We have a drawer at our house with a collection of slightly broken things — a fully functional iPhone with a shattered screen, a point and shoot that sometimes deletes entire memory cards on a whim, etcetera.
Looking in the drawer, it occurs to me that the convenience of throwing gadgets in my bag is perhaps outweighed by the cost of replacing them when they bang into each other and break. But cases offer the best of both worlds — relatively free-floating gadgets that still work when you turn them on. Here are five stylish options to protect your gadgets without adding too much bulk to your bag. Read more…
(Man I wish I’d had the forethought to post a photo of a laptop on my site before I took this photo.)
How long has it been since you thoroughly cleaned your computer? That’s what I thought.
I clean mine about as often as l spill something on the keyboard. But to keep your computer in good working order, you should scrub it down about twice a year–more often if you like to eat chips while you work. But how do you get everything sparkly without damaging anything? I did a little research.
Before you start, you’ll need some supplies: a large microfiber cloth, a can of compressed air, and a solution of 50 percent isopropyl rubbing alcohol and 50 percent mineral water, and a pair of tweezers. Once you have everything together, shut your computer down (if you’re cleaning a laptop, remove the battery as well). Read more…
Today is the last day of Intel’s Sponsors of Tomorrow Campaign on Mighty Girl. I can hardly express how grateful I am to the Intel team, and how blessed I am to have all of you guys supporting me.
A quick recap of everything Intel has made possible in the last few months. Together, we:
Because the campaign let me make my life list a top priority, I even tackled a bunch of goals on my own. We took Hank camping, played with sparklers on the Fourth of July, and introduced him to ice cream cones. I did one of Miranda July’s projects. And I even got a few friends together to help me plan a retreat.
How Did this Happen?
A lot of you have asked me how I got Intel to sponsor my Mighty Life List, and the answer is I didn’t. These guys did.
That’s Paige Thomas, Jason Ratner, and David Veneski. Paige and Jason work for Federated Media — the company that helped make blogging my job. David works for Intel, the company that made my dreams my job.
I talk to Paige nearly every day, and about a year ago I asked her to tell the sales team about my list. Ideas like this can easily come across as “some blogger wants free stuff,” but Jason understood. He told David, and showed me some of the ads around Sponsors of Tomorrow. I thought the main ideas were in line with my values: Celebrating smart people, and embracing the future.
David eventually agreed to have Intel sponsor my life list, which was bold of him, I think. Intel is a huge company with a lot at stake, and most companies of that size want full approval over any text that goes out. That clearly would never work for Mighty Girl, so David decided to trust me, which must have been scary at first.
When we first started the campaign, Matt Jessell at FM sent me this Brady Bunch collage to pin on my board:
It cracked me up when I first got it, and it still does, but now it makes me a little sentimental too. This is the team behind the Sponsors of Tomorrow campaign — most of them have made their own life lists, some have become Twitter friends, and all of them played a part in changing the way I approach my life. I owe them my gratitude.
What Happens Next?
Y’all, I am going to sleep. I had no idea how much I was biting off, or how much emotion I’d feel through all of it.
It may sound cheesy, but these few months have been transformative, and change takes a lot of energy. Doing all this has helped me clarify what makes me happy, and reminded me to be more gentle with myself. I understand now that a list like this requires flexibility, and writing about all of it has shown me that I can be comically rigid. It honestly came as an epiphany that I could change my own list — add new things, delete the things that just didn’t seem appealing when I actually started tackling them.
I’ve also learned so much about all of you. That you want to travel, be role models, buy homes, start businesses. I love reading your lists, and I’m still thinking about a better way for us to work on them together.
While I sleep for a year or so, Paige will be building a succulent wall; Jason is figuring out how to found bed and breakfasts for snowboarders, cyclists and vinophiles; and David wants to write a book. I’ll let you know how they do.
In the meantime, thank you, everyone. For all of it.
So last week, before the paragliding fiasco, I went zip-lining. Melissa and I were supposed to go in Puerto Rico, but then one of you mentioned in comments that there was a newish operation nearby in Santa Cruz. I decided I’d rather zipline through Redwoods, so we signed up with Mount Hermon.
I called Evany to see if she wanted to come along.
- Do you want to go zip-lining with me?
- Wanna go zip-lining in Santa Cruz?
- Is this a life list thing?
- What does zip-lining entail?
- I do not know.
- Hmm. I don’t know if I can be away from Desi for the day, I’m nursing.
- Bring the baby. We’ll strap him to you.
Then the folks at Mount Hermon were all, “You cannot strap a newborn baby to you while you’re zip-lining six stories above the ground.” And we were all over Twitter like, “MT. HERMON HATES BABIES!”
Oh, but I kid. Evany’s husband Marco came along for baby support, so Evany could feed Desi and still live life on her own terms. Boo-yah.
She fed the baby, and then Max and Jon (our instructors) strapped us into our harnesses. That may be the kinkiest sentence I’ve ever typed.
I was impressed by Evany’s willingness to do something so daring right after going through labor. New moms tend to be mortality aware, and Desi was very concerned for our well being.
Speaking of mortality, let’s revisit the six-stories-up concept. Once again, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I pictured some roadside operation with a little cable strung between two trees, and people zooping back and forth ten feet off the ground. Zoop. Zoop! Sort of like the training course, but slightly higher.
I realize my ignorance has become a running theme with these sportier adventures, and my reasoning is thus: If I were to research these things beforehand, I would not go. I’d simply spend a few weeks obsessing over what could go wrong, and I’d eventually decide adventures were for stupid people. Then I’d snuggle up with a down comforter to read back issues of The New Yorker until I grew old and withered — which sounds rather pleasant, actually.
At any rate, that’s how I found myself on a platform contemplating the surprising chasm below. Surprise!
Actually, it doesn’t look as threatening in the photo, but that’s only because you can’t see the giant teeth lining the edges. In real life, it looks more like this:
Intellectually I knew I was safe. They let ten-year-olds zip-line, because it’s difficult to seriously damage yourself. At every point, you’re double-hooked to cables so strong that they’d shear an old-growth redwood in half before they snapped. I was safe, but my spine begged to differ. My spine thought we should go find a nice glass of warm milk and see what was on the History Channel.
I peeked over the edge of the platform.
If I hadn’t signed a contract with Intel saying I wanted to do this (for fun! for kicks!), if Evany had not been equally terrified but holding her ground, it’s possible I would have walked away.
Instead, my medulla was throbbing like a dental drill. I tried to fight the vertigo with Zenlike thoughts. I am well. I am healthy. I am whole. I am plummeting to my death.
Evany went first, and I couldn’t watch. When Max told me the line was clear, I closed my eyes, let out a low whine, and stepped off the edge.
I could feel the wind on my face and hear the cord humming, so I peeked to see my feet dangling above the abyss. Bad idea. I closed my eyes.
About half way across I started to relax. I felt strangely light, like I was flying. It was exceptional. I opened my eyes again and my keening turned into laughter.
Then the next platform was heading at me like a bullet, so I grabbed the cable with my hand and stopped a few feet shy. I had to do what they call a self rescue, which involves dangling with your back to a chasm while you pull yourself hand over hand to the next platform. It’s a treat.
There were six or seven lines on the course, plus an air bridge, and after that first zip, both Evany and I relaxed considerably. I felt the most vertigo and distress on the platforms, perhaps because my brain kept trying to balance so I wouldn’t “fall.”
Every time I left the platform, I had to disregard my terror. I felt my heart in my mouth, swallowed it, and stepped off the edge. Once I was moving, my body understood the physics involved, and I could fly. Evany said, “Next time, we should bring capes.”
The day made me braver, and more secure in my ability to tell the difference between actual risk and perceived risk. I have never been so afraid of something — with the possible exception of labor — and done it anyway. If you’re anywhere near a zip-line, I hope you’ll try it. It will change your subconscious.
Here’s to fewer falling nightmares, and more flying dreams.
Let’s take a momentary break from my sympathetic nervous system to discuss the finest meal I’ve ever had.
Bryan started calling for a reservation three months in advance, and we ultimately secured a table for four on a Tuesday night at 9 p.m. I asked Bryan if that would mean we were getting the B team in the kitchen. His response, “The French Laundry doesn’t have a B team.”
Our dear friends Kayla and Josh Cagan were our plus-two, but Josh called in a bit of a panic two days before. He had a bad case of the flu. The French Laundry being a bit particular about reservations, we were doubly concerned. I wasn’t sure how we’d even begin asking other people. “Hello. Are you free tomorrow night? In that case, I have a personal financial question for you.”
Fortunately, one 48-hour nap and a clean shave later, Josh rallied and the Cagans flew up from Los Angeles to join us. You’d never know from this photo that Josh is sweating espresso:
The day of, Bryan spent a few hours studying wine in hopes of convincing the sommelier that we took him seriously. We got all dressed up, arrived about fifteen minutes early, and stood around laughing too readily.
All of us felt oddly nervous and self-aware until the sommelier came out and asked us if we’d like to have some Champagne in the garden. Yes, we certainly would. We walked outside to find Pink taking a smoke break with her husband.
(Aside: How crazy loveable is Pink? She was having this passionate, animated conversation with her husband — who I recognized from an ancient episode of Punk’d — and it made me feel all glowy for her. Hooray for the strong, fun girls. I didn’t shove my camera at her head, so if you’re curious, she looked like this:
But there was no carousel horse for her to straddle. So maybe more like this?
Only wearing a cute strapless maxi dress. Anyway, I digress.)
The meal was, appropriately, the meal of a lifetime. Our menu:
Ahi Tuna Waffle Cone with Crème Fraîche
Remember what I said about Santorini? This smelled like Greece to me.
Oysters and Pearls
“Sabayon” of Pearl Tapioca with Island Creek Oysters and White Sturgeon Caviar
Moulard Duck “Foie Gras Au Torchon”
Summer Grapes, Hazelnuts and Frisée
The guys figured out that this was essentially the world’s most amazing peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was served with warm brioche, which was replaced every few minutes to ensure that the temperature would be right for softening the Foie Gras. It was the epicurean equivalent of having someone hand you a dryer-toasty towel right as you step out of the bath.
Very, very old salt from various regions of the world
Sautéed Fillet of Sablefish
Sunchokes, Navel Orange, Pine Nuts, Arugula, and Niçoise
Maine Lobster Tail “Pochee Au Beurre Doux”
Heirloom Beets, English Cucumber, Pumpernickel Purée, and Horseradish Crème Fraîche
The champagne grapes on the plate are not grapes. I believe they were bits of cucumber cut with the world’s tiniest melon baller. Also, they were frozen, which made me gasp.
Salmon Creek Farms Pork Belly
Ibérico Ham, Candy Stripe Figs, Corn Beignet, and Sauce Pimentón
Marcho Farms “Coeur de Veau”
Caramelized Apple Dumpling, Watercress, and Pickled Walnut Condiment
My bread was stacking up, as I was getting dangerously full. All the baked goods are made at sister Bistro/Bakery Bouchon.
Snake River Farms “Calotte de Boeuf Grillée”
Hen-of-the-Woods Mushrooms, Broccolini, Tokyo Turnips, and Black Garlic Jus
Andante Dairy “Cavatina”
Sour Cherry “Chiboust,” Fennel Bulb, Nasturtium, and Mustard Seed Shortbread
The top layer of this gave no resistance against the fork, almost like a meringue. I rubbed it all over my face.
Honeydew Melon Sorbet
Compressed Watermelon and Basil “Nuage”
I love how the seeds on the plate read like caviar.
“Gâteau Saint Nizier au Manjari”
Mango-Chili Relish, Mast Brothers Chocolate Cocoa Nibs, Lime Foam, and Coconut Milk Sorbet
Lemon Verbena “Vacherin”
Tellicherry Pepper Panna Cotta, Lemon Verbena Sherbet, and Chilled Silverado Trail Strawberry Consommé
I’ve decided I want one of these bowls. Gorgeous:
Can you tell I was a little tipsy by this point? Yeah:
They even sent us home with little packages of shortbread, which I rationed over four days of afternoon tea.
It’s so rare to come across new flavors and sensations as an adult, experiencing so many in one evening has made me more aware of how much cruddy tasting stuff I eat without thinking about it. Eating like this is one of the most personal ways you can experience art, and I’ve decided to look into more restaurants I’d like to try so I can add them to the list as well. In the meantime, I’m paying a lot more attention to how my everyday foods taste, and investing a little more to buy better produce and prepared foods.
In all, it was an unforgettable night, and the company was just as good.
As part of my Mighty Life List campaign with Intel, I thought I’d go parasailing. I figured I could do it in Puerto Rico or Greece, but it wasn’t available, so Bryan did a little research near home. We’d mostly missed the parasailing season, but we could go paragliding instead, he said. It’s really similar, he said. Sure! We booked it. Then, I did a little research.
Y’all. Paragliding is nothing like parasailing. They are so dissimilar, in fact, that the description on the parasailing Wikipedia page actually reads, “Parasailing is primarily a fun ride, not to be confused with paragliding [which is terrifying and will kill you dead.]” I teased out the subtext for you on that last bit.
The paragliding we booked involves strapping yourself to an instructor who’s attached to what can only be described as a large fan. Then you run along the beach and lift off alarmingly high in the air. It’s like flying a helicopter without an actual helicopter around you, or skydiving without an airplane, or building a pair of wings from feather and wax and jumping off the roof of your apartment.
Nonetheless, we flew to LA to meet the paragliding guy on the beach. Between kayaking and zip-lining (which we’ll discuss in more detail soon), my adrenal system was rather taxed. My body wasn’t used to all this fight-or-flight action — the most my pulse usually quickens is when there’s a new episode of “So You Think You Can Dance” on the TiVo — so I was kind of a mess.
It was too foggy to take off from the beach, so we had to wait around while I pondered the intricacies of Fast Descents and In-Flight Wing Deflation with my head between my knees.
A pinhole of light came through the fog, so we helped our instructor tow his equipment out onto the beach, where we waited for a few more hours. Four stomach churning hours, while sorority girls made human pyramids in the sand next to us, and I looked around for a paper bag into which I could breathe.
When the weather refused to cooperate, our instructor decided we’d just have to go up on the nearby hills and jump from there instead. I lifted my head from between my knees and threw Bryan a panic-stricken look. “Uh,” I said. “Um.”
Jumping off a cliff strapped to a fan was so very far from my original goal of being swept up like a kite over the water that I could no longer squint and see the comparison. Jumping off a cliff was not on my effing list. My throat began to ache.
We walked over to the cars to prepare for our drive. “From where will we be jumping, exactly?” I asked. “The hills up there,” the instructor said.
The taste of tin filled my mouth. I blinked back tears.
“No,” I said.
“You’ll like it,” the instructor said.
“No,” I said.
“I’ve done it from there many more times than from the beach. Thousands of times.”
“No,” I said. “I have no desire to do this.”
And so we drove to the hotel, where I wept with relief and disappointment at my failure to strap on a pair.
And several glasses of wine.
And after that I felt much better.