A Neuner Christmas Carol

I've been accused of being something of a Grinch in the past. I suppose it's not entirely untrue: I really don't care about Christmas. It's not that I want to ruin everyone's good time - despite my staunch opposition to holiday mandated gift-giving, I'm not trying to take toys from kids or cancel the celebrations. I love toys, and encourage festivities.

I like the lights - the lights are my favorite part - although I do abhor Christmas music. Lately I've been keeping my headphones on in Whole Foods because if I hear Zooey Deschanel's version of 'Baby It's Cold Outside' one more time I am going to straight up throttle the next person who stands in front of the cheese samples for half a second too long. And it's cool that everyone's happy and charitable and shit, but I hate receiving Christmas cards from the whole office. I'm the only person that doesn't send any back, and it's super awkward. I just don't do Christmas cards. Because I don't care about Christmas. I'm sorry! I just don't.

And this isn't a war on the Magic of the Holiday Season. Guys, I love magic. I believe in ghosts for goodness sake. When unexplainable shit happens to me, I usually think 'Irish Voodoo' and that is seriously an explanation I'm satisfied with. When I was four, I swear I heard Santa and the Reindeer on the roof. I have never been so convinced of anything*.  So it was a mega goddamn bummer when my parents let me in on the truth about Santa. (It created some trust issues. Most of which I've worked through.) And although I really like Christmas movies (repeated viewings of 'A Charlie Brown Christmas' have convinced me that Charles Schulz shared many of my utopian humanist dreams) most of the real-life celebratory aspects just seem a little...ridiculous, to me.

My parents' interest in the holiday waned around the time we stopped asking for cool toys. As we got older, the whole tree rigamarole became such a hassle**, they downgraded to a small, relatively festive Christmas plant. It totally worked for us. Around then,my brother and I realized we could get each other much better presents if we just waited to buy them with our Christmas money. And so began the grand tradition of Sibling Christmas. In Amherst, it was held at Goten. In Boston, Chinatown. One year, we didn't even leave the apartment. And it was just so much nicer this way, without stress about gifts and travel, no exorbitant price tags, no one-upping a prior year's performance. Just a day off, man. With festive lighting.

All of this serves to explain why I figured spending Christmas alone would be no big deal.

I moved to DC in October of 2010. My parents made their final trip from PEI to Florida over Thanksgiving, and stopped here along the way. We ate Lebanese takeout in their hotel room, and it was awesome. When Christmas rolled around...I don't know. It didn't make sense to go to Florida. My brother was still in Vermont then, and Sibling Christmas can happen whenever, so that wasn't really a concern. And I thought: 'the city will be empty, just how I like it.'

I took myself to museums. I went to the National Gallery two days in a row. I got my super nerd on. It was awesome. The cold made my hands sting, but I took a walk along the mall, which is blessedly quiet at 4:30pm on December 23rd. The lights started coming on just as I was ready to head home, and I thought: 'I'm really glad I moved here.' It was perfect. Who cares about Christmas?

The next day, I decided on the Natural History Museum. I don't know why, but it seemed like an exceptionally charming thing to do for Christmas Eve. I was really excited about the dinosaurs. Dinosaurs! (Seriously, I love dinosaurs. If you want to hang out and talk about your favorite dinosaur, this is something I'm into.) It was cold again, and the creepy silence of my empty house was gnawing at my edges a little, but I'd bought myself some ill new boots as a Christmas present, so there was plenty to be positive about. I got to the museum around 2:30 - lateish, but enough time for some thorough exploration, followed by happy hour in a part of town I never went out in. Maybe I could even find a fire to read by. And a burnished leather chair to sit in! Visions of hot toddies danced in my head.

I assumed the museum would be mostly empty. I wanted something tomb-like, intimidatingly quiet. Just myself and people like me, nerds alone on Christmas, and totally cool about it. As it turns out? The Natural History Museum on Christmas Eve is pretty much ENTIRELY THE OPPOSITE OF THOSE THINGS. The joint was full of families. All kinds of families. Moms and Dads and kids, Aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews. Grandparents and grandchildren. Foreign students goofing around, tourists unabashedly snapping the most touristy of pictures: ‘One with my arm in the shark’s mouth!’; ‘One where it looks like the mammoth is going to step on me!’; ‘One where it looks like I’m about to do this Neanderthal lady from behind!’. Couples, friends, people all in love, one way or another, with their companions. The museum was bursting with love. I'd made a mistake, coming here.

Back when we were roommates, F and I spent a frigid November afternoon at Harvard’s deliciously vintage Natural History Museum. We spent an hour looking at the gems and stones, at least twice as long in the Great Mammal Hall, browsing the animals behind the 70s-era glass cases, noting the expressions taxidermied onto their faces: alarmed, bemused, stoned. We took pictures of at least a dozen examples of 'stuffed balls' with our phones and sent them to my brother. We laughed all afternoon.

I snapped out of the memory, back to myself: alone, standing in front of a Triceratops. The corners of my eyes and the sides of my throat got a little sore, felt a little full. I got out of there before the tears came. 

Outside, I didn't feel like drinking in the company of strangers anymore, so I went home, and tortured myself with the Ghosts of Christmases Past: watched 'A Muppet Christmas Carol' and thought of the one present we'd been allowed to open on Christmas Eve as kids, the one we fretted over for a week beforehand, poking the wrapped packages and weighing them in our hands. Thought about my Dad grabbing up our discarded wrapping paper and stuffing it in the trashbag before it had a chance to hit the floor. Thought about the year Beetle and I selected 'Avatar' as our Christmas movie, the silent moment when he leaned over and whispered: "How come only the male avatars have nipples?" I laughed so hard I almost had to leave the theater. 

You see what I'm getting at here. No, I don't care about Christmas. But it's not about the holiday. It's about love. And maybe it should be just a day off, but it's not. It's not like I was loved any less because I wasn't with my family. But the presence of love is a powerful thing. And it's even more powerful in the remove. 

This year, I'm going to Florida. I'm meeting my brother and his lady in Miami on Christmas day, and then we're spending the rest of the week with our parents in their adorably weird little golf course community, places that exist by the hundreds in Florida - and seemingly only in Florida, although I bet Arizona has a bounty of these joints, too. I haven't bought presents for anyone, and I'm sure no one's got presents for me. I'll spend the majority of my holiday flying, I'll be late to meet everyone, I'll annoy at least one person by repeatedly asking where the dive bars are in this town. My dad will have trouble finding the hotel the next day when he comes to pick us up, and someone will yell at me for dawdling/getting us lost/being generally unhelpful. I cannot wait, I could not want anything more. 

Merry Christmas, everyone.

*I did hear something that night. My adult explanation? Irish Voodoo. Or raccoons, whatever.
** Putting up the Christmas tree is pretty much the only time I've ever seen my parents really hate each other. They didn't like, say it or anything, but the air was pretty thick with an 'If this tree falls on you, I hope you die' vibe.

Failures in Existential Homecomings

I went home for Thanksgiving this year. It was wonderful. It was weird. It was interesting.

Home is a strange concept for me, given that I don't really have one. Not in a tragic way, of course, but in a way that makes 'the Holidays' somewhat emotionally complicated. Especially as I get older and messier. And wiser. (Somewhat wiser.)

Amherst is one home, certainly, It's where I grew up, the place that exists in a dozen dimensions stacked on each other, perspectives of my world at 8, 12, 16, 20, 25, 30...But I've left, and my brother's left, and our parents left. So it's still home, in a way, still the place I started, but all my time there is woven through with this faint, constant anxiety. It's a whimpering, underlying loneliness, a mild love panic - whatever it means, it's a specific kind of emptiness that I don't feel anywhere else: This was home. But I have to leave soon. This is not my base anymore.

Every place has had it's moments. In New Orleans, I felt like a kindred with an entire city, its whole spirit, like everything strange and terrible that I was was true, and real, but also beautiful and fascinating, and that all that twisted chaos was probably just fine.

Then Boston, the strange little second adolescence I threw myself into because I apparently never tire of late nights and melodrama, excessive introspection and cheap wine, skating along the poverty line between champagne brunches. And I love it there still, I have family by blood, and families we made up just with our hearts, and being back there is the best mirror, of how much has changed and how much is the same and how much we can love each other, and how much of that is forever. But it's not home anymore, either. There's no place that is just mine, all the way through.

My parents live in Florida, my brother lives in Colorado. When I'm with them, I'm home, because that's my team, but underneath all the best parts is the same low-level hum that buzzes through the base of my brain when I'm in Amherst: This was home. But I have to leave soon. There's nothing permanent for me here.

I used to hate the expression 'Home Is Where the Heart Is', because fuck you, my heart is everywhere.

Baylor and I got back late last night, to an empty apartment that smelled like roses and sandalwood from the incense burning when Kyle picked us up on Wednesday. I spent half an hour in the shower steaming the car-ride stiffness out of my muscles and rubbing my sides where they were still sore from the night before, when F and I stayed up belly-laughing over a decade's worth of memories, photos and videos capturing hundreds of stupid, tiny, wonderful moments, dozens we'd forgotten about, all of them we were so happy to have remembered. And it occurred to me that was home, too, inside those images were my parents, and my brother, my friends, place we've been, things we've seen, the people we were, a whole record that doesn't register any less deeply simply because it's not a physical place.

Earlier that day, I sat in the basement of Bartlett Hall with two of my favorite people on the planet, people I didn't get to meet until well into my Boston days. One of them is at UMass now, teaching classes in the building where I spent days of my undergraduate life, books spread out across beat up wooden desks tucked into the second floor landing, baking in the greenhouse heat cooked up by window panes and winter sunlight. I hadn't been inside in the better part of a decade, but here I was again, for the simple reason that two of my worlds happened to bump into each other on the same day. There was a time when that would have upset me greatly, a time when I favored strict compartmentalization to all other life-love organizational systems, but I'm not really like that anymore. Now I like it when my edges blur.

This ended differently than I intended. This morning, I thought I was going to write about how I sort of understand some things that terrify me - commitment, responsibility, regularity, maturity - much better when I think about them in the context of Home. Someplace to go back to. Some place that is all yours. But it was going to be something of a backhanded compliment, and I don't want to do that now. Now I just want to say that I think maybe we spend our whole lives coming home, and that's not nearly as depressing as it sounds. It gives us something to aspire to.

When I got out of the shower last night, I put on an old Temptation's album I stole from my brother and emailed my parents to let them know we got back safely, albeit without my phone charger (hence the email). Baylor was passed out beside me, purring in that way unique to Staffies, exhausted in that way unique to small children and animals after long days of travelling. When I got into bed, that humming was still there, the one that never lets me forget that this good thing will end, too. They all will! But maybe that's not the best way to think about it.

That hum tells us that things will pass, yes. But it's sure there a lot. So maybe it's not there to bum me out. Maybe it's there to keep my eyes open. Like an appreciation alert. Like there are too many good things wherever I go, and I'm never going to get to them all. And that's probably just fine.

Everyone Is An Asshole

So everyone's been sort of a jerk lately. Not you, reading this, of course. You've been terrific, I'm sure. You're probably one of my friends, and my friends are wonderful. People have just not been super wonderful to them lately. It seems like hearts are breaking all around me. And I'm sensitive to that shit now.

It's always the surprise that's the worst part. The rug pulled out from under you, that patch of black ice on the sidewalk. The sneakiest kind of disappointment: I just didn't expect this. Everything seemed so great. They seemed so great! That insidious little betrayal: I trusted you. I let you in. I told my friends about you. And like I said, I know all these wonderful people, so they're mad, of course, but they also turn the anger in: How could I not have known? How could I let myself get tricked again? Everything seemed so great. 

That is not just about love. It happens with friends, it happens at work. It happens everywhere. The thing that made you the happiest takes down its own curtain and leaves you with nothing. Or worse, more common: it takes part of you with it. And it seems impossible, that you could have been so wrong, you're sharper than that, you're smarter than that. But it's still ever-present, that threat: you're in danger of being let down every time you trust something, from the very moment you let it in. And it happens for one, simple, universal reason:

Everyone is an asshole. Sometimes.

It's true. And it's the only comfort I've been able to give anyone recently, when the people and things that they've trusted have let them down, again, for unbelievable, stupid, tiny, mind-blowingly painful reasons: everyone is an asshole, sometimes. Even the best people who've ever lived, Ghandi, Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King Jr., your angelic little Nana: they were all assholes, sometimes. Even the person who has shown you the greatest kindness in your life, whom you are forever grateful for and to: they're an asshole, too. Or they were. Sometimes.

We're humans. We make a mess of absolutely everything we do. Even the most revered and accoladed among us, even the kindest and the most charitable. We feel so deeply. We want so many things. We act impulsively, jumping first and apologizing later. We cover things up. We are imperfect, so we miss a spot. We are tortured, so we let ourselves get caught. We hurt each other and run away. We stay close enough to see just how bad it really was. Sometimes we do this because we know we'll be forgiven. Sometimes that's the meanest part of all.

Of course I'm guilty, too. Sometimes I think I'm the guiltiest. I've been selfish. I've been petty. I've been cruel. I've lied, I've cheated, I've stolen. I've taken more than I needed. I've been reckless, I've been short-tempered. I've expected other people to clean up my messes. I've been manipulative, I've been immature. I've been careless with other people's hearts. I've been destructive with my own. I am an asshole. Sometimes.

And you, wonderful person, darling friend who has undoubtedly acted beautifully and selflessly, who has been there for someone when no one else was, who has helped loved ones through tragedies large and small - you are an asshole, too. Sometimes.

But we're also great. More than sometimes. That goes for me and it goes for you, too. Kind and caring and sympathetic, helpful when you don't have to be, accepting when you'd like to disagree, patient when you're frustrated, open when it would be so much easier to close. True, it's because of these things, these beautiful capabilities, that we make ourselves vulnerable to the assholes, potential victims to the concealed, predatory worst parts of everyone. And because of that - because you know that anyone, at any time, can kick a hole through your heart - when you know that, and choose to extend your hand anyway, it lifts us all up, a little. Makes us better than we are. Makes all the messy, gory, excruciating, tedious, lovely, hideous business of being a human worth it, if just for a flash, before you descend back down into your baser elements. Don't let that get you down. Don't let any of it get you down. You're beautiful right now. We all have our moments. Just remember:

Everyone is an asshole. Sometimes.

A Shot and a Beer, Delores

It probably goes without saying: I'm delighted by the outcome of the election. Obama is my jam, and I want to have a beer with Biden so much, I own a cozy with a picture of his face on it. There are more lady senators than ever, and check it: burgeoning religious diversity! A Buddhist lady! A Hindu lady! (Which made me think, if I were ever to take office - it's a hypothetical, roll with me - would they allow me to swear in on The Ballad of the Sad Cafe? Carson McCullers is as close as I get to religion.) We're four states closer to universalizing the right to marry whoever the hell you're crazy enough to want to do that with. And I have yet another reason to visit the baby brother in Boulder. America 2012: now with more weed!

But, hey, stoner! Pay attention.We're not done yet. This is just another good step. There's still so much to fix. Like - there is still a ton of racist garbage going on. Case in point: The Washington Redskins.

One cool thing about DC is that most of  the sports teams are in different divisions than Boston teams, so I can be a fan without betraying loyalties. But I realized this fall: I cannot root for the Redskins. Because...what...how...this the name of the capital city's football team? Guys, that word is a fucking slur. It's disgusting. It is not celebratory. It is a hateful, hateful thing. Because it's a tradition, because everyone's used to it: these are not reasons to continue the practice in perpetuity. Do you really need examples of 'traditional' practices where, in hindsight, it's just 'Holy shit, what the hell was WRONG with everyone?' I brought this up with Kyle the other day, and he was like 'Okay, but is the Cleveland Indians mascot not more racist than Washington's team name?' And he has a point, that bullshit is also terrible, but we don't need to involve a scale of racism. It is all vile. Like, HOW IS ANYONE OKAY WITH ANY OF THIS?

Why isn't everyone talking about this all the time? Every game? Why haven't the Commissioners of ALL THE SPORTS just gotten together for lunch one day and been like 'Guys, none of this is alright. Let's fix it right now. Let's just split some calamari and - what, okay you want the mussels? Bud, you don't like mussels? Of course you don't. Hmm. Beef carpaccio? What? No. We aren't getting the spinach-artichoke dip. This isn't TGIFridays. Okay FINE, get it, just can we please talk about changing all these abhorrent team names and mascots? Fans would be so into this! It'd be like the time M&M's had people vote on the new color! Remember? Okay, sure some people miss tan, but that's not a super valid comparison, because tan M&Ms weren't COMPLETELY FUCKING RACIST. I mean, we changed the Bullets. To the Wizards, I know, entirely stupid name, we'll need to brand-manage better this time, but really. DC didn't want to be the Bullets anymore because of the negative associations with violence and being the murder capitol and all. What about the negative associations of, oh, I don't know, murdering millions of people with smallpox blankets and forcing them out of their homes just because some white people wanted to raise their stupid cows there? That's not negative enough? I'm just saying - OH MY GOD, DAVID, NOBODY WANTS THE APPETIZER SAMPLER, THAT IS ALWAYS THE WORST DEAL ON THE MENU.'

Because kids, we're better than this. You know? Just today I was bitching about how we haven't changed Columbus Day to American Holocaust Remembrance Day, and the discussion turned to getting credit for 'finding' something you stumbled across while looking for something else. Like when I 'find' an ill dive bar in a weird neighborhood after wandering around in search of a subway station. People have been drinking there for mad long. It was merely a personal discovery. Later my friend compared America, at it's best, to a great dive bar, and we were both like 'Oh shit, that is the best way to think about it.' And there's no place I'd rather be than a great dive bar. You know?

Tuesday night, I left Kyle's still nervous about what kind of country I'd wake up to on Wednesday (the Metro should totally run late on election night). I was walking down the street listening to Rihanna on my giant headphones, in an outfit that involved no pants and a lot of scarves, eating a cookie with TWO KINDS of chocolate chips, and I was like 'Dude, I love America! Romney can't win.' Then I didn't feel like eating the rest of the cookie, so I threw it in the street. Obama's America: Where the streets are paved with chocolate chip cookies! Half-eaten chocolate chip cookies, though. We've still got a lot of work to do.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go help those old white men get through their lunch meeting so I can feel okay cheering for RG III. Because he's dope. And before Goodell starts pegging waitresses with dinner rolls. He's a mess when he doesn't get his way on the first course.

I love this bar.


a) Despite the lighthearted end note, we still need to fix all the mascots, and Columbus Day. 
b) I wasn't like, naked and wrapped up in scarves or anything, it was my typical unbalanced ratio of leggings-to-layers-on-top.
c) I figured throwing the cookie in the street wasn't littering because there are animals, but now I feel bad about luring them into the street, and what if chocolate is bad for raccoons like it is for dogs? I feel bad about this now. See? LOT OF WORK TO DO. 

Make Your Dreams Come True

I have strange dreams. Strange enough that my father asked me to stop telling him about them, which seems like a waste of a perfectly good in-house therapist, but I get it. My subconscious can be a rather psychotic place, and it can't be entirely pleasant to know exactly how crazy your daughter is. So now I just write them all down in a notebook I keep next to my bed.

They've been really vivid lately, incredibly real. And very clear when I wake up, which is fairly common when I don't sleep in my own bed, but it's been happening regardless of where I find myself at the end of the night. Like, last night, where I fell asleep in my own bed watching 'Sons of Anarchy', with Baylor tucked into the crook behind my knees (he insists he can fit there). Overnight I dreamt about taking pictures of a multi-colored house in JP (a house that actually exists, albeit with a calmer palette) and coming home to read 'The Bippolo Seed', a collection of lost Dr. Seuss stories (that is real, and that I own). The only part of the book I read in the dream was the dedication, on the back cover page.

It was so real, that when I woke up, I checked the back of the book to see if that was, in fact, the actual dedication. Of course it wasn't, this book isn't dedicated to anyone, it's a posthumous collection of lost stories, silly faces, but I liked it so much, I wrote it in anyways. It went like this:

"This book is for Sandy and Paul, who love each other very much. Or would have, had they ever met. I knew Paul for years and years and years; everytime I saw him, I told him how much I loved how much he loved Sandy. Or would love, were they ever to meet. But then Sandy got sick. So they never met. But this is still for Sandy and Paul. Who love each other very much."

And it made me want to say: for anyone reading, now, or in the future, to anyone reading: I love you very much. If we haven't talked in years, if we talked yesterday, if we haven't met yet, if we'll never meet: I love you very much.

Pay My Automo' Bills?

I talk with my friends about lots of things: love, family, books, other friends, music, food, dumb shit you've done, dive bars, vacations, and of course, money. Inevitably, someone says something like "I might have to dip into my savings," and I'm like "What the hell is that seven dollars going to save you from?" And then it's like, 'Oh, man, I am super fucking poor.'

I mean, no, of course I'm not actually poor, I realize what a great situation I do, in all reality, have, with my job and roof and groceries and health insurance. I also realize I got myself here all on my own: it's my swirly little signature on all those student loan papers, and it was 100% my own decision to walk away from any sort of stable, lucrative career path. So it's more like...luxury poor. Something I should feel bad complaining about.

I've never been good with money. I am an alarmingly impulsive person, which means that everything makes sense in the moment. I figured those two conditions would reverse themselves with time, but that does not appear to be the case. I've also always been of the opinion that faced with a choice between having fun, and not having fun, you should probably go ahead and see what's behind Door Number Fun, because we're not here for that long, man, and you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. You could! People get hit by buses every day. 

A few years ago, I was walking down Newbury Street, talking to my dad on the phone. It was January, and I'd just gotten out of work. It was dark, but warmer than I expected, and the lights along the sidewalks were on, and twinkling, and sometimes Boston at night in the winter is just exactly the way a city is supposed to look. I was on my way to see the Roots (and  ?uestlove DJ set!!!), and everything was perfectly right with my world, if just for that moment. And my dad said:.  "You know, it's something I've always admired about you. No matter what's happening in your life, you always manage to have a good time." Which seemed like an odd thing to say, but I get the juxtaposition now: I couldn't have afforded a meal in of any of those Back Bay restaurants that Tuesday night, because I'd spent all my money on concert tickets and a new dress. And I wasn't concerned in the slightest.

Because really, what should I have done that evening? Sat home and ate soup and watched television until a reasonable bedtime? I will always remember that show, that night, the music, my friends, and yes, the dress I wore. I have scores and scores of these memories: nights when I did not do the responsible thing, and in a thousand tiny ways that have all added up: I am so much better for it.

There's all kinds of odd happiness on this track: I don't get paid much, but my job is relatively easy and rather pleasant and I get to walk around and look at old buildings, which is one of my forms of therapy. I get to write all the time, and no one really cares how late I am in the mornings (a source of not-insignificant strife at my last job). My apartment is hilariously broke-down in a lot of ways, but there's a ton of space and a porch and Baylor likes it, and though I never would have guessed it, I've grown to love my neighborhood a little.

That's not to say there aren't days - LOTS of days - where I'm like 'this paycheck-to-paycheck nonsense needs to STOP, you need to get your shit together and get an adult-paying job and an apartment where the doorknobs aren't constantly falling off and maybe a car. At least a bed frame!' So then I look for jobs, and there either aren't any, or aren't any that pay substantially more. Or, like today, I find one that does pay really well, and I'm probably super qualified, but it's in Alexandria. I GoogledMapped that shit, and the trip takes over an hour and involves a bus AND a train. The tiny, rational adult part of me is like 'Come on, Katie, you could do --' then the part of me that inhabits my actual reality is like 'OH HELL THE FUCK NO' and I close the browser window in disgust.

Then I think 'maybe I should marry a rich old dude, or something, just to have someone take care of me'. And both the rational-adult and actual-reality parts of me take a pause to fully consider this, because I'm lazy and that sounds sort of cool. And maybe it would make my dad worry less. Then actual-reality points out that I'd be really unhappy, dependent on someone else like that. Also, that's gross. Rational-adult part chimes in 'plus, you're like, 31 now, so the dude would probably have to be REALLY OLD.' Double gross.

So I guess...luxury poor it is, for right now. Have as much fun as you can, make the best memories, and appreciate the freedoms you do have, how lucky you actually, truly are. Oh, and look both ways when you cross the street. Those city buses do not play.

ps: That said, anyone who knows a really awesome, non-gross rich old dude....we can talk, is all I'm saying.

Ms. Darling If You're Nasty

Saturday morning, I woke up with two other people in my bed.

No, not like that. Like this: G's housemates were gone for the weekend, the house has mice. She didn't want to stay alone. She came over around 1.30 on Friday, and as we were getting into bed, girl-talking about the night, her phone rang.

"I always get nervous when the phone rings this late," she said. "What if it's an emergency?" (Note: she is a far better friend than me, the girl who routinely turns her phone to 'silent' on weekend nights, lest I be disturbed for a moment once my head hits the pillow.)

She answered. It was H. And it was an emergency, sort of. He'd left his keys in New York, his car at the airport, his credit card at the bar. His roommate was nowhere to be found, and his doorman's keys weren't working. Or something.

So he came over and the three - four, if you count Baylor at the foot of the bed - of us had an impromptu sleepover, complete with the best kind of giggles, the ones that slip out just as everyone's trying their hardest to fall asleep. It was fairly pleasant rest, considering the crowd, considering that I sleep on a queen-sized box-spring-and-mattress-on-the-floor situation. The next morning we woke up around 10, laughed about our nights, looked for socks.  It was pretty lovely. Here's the thing, though: G is 27. H and I are both 31. Baylor, though none of it was his doing, is 60-something, in dog years.

When my parents were 31, I'd already been around for a while. They'd had another kid. They'd bought and sold a house. They owned a car. They knew how to take small children on a vacation. They could balance checkbooks back when that was a thing that people literally did. (Everyone just uses the computer now, right?)

I count myself among the ranks of friends who still aren't sure what they want to do when they grow up. Who thinks about going back to school frequently - which is a perfectly fine endeavor to take on at 31, there's no age limit to learning, but it's perhaps an interesting sideways move for people who have already gone to so much school. I am frequently only able to locate one shoe of the pair. I have nothing saved. I am physically unable to leave the house at the same time every morning, I swear I see a different group of people on the bus every day. My parents still pay my cell phone bill. (Which I appreciate the hell out of, guys.)

I was running through all of this this morning - waiting for the bus, late to work as usual - and thought: what the hell happened? There are so many of us, grown children pretending at adulthood, like if you could see our inner selves we'd all be tousle-haired six-year-olds playing dress-up in our parent's closets, swallowed up in suit jackets, clomping around in Mommy's heels with lipstick drawn outside the corners of our mouths. I certainly have friends with spouses and houses and cars and babies who've arrived, or with storks on the horizon, but I am still solidly attending Camp 'A Positive Would Be A Negative'. At a certain point, it's easy to start feeling...if not 'bad', then 'less than'.

I've commented on it before, this generational dilemma: the path of our myriad opportunities led us right to a post-adolescent inertia. In the face of so much everything, you pick nothing. Or one thing, but only for a minute, because there are so many other things! My parents didn't have the same options: they had to do something, so they just did it. Is there a sort of freedom in that? Or is this just another freedom that I'm not appreciating: this ability to do what I want, when I want, to still have all these options on the table. Is that 'less than' feeling just the product of a little fear, a little nervousness, because there's no real template for this kind of life? What you were 'supposed to do' was, for so long, really what you 'had to do'. So of course that's the Normal. But now...

There don't seem to be immediate answers to a lot of my questions. Which makes me think maybe it's not about answers, maybe it's more about perspectives, and enjoying all the things you do have, and forgetting for a minute about all the things you should have done.

On Sunday morning, G and I were in her kitchen, making egg scrambles and mimosas, dodging new mousetraps, when she said: "I would think some people would actually be jealous of our lives." I popped a piece of avocado in my mouth, she stirred the egg whites. The bird squawked from his perch, Baylor sniffed at my feet for dropped morsels of goat cheese. Outside it was beautiful, blue skies and fall sunlight warming treetops that have just started to turn orange.

"You know?" She asked. "Because this is so much fun?"

And she's right about that much: this has been so much fun.

The Middle

I've told you about the beginning.

Now we're in the middle.

The middle is okay.

The middle is the part where you write new things. You re-write old things. You find new songs. You find new meaning in old songs. You see new people. Otis and Aretha have never been more relevant. You still drink too much and eat too little. You wear old, stolen shirts to walk the dog at 1:00 in the morning, asking him if he has too much energy to sleep. It's all you, though. You know.

The middle is when you have days you wake up smiling, so full of life even when it's raining, especially when it's raining. Your life is full of more love than you ever could have believed.

The middle is when you have days of sadness that knock you out so hard, you can barely leave your room.

The middle is when those sad days have you calling people you love, and they fill you in ways you couldn't have imagined. You call crying, you hang up smiling.

Maybe the middle is what it's all about. I have dozens of unfinished stories: perfect beginnings, heartbreaking endings, but they're empty because I've never figured out the middle.

The middle. The middle is the hardest part.

I Swear, I Read Them For the Articles

Yesterday, one of our board members was in the office, doing what-ever-the-hell-it-is-he-does-when-he's-in-the-office, and, on taking in my outfit, said: "I don't think it's fair I have to wear a suit through this heat, and you get to run around in your fairy clothes." And my boss replied: "You know what's unfair? That women have to wear high heels." And I thought: "You know what's insane*? THIS ENTIRE CONVERSATION."

Later, I was reading an article in GQ about a Spanish bullfighter who'd been gored through the eye and returned to bullfighting. Besides being pretty much the most fascinating shit ever, it was brilliantly written. By Karen Russell! Who I love. A few months ago, I read a profile - also in GQ - of James Deen, also fabulously, fabulously written - by Wells Tower, another of my literary super-crushes. Benjamin Percy writes for Esquire.  The list of incredible writers who've published short stories in Playboy - Marquez, Nabokov, Nadine Gordimer, Margaret Atwood - is daunting. And then I started to get a little upset.

It's been years since I opened a Cosmo, or any of its ilk, so I can't say for sure, but I do read their covers in the grocery store just like everyone else, and I would be straight-up shocked to find pieces by say, Zadie Smith or Dave Eggers, a new story from Junot Diaz sandwiched between articles about keratin treatments and '85 Terrible Sex Tips We've Published 300 Times, Slightly Reworded'.

There's nothing wrong with articles about fashion and make-up; listen, I personally could talk about eyeliner for a goddamn hour. Probably longer. I also love bracelets and dresses and tips on deep conditioning and looking at pictures of shoes because that shit is awesome. Being a girl is the fucking coolest. But that's why I'm upset. Because pretty stuff is super fun, but we also need content. Real, 'use your brain and dissect this weirdness of the world' content. Which I've found sorely lacking in 'women's magazines'.

And then there's the tone. The men's magazines - which I am literally 'reading for the articles' because sometimes there's like, a four-page spread on tweed jackets and scarf pairings - just don't seem to have the same pall of negativity. Women's magazines are mostly a list of shit you're not doing right because of stuff you don't have. Men's magazines certainly do that, too, but you can skip those parts and get to the...wait for it...content.

I don't know man, people much smarter than me are out there analyzing this shit right now, with results they didn't just completely make up, but I think it has a lot to do with the general culture of sickness and self-hatred that is like, frustratingly pervasive among women. You can't just tell people what's wrong with them and call it a day. You have to feed their brains so they have weird, fascinating things to think and talk about besides purses and mascara (which are FINE to talk about sometimes, I actually want to talk about my new mascara a lot). And skip the parts that tell you how you have to be. I don't know about that whole suit thing - that seems to be some cultural craziness that everyone's signed up for, but sweethearts, you don't have to wear heels. You don't have to do anything.

Demand more, ladies. I think it'll make us all feel better.

(Also, if you want sex tips, put down that inane Cosmo already and just consult a slightly older, slutty friend. Boom. You're good for life.)


*Also insane to me: that man spent more on lamps last month than I'll make in a year and a half. And can we PLEASE with the fairy bullshit. 

Night Moves

I want to tell you about how it's different, but I don't know how to explain the difference, when so much of everything is still so entirely the same. I don't have the vocabulary yet, for this new strangeness.

At night, I walk by myself, twenty-nine blocks back to my hotel. I love walking at night, I love cities at night, the bigger the buildings the better I feel. So many faces looking out of so many windows all day, but night comes and they're empty. The same person will look out a window for years, then leave, and some other face will be there. The window: 'Who cares?'

I stop at dive bars, in tourist areas: places full of people escaping the crowds they've been dragged into by loved ones. People likely to understand your desire to be left the hell alone.

I wonder what I will hang on to, and what I will leave behind.

Yesterday: "How great would the city be without all these people?" and I chided, because that's my role sometimes, but in truth -- yes.

I would walk forever. It is dark and I don't want to talk. I could walk through Central Park for hours, lamps lighting water, moon shadows making alien formations from rocky outcroppings. But I can't, I know, I shudder to think of the Post-Apocalyptic possibilities of the park at night. Even if they told me it was safe. Nothing can ever be entirely empty.

Twenty-nine blocks, back to the hotel; at the end I walk along Fifth Avenue, hugging the park, coveting the shadows of those lamps across the ponds. It looks dangerous like a fairy tale. I've always liked fairy tales the best.

Carts wait for passengers. The smell of horses will always remind me of childhood, and I walk as close to the edge of the curb as I can, trying to get in the way of their breath. Everything is dark, and shiny, and the sidewalks are crowded, and people are together, and alone.

On Commitment, Or: Why Thresholds are Kind of My Jam

Today was a bit of a ride. My birthday dresses were delivered by UPS in theory, but not in practice. Missing packages! I worked myself up into a bit of a tizzy. By the time I acknowledged there was nothing I could do right then, I was later than usual, and I had to take a cab. Wisconsin was a dead zone, and it started to rain, the kind that doesn't quite validate your umbrella. I was grouchy all over. But then I had this amazing cab driver - he knew all this history about the Circles in DC. He told me Dupont has eleven traffic lights. I opened the window a smidge and let the water sprinkle in. It was cooling things down. Later that afternoon I lost my wallet, but someone called me to give it back before I even noticed it was gone. I had to stay late at work, but a friend texted to tell me they'd taken Baylor on a walk, and dropped a present off at my house. And even that was bittersweet - that friend is moving away this weekend. 

Last night, he had a goodbye happy hour in Georgetown. I came from work, recovering-from-frazzled - I was far less sweaty-looking than I'd feared. We talked about his move, and then he asked me "So how much longer are you staying here?" It was a smirk, but a fair one. I've been talking about leaving since I got here. 

I left Boston because I panicked. That's literally all there is to it. My friends lives were changing in all these profound, mature ways, and I suddenly felt light years from everyone, pitched overboard in outerspace, watching their rocketship tail lights speed away. I'd wave, floating, in the dark. 

DC was close enough, people I loved lived there. I ran right to the edge and jumped: It was time to go, and now. Boston was All Wrong. Once you find the first reason to leave, a hundred others line up right behind it. 

How long after I got here before I decided it was time to find another place? This one wasn't perfect enough, either? Two months? Four? This happens to me a lot. 

I've always been more comfortable with one foot out the door.  I am never in a job, a class, a house, a city, a party before I start looking for the next new to jump into. I love knowing that I'm going somewhere, that whatever's next, I can't even imagine yet. I like being in control of my own surprises. 

That's the romantic take on it, anyway. There's other ways to analyze the situation: I cannot handle commitment. In the face of so many choices (what we might call 'life') I freeze. I am afraid of making the wrong decision. I'm afraid of making the right decision, and have it not feel like enough. In an earthquake, they tell you to stand in a doorway. Sometimes I feel like I've lived my life under a doorframe, I have never trusted the earth not to open up and swallow me whole. 

Except...life just happens to you anyway. The threshold is not a safety net, that framing will not protect you. And that's a good thing.

I know that those last few months were filled with fear, and dread, and anxiety. Burning everything to the ground and starting from ash is not without it's discomforts. But what I really remember are the last weeks in East Somerville, those enchanted nights before spring rolls over for summer, sitting out on the stoop with cheap booze, staying up too late making each other laugh, watching cop car lights flash across Broadway, playing rock-paper-scissors in our socks for no prize at all. 

I remember summer in Quincy, every night on the back porch with the dogs, walking home from someone's house down the middle of an empty street, night bugs humming, feeling more like 16 than I maybe ever had - that sense that the world is giant, but can wrap itself so small around you, that there are a million ways to be protected. 

I was saying goodbye to people I loved more than anything, and I know I cried, and took long walks by myself through places I'd want to remember: Goodbye Beacon Hill, Goodbye Bay Village, Goodbye Fort Point, goodbye to all of these spaces, these buildings that had never failed to calm me down, that had always been there when I needed them. 

I was so sad, but that's not the place I go to first. I go to Maine, the beach at night, us all deciding that the sky looked like velvet shot through with stars. I go to the Common, on Friday evening, a little circle of us spread out on sweaters and suitcoats, buzzed after Sweetwater, watching the sun go down behind the Hancock Building, the sky turning purple, then indigo. 

Was it because I was leaving, because I was already straddling the threshold...did I appreciate it more? These memories come easy, a tide of love I can feel in my chest. Because I've had one foot out the door on DC for so long, will I remember it like that, too? The nights on stoops, up too late with too much wine, talking about boys and playing with lighters. Blackout parties, (legitimate!) happy hours, the sweet strangeness of living in a neighborhood, a place where I stop and talk to people I know on the street, the oddity of living in a place I feel safe walking the dog late at night. 

This is not to justify my fear of commitment. I recognize there is tremendous value in regularity, responsibility, attachment. Maybe this is just to say: there's a silver lining to everything. Even structurally compromised door frames. 

So a Girl Walks Onto a Beach...

That week I spent at my aunt and uncle's place on the beach this spring meant more than I realized at the time. But I guess that's true for everything lately.

I've been staying in Scituate since before I was born. It's where my mother was living when she met my father. It's where I learned I was hopeless at driving a boat. It's where my parents stayed when they were shuttling between PEI and Florida, those few magic years. It's the only place in the world where my brother and I have our heights measured along a wall, inside the closet door of one of the upstairs bedrooms. It's the last place I saw my aunt Clare. 

But this spring was the first time I'd ever stayed there alone. I have a tricky relationship with staying alone as is, even more so in a place infused with family, memories from every year of my life flooding around every corner. Not that I felt completely 'alone'...although 'haunted' is a bad word for what it was. More like someone else was there when I was not, checking in to make sure things were going alright, sitting up, keeping watch downstairs at night when I slept. Not in a creepy way. In a 'smoking cigarettes at the dining room table and contemplating the night' kind of way. I don't know. Irish voodoo. I also don't know why my ghosts smoke cigarettes, or why I find this comforting. Probably more voodoo. 

I didn't plan to be there by myself much. The week before my stay, my mother remembered that there would be no cable, no internet. That part of town would be half-empty, all those dark shuttered houses along the water. And me all by myself. I made contingency plans for sleepovers in Quincy, Boston, Groton; felt lucky to be welcome so many places. 

Though when I got there, the strangest thing happened: I liked it. I didn't want to be gone. I wanted to be there with the memories and the smells and the sounds. I wanted to be an adult in this childhood place, to have to remember to bring keys for doors that had never been locked to me, to come home in the dark to a place that has been lit for me for so long, that first night, I didn't even know where to find the switches. 

I thought I would be scared. I wasn't scared. 

The moon was moving towards full that week, and it rained most days. At night, I would zip myself into a pile of hoodies and walk Bay along the beach, me with my blue plastic Solo cup of boxed wine, feeling like the coolest mom in the world - 'Welcome to the end of the Earth and all its smells! You may have it all to yourself, puppydog'. The moon lit up the water and I could watch Bay run all the way to where the sand meets the rocks, becomes impassable, without losing sight of him. He'd wait for me to meet him out there, then we'd turn and walk back along the packed sand, him trotting a few paces ahead of me, stopping occasionally to root through small piles of rubbery seaweed with his nose. 

On one of our last mornings, the sun finally came out, but it was windy and the beach was still empty. I was wearing a heavy jacket I didn't need, but my leggings were too thin. I was convincing my body to call it a draw on this one, stop being so cold, when I was distracted by something lying in the sand a few feet ahead. (Distracted by Shiny Things, the Katie Neuner Story) It was a rock. Just a rock, sure, somewhat tear-shaped, small enough to fit inside my hand. But it was also a beautiful rock, the most beautiful rock: opaque, purely white, what magic clouds look like when you ride on them, I'm sure. It was, without a doubt, the specialest rock on that beach. It made me remember being a little girl, caring so much about seashells. So I picked it up, and put in my pocket. For good luck. I figured it had to be good luck. 

This was all a few months ago, but I've kept the rock with me, even transferring it from purse to purse, just to have it nearby. Good luck, you know. Every so often I want to show it to someone, but as soon as I'm halfway into it, I realize I'm a crazy lady pulling fucking rocks out of my purse and talking at people about them, and that's not a gun I need to jump. Also, it just never seemed as...special, as it did the moment I picked it up. I swear, when I saw it on that beach - it was like a magnet. 

I came across the rock again this morning, digging through my purse in search of...who knows, I always forget what I'm looking for as soon as I start. But there it was, the rock, and I took it out and turned it over in my hands. It's dingy, now, from being buried in the traumatic chaos of my purse for four months, covered in ink and pencil, gummy with spilled lip gloss, tiny flecks of tobacco rubbed into its sides. And I thought: I probably need to bring this rock back to the beach. 

It's not that this rock has lost its magic. It is not less special than that morning in April when I found it. It just wasn't supposed to leave. It was not intended to live in a dark sac of cloth, banged up against Altoid tins, rolling around and scratching up the ipod. A rock is not designed to conform to your life. It's a fucking rock. And it belongs somewhere. I guess it's our job to figure out how to live amongst the rocks, in between those places where they belong. 

There are lessons in here I haven't quite learned yet. 

On Heartbreak

I've been sitting on this one for a long time. I was actually mostly out of the woods by the time I wrote it - these emotions are so last season - but I didn't have the guts to post it, and then it felt like it had been too long...but the Olympics ended yesterday? And I am like, legitimately sad about it. Sad enough that it reminded me of this. I know - I care way too much about the Olympics. Anyway - people much smarter than me have said that to write well you have to write bravely. Consider this splitting the difference. (Note, DAD: this was a long time ago! I'm totally okay now! Promise! I just left it in the present tense for effect.)
....

For most of my life, I didn't really believe in heartbreak. People get upset when things are over, sure, but let's not blow it out of proportion with hyperbole and vaguely Victorian medicalesque nonsense. You're sad. Deal with it. (I'm sure most of you see where this is going.)

I'll admit now, I did have the tiniest feeling, deep down, that an experience that seemingly universal probably had some foundation in truth. It must have happened to someone, sometime, somewhere. I just thought it had to be huge. You cheated on me with your secretary after I had all your babies! I gave you my bone marrow! And my youth! You know. Like 'Waiting to Exhale'. Or that really sad Dixie Chicks song from their first album. Oh, don't pretend like you don't know the one I'm talking about.

I didn't realize how small it could be: I am not where you are. I love you, but. A dozen tiny truths. I guess it only takes one kind of heartbreak to recognize all the others.

I'm not so great with feelings. I would prefer we not talk about my own. Yours? Are healthy and valid and we can discuss them all day and all night. I want to hear the deepest darkest stuff that you've never told anyone. I want to tell you how beautiful and wonderful and human and okay it all is. Because it is. But me? No, really. You don't want to hear about any of that.

But here I am, with all these feelings, and I don't know where to put any of them. This would probably be better suited to a journal, but I try to be honest here; I might as well tell you what I've learned.

What I've learned: There are good things and bad things about heartbreak.

The Bad Things:

Crying. There is so much crying! Even in the morning, when everything should be fine! The day is fresh, bitches! But I'm randomly crying too hard to make eyeliner work and I NEED TO BRIGHTEN THESE WHITES UP, GODDAMNIT. Or everyone will think that I'm stoned. Which... I'm so sad, okay! No judging.

Insecurity. If I were better, everything else would be, too. Negative self-thought takes on a heightened, vicious intensity that I wish I didn't remember. Those, fun, constant reminders that I will never be pretty, skinny, funny, smart, clever, kind, whatever, whatever, whatever enough, and this is just one more example. Dear kk, you will never be enough, so sorry. Go ahead and cry some more.

Drinking. I was drinking a lot, kids. I like my grapes as it is, right, but this is a lot. As someone with an acute family history of alcoholism, I try to pay attention to the amount I drink, and when I drink, and where I drink, and, most importantly, why I drink. The why is pretty clear here. The good news is that I'm mostly drinking wine, at home, after work. One of the very few times I've appreciated my 9-to-5: I have to hold it together. If I were already living the bohemian writer's life of my dreams, I'd be spending all day in my gothic-monstrous bed, leaving only to replace the box of wine when the bladder's drained, or to stew myself in tears (and more wine) in my giant clawfoot bathtub, or to go outside and throw the fruit of my lemon tree against the wall. Fuck lemonade.

Stress and It's Hormonal By-Products. Look at this stress! Fantasy-Me is down in my garden throwing fucking lemons against a wall! I love lemons, what am I doing! Combine that with a stress-atrophied-appetite (a week of watermelon salad for dinner?), and you get...a period clocking in well over a week late. Oh yeah, THAT was fun.

Anger. I'm angry. And I hate it so much. I'm sure it's not unique to me, and I'm willing to bet it's a pretty common female thing: this deep, soul-core level of discomfort with being angry.  I would turn anger anywhere but out. Self-destruction is eminently appealing. It's actually my default mechanism.Which, brings me to:

The Good Things:

I Am So Much Better Than I Used To Be. I'm not quite wired correctly, and that default set to 'self-destruct' is the trickiest of my electrical misfirings. It goes a little something like this: get handed a disappointment, swallow every feeling, emotion, all the real things, pack those down. Now, go seek validation from people who don't care about you while poisoning yourself as quickly and thoroughly as possible. In the face of every decision, make the one that will, in the end, hurt you the most. Frame it like you're having fun, like you're happy, like this is what you want, because you're a 'free spirit*' who lives on their own terms! Ignore that everyone who knows more than three facts about you can see through that bullshit entirely. In fact, ignore those people, those ones who know you and actually give a shit about you. They're not going to be any help with this.

That didn't happen this time. This time...I talked about it. This time I stayed home and thought about it, about me, about life, about how so often the things we want, immediately, now, are not the things we most need, are not things we'd know how to handle if they were handed to us. This time I didn't run for strangers to tell me things I wanted to hear, I didn't black out to forget the things I didn't. And that may seem like old hat for those of you who've figured out how to process your emotions without wanting to tear your own skin off, but it's huge for me. So how'd I get here? I have no idea, really. But I try to remember the following:

Long Walks and Deep Breaths. I've mentioned this favorite trinket from Pops's Cabinet of Curiosities and Coping Methods. There is nothing you do not feel - if not better, at least more settled - about after a long walk. I rely on this to the point where I don't understand how anyone's able to think if they don't walk around, by themselves, for at least an hour a day. Seriously, get a dog, and just do this. (I suppose you don't need the dog, but it helps, trust me.)

Love...Kinda Fixes Everything. So, so fucking tragically cheesy, but it's true. I don't mean 'Romantic Love' because that noise is bullshit, clearly, but as Virginia Woolf said (oh yeah, I am going to quote V.Woolf in an essay with 'heartbreak' in the title. Vaginal checkmate!) "Love has a thousand shapes." So try them all on. Push aside the anger and the stress and the sad, and you are - I promise you - still capable of tremendous, limitless love. Apply that shit to everything like a balm. Love what you're going through, love what you're learning, love all the people who come into your life, and love them no less when they go away. And don't forget yourself. Even if you don't want to, because maybe part of you even likes wallowing in the shit, because you deserve that! It's your RIGHT to feel like a bag of run-over kiwi fruit: just the happiest, sunniest little treat until BAM, and it's pathetic, squishy guts are splattered all over the road. But if you just love everything instead, you realize...

It's All Going To Be Okay. Also! Cheese City up in here! This one should be printed on the bottom of a poster of a kitten hanging from a tree. Oh, that's 'Hang In There'. Either way, under the tree, the part of the poster you can't always see, is a field of wild flowers where the kitty can drop down and take a nap. Bonus points if they're poppies and the kitten gets a quick opium high for their troubles. That's what I mean, though! Like 'Ahh, fuck I'm falling out of this tree!!!! SHIT. HANG ON. FREAK OUT. Or, wait. Or -- how about I not dislocate my shoulder and just drop down here take a quick snooze in this expanse of brightly colored narcotic flower plants? Awesome.' So - just let go. 

It's all going to be okay, I promise. Somewhere there's a sunny field of sleeping kittens just waiting to give you cool drugs. Give them all hugs for me.

Loves, 
kk

And ps, go eat something. I promise a vague terror about suspected stowaways in your uterus is NOT going to make this shit better.


*I hate - hate hate hate - being called a 'free spirit'. It's dismissive. It's infantilizing. I know, nice person who is trying to give me a compliment, sort-of, that you don't mean insult here, but please, think of the tone of voice you use, what you're trying to convey when you refer to someone as a 'free-spirit' in conversation. Just because I don't care about owning a house or a car and I want to talk about your emotional health does not mean I'm a woodland sprite who lives in a magical forest in a quirked-out glitter dimension. I am a relatively wealth-poor person who lives in a city and thinks we're all just a little too divorced from our actual Selves. Some people probably don't mind at all. Just - avoid it, with me. Please. Thank you. 

Cold Pizza for Breakfast

There's been this mysterious white car with Maine plates parked in our lot since Friday. Yesterday, Steve put a note on the windshield asking them to move it, or else. Steve's been all preoccupied with the car. 

This morning, I, enhanced, late, with coffee, walk down the alley to the office back door, a two-minute-long walk that gives me the opportunity to watch Steve park, adjust, repark his car (a boat-like late-model Benz), into exactly the same position it started in. Sometimes I think Steve is enhanced.

I'm pretty focused on his obsessive maneuvers behind the wheel, but I do notice that the mystery car is no longer occupying its illegal space. I say good morning and ask him how he is. Steve says 'You know, okay.' I say 'At least the Maine car is gone!' Steve points, straight ahead, to a point that would be directly beside...oh, yes. There is the Maine car. Literally five feet to my left. 'Oh,' I said. 'It's just moved'. He goes 'I had to call the police', still all cranky about it, but at least I made him laugh. Then I trip up the stairs on my way to the door. 

Then I realize that I'm wearing a black-and-white striped top and a black skirt. Yesterday I wore a black-and-white striped dress. I feel like this is something to avoid, although I do it all the time. It used to make my brother laugh, my fondess for dressing like a mime.

Crack Rock

Guys.

I am crazy about Frank Ocean.

Like, I know, 'woohoo, Katie, you and everyone else who listens to r&b, congratulations.' But it's more than that. I haven't listened to an album over-and-over-and-over again like this since...well, since Fiona Apple's new album came out a few weeks ago, but she's my soulmate, so that's sort of an anomaly. Anyway...'Channel Orange', my goodness. It's on Spotify, it's on iTunes, it's on his Tumblr, there's like, a thousand ways you can listen to it, so just go.

And not to be ungrateful, Frank, but it's about g.d. time. 'Novacane' came out like, a year and a half ago. I remember exactly where I was the first time I heard it - in a rental car, lost in New Bedford, looking for some old shipping magnate's house to take pictures of in the rain. I stopped at the Visitor's Center to pee and get directions (Dear everyone who works at the New Bedford Vistor's Center: you are fucking delightful humans, and your facility is lovely) and when I got back to the car, the first song on the radio was Mssr. Ocean's debut. The DJ was like 'Okay, I don't even know guys, this dude is on some new school Prince shit, and it's...it's just crazy, listen' and he played it, and I was like 'OH MY GOD THIS GUY IS SORT OF ON SOME NEW SCHOOL PRINCE SHIT, AND IT IS CRAZY' and then I totally missed the turn and forgot the directions and ended up in Rhode Island, which like, isn't hard from New Bedford, but still.

So then 'Swim Good' came out, all that 'Nostalgia Ultra' business, and he did some shit on 'Watch the Throne' that was pretty ill, but not enough! Of him. So I pretty much decided 'this guy is never coming out with a full album because he hates me' and I half-forgot about him, because I have ADD and I am not medicated.  Or not, whatever, sometimes there's just a lot to think about.

Then, recently, I'm sure you've heard, he wrote this really lovely post on his Tumblr/blog/whatever about his first love, who happened to be a man. And mostly I was like 'Oh shit, Frank Ocean's album is dropping soon!' (I actually think stupid shit like that) because, honestly, if you can fall in love with someone, isn't that just nice enough on it's own? But the internets went batshit, and it made me think about how true it is, that hip-hop and r&b are so straight-centered, and it was pretty fucking brave and beautiful and honest of him, to put that out there, and then Pitchfork gives Channel Orange a 9.5, and fuck, guys, this might make a difference.

Some of the songs are girl-centric, some are pretty gender-neutral, and then there's something like 'Forrest Gump', which besides having an adorably smart chorus, is totally progressive in that sex-light I've been talking about. I mean...I don't know quite why everyone's always so focused-insistent about hip hop's homophobia issue -- of course, I get it, it is, but it's like everyone trips over themselves to talk about how homophobic hip hop is, when, in reality, is indie rock so much better? Is ANYTHING? Go anywhere. Even 70's glam rock. Mick Jagger was apparently fucking David Bowie for half the decade, but he's still singing about Angie* and heroin. 'Channel Orange' might be, after a full lyric breakdown, the most interestingly sexually progressive mainstream album like...ever?

Oh, and also, IT'S FUCKING AWESOME. I've listened to 'Thinking Bout You' approximately 85 times in the last four days. (I know he released it last year but I missed that.) Even if you don't give a crap about anything I just talked about, if you like music, just listen to this shit. Actually, first, look up the performance of 'Bad Religion' he did on Jimmy Fallon last week. Watch ?uestlove's face. It's crazy to see someone you idolize get that 'Oh my fuck' look. It's amazing.

So, to reiterate: Guys. I am batshit crazy about Frank Ocean. Get yourselves there.

*And I know, Angie was Bowie's wife? The 70's were crazy.

Twenty-eight years ago yesterday, my parents, leaving for the hospital, asked me if I wanted 'an Andrew, or a Jessica'. I responded 'neither', and assumed the matter was settled. The next morning, when Nana informed me I had a new brother, I believe I nodded and asked what was for breakfast.

Things I remember about our first meeting: the room was yellow, there was the tiniest tube of toothpaste I'd ever seen by the sink, and the chocolate Tootsie Roll Pop I'd left in Papa's car for safekeeping melted by the the time we got back to it.

We shared a room, briefly, right after he was born. I remember waking up one night and shouting "MOM! THE BABY'S CRYING!" at the top of my lungs to indicate my displeasure, which looking back, feels almost adult. I was disappointed - in my parents, for bringing home this squealing piglet, and with the piglet itself. Late night wailing? Really, baby? Aren't we better than this? (To note, my brother was a delightful baby who slept through nights almost immediately, so this was probably one of the few nights I was inconvenienced, but I'm an asshole, so of course I remember.)

In Abington, I asked my mother what she thought he'd sound like when he talked. It seemed like it was taking forever for him to talk. He pulled my hair. He splashed in the tub. Baby brothers were not really doing it for me.

I used to charge him hourly rates for playtime. I shamelessly cheated at every game we played, stealing Monopoly money right out of his baby-banker hands, kidnapping newborn children out of his plastic car (there are no Amber Alerts in the Game of Life), quitting as soon as he threatened victory. When it was his turn to hide for hide-and-go-seek, I would sit in the living room and read, occasionally calling out 'Where are you? You've hidden so well! I might never find you!' Which, little dude shouldn't have bought any of that mess, considering he was ALWAYS hiding in the fucking hall closet.

Pretty typical evil big sister stuff, made more-than-a-smidge meaner by my brother's sheer adorableness - that was one cute little kid, all big eyes and bowl-cut, chubby-limbed, then charmingly gangled, with a heart so full of gold, goodness just radiated out of him. Years later, when anyone would laugh about my childhood cruelty, I'd claim my brother had been born too good for the world - someone had to toughen him up. Which is true, I suppose, but truer is what my father would tell us whenever we'd get into a bad row: "It's just you two. You don't have any other siblings if this goes bad. You only have each other."

And it was true. Overall, we had a pretty idyllic childhood - the kind I'm scared kids don't get anymore - bike rides to the playground, half-assed plans to sell lemonade or rocks to all the people that didn't walk down our street (we had some minor success with the lemonade, but only because we set up in the outfield of a baseball game that was about to start, and the coach bought out our supply just to get us off the field). No cable, no internet, no cell phones, remember all that? We played two-person baseball in the front yard, watched Indiana Jones movies and the same weird Stephen King miniseries over and over, invented Roller-Kickball in the playroom (Don't play this if you value your coccyx.). And it was - just us. Occasionally we wished for another one to hold the other end of the jump rope or shag fly balls, but that was about it. 

When I was 21 and he was 18, we both happened to be in relationships with people at the same college, a four hour drive away. So we drove up together. I'm not sure exactly when, but some time after perfecting a really ill duet sing-along to 'Midnight Train to Georgia', we stopped being merely brother and sister, and started being friends. I doubt I'll ever have a better one.

My brother is the reason I love hip-hop. R&B and I have a relationship that goes back lifetimes, but it was AJ that got me into hip hop. I did indeed rock the Mobb Deep mixtape he made for me until it popped, sometime in the year 2000. He introduced me to Rawkus, to Rhymesayers. When I was on my way to see Atmosphere at the House of Blues in New Orleans, he asked me who was opening. I checked and said 'Brother Ali'? My brother said "Make sure you get there in time to see him." And, sure enough...

My brother's the reason I don't have more black eyes. (Okay, the transition between these two paragraphs makes it sound like Brother Ali punched me in the face, which DID NOT HAPPEN. I just became obsessed with his music. But that made me laugh so hard, I'm keeping it like this.) This might be somewhat shocking, but I can actually (usually) catch things when you throw them at me. I can make difficult catches! This is because my brother is merciless, and has been throwing things at me for years. 

My brother made all the Real Talk live. So I've mentioned before, our dad really encouraged the talking. But Andrew made it practice. As I've also mentioned, one of the things I miss most about living together are the monthly 'let's drink all the wine in the house and rip butts and cry until 3am' nights we used to have. I mean, it was mostly talking and watching music videos, but still, my brother can make me cry faster than almost anyone, and I'd bet it works both ways. We've got all these feelings, son!

My brother is the reason I accelerate into turns. I only do two driving-related things with consistent proficiency: turning, and parallel parking. My brother taught me the turning one. It's also a pretty excellent metaphor for life. If you're doing something, get in there, all the way. It may seem scary and counter-intuitive at first, but it'll make the transition a lot smoother. 

My brother got me to throw my scale out the window. He may not remember this, or realize it, but it was him. And of course, I just threw it out my bedroom window where it languished on the backyard concrete for a year, but I reserve the right to post-adolescent dramatics. It was a big deal, sort of. He would get it. I've never owned another one. 

My brother continues to remind me that people can surprise you in the most delightful ways. Watching someone grow up is the craziest, right? I mentioned this to my parents last year, and my mother noted 'Your brother is older than you now.' And it's true! He is! And it's so fucking cool! Job-and-school-and-fantastic-lady-and-awesome-dog-and-house-and-couch-that-you-bought-from-an-actual-store cool. Seriously, three years ago, this kid was consuming two Steel Reserves and half a bag of Lay's Barbecue potato chips for dinner with some regularity. He accelerated into the turn, and it's been really fun to watch.

My brother is my context. Siblings can have their own special world's - language, phrases, that weird richness of private jokes and  immediate understanding, all the way back to your soupiest childhood memories. It is the most particular kind of context. And I think it's something you only get once. Siblings know it all - where you came from, what it was like, how it made you. If I ever need to remember who I am, I have no further to look than him.

So, Andrew, on your twenty-eighth birthday: thank you for being the best baby brother a girl could've had. I am so happy Moms and Pops refused to exchange you for a new stuffed animal. Thank you for putting up with me, and my crazy, and for letting me see yours. Love you, Beets. 

Love, 

Your Big Sister

ps: I still have your 'Reasonable Doubt' CD. It is in pristine condition. I somehow snapped 'Capital Punishment' in half, though, so I owe you that.

More Tales from the Tenement; Or: Your Dirtbag Beauty Editor

One of the major things I hate about extreme temperatures (yeah, this about the heat. SORRY. It's been really hot) is that it means I have to wash my stupid hair. 

Yes. That's one of my biggest complaints. Because seriously, people, I never wash my hair. By never, I mean once a week, but I sure as hell try to stretch it if I can. Like, if I know no one important's going to see me. One time I even got to TWO weeks. There was a scarf on my head the last day, sure, but it was awesome. (No offense to anyone who saw me during that second week, I'm sure you're important to someone.)

No, my parents did not raise me this way. They're normal people. Hygenically, I mean. Otherwise they're kind of bonkers, but hygenically, we had a completely normal upbringing. I only really started on this hair-care plan when I was in my mid-twenties. I'd wanted to do it before, because everyone's heard about how much better it is for your hair, but it's a pain in the ass to begin implementing (you have to ease into it) and it's sort of weird to get over the whole cultural obsession with daily or every-other-daily hair washing.

New Year's Eve 2006, my brother and I moved into our apartment on North Margin Street, in Boston's North End. The building adjacent to Pizzeria Regina's. Yes! That one. When I say that, everyone's like "Ooooh, the North End! I love the North End! You must have loved living there!" Well...yes and no.

I have joked before that we lived in a tenement. At least, everyone always takes it as a joke, but for real, the stove was the heater. Not like we opened the stove to generate heat, although that might have been more effective than the blower with High, Medium and Low settings built into the side. It's funny, in retrospect. It is also more horrifying than it was at the time, because I think we went into some kind of Survivor Mentality that allowed us to function in that space.

Case in point: the bathroom. I literally don't remember what the inside of our shower looked like, I have repressed it that hard. I also don't think I opened my eyes much. I do know that the water came out in a series of unpredictable trickles and spasms, and was never hot. It would get warm, sort of, but never hot, not once. When we moved to the East Somerville spot (which was so, so swag in comparison) I think I took like, three showers a day, just to feel hot water - MY hot water! - all over me. And due to the pre-Industrial heater situation, it was never warm in the apartment, either. None of this makes sticking your big head of hair under the faucet appealing.

Add to this: the electrical wiring situation. Again, I am not exaggerating when I say I had to go around and unplug EVERY ELECTRONIC APPLIANCE before thinking about turning the hair dryer on. And if I forgot to unplug say...the television, then all the fuses in the goddamn apartment would go. And since we were on the ground floor, in the back of the building, surrounded by taller buildings, a blown fuse meant we were plunged into total darkness. And we couldn't just go flip the fuse-switch-thingie ourselves, of course. The fusebox was in the basement which was, inexplicably, locked. So I'd have to call the landlord's son, who lived in Revere. He was actually really super nice about it, but sometimes he wouldn't get there for hours. So, have fun getting ready for work with your mostly-wet head of crazy hair! Hope your clothes match!

This did, however, lead to the creation of the greatest short film of our generation. My brother went home for lunch every day. On one such 'kk blew the fuses and Vinnie's (that was really his name, I'm not being racist) not here yet' lunches, he sent me a video message. I opened it at my desk: thirty seconds of complete darkness, total silence, and then my brother's voice: "I call this: Take A Dump In The Dark." Masterful.

All this, plus the fact that I lived five minutes from work, and was 25 and thought staying up until 3:00 was still totally normal...washing my hair, and the subsequent drying endeavor (I do not have a wash-n-wear situation) became fucking arduous. Like, too much could go wrong. So I cut it back.  And it actually does make your hair way healthier. You get all your natural oil production back on track, and there's way less damage from heat styling. It makes you way easier to travel with. And! Since you're only buying like, two bottles of shampoo a year, you can totally spring for the good stuff.

Or you can spend the savings on books and dresses and self tanning lotion, I don't know, it's your money. Go make yourself happy.

OMF, look at that baby washing its hair! Thank you GoogleImage! This baby is an exception to the above, and should wash its hair every day. Holy crazy cute.