Vain

Remember when I used to link to Bess’s blog all the time?

No…like, all the time? [like here, here and here]

Well life, pesky devil that it is, has gotten in the way for a while — schedules aren’t meshing, jobs are crazy and she’s been wrapped up plotting and planning something pretty special the past few months. Enter: The Slim Life, A Nutrition, Workout & Lifestyle Guide.

Her own custom plan, designed for me and you!

Of course, I was intrigued. I’m sort of a nut when it comes to health and fitness topics — as is Bess. During our years as co-Wake Forest Demon Deacons, workouts, fueling, training and all the other necessary bits that come along with getting the most out of your body made up a hefty dose of our conversations.

Since then, Bess has become an ACSM-certified Personal Trainer an a NASM [national academy of sports medicine] Fitness Nutrition Specialist. It’s only natural that she would create this. She gets it. She lives it. It’s as much her as anything could be.

When she asked me to review her plan, I was flattered. When she asked me to be a tough critic and really tell her what I thought and not hold anything back, I was like, duh.

So I took to the plan and in 115 pages I found an endless array of drool-worthy recipes [SO many smoothies, and y'all know how I feel about smoothies], tons of workouts that have been shoved in my gym bag, a perfect amount of motivation/encouragement and ONE [only one!] instance in which a comma should have been a semi-colon.

In sum, this thing is on-point.

There are pages of detox drinks. Pages on supplements [and the tales of our trials and errors with them]. And pages of Bess — these are things she does, day in and day out. Y’all see it on her blog, of course, but I’ve seen it firsthand for years. And I don’t know if you’ve looked lately…but her body is.not.messing.around.

I would highly recommend this program — I’ll be popping in with updates as I try the 6-day fat loss and 3-day shape-up programs, various recipes [hello peanut butter chocolate chip protein bars!] and workouts so that we can really explore all 115 pages without me droning on here!

Feel free to contact me or Bess for more information/any questions you have!

Lust List

Posted by Madison Vain

When I moved to New York, I thought my days of online shopping were over. I pictured prancing off to any store, anytime I wanted — scooping up baubles and weighing myself down with shopping bags.

Turns out, I was wrong [for the first time EVER].

My online shopping ~~addiction~~ habit is here to stay, to the dismay of mailmen everywhere.

Here’s what I’ve got in my various virtual shopping carts:

1. Papyrus Beaded Necklace, from Threadsence

I picture wearing it with this dress that has just been purchased…[can we ignore the semantics for a minute and keep it on the lust list? it's still in the mail after all]

2. Ladakh Ray of Sun Dress from Swell

And, it’s not that I hate the shoes in that picture, I just prefer these:

3. Seychelles Lunar Sandal — on sale on Gilt!

Did I say ‘prefer’ earlier? Because what I meant was ‘need’. Definitely, need.

4. The Morrison Fringe Short at Free People

Don’t tell me they’re ugly…I simply couldn’t bear it.

5. And finally.. Black-on-Black Ray-Ban Aviators

Note: MOM STOP READING!!

Remember my Matthew Williamson sunglasses that I so, so dearly loved? Cherished? Adored?

They seem to have…um…gone missing. Which brings me here. To needing [am I over-using that word today?] these Ray-Bans. It’s a race between my friend Angie and I as to who owns them first — so I’m off, credit card in hand!

If You Saw Atlas…

Posted by Madison Vain

“If you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders – What would you tell him?

I…don’t know. What…could he do? What would you tell him?” Ayn Rand

Ernest Hemingway once wrote that the world is a fine place and worth fighting for. After yesterday, the easy thing to do is to agree with the second half, and the second half alone. The hard thing to do — in the face of unspeakable darkness — is to agree that it remains a fine place.

Know that choosing not to means choosing to ignore the heroes of yesterday; the countless bystanders, rescuers and runners who did not turn from those in need, but ran towards them.

Held them. Helped them. Saved them.

Which is mighty fine, indeed.

Yoga

Posted by Madison Vain

My first yoga class was 4 years ago, in Boston. I hemmed, hawed and drug my feet there — to Back Bay Studio – with my sister.

Beginner’s Vinyasa was the most painful experience…um…ever. My toes were miles from my hands. My shoulders popped every chance they got. And my hips…oh god, how did you get so uneven? Is that even normal?

Breathe, my teacher said.

Breathe.

In. Out. And then in and out, again.

I wasn’t hooked, but I showed up routinely for the rest of the summer. You see, I knew it was good for me, and at the time I was more than willing to force myself through anything “good for me” [which is, ironically, not good for you at all].

For the next three years at Wake Forest, I tried out each of Winston-Salem’s studios, fighting with my body and my mat and my mind — thinking I was improving just because I could jam myself further into each pose.

Then I found Bonnie and Elliot at Village Yoga.

And they taught me to be kind and gentle with my body. They taught me to be patient. To release my shoulders, slide them down my back and stop furrowing my brow. To quit competing with the mats next to me.

And finally, what it meant to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. In. Out. And then in and out again — with my joints and my mind and every fiber and tether of my being.

It’s been a constantly humbling journey. Today, I did nothing right in class. Nothing. I didn’t balance, I didn’t hold. I broke and found myself in child’s pose a lot…just, you know, breathing [and muttering unrepeatable curse words].

And I thought about all the things yoga has taught me…

1. Flexibility – it’s much more mental than physical.

If I had a dollar for every time someone told me they could never [omg NEVERRRRRR!] do yoga because they’re horribly un-flexible, I would probably have like, I don’t know, 314 dollars by now. But, as you practice, you realize it’s the mind that starts the fear cycle — it tenses you up, it freaks out about falling on your face, it thinks something valuable will snap if you go further. Calming the mind, with that ever-elusive breath, solves a myriad of problems [in class and otherwise].

2. Your lungs are your most sacred organ [organs? how does that work?]

You thought I’d say heart, didn’t you?

But consider the evidence: a.) if breathing is the most important skill for your practice, this makes sense, b.) you’d die without your lungs or your heart…so, why not choose lungs? and c.) the workings of the heart are totally outside our control [both its physical and emotional elements] but the workings of the lungs are totally within that control. In. Out. Expand. Contract. We do that. We’re in charge.

3. Kindness.

If there is one thing serious yogis share in common, it’s kindness. Most specifically, in regards to their own selves. They’re unlikely to make you, or themselves, feel inferior, small, or inconsequential. They won’t be mean to you — not to your face, not behind your back and definitely not on the internet or social media. They will take a deep breath [maybe a few more, if you're exceptionally agitating] and accept you. It feels nice.

4. Your body hates you. Really.

I know I just spent a lot of time telling you to love your body…but this is not a mutual thing. This is some serious unrequited love. You don’t realize it until you really start practicing…but, eventually, it dawns on you that your body is disgusted with you — with the junk you eat and the amount you drink and the very little that you sleep. So, to try to get on its good side, you start reversing such behavior. And you realize how supple and light and airy you’re feeling. And how much crap — emotional, habitual, and otherwise — you have. You unload. The bad stuff in your body. The bad stuff in your mind. The bad stuff in your heart. Gone.

5. Dust into Gold, kids.

You clever little minx, you noticed, didn’t you? That each of the aforementioned points shared a common thread — the miracle [WHOA a miracle!] of changing our bodies and selves in a positive way. That’s what’s happening in sorcery, when the shaman or wizard or whatever that dude in all the movies is that turns dust into gold does. The physical changes take a little longer to appear, but the mental changes arrive almost immediately. Your emotions, your presence, your dingy, tired soul — they all lighten. Loosen. Breathe.

And everyone notices.

And suddenly you find yourself crawling to your mat every chance you get.

The Difference A Year Makes

Posted by Madison Vain

When I carved out this little corner of the world wide web for myself, exactly one year ago, life really couldn’t have been more different.

Senior spring at Wake Forest…the rolling hills of Winston-Salem, North Carolina…an embarrassing amount [no, seriously, embarrassing] of freedom and free time…existing in a perfectly slow, collegiate malaise…

Weekends at the beach,

Afternoons in the backyard,

Balmy evenings at the ballpark, reveling in the “downtown” bar scene, or sitting on our stoop wishing time would stop slipping by.

So much has happened since then.

I graduated,

Moved to New York,

Went home, and watched my best friend marry the man of her [our? everyone's?] dreams,

Got a job and joined the legions of 20-somethings scraping by in the big city,

Survived the hurricane,

Made new friends, reunited with old ones,

And squeezed in as many good meals, tasty recipes, and fancy cocktails as possible [favorites here, here, and here!]

It’s been amazing to collect so many memories with you.

Thanks for [still] stopping by!

Best Brunches: NYC

Posted by Madison Vain

Brunch is my favorite meal, always has been. It’s also my favorite portmanteau; a perfect blend of ”bring” and “lunch,” because brunch literally brings breakfast to lunch. Genius. Which, conveniently, also applies to its origination — while most believe brunch to be the lovechild of Hollywood and artisan muffins, they don’t have the whole story. Really, brunch dates back to the pre-Industrial Revolution days when people were running out of excuses to skip church [obvi].

Over the years, it’s developed into the behemoth event that it is [especially in New York, where it's practically an Olympic sport] and choosing where to go is too often left to guerrilla tactics such as looking for the longest line outside the smallest café on the narrowest sidewalk on the coldest day in winter.

And so, to save us all the pain of scouring the streets for various 20-somethings screaming into their phones, “No! They won’t seat us until the whole party is here!,” [the hallmark of a good brunch] I thought…why don’t we just all compare notes and share our favorites?

Here are mine, in no particular order:

1. Resto, Murray Hill

Everything about Resto is hearty — from the thick-cut bacon to the eggs swimming in tomato sauce and slathered with cheese to the almost-charred tasting coffee. Come hungry. Come because it’s close to your apartment. Come for the ambiance. Stay because you’re subdued by food coma.

It’s all sorts of wonderful.

2. Cafe Orlin, East VillageCafe Orlin is the home of pumpkin pancakes topped with cinnamon-yogurt glaze. Anyone who’s been will tell you to order them. Yelp begs that you do so. The wait staff proffer them as the solution for any debating patron. NY Mag scolds the idiocy of anyone foolish enough to dare consider an alternative plate.

And me? Well I don’t order them and choose instead to stare, longingly, with a smattering of drool on my chin at every plate of them whisking by.

But it’s all good, really. And it’s cheap. And it’s crowded and you should get there early and if you do, you can sit outside and enjoy the sights and sounds of the East Village as it wakes up on Sunday morning.

3. The House, Gramercy

This is a classy one, y’all. This is where you take Grandma and Grandpa when they visit. Where you put on your trusty brunch-pants and favorite brunch-shirt and revel in the glory of being awake/showered/made-up before 11:30 on a weekend — I mean, it’s impossible to feel mature when you’re sitting on your couch, lights off, sucking down Cinnamon Toast Crunch at 4:17 in the afternoon.

No, here you’re a grown-up. You perch on your bar stool, you sit in that revamped carriage house and you exhale a sigh of relief: “I am a mature, put-together adult who can reasonably order a pizza for breakfast and a bloody mary before noon and no one will think less of me…” Or something like that.

4. The Guilty Goose, Chelsea

GG is good for exactly one thing: a boozy brunch. It’s the place you go when you wake up at 11 a.m. on a Saturday still mildly-to-completely drunk from the night before and think: “I am never drinking again, unless it is RIGHT now.” You [I] think this because you [I] know drinking is the best cure for a hangover….except that’s not true. It’s not ‘curing a hangover’, let’s be clear, it’s just ‘getting drunk’, again.

Anyway, you roll out of bed and begin assembling your brunch squad. “Guilty Goose in an hour!” you shout down the dark abyss of your hallways, hoping at least one roommate hears. You call your troop of delinquents from the last night, “What?! You’re still in bed?! Haven’t you heard? GG [a pet name, of course] in 30! Get moving!”

You don’t argue about location because where else can you get hours of bottomless mimosa pitchers, enormous entrees and Irish Coffees for $35? Oh, and those freaking frickles that you were certain you hated but suddenly can’t stop eating?

Plus, you’re spared the nightmare of trying to figure out who-owes-what [the constant curse of professionally stagnant 20-somethings]: “Your meal is $3 more because you added prosciutto. Sorry to be the bearer of the bad news.” “Um, whatever, you two shared an extra french press, hi! We’re even!” “Not really, because I paid .90 cents more on the cable bill this month, so get over yourself. Cheap ass.”

Save yourself. Go to The Guilty Goose.

5. Sarabeth’s, any of the locations

Crap, I love Sarabeth’s. I loved her from Missouri — hoarding jars of her preserves and hot chocolate mixes in every spare cabinet — and now I love her from a much more reasonable proximity. Between Taylor and I…the whole menu has been sampled. Devoured. Enjoyed. Sighed over. Face-planted into. You get it.

There’s just something magical about it, something that makes Sunday — the only buffer between us and the work week — seem like less of an evil beast, something that immediately gets you thinking, “Everything in here is going to uplift my spirits and make me a better person.” It’s that good. Too good. Especially the Morning Crunch in the summer and the Papa Bear Oatmeal in the winter. Oh, and the $7 dollar grapefruit juice, it’s totally worth it [we swear].

There’s more…but I can’t stand to hear my stomach grumble any longer…we’ll have to resume some other time!

Enjoy!

told.in.vain

Author Archives:

You Thought

How to Pack for a Music Festival

Leaving My First [Real] Job

The Lone Bellow

The Slim Life [Review]

Lust List

If You Saw Atlas…

Yoga

The Difference A Year Makes

Best Brunches: NYC

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