For the most part, the adventures of 2009 and 2010 were not planned. I was fortunate enough to speak at a flurry of conferences; this enabled me to visit beautiful places I never dreamed I’d see. Jason was hired to film a bit for the cast of the Real World (which, considering Jason’s propensity for sunblock and sobriety, is hilarious); this brought us to Cancun. We visited friends up and down the east coast, and took our Buick LeSabre on weekend getaways whenever the mood struck us.

Since moving to New York last year, we’ve given up our car, so weekend trips are less convenient. I stopped contributing in a meaningful way to the web design community (something I hope to correct), so I’ve been invited to speak at fewer conferences (at least I think that’s the reason? Probably there are other ones too, like my breathless delivery and lack of speaking skills). Jason no longer does videography work, and his new career in iOS development involves few travel opportunities. These factors, and others, have resulted in a much more grounded existence.

At first I hardly missed all the traveling; moving to New York was adventure enough. Living here means you can experience much of the thrill, danger, and expense of travel without ever leaving the city. I’ve paid too much for mediocre food because I was confused, visited shops where English wasn’t understood, experienced culture shock and discovery and exhaustion. Now that I can navigate the city better, have a few good friends, and am on a first name basis with a couple baristas, it feels less dramatic and more like home. Which is wonderful; except that I’ve been desperate to travel again.

Last month I began researching potential destinations. I asked Twitter for suggestions, and was presented with an array of fabulous getaway spots. Iceland, Italy, Switzerland, Sweden, Vietnam; I wanted to go everywhere. I began researching flights, hotels, activities, rail passes for Europe, the wardrobe I would need, and the best brand of walking shoes. Five hours later when I emerged from the shame pit of online suitcase shopping, I decided to give up on organizing a trip; it’s too much work to relax.

During this marathon bout of travel planning, I began to think about all the hard parts of taking trips — all the terrible moments of stress, helplessness, and exhaustion. Here’s a small sampling of horror stories from our time spent abroad:

• In Amsterdam our luggage was lost, so we spent most of our money buying a new wardrobe. (I mean, I couldn’t attend a conference in my airplane sweatpants!) This, combined with an over-indulgence in amazing food, meant that by the end of the trip we were utterly broke. It wasn’t a big deal, since we had checks in the mailbox at home. Except we missed our flight home due to a fire on the train. With no money and no place to stay, we spent a miserable day wandering the airport like the exhausted and broke tourists that we were. We eventually checked in to the airport hotel using my Grandma’s “borrowed” credit card (sorry Grandma! We did pay her back when we got home). Also, PRO TIP: It’s good to, you know, have a credit card when you travel.
• On our Paris excursion (for reasons I’ll never understand), I was obsessed with seeing the Mona Lisa. I had a fit when we arrived at the Louvre too late in the day, and couldn’t have the perfect museum visit I’d envisioned. By the way, we did get to see the Mona Lisa, but we had to sprint through the museum, and it was blocked by a massive crowd of people. Also, it is really small, kept behind glass and ropes, and I felt incredibly foolish for sacrificing my sanity just to see it.
• Before the Vancouver trip I stayed up for days, taking caffeine pills and Keynote-ing like a crazy person in an attempt to make THE PERFECT WORKSHOP for Interlink. On the flight over I had a nervous breakdown because my seat-mate was constantly elbowing me, and Jason had to talk me down from a sobbing fit. Once we arrived, I developed a crippling flu, and barely made it through the presentation I’d worked so hard on.
• There was the horrible sea sickness on the ferry from Belfast. The bed-bug and mold palace in London. The endless exhaustion of getting lost, walking for miles, and cursing my dependence on GPS. Sidenote: I no longer know how to read a real map. Thanks, technology!

In spite of all these nightmarish memories, I know the benefits of exploration will always outweigh the negatives. Travel offers a a renewed gusto for life, and a respect for other cultures. It also encourages us to savor the moment, rather than coast through the monotony of routine. I could write another 1000 words about all the beauty I’ve seen, the beliefs I’ve gained, and the invaluable moments of joy experienced while away from home.

But instead, I’ve chosen to write about the bad times, because these are the stories that make me laugh. I know I was miserable while these difficult events unfolded, but now I’m glad for all the misery. The irrational tantrums, physical exhaustion, and rotten luck tested Jason and I’s resourcefulness, and our resilience as a couple. While away I’ve experienced the best and worst of myself, and these extremes are where our character is built. I’d do it all again. (Well, maybe not the Mona Lisa).

So even as I recall our horror stores, I’m still desperate to take a trip. I want to experience a new place, and all that it entails. I’ve been spending too much time browsing travel blogs, daydreaming about what glamorous things might happen to me while away from home.

When Misty got sick I realized we won’t be going anywhere for the foreseeable future. As shamefully selfish as this is, I was disappointed when it registered that nursing her would mean spending every possible minute by her side. We’re afraid to leave her alone for even a few hours, in case anything should happen to her. I thought I might go insane spending all my time at home, watching her sleep, measuring her poop for consistency, and counting out pills.

Instead, I’m gradually learning to appreciate this settled state. I’m catching up on my reading. I’m finishing side projects. And I swear I’m going to practice guitar and cook more too. My day now revolves around morning coffee with Jason, lounging with the cat, and quietly working at my desk. It’s not glamorous, but it is fulfilling, and I’m learning to appreciate it.

I stumbled across this quote the other day, and I think it sums up the lesson I’m learning about wanderlust:

“For most of life, nothing wonderful happens. If you don’t enjoy getting up and working and finishing your work and sitting down to a meal with family or friends, then the chances are that you’re not going to be very happy. If someone bases his happiness or unhappiness on major events like a great new job, huge amounts of money, a flawlessly happy marriage or a trip to Paris, that person isn’t going to be happy much of the time. If, on the other hand, happiness depends on a good breakfast, flowers in the yard, a drink or a nap, then we are more likely to live with quite a bit of happiness.”

The quote is by Andy Rooney, who Jason reminded me was unfortunately a sometimes bigot, but I still like the sentiment.

As much as I crave the extremes that come with going away, I’m learning to see the joy in staying.

Sidenote: I’m anticipating some snark about first world problems and humble-bragging. So save your breath, anonymous-internet-commenter-I’m-preemptively-annoyed-with, because yeah I know.

Today was wasted somewhat intentionally; I thought I would give myself time for recovery after an awful weekend of unrestrained weeping. Misty, our beloved kitty girl, the focal point of our home and Instagram feed and hourly conversation, is sick.

Let me back up a little bit. For awhile now she has been on a very gradual decline, so slow that at first I dismissed it as the paranoia of a fretting cat mom. Then, the week before last, her once voracious appetite came to a full halt. No amount of trickery, pleading, or pagan ritual could get her to sample even the smallest bite of her favorite food (Grammy’s Pot Pie by Merrick). She also hadn’t pooped in a few days, which was terrifying, since Misty loves to poop. This is a cat who took so much pride in her massive dumps that she would lay like a starfish afterwards and bask in triumph, daring anyone to top her skills.

We assumed she was merely constipated, which can happen in older cats. We brought her to our local vet, who ran a series of tests and pumped her full of anti-nausea, antibiotics, antacids and every other anti-discomfort chemical known to medicine. They also gave her an enema to clear what little poop was in her system.

At the end of the appointment, when we were preparing to bring her home, the doctor came into the waiting room holding an iPad. On it were pictures from an X-ray. “How cool!” I stupidly thought. “I’ll get to see all her magnificent, tiny little kitty parts. They must be so small and adorable!” I also marveled at how hip our vet was, using an iPad to show off my cat’s perfect little kitty organs. Then I saw that inside one of her lovely little lungs was a shadow. A mass.

The office was about to close, so the vet began talking very quickly about ultrasounds and surgery and chemotherapy and feeding tubes. They handed us some appetite stimulants and told us how to administer them, all the while pretending not to see the torrent of mascara and snot that flowed down my face. It’s so lucky that level-headed Jason listened to their instructions, because I could only think about her precious little kitty lungs, and the hateful, horrible mass.

We received more bad news: her gums were infected, and the enema might cause her to poop herself for another 12 hours, and the sedative may cause strange behavior. Then they handed us our cat and locked the door behind us.

On the walk home, Misty – stoned out of her mind and desperately afraid – released a wave of watery feces in the cat carrier, then laid down in it. At home she stumbled around like a zombie: her mouth agape, her pupils dilated, and brown enema fluid running down her back. We sat up with her the entire night, cooing to her through desperate tears, and hoping our words of love made it through her stupor.

None of us slept for another 24 hours, but eventually we rested, and she seemed to rally. We put her through the ultimate misery that is a bath, and she moaned in agony as we rubbed the caked poop from her feet and tail.

After this, we all felt some hope. She began eating a little, purring in my lap, and scratching up the furniture. Jason and I were weighing our options for next steps, but mostly we just rejoiced to see her eat and snuggle and play, if only a little.

Then, this weekend, her appetite disappeared again. She seemed utterly depressed, refused any food or water, and only wanted to smoosh her thinning body against me and sleep. So, with a heavy heart, we brought her back to the vet.

They recommended we do an invasive and costly biopsy to determine the exact nature of the mass. Given her age and its shape the lung mass is almost definitely a tumor, but the vet wants to learn more about it. After the biopsy she could recommend wether surgery, chemo, or some other treatment would be a good next step.

The thing is, we’ve decided we don’t want to put Misty through all that. She is old, and even if we could give her more time, it wouldn’t necessarily be the best quality time. We’ve watched human loved ones live out the remainder of their lives on chemotherapy, and the experience has left deep scars. We’re terrified of subjecting her to a difficult end.

Besides these fears, we can’t care about cancer right now; all we can think about is the fact that she’s starving before our eyes. She lost half a pound in a week, and her skin now hangs off her skeleton in a way I never would’ve thought possible for our furry little foodie. The vet gives us stomach medicine, and steroids to help with her inflamed gums and the inflamed mass; the steroids also increase appetite. She says this will buy us some time. She says to call if we change our minds about the biopsy.

The pills we give her are working, and she is eating again. She demands food be brought to her, she scratches the furniture, and she curls up on my lap. I should be delighted to see her somewhat restored, and it does give me intense relief to see her eating. Still, I can not help but fear that we are living on borrowed time. I can’t convince myself that everything will be okay, yet I can’t go on weeping in my sweatpants forever.

Jason and I tell each other, and the vet, that we don’t want to hold on to Misty longer than we should. That when she’s ready to go, we want to let her go. The vet assures us that her quality of life is still high, and we shouldn’t give up.

She gives us a quantitative way of deciding if Misty’s life is still worth living. We consider a list of factors, such as wether she enjoys affection, or has difficulty moving, or if she’s eating. We check a mental yes or no for these questions, get a sum total of positives, and if the number exceeds a certain value then we don’t euthanize our beloved pet. Once these quality of life factors decline, we will have to find it in us to give her a peaceful death.

Typing these words brings back the sick feeling that’s persisted since I first saw those X-rays. Because the truth is, the idea of letting her go is loathsome to me. This may all sound pretty dramatic, considering she’s only a cat, and an elderly one at that. But I’ve had an irrational, unstoppable affection for Misty from the beginning.

We found her in a shelter, left there after her previous owner died. She’d lived there for months, in a plastic cage, using her litter box for a bed. Somehow, incredibly to me, nobody else wanted to adopt her. I suppose they saw an overweight, miserable, middle-aged lady. There are heaps of energetic stray kittens at the shelter, and they are impressionable and needy and adorable. Misty was set in her ways, lazy, and sad. We didn’t even see her at first — she was hiding in her litter box — but when the food cart came around she perked right up. We saw her lovely white beard and bright green eyes, and we were hers.

We’ve lived with her for 3 years now, and even though she’s a cat, she is family. In the microcosm of our apartment, she is a commanding presence. She weighs in on important decisions, such as when to wake up, when to stay pinned to the couch, when to quit working, and when to go to bed. She sleeps with her butt in my face almost every night, Jason knows just where to scratch her under her chin, and I’ve memorized all her favorite treats and toys. All I can think is how empty our lives will feel without her.

It seems wrong to begin mourning her while she’s still here, but I can’t seem to hold it back. I see her tiny white paws poking out from the coffee table now, and ache to think of them not being there. This little crisis also reminds me that the rest of my life will be full of losses, big and small, and today I just can’t face that thought.

In the course of writing this post, it’s dawning on me that I’ve been obsessing over the future — over the pain that may be coming — rather than living in the moment, where she’s here and okay. I’ve stopped taking care of myself and my work to let the full force of my sadness wash over me. It’s what I had to do today, but tomorrow I want to take a break from sadness.

I want to do what I’ve done every other day of Misty’s life; feel grateful that we crossed paths with such a determined and delightful little creature. I want to bask in her impossibly soft fluff, the warm smell of her, her quirky habits, and her affection for Jason and I. And when she’s ready, I want to give her the best possible goodbye I can.

Of course I technically know it’s March (I vaguely remember writing the rent check), but Chris’ email reminded me that we’re almost 25% done with 2012. It made me wonder where that quarter of a year went. This post will be full of clichés, so here’s the first one: time flies. And it only speeds up as we get older.

Whenever I am forced to remember that time is going faster, I begin agonizing over how to slow it down, because I’m greedy and want as much life as I can get. One technique that’s guaranteed to make time stand still is to write an honest thing and share it with the world.

I can remember the way I felt during almost every post I’ve written. I think deeply about the topic at hand; then I draft, edit, read out loud to my boyfriend, and incorporate his suggestions. I feel desperately nervous when I hit publish, and incredibly light when I talk about it with readers. For the time that I’m writing, I’m present.

On the other hand, I can’t remember a thing I tweeted yesterday. I couldn’t tell you a single status update I’ve posted, ever. These bursts of communication are low-risk; my voice is one in a stream of thousands. People are less engaged, so tweeting requires little forethought. The most I usually get in the way of conversation is a like or a star.

For me, without the limitations of Twitter my blog posts seem too long and self-indulgent. Yet when other people write personal posts, I am reminded of our shared humanity, and feel a sense of community that 140 characters doesn’t always foster. The industry-related posts can help to crystallize a previously vague idea, spark an inspiration, or get us off a creative plateau.

I absolutely believe in the power of blogging, and I think we should all be doing more of it. I usually don’t feel like I’m prepared enough, skilled enough, or awake enough to craft a blog post myself. But today I’m committing to writing anyway, and not just via one-liners about Spanx on Twitter.

Since I’m trying to be more honest (and sometimes this means being way too honest), I feel like telling you, dear readers, about this slump I’ve been in. Last year I changed jobs twice before making my way back to freelance. I moved to a new city, and almost moved right back out of it because I wasn’t sure why I was there. In retrospect, I didn’t know what I was doing, or why I was doing it. And that’s what I remember most about last year.

I didn’t work on anything I was especially proud of, I didn’t write anything I feel really good about. I had plenty of treasured moments with my friends and family, but all in all, I’d been living without direction. I don’t want to anymore.

This means trying so hard to understand some simple but big questions. What do I want? For my career, I say I want to make and write and speak. But this leads me to ask: What do I really have to say? What can I make that’s actually meaningful?

Going deeper, this forces me to consider: what do I believe? Not so much about God or the Universe (I’m delaying that crisis for as long as possible), but about whether mockups should be made in markup, and whether mobile first does make sense in every case. How do I find out what I believe? I read as much as I can, I work as much as I can, and I try to listen more than I talk.

The problem with all this soul searching is that after awhile, it’s paralyzing. There’s this feeling that I can’t write about something unless I know it to be true, and can defend it to the death. I want to talk about design truths with the confidence of Mark Bolton and Jeremy Keith. I want to be smart and have all the answers, like the rest of you.

So I turn ideas over in my head while I shower, and while I wait for the train. I read everything I can, and think about it a lot, and tell myself “soon I’ll have enough facts to write about this.”

Here’s an example of the crippling paralysis I’m experiencing: I’ve been trying to write a light, fun, hopefully informative post for the Typekit Blog for over a month. It was due sometime in February. (I’m sorry, Mandy).

In one section of the blog post I talk about using the best possible ampersand in the age of Typekit. This should’ve been a straightforward paragraph, with some quality ampersands incorporated as examples. Instead, I spent an entire night cataloging all the best ampersands on Typekit, because I didn’t want to write without having “done the research.”

I still haven’t finished the post (though I’ll be working on it after this), because of similar “little snags.” The truth is, I haven’t finished this simple blog post because it seems harder than anything else I want to do.

Writing is hard because it means we must think deeply, take risks, and get comfortable with asking questions instead of having all the answers. And many of us are out of practice. However, I’m starting to think writing is the ladder to climbing out of slumps, and the bridge over future pits of confusion and inactivity. If we write enough, we’ll gain clarity about our ideas, confidence in our voice, and meaningful conversation with our peers.

Blogging will make us better designers, better community members, and more fulfilled people. That’s why today I’m committing to blogging more. You should too.

If you write your own “Ideas of March” post, or want to talk about this one, let us know by using the hash tag #ideasofmarch on Twitter.

The Mall at Millennia in Orlando, FL. I used to hang out here all the time in college. Photo by Jason Hawkins

I’m so excited that it’s finally 2012, because that means next month I’ll be speaking at the In Control Conference in Orlando, FL. I lived in Orlando for five years; it’s where I went to college, met my boyfriend, and landed my first web design job. Returning to talk about responsive design and hang out with a bunch of Florida web geeks (and Northerners escaping the winter) is a pretty exciting prospect.

My session is called “Designing for the Web” (the title still needs some work), but here’s the summary:

Web design means crafting the best possible experience for users of phones, tablets, and an array of browsers. In this session, we’ll talk about how to use the latest techniques in visual design and front-end development to create designs that not only look gorgeous, but also present a great experience on an array of devices.

I’m really looking forward to the talk; I’m also really looking forward to hearing the other speakers do their thing. The lineup is fantastic, so I know I’ll be learning a ton. It’s great way to kick off the new year, and I hope to see you there!

“I’m a quitter,” by the fabulous Natalie Dee.

I just started cooking and playing guitar a few months ago, and I’ve already quit a couple times. Days will go by where I scorn our pretty off-white Stratocaster, and barely step into the kitchen. But my desire to learn still nags at me, so grudgingly I light up the gas stove, or pick up the guitar again.

Why do I keep quitting?

It sends me into a foul, black mood every time I spend hours chopping vegetables only to produce a sub-par meal. Learning guitar is even more infuriating. I can read the music, I understand the strumming patterns, but my soft fingers refuse to go where I tell them. Every time I practice, I want to smash the damn thing to bits. My finger exercises are punctuated by me angrily slapping the strings, because I seem to make the same mistakes over and over again. I feel so stupid I could cry.

Inevitably time spent learning a new skill ends with me stomping around the house in a fit. “Stick with it,” Jason says. “Why would I want to stick with something that makes me this miserable? I’m not having ANY FUN.” He just stays quiet, leaving it to me to puzzle it out. Why keep trying to cook, and trying to play guitar, when it only produces shit? When it frustrates me to no end?

I desperately want to give up, like I’ve given up on so many hobbies in the past (swimming, jogging, photography, sewing, and knitting to name a few). After all, I’ve made it this far without cooking and guitar. Time spent preparing a sub-par meal, or practicing the same three chords, feels like time wasted; I could’ve browsed the internet or watched TV all night, like I usually do. A life lived in front of a screen is still technically a life, right?

So why should I stick with it?

I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I rarely feel real discomfort, and the fumbling agony of ineptitude. I’ve gotten pretty good at web design (though still not good enough). I’m quite skilled at a variety of iPhone games, and I can competently order takeout and pay my bills on time. Seemingly, I’ve got all the skills one needs to function and be a reasonably content adult.

But it’s not enough to get by with the knowledge I have. I want to be challenged, and feel the thrill of mastering a new skill. I know that struggle can eventually be enjoyable, even if now it makes me miserable. I know how much pain comes before proficiency. Right now my ineptitude hurts much worse than the raw soreness on my fingertips or the knife cuts and burns on my hands. But eventually, by the time the callouses form, I’ll be better at chord changes, and I’ll play a real song.

Who’s to say it will ever get better?

I often think, I’m not “cut out” to be a person who cooks or plays music. That I’m missing that natural inclination that others seem to have. I find myself wishing I could just BE GOOD at guitar, the way I was always good at web design. As if I have some innate ability that makes me a natural born designer, but I’m missing the cook / guitarist gene.

The truth is, that is a bullshit excuse. Talent and natural gifts do exist, and probably help to nudge us in the right direction. But even with an inclination towards design, I wasn’t good at it for a very, very long time.

It seems a miracle to me that I ever stuck with web design long enough to make a career from it; especially since I’m self taught. I toiled away in Flash MX for months, hiding my PowerBook behind the front desk of the hotel where I worked. And I wept from frustration when things didn’t work. I wanted to burn my HTML books to ashes when I couldn’t get an element to float right. To this day I look at early design mockups and bang my head against my desk, because I am too slow and stupid and conventional and lazy to make a decent looking website.

I’ve never “just been good” at design. It is an endless, miserable struggle to close the gap between where I am and where I want to be. But I’ve felt the glow of success, and occasionally I make something I’m proud of, so it’s finally become fun. In fact, being a designer isn’t just fun, it’s one of the best things about my life. I’m excited to build websites almost every day. It’s allowed me to have incredible experiences, and think about life through a different lens than I would have otherwise.

It’s all about attitude

My parents frequently remind me that it all comes down to attitude. I’m not a naturally optimistic person. My instinct, or maybe my learned habit, is to say “I’ll never be able to do this,” or “there’s no way this could ever be fun.” My tendency towards self-defeat is the biggest hurdle I have to overcome. But as web design has taught me, it’s so worth it.

I definitely won’t ever be Joan Jett or Julia Child, but some day I’ll be able to play silly punk songs with my boyfriend, and eventually I’ll throw a modest dinner party for my best friends. And I bet my life will be better for it.

Related reading

This paraphrased quote from Ira Glass, which you’ve hopefully already seen, lays out a guiding principle for anyone doing creative work:

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. … And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. … You’ve just gotta fight your way through.

It’s worth it to hear these words unedited from Ira, so be sure to watch the interview.

A few weeks back, a client remarked that they didn’t like the folder icon used in a project. At first I thought nothing of changing it. I own about a bajillion icons, and how hard could it be to find or design a folder icon?

As it turns out, finding quality, versatile icons is pretty hard, and designing my own is a nightmare. I should have known it wouldn’t be easy to whip up the perfect icon, having witnessed how Dan slaved over his Ballroom icons back in the day.

So, after scouring CandyBar for an hour and coming up short, I did what any modern girl does when confronted with a problem. I tweeted about it.

As usual, Twitter saved the day. I was reminded of a handful of old classics, and introduced to a number of new, gorgeous icon sets. I promised myself and the internet that I’d do a roundup of these icons. I then proceeded to promptly set the task aside and forget about it.

These icons would’ve remained buried in Simplenote, if not for Studiomate and all-around-fantastic-designer Mike Fortress, who sent me a nudge. (Thanks, Mike!) (Also, you should go buy his gorgeous slab-serif font, Deming.)

I usually can’t stand roundup posts (“Top 45 websites using green and yellow!” “Top 30 websites by people with vaginas!”). However, I’m hoping this post will actually help interface designers build a better toolbox, and will also give some much deserved business to the tireless icon designers of the world.

Get these icons

I can’t overstate the value of a good flat, sharp, detailed icon. You can style it any way you please, use it in a variety of projects, and communicate difficult interface concepts in a 16 pixel space. Considering the incredible amount of work that goes into designing each icon, and the quality exhibited below, these sets are scandalously low priced. So get ready to do some serious tax-deductible shopping.

Geomicons

• $16, free preview pack
• Outlined, rounded and slightly cartoonish
• 315 icons
• EPS format
• Made by Brent Jackson: Twitter, Dribbble
• See also: Papercraft

Picons

• $19 – $42, free social pack
• Mix of outline and solid, elegant, good range
• 300 icons
• AI, PDF, EPS, CSH, PNG’s, and PSD
• Made by Morphix: Twitter, Dribbble

Symbolicons

• $5 – $43, free drinks pack
• Solid, squared, classic
• 465 icons
• AI, PDF, EPS, SVG, PSD, CSH, PNG
• Made by Sensible World: Twitter, Dribbble

Bixel

• $9.99
• 22×22 pixel icons, flat, tiny, pixel-y
• 105 icons
• PNG
• Made by Tyler Galpin: Twitter, Dribbble

Tabs

• $9.95 – $29.99, free social and starter packs
• Crisp, elegant, lovely
• 200+ icons
• PSD
• Made by Kevin Andersson: Twitter, Dribbble

Gentleface

• $29.99, free with CC Attribution-NonCommercial
• Rounded, detailed, versatile
• 296 icons
• EPS, SWF, PDF, PNG
• Made by Gentleface

Iconic

• Free
• Blocky, thick, classic
• 136 icons
• PNG, SVG, OFT/TTF/EOT, Omnigraffle
• Made by PJ Onori: Twitter

Glyphish

• $25, free starter pack with CC attribution
• Detailed, gorgeous, elegant
• 280 icons
• PNG, PSD, PDF, AI, Font
• Made by Joseph Wain: Twitter, Dribbble

IconSweets

• Donation
• Detailed, crisp, lovely
• 60 icons
• PSD 32×32 and 16×16
• Made by Yummy Gum: Twitter

IconSweets2

• Donation
• Detailed, crisp, lovely
• 292 icons in 16×16, 400+ in 32×32 and 64×64,
• PSD
• Made by Yummy Gum: Twitter

Glyphicons

• $25 – $49, free starter pack with CC attribution
• Sharp, detailed, lovely
• 310 icons
• PNG, AI, PDF, SVG
• Made by Jan Kovařík: Twitter, Dribbble

Pictos

• $19 – $240
• Versatile, simple, sharp
• Loads of icons (couldn’t find exact count)
• PNG, Font
• Made by Drew Wilson: Twitter, Dribbble

The Noun Project

• Free with CC attribution
• Classic, simple
• Loads of icons (couldn’t find exact count)
• SVG
• Made by Simple Honest Work: Twitter

Chameleon

• $19 – $85
• Tiny, pixel-y, versatile
• 280 icons
• PNG, GIF
• Made by Dan Cederholm: Twitter, Dribbble

Gcons

• Free
• Detailed, versatile
• 100 icons
• PSD, PNG, GIF, JPG
• Made by Greepit: Twitter

Pixelated

• Free
• Tiny, pixel-y
• 160 icons
• PSD, GIF
• Made by Bold Perspective: Twitter

Eddit iPhone UI

• $69 – $189
• Detailed, crisp, lovely
• 160 icons
• PSD, PNG
• Made by Eddie Wilson: Twitter, Dribbble

Simplicity

• $19
• Rounded, cartoonish, simple
• 205 icons
• EPS, SVG
• Made by Frexy Studio: Twitter

Tipogram

• $24
• Bold, flat, simple
• 90 icons
• Truetype, EOT, SVG, WOFF, vector
• Made by Tom Creighton: Twitter, Dribbble

Picas

• $10 – $25, free social icons and sample pack
• Simple, classic, versatile
• 250 icons
• vector
• Made by Rok Benedik: Twitter, Dribbble

Helveticons

• $259 – $439, free desktop and social icon sets
• Flat, simple
• 479 icons
• PNG, PDF, EPS, GS, PSD, AI, CHS
• Made by Goodbye Horses

Roam Design

• Free under CC attribution
• Rounded, simple
• 99 icons
• AI
• Made by Roam Design

]]> http://owltastic.com/2011/08/simple-interface-design-icons/feed/ 55 http://owltastic.com/2011/07/collecting-things/ http://owltastic.com/2011/07/collecting-things/#comments Thu, 07 Jul 2011 19:15:05 +0000 Meagan Fisher http://owltastic.com/?p=1111 My dad is a chronic collector. Every few months he develops a new obsession, rounding up as many of a thing as he can. He inspects, catalogs, and adores each item for months, then trucks it off to a pawn shop or antiques vendor to make room for the next thing.

Here are some of the collections that filled our house over the years, not in any particular order: arrow heads, ink wells, pocket knives, antique belt buckles, military swords, Colt pistols, snuff boxes, Scrimshaw, antique currency, Daguerrotype photographs, vintage postcards, railroad watches, coins, bayonets, guitars, carved wooden animal figurines, tin signs, and most recently Zippo lighters.

It’s hard being a father, and it’s hard being a daughter. When one of you is a quiet, blue-collar, middle-aged man, and the other is a chubby pre-teen girl who loves Pokemon, what is there to say? I decided I could start liking antiques more easily than my dad could make the jump to Pokemon, so in the second grade I started collecting too.

Civil War Union coat buttons

The choice of what to collect was made for me, when a friend of the family who owned Dottie’s Florist & Military Antiques Shop gave me a few tiny buttons from the cuff of a Union soldier’s uniform. They were the size of a dime, gold plated, and had proud eagles on the face. Some had small letters on the chest, indicating what type of soldier wore them (C for calvary, I for infantry, and A for artillery).

The back of each button held the mark of the factory who produced it; some said “Extra Quality”, others “Scovill Mfg Co. Waterbury.” The style of these backmarks, as well as the engraving on the face of the button, told a story about who wore them, where they came from, and what they saw.

The manufacturer’s insignia on the back of the buttons

In awe of the history of these tiny adornments, I imagined they’d held a man’s sleeve together while he bled out at Gettysburg. I was caught up in the romance of the period, and the detailed craftsmanship of this overlooked military paraphernalia. I wanted more. I also knew this was my ticket to spending time with Dad, a task that eluded me until then.

We spent Saturdays sweating under the brutal Florida sun, scouring dusty flea markets and haggling at roadside antique stands. If we got an early enough start, by the time we arrived home for lunch we’d usually amassed a decent amount of treasure. We’d spread our finds out on the dining room table, pull the appropriate reference books from Dad’s library (this was before we had a computer), and tell each other about what we’d bought.

These are my favorites: Confederate infantry buttons. I love the solid brass construction. I love the way the soil content of the battlefields they were dug from gives each a different patina. I love the big, blocky, “I.”

Some weekends we’d take road trips to Civil War battlefields, or Dad (a pilot at a small local airport) would borrow a plane and fly us to an out-of-state show. These trips took me all around the South, and along the way I heard the stories of other collectors. They were mostly old men, many of them World War II vets with incredible life experiences. I’d guess many of them have since died, and I feel fortunate to have met them.

Collecting plays a huge role in shaping who I am. It’s taught me to love history, enjoy research, and value the experience of the elderly. I’ve learned to appreciate small details and craftsmanship. These experiences also revealed the introverted, nerdy girl I am at heart.

As the story tends to go, once I turned 14 I stopped collecting buttons and started collecting friends, surfboards, and illicit experiences. This put a halt on my relationship with my dad, since I spent my teenage years trying to be someone completely unlike him. He did the same thing at that age.

I’ve since rediscovered the nerdy girl I was before. I love collecting and treasure hunting, and nothing is more precious to me than sitting in companionable silence with someone equally obsessed with details.

I started this post because I was thinking about collecting things, and wondering why I treasure my buttons, dozens of ceramic owls, piles of old cigarette tins, and rows of broken vintage cameras. Each appeals to me for different reasons, and each requires their own post. But I love that sitting down to write about the things I have collected really means writing about my father, my favorite childhood memories, and who I am.

]]> http://owltastic.com/2011/07/collecting-things/feed/ 9 http://owltastic.com/2011/07/writing-and-publishing/ http://owltastic.com/2011/07/writing-and-publishing/#comments Tue, 05 Jul 2011 20:56:45 +0000 Meagan Fisher http://owltastic.com/?p=1096 Last week the Studiomates gave presentations about what we’re working on. This produced great conversations about the way we work, and the challenges we face when trying to be productive. During these talks, Rob Weychert (friend, champion air guitarist, fabulous designer) said, “I usually have to write about something to really understand it.” Rob also pointed me to this tweet from Mr. Zeldman, which shares this sentiment:

Rob and Jeffery’s statements resonate with many of us, and not just creatives. Jason (boyfriend, fellow Studiomate, iOS developer) regularly writes emails to his boss detailing a coding problem he’s having. Most of these emails are never sent, because the simple act of writing the problem helps him to solve it. Similarly, I’ll often drop what I’m doing to write a post about a thought that’s picking at my brain. Once the idea is “on paper,” I can go back to focusing on the task at hand.

For me, that’s the real beauty of writing. Ideas can be noisy, heavy things. Trying to ignore them is like trying to ignore a bored cat. It will sit on your chest while you’re resting. It will paw at you while you work. It will purr, it will scratch, but it will not go away until it is acknowledged. Writing is how I acknowledge an idea, so it will finally go to sleep.

Usually, the writing is pleasurable, if not easy. It’s a selfish, cathartic act. The hard part is publishing. After all, I don’t want to pollute your feeds with this noise. And the style of my site isn’t quite right yet. Maybe one day I’ll write something worthy of posting to my crappy little blog. But, in the meantime, it’s best to continue to Save as Draft.

But I’ve come to realize that, while it’s good to practice writing, it’s just as important to practice publishing. Posting my ideas teaches me to edit myself, spark conversations, and accept criticism. Being evaluated is an essential part of a creative career; it happens every time I try a new style, propose a first mockup, or give a presentation. Right now, I’m not very good at accepting critiques. I suspect that publishing will help me develop this skill.

In conclusion, this post has several aims. It is my start to developing a new habit: I will write ideas down, and release them. This post is also intended to be a warning: I am going to be publishing more things! If you find this an unwelcome declaration, I encourage you to back out now. Lastly, in writing this I hope to encourage all of you to follow suit: share your thoughts, start conversations, and don’t be scared.

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