After almost a year of working for myself, I went back to the normal 9 to 5.

I enjoyed freelancing for the flexibility and ability to work in my pajamas. But I’m so over the pajamas! And I’m really eager to put my paycheck, workflow, health insurance and office supplies in someone else’s hands. I like knowing what work is in the pipeline; I’ve never been good at pounding the pavement to line up my next freelance job. I don’t have a salesman aspect to my personality, preferring to passively let work come to me through a recruiter or other contacts. And that’s not the most successful approach.

For me, the cons of freelancing outweighed the pros. The flexibility was good. I could go to a movie in the middle of the day if I wanted. Or hang out with my friends. The problem is, most of my friends are, you know, working during the day. And I’ve spent far too many a late night in front of the computer trying to meet a deadline either because the client didn’t give enough lead time. Or I underestimated the scope of work. Or I’ve mismanaged my time.

Plus, you have to find your own health and dental insurance, which in today’s climate….sucks. A lot. And make your own invoices. Deal with your own complicated taxes. Not saying I wouldn’t go back to it one day, but I’m in no rush. I like structure and if that means I can’t sleep in during the week, then so be it. Because honestly, that’s the best part of working for yourself. The sleep.

So for now, you’ll find me living for the weekend. And often the weeknights. But the workday hours? They’re taken.

Check out this guest post from Lani Rosales, Chief Operating Officer of AGBeat, renowned business and tech writer, and queen mother of Austin’s coolest monthly networking event, BASHH. 

Moving. The very word sends shudders down the spines of slobs and obsessive compulsives everywhere. The mere thought of organizing, packing, taping, labeling, carrying, loading, unloading, cutting, unpacking, and organizing is enough to make anyone’s head feel like it’s full of angry honey badgers.

My husband and I recently decided to move apartments, and it was a task filled to the brim with procrastination, and most days, I opted to dig through Pinterest for tips on moving instead of actually doing the work of moving.

During my quest, I procrastinated even more by spending time on Facebook asking if anyone had packing supplies or tips or hell, if anyone would just come do this for me. That’s when I heard about Bronko Box, these plastic totes that could be delivered right to my door in bulk, they are essentially rented for a week or two (however long it takes you to pack/move), then they pick them up when you’re done. Sign me up!

When Bo at Bronko Box arrived with “tons of totes” as we started calling them, they came in both large and small, and I was immediately struck by how clean they were – I expected banged up, crookedy, scratched-up plastic totes, but no, they even smelled like new plastic and office supplies. Mmm, office supply smell….

I wanted to build a fort out of them on our giant patio, but I was told that we were moving in three days and I hadn’t touched a thing, so I better get started. No fort. Okay.

So I started pulling everything off of the walls and out of the closets, and everything I had learned on Pinterest flew out of my brain faster than a kid can down three pixie stix. That’s fast.

With what our family is calling the “Bronko Box method,” I would pull one box off of the stack, fill it, close the top (and no ridiculous tape, btw), stack it on the previously filled box, slap a sticker on it with the room name and DONE. They all stacked together on a dolly and went right on and off the truck.

The biggest surprise to us is that the fact that there was a difinitive date they were picking the boxes up, we had to unpack – no living from boxes for weeks. We’re pretty OCD about unpacking, but this really pushed us to not be lazy, and we needed it, given that my husband and I work 15 to 18 hour days.

Bo came back, zipped the boxes out, and they were gone. I was a little sad when they left.

Reserving them and working with the company was easy as pie, and the prices were reasonable. The only suggestion I have is that they need to hand a flyer to people when they drop boxes off that give tips like “don’t cram solid gold bars in here, they’ll be too heavy,” and organization tips like “divide boxes out per room so you don’t run out” or “place heavy stuff on the bottom,” or whatever more eloquent advice the experts have.

Next time you’re packing, do what grocery stores and gas stations have done for decades and skip the boxes and non-biodegradable packing materials that kill the environment – just order some Bronko Boxes. We won’t be using traditional packing boxes or materials again. Ever.

Disclosure: Bronko Box provided their services free of charge in exchange for an honest review.

After an extended break one of the internet’s true gems is back.

Allie Brosh’s brilliant Hyperbole and a Half left us hanging for more than a year after a somewhat alarming post about her very real, deep depression. As a writer who is hyperaware of how many people are reading my blog, I am intrigued at Allie’s ability to walk away from millions of readers. Millions. Her talent attracted legions of loyal followers practically overnight. She got a book deal with a national publisher. Yet she walked away.

I don’t think she really had a choice of course. I consider myself fortunate that I don’t have depression. Sure, I get depressed. But it’s more like a temporary bummed out feeling that I am able to shake off in a day or two. I can’t fathom what chronic depression feels like, but Allie Brosh has brought me as close to understanding as anyone ever has. And her infusion of humor makes me more comfortable with the dark subject matter.

Her gifts lie not just in her drawing, her exceptional and personal writing, or her blogging savvy. It is her uncanny ability to relate. Or make us relate. Without being preachy or framing her story as a cautionary tale. She’s simply who she is, Allie Brosh, extremely talented, extremely depressed blogger.

She has so many people supporting her. Fans genuinely love her and have patiently waited, hoping she’d resume writing. I’m not sure if the multitude of people behind her helps or adds to the pressure to, you know, hurry up and get better already. Is this how Dave Chapelle felt when he disappeared to Africa at the peak of his career? Is overwhelming success a contributing factor to those susceptible to depression? I can imagine it’s a burden to hold such great talent and have the world expect so much from you. Her absence just added to Brosh’s mystery, leaving us wanting more.

And yes, I want more. I want more drawings, more stories, more glimpses into her creative mind, her life. But I also want to protect her from our curiosity and prying eyes. Even my own.

If you haven’t already done so, please take a few minutes and read Allie’s comeback post explaining her depression. Leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Some of you might have noticed the link in my blogroll for Five Year Project. It takes you to Melissa Lombard’s site, where she is documenting her project of having a cup of coffee with a new stranger every week…for five years. I know. Great concept, right? Not only will she never run out of content, but she gets to meet a ton of people and try every coffee place in the city.

So who are the strangers? A mix of Austin notables, people active in social media, and regular ole’ slackers like myself. I’m not sure how she found me, but I was lucky enough to be the 29th cup of coffee. I was nervous because, frankly, I’m not that interesting. Some of Melissa’s interview subjects were so successful, or inspiring, or just oddly fascinating.

In comparison to some of these interviewees that were so brave and honest and forthcoming with their stories, I was afraid mine would be dull. I am not an open book, especially with strangers. I can be scornful of those who share too much too soon. But wasn’t that the point of the interview? Luckily, I only had a few days to panic, and before I knew it, interview day was upon us.

Melissa put me right at ease. She was like a long lost girlfriend and we had catching up to do. To be the one answering questions, rather than asking them, proved to be an obstacle for me. I can’t not make it about the other person. This probably points to some self esteem issues on my part, as well as a natural journalistic take on life. And really, I had to know more about her project. How did you think of it? How has it been? Have there been any bad interviews? Melissa graciously answered everything, gently steering the conversation back to me. Her interviewing skills are topped only by her writing skills.

So I got through the interview without any rehearsed stories or attempts at being more interesting. I relaxed and had a normal conversation. I was just boring old Kristin, but she still turned it into something remarkable.

For someone who doesn’t classify herself as a writer, Melissa Lombard is indeed a real writer, with the drive, vocabulary, and self-imposed deadlines that make all us writers tick. It’s amazing what can spring forth onto the page when one sets their ego and inhibitions aside like Melissa does. Her project is all about humility and looking deep into the stories of others, finding common connections in all of us. But it starts with her. She is the common thread in the project, the solitary voice through which the stories are spoken. Through Melissa’s eyes, we all look a little better.

So, please read my interview, but don’t stop there. Keep reading, through every cup of coffee and every stranger’s story. I am a big fan and know you will be, too.

It turns out, it only takes a cup of coffee to turn strangers into friends.

It’s inconceivable to quit a dream job. And theoretically, if you were divinely chosen for that job, it would be even harder to quit. Yet that is exactly what Pope Benedict XVI did. So, that’s pretty brave, right? More likely, his health is declining enough that he doesn’t feel he has a choice. He’s 85 so I don’t blame him. I’m hoping to retire…like, now. I hope to not be working when I’m 85. I certainly won’t have a Pope-level job. At most I’ll just be president.

I’m not a religious person, but I am Catholic. Lapsed, but respectful. I grew up going to church. Forced, really (thanks Mom and Dad.) Even now, as an adult, I have little understanding as to how people choose to go to church. I never felt inspired or any of the warm and fuzzy things people claim to get from church.

The Catholic mass is cold. There’s a lot of standing, sitting, and having to be quiet. It’s solemn rather than joyous. My sisters and I had a few codes worked out so we could talk during mass. Tracing letters to spell things on each other’s legs, pointing to words in the hymnals, eventually spelling out a sentence. It wasn’t until we were older that we thought to bring pen and paper so we could just write notes. There’s no better laughter than the stifled giggles in church under mom and dad’s glares.

When Mr. Betty and I went to Europe last year, I gained a new appreciation for the church. More than a place of worship, the old Catholic churches and cathedrals are the main sources of art, finest architecture and such an important part of the culture. So much of Paris, Florence, and especially Rome were devoted to religion in a way that American cities just aren’t.

I fell in love with Rome just like I did with Paris, but in a more realistic way. Paris is a fantasy. I pictured Mr. Betty and I lounging by the Seine snacking on wine and cheese, having months on end to just stroll the city and the Louvre, devoting the time you really need to see it. Dressing fashionably, dining at charming cafes for hours on end. We don’t have jobs in this fantasy. It’s a perpetual vacation.

Now Rome is a city I could truly live in. Have in an apartment, sweat out the heat of summers, ride the crime-ridden trains to work everyday. Maybe get mugged. Have Mr. Betty teach me Italian over pasta, because he’ll be the one to pick it up first. You know, really live. Sigh. I love Rome so much. I felt at home there immediately.

I love Roman style pizza. Thick and long, cut with scissors into a serving-sized piece.

And I love the nasoni all over the city, giving you a chance to fill your bottle with ice cold water from the aquaducts.

Of course we spent a day in Vatican City waiting in line to see the Sistine Chapel, where we were forbidden to take photos. Here’s my photo:

For me, the visit was more of a sight-seeing, tourist activity. But it was impossible to not register the gravity and importance of where we were, especially when for many around us it was a spiritual event. I was surprised by how many Tibetan monks were there and the many other faiths represented. And I have a soft spot for nuns and was delighted by how many I saw.

Although Benedict was the current pope, the love for Pope John Paul was evident.

He was the people’s pope, the pope who was kind and symbolized love. His health declined in his last years and the world was saddened by his death. Pope Benedict was more of an interim pope. The in-between guy who would sit between two (hopefully) beloved, longterm popes. Not to imply that he’s anything less than a full-fledged pope, just as all who came before him, with all the same pope benefits. Like being buried or preserved in St. Peter’s Basilica.

Pope Benedict didn’t have an easy eight years, and neither will the next guy. He spent most of his time apologizing for pedophiliac priests, which just sucks. I hate that the Catholic church has this reputation, when it exists everywhere, not just the church. And it’s horrible.

I hope we can move on with optimism and leave these last few dark years behind. The pope selection process, or the papal enclave, is fascinating and mysterious. The College of Cardinals sequester themselves in the Sistine Chapel and are sworn to secrecy, attending masses, and repeatedly voting for days until a new pope has been selected. Black smoke is sent up each day the ballots do not result in an election, and white smoke signifies completion and a new pope. Cool, right?

The world is banking on the next pope representing a poor nation. And perhaps a progressive pope, although that term is relative. Changes to such long-standing traditions must be incremental. I would like to see a better stance on gays. And women. And birth control. And science. All the things that seems like common sense in our modern world. But Catholicism wasn’t created in our modern world. How do we buck traditions that many millions believe in their very core to be truth? I don’t know. But maybe the next guy will bring us a little bit closer to what we need today.

It might be premature to post this before the second half of Oprah’s interview airs. But I feel compelled to get this out there to balance the hate and rage spewing from every outlet. Maybe it’s because I’m in Austin, the epicenter of Lance Armstrong judgement, but this feels especially awful. Sure, I laughed at the #Doprah hashtags, but it all too quickly became not funny.

First, let me just say that I know I’m not siding with popular opinion here. And I know that Lance Armstrong is not warm and fuzzy, or particularly likable. That works against him in every way and I appreciate that no one has tried to soften his image. Our intelligence hasn’t been insulted here, for a change.

There was plenty of buzz before the interview aired, as Oprah is a finely-tuned buzz machine. Now, I often watch OWN for the big interviews on Oprah’s Next Chapter. I watched her question Rihanna about Chris Brown. And ask Kelsey Grammar about cheating on his wife. And jump on Paula Deen’s trampoline with Gayle. So unlike others, I wasn’t scrambling to see if I even had that channel, unfamiliar with the new Oprah. I nervously waited with a combination of curiosity and dread.

Why the dread? I hate public humiliation. And that’s what this is. Lance Armstrong coming clean about his doping means more than the stripping of titles, being banned from the sport to which he devoted his life, and stepping down from LIVESTRONG. He also has to endure a public shaming of epic proportions. Was his crime that heinous? Does cheating at a sport really deserve an outcry like this?

Armstrong is hardly the first athlete to break the law. Isn’t half of the NFL on probation? I know, I know. Armstrong was a role model. A cancer survivor. An activist. A leader. A hero. That is why we are so let down. As far as I can tell, the average American doesn’t follow bike racing. This is a sport that we don’t really care about until we find out SOMEONE IS CHEATING! I don’t know anything about sports but I know that you aren’t supposed to cheat! Outrage! I hate you now!

Most of the athletes who made it to the Tour de France were doping at the time. It was part of the culture, part of how they achieved these great feats of athleticism. But it was only a small part. The sore muscles, the years of conditioning and sheer determination, the sacrifice of any kind of normal life. Lance Armstrong did all that, too. He didn’t lay on the couch eating chips and simply dope his way to the top. He did it all. Everything it took to get there, he did. Including the illegal stuff. And the sport has long had a culture of doping. There are so many measures in place to test these athletes because there’s a rich history of illegal practices.

Should Lance have resisted and forged a new path within a dirty sport? Maybe. But he didn’t and now he’s the poster boy for doping. And lying. And all that is evil. It saddens me that a man with superior athletic capability will not be remembered for that. Or for the millions raised for cancer research. I’m sad for his children and his family and for those who looked up to him. But mostly I’m sad for him, because his desire to win under any circumstances cost him everything and he ended up losing.

We are so quick to turn our heroes into villains, should they fall. But why can’t we simply look at Lance Armstrong as he truly is? A human being, so flawed like the rest of us.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you’re all enjoying the day off from work and celebrating in your favorite way. I’m relaxing, reading, making pancakes, and enjoying the mild weather in Austin. My dreams of a white Christmas faded years ago and have been replaced with flip flops and year round sunscreen application.

Anyway, the change of climate hasn’t dampened my decorating enthusiasm. Mr. Betty and I take pride in our rad ornament collection and last year I gave a rundown of some of our favorites. We added some new guys to our tree this year:

After not having a tree topper for as long as I can remember, we found this awesome cardinal. You can’t tell from the photo, but it’s huge. Like, as big as your head.

I’d like to think our new shark and sneaker reflect our personal style:

A couple nights ago we headed over to Mozart’s Coffee Roasters to check out their light show. While crowded, it wasn’t the insane chaos of the Trail of Lights.

Mozart’s is one of our homesick comfort spots. There aren’t a ton of places to sit on the water in Austin, and Mozart’s sprawling decks make us feel right at home. And they really go all out for the holidays, with lights dangling everywhere. It feels like a caffeinated wonderland. The light show starts at the top of the hour and lasts about 15 minutes. Each of the five or six songs had a different theme and little show. Very pretty, and the hot cocoa and cider were delicious. This lasts till New Year’s, so there’s still plenty of time to go.

The palm trees are next door at the Hula Hut and worth the visit on their own. Aren’t they the coolest?

It wasn’t my intention to take a break from blogging while I went on vacation. But stuff happens. I was busy working, busy with family, busy traveling, and busy being sick. Like, really, really, sick. The sick part sucked, but the trip was still good. I’ll be devoting some upcoming Madbetty posts to my adventures at the Jersey Shore, NYC, and Philadelphia. Here’s a preview:

My new little brother, Sonny Boy, is the cutest baby beagle ever. My other beagle brother, Stevie Ray, has turned out to be quite the sweet beagle mentor. I spent lots of time cuddling with both of these darlings.

I also spent some quality cat time with Bailey, Leo, and Lilly.

Mr. Betty and I ate lots of fresh seafood.

We made sure to stop at our favorite neighborhood pizza joint and enjoyed some thin, Jersey slices.

We wandered around Victorian Cape May and spent time at my favorite place in the world, the ocean. I can smell it when I look at the photos. It’s hard living so far away from the beach.

We paid lots of tolls. No big deal for Jersey peeps. Try to get a grip, Austin.

I took tons of restaurant photos, harassing cooks, waiters, and bartenders for this blog. They were good sports for the most part.

We were very cold but had some hot chocolate to warm up.

We shopped at places we miss desperately, namely Wawa and Trader Joe’s.

A whirlwind trip to New York City gave me a taste of crazy city life. I love it so much. The noise, the subways, the dirt…all of it. Highlights included spaghetti carbonara, a trip to Koreatown, dinosaur bones, and a Broadway show.

Philadelphia highlights included a night at the famous Monk’s Cafe and a mind-blowing dinner at Garces Trading Company.

It was a fun trip back home. Don’t worry, we brought back some Fralinger’s Salt Water Taffy for you, Austin.

Good to go home and good to be back.

For me, Thanksgiving is all about Pop-Pop’s house in Toms River, NJ. Since moving to Austin we’ve missed a few and the holiday never feels the same. Luckily we were able to go back home this year and spend Thanksgiving with my family. Here’s a glimpse of our holiday. My camera-shy family didn’t want to appear on the blog, but I snuck a couple body parts in.

My Aunt Maryfran always sets a festive table. You’ll notice the kids’ table in the background, which is where I still sit.

Mom swoops in at the last minute to make the gravy, which is always perfect. That Gravy Master everyone uses? Named after her. She is the master of gravy.

Uncle Joey carves like a boss.

Bacon and Lulu chill by the piano, ever-devoted to my cousin Andrew and his Converse.

Pop-Pop gives a toast and then we eat ridiculously good food. I made the carrot casserole. Recipe to come tomorrow.

In addition to traditional pumpkin pie, this year we had Aunt Debbie’s fabulous rice pudding. And we always celebrate my cousin Joey’s birthday with an ice cream cake. Ice cream cake may not feel like Thanksgiving to everyone, but for us it does.

Hope you and yours had a great holiday as well!

We’re in the tenth season of Project Runway. After dedicating myself to this show for so many years, I thought I might take a break for a season. Then I saw a preview of the candy challenge and I was sucked right back in. I can’t resist watching designers cry over trying to make clothing out of licorice.

This season features all the requisite character types that we’ve come to expect.

The Arrogant One: Ven Budhu is undeniably talented and he knows it. Offering little in the way of personality, Ven is there to win not to make friends. He’ll likely be in the final three.

Most Likable: Buffi Jashanmal has her own funky style and a charming accent. Her self-deprecating humor won over the other designers, but sadly her talent wasn’t up to par. She’s already gone.

Bitchiest Gay: Gunnar Deatherage is the youngest contestant and has ridden the waves of bitchiness further than I thought he could.

The Weirdo: Kooan Kosuke is as weird as his hair. Sadly, he decided the competition wasn’t for him and he quit. I don’t think he had a shot of winning, but I would have liked to see him stick around longer.

Laughably Bad: Andrea Katz. Every season there’s a designer so terrible that you wonder how they made it on the show. Andrea earned the title this season. She also quit the show by stealing away in the middle of the night. That made for some good drama.

Fun Gay: Christopher Palu. The cast is filled with fun gays, but Christopher won me over with his Cher impersonation. He and Gunnar lock horns which provides some nice drama.

My choices for top three designers: In addition to Ven, I like Sonjia Williams and the oft overlooked Dmitry Sholokhov. All three are incredibly talented and I’d love to see a fashion week showdown. Sonjia’s personal style is my favorite on the show. Girlfriend rocks that blue hair with class.

The judges have really settled in a place of unified harmony.

After doing this for so many years they seem calm and all-knowing. It takes little banter to get to a place where they agree on winners and losers. Of course they only show a few minutes of the discussion, but in Tim Gunn’s book Gunn’s Golden Rules: Life’s Little Lessons for Making it Work, he reveals that the judging usually takes four to five hours. He also dishes dirt on former contestants, people in the fashion world, and random celebrities. While at times a little preachy about etiquette, the gossip is good and makes the book worth reading.

Are you watching the show this season? What do you think?