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.

Happy Father's Day

In my earliest shadow of a memory, I am sitting in a bathtub, (barely) two years old. My father is there. He is upset, but not yelling.

That's it, just a flash, but I've heard the rest of the story so many times, it's like I remember that, too: I woke up one Saturday morning, and decided to feed my dolls breakfast. This involved taking them all into the living room...and pouring maple syrup all over their faces. Besides the fact that this is a HOLY NUTRITION NIGHTMARE, it was also an epic fucking mess. The living room was carpeted. White carpet. According to my father, who woke up to a head-to-toe-sticky toddler and a field of ruined toys, the brown spots on the carpet never quite came out, no matter how many times he shampooed the rug.

And oh, if that doesn't tell you almost everything about my father. He, gingerly, carried me to the bathroom, soaked me in the tub, and got to work cleaning the house. My father HATES messes, I imagine he hates sticky large-scale messes and ringlets matted with syrup most of all, yet my memory of that morning is largely peaceful. Daddy was upset, sure, but he was Taking Care of It. It was all going to be okay. I just shouldn't be in charge of feeding anything for a while (at 30, I'm still struggling with the concept, so this was probably just a defect from birth.). Also, this man shampoos rugs of his own fucking volition. Fact: I will never shampoo a rug. That shit is arduous.

My parents are these stupendous, amazing human beings that I have been blessed with the honor of getting to know, and love, and I pretty much idolize them both (seriously, give me two glasses of wine and ask me about my parents and I will cry ALL OVER YOU, I love them so much) but today is Father's Day, so we're going to give it up for Danny. Here are some things I've learned from my Dad:

Talk About It. For all of you that have told me this: You know how you feel like you can tell me your deepest, darkest, creepiest secrets, or talk about weird shit and not feel uncomfortable or super judged? Yeah, I get that from Pops. My father LOVES to talk, and talk about everything. There's never a waver, or a pause, or a deep confessional breath, he just lays it out there. I don't remember 'learning' anything about my father, about his past, his mistakes, we knew it all from the beginning. Drug stories, booze stories, project dirtbag stories, he just told us everything: that shit makes you who you are, there's no need to run from it. It made my brother and I better people. Back when we lived together, there was usually one night a month when Beets and I would get confessionally drunk and stay up until 3:00, talking and smoking, and occasionally crying, about anything, everything. It's a gift, that way of getting close, staying close, and our father gave that to us.

Be Curious. Going to a museum with my father can be trying as shit, especially if there's anything else on the day's agenda, because the man is fucking curious. He wants to know about everything. He will read every scrap of information for every display, every plaque posted on every historic house, every marker in in front of any important site....oh, Katie, you mean exactly how YOU do? Yes, exactly. It's the reason I go to museums alone. It's also the reason I know so much weird shit, and the reason I can talk about almost anything, with anyone. My Dad's like that on steroids. Sure, he makes a lot of it up, but he wants to know as much as he can, about everything. God, that makes for an interesting motherfucker. To this day, curiosity is one of my top-two favorite characteristics in a human being. The other is graciousness. Which brings me to...

Mind Your Manners. For someone with a filthy mouth and no censor, it is perhaps surprising that my father has impeccable manners. IMPECCABLE. I'm telling you, the most undervalued and underused expression in the English language is 'thank you'. You should thank everyone, for everything, all the time, because everyone's life is hard, and I learned that from my Dad. I have never been anywhere and seen him fail to thank everyone around him. Cashiers, servers, valets, attendants, anyone who helps in any way gets a sincere 'I thank you, sir', and I know that sounds totally wack, but it IS NOT. Thank anyone who impacts you in any way. Even if you're helping them, thank that other person at the end of the exchange, because you might have just learned something. Be gracious, even when it makes no sense.

Stories are Important. I'm a writer because of my parents. My mother has this effortless way with words; single-paragraph emails from her leave me stabbed in the heart and happy for the world at the same time. And my father, well -- that man can tell a story. Although he hates crowds and functions and anything of that nature, he can absolutely captivate an audience. It doesn't hurt that he has a wealth of crazy anecdotes to call on, but it's his delivery that brings it home: easy, authentic, sincere, insane with the best sense of humor. He can laugh at himself as easily as anything else. There are stories I've heard since I can remember, that I know every line of, that I've heard a hundred times. They never get old, I hope I hear them a hundred more.

Fake It Till You Make It. I'm unhappy all the time. I'm also super happy a lot, it's all just part of my temperament. I'm a pain in the ass, and I'm a weirdo, I never feel like I belong anywhere. But you know what? A lot of us feel like that. Hence, Part One of Danny's Trifecta of Life Advice. If you feel out of place, if you feel like you can't do it, but for whatever reason you have to: fake it till you make it. Go to the party, fake the smile, charm the shit out of everyone, even if you hate every second of it. As an adult, these are skills you need. You might even have a good time in spite of yourself. And if that doesn't work...

If They Can't Take a Joke, Fuck 'Em. Danny's Life Advice, Part Two. Sometimes people are shitty and awful and they don't get you. You know what? Who cares. It's not your fault. There will be a ton of people who do, if you're real and honest and just your goddamn self. My father is nothing if not himself, and you can see the effect it has on people, the way they open around him. And if you don't like him, he doesn't give a shit. He is who he is, no bullshit, and if people don't get it, well...fuck 'em.

Long Walks and Deep Breaths. Part Three. If everything is wrong, if you can't calm down (I am prone to bouts of extreme anxiety where the WHOLE WORLD AND EVERYTHING IN IT fits the above criteria) then this really, really is the best solution. I'm lucky in that I've lived in major cities for the past ten years and urban architecture has a particularly soothing effect on me. But so do the woods, so does the beach, so does every landscape, if you surrender to it, and inhale, and just let yourself wander. There is nothing that seems so bad after you walk on it for an hour or so, breathe deep, clear your head. I promise, you will feel better. Danny taught me that, too. 

I Love You. My parents have supported me through every single moment of my life, no matter how annoying or maddening or flighty I've been, and I have always always always known that they love me, forever, regardless of what I end up doing. My father once told me - and he is going to be so mad at me for sharing this, he apologizes for it all the time - that no man would ever love me as much as he does. And yeah, okay, that's kind of a fucked up thing to say to your kid who has massive commitment issues anyway, but I'm sorry, it's fucking true, in a way, you know? Here is a person who changed my diapers and made me plates of grapes and apples and cheese for Sesame Street time, who took me on walks and read me stories and bought me candy and, to this day, would talk to me on the phone, for an hour, every day, if I wanted, who drove me to riding lessons and concerts and picked me up from friend's houses whenever I needed, who cares about my happiness and safety and comfort more than anyone else on the planet. And I am a fucking LOT, you guys. Imagine having me for a daughter? Goodness. I am the goddamn worst. Unpredictable, mercurial, prone to fits of gloominess, and mania, indecision, and poor decisions...I know I drive him crazy. And yet. He is always, always, always there. And I know he always will be. No, Dad, no one will ever love me quite like you do. And it's meant everything.

Happy Father's Day, Pops. Thank you, for you, for me, for all of it. 

I love you so much,

kk

The picture is actually a still from the commercial I was named after. For reals, my father saw this 1980 McDonald's commercial and suggested, if I were a girl, we name me Katie. Thankfully, my mother insisted on Katherine, which is a beautiful, adult name that I'm thankful for everytime I have to introduce myself in a meeting full of scary grown-ups, but in my regular existence, I go by Katie to this day.

On Changing Course; Or: Realizing I Didn't Cause Hurricane Katrina, After All

Next door to my house is the Glover Park Market. (In most other neighborhoods I've lived in, we'd call this 'the bodega'.) On the other side of that, there's a pseudo-parking lot -- more of a delivery zone, really, but people park there. There's one car that's there all the time: an ancient, mustardy yellow Toyota wagon with a single bumper sticker, a Turkish proverb:

"No matter how far you've gone down the wrong path, turn back."

I love that. Now.

I fought with it for a while. For a while, it didn't make enough sense. What if something only SEEMS like the wrong path, because it's hard? And what if you turn back, and later you realize it had been the right path all along?

Then I thought: 'I suppose you could just turn back then, too.'

The last two weeks have been hard. The entirety of 2012 has been a bit if a bastard, frankly, but woven through with bolts of the sublimely wonderful; it's hardly like I've been locked in a medieval dungeon. Still, when it's hard, it's easy to play 'what if'. What if I'd stayed, what if I'd turned left, what if I hadn't asked. What if I'd turned back then? What if I turn back now?

In August of 2003, I was 21 years old. The day after the blackout that shut down much of the northeastern United States, my father and I left Amherst, packed up Gladys, my ancient white ES 300, already the heroine of so many stories, and drove south, to New Orleans, where I'd start at Tulane Law in a less than a week. I was happy, ambitious, excited. Pops and I played endless games of 'guess the population of...', ate at a number of fine roadside Cracker Barrels. I fussed with my cranky CD-changer, popped dozens of nicotine lozenges out of their foil for him while he drove down the center of empty highways. Somewhere in Virginia, Gladys lost a piece of muffler, and announced our presence like a stock-car when we pulled in anywhere. The trip took three days.

Three years later we'd repeat the drive, in reverse, Pops at the wheel of my mother's Tourareg this time, accompanied by an additional passenger: Baylor, snoozing contentedly in a back-seat cave of duffel bags and Irish suitcases. I was a different person on this drive* so entirely divorced from the proud 21-year-old with her new fondness for martinis and morbidly expensive denim. I felt raw, and tired, drained of all sweetness, sharp at the corners with a new fear of the future. I didn't even know where I'd be living until we crossed into Pennsylvania. What happened?

I was turning back.

Midway through the second semester of my 2L year, I fell apart. I remember those months in bits and flashes, like scanning radio stations. Sometimes I hit on something I recognize, try to go back and catch the signal, but I fumble and it's gone, static. There are chunks of the important things: the cross country trip to LA with B, Colorado and canyons; the best meal of my life, scallops at Dante's Kitchen; swimming home from F+M's after the freakest storm, the most intense flood we'd ever see, until later. And of, course, the moment I decided to turn back:

It was the end of the semester, before exams. I'd lined up an internship at the National Trust for Historic Preservation in DC (how curious, six years later, I'd take a job in historic preservation, three minutes away from their office) I found a sublet in Logan Circle with a girl and her dog who seemed just lovely. Everything was just as it should be.

So it surprised even me, that weekend afternoon in the pitch-black shower (I did not fucking care, about anything, especially not the burned-out light bulb in the shower, which I couldn't reach anyway, which I never remembered until I was already in the damn shower... Besides, the ability to cleanly shave your legs in complete darkness is a skill you'll never regret possessing) when I whispered to myself "You don't have to do this" and felt like I'd inhaled after months of not even realizing I'd been holding my breath. I said it again, "You don't have to do this", and my knees actually buckled, dizzy with this freedom I hadn't realized I'd had at hand all along.

And I didn't do it. I didn't do any of it.

I pulled out of everything. I went home. I went to Ireland with my family, for what we all acknowledged would be our last Original Recipe Family Vacation: Mom, Dad, kids, and I think, expressly because of that bittersweet, it was the best vacation I've ever had. Much of that summer was dark and lonely and awful -- sometimes a lot of weird shit has happened to the path since the first time you walked down it, and it can be a goddamn CHALLENGE to traverse, in reverse. I'd gone a long ways. It might have been easier to just keep going. I didn't get it, not just then, that part of turning back meant finishing what I'd started. Law school is painful enough when you want to be there.

I don't believe in God, per se, I never really have, but I prayed to something every day and night that summer: Please, Please, Please. Don't Make Me Go Back. But it seemed like no one listened, because in August 2005 I was standing in Louis Armstrong International Airport waiting for a ride, rooted to nothing except a giant duffel bag I'd stuffed too heavy to move under my own power.

I was back for exactly a week when Hurricane Katrina showed up on the Doppler Radar. And I went home again.

So, you see - and I've only admitted this to a few people, it's so ferociously crazy - for years I thought Hurricane Katrina was, at least partially, my fault. (The Army Corps needs to take their blame, ALWAYS.) Like the grown child I still am, I thought the power of my magical thoughts had destroyed thousands of lives just so I could sleep on a mattress on the floor of my adolescent bedroom, so I could lie paralyzed with indecision down the hall from my parents. So I could wrap myself in the cocoon of Amherst, where nothing bad could ever really happen, where nothing had to be real, because if you squint hard, you can see everything through your child-eyes.

I realize now, it was just part of the road back. If I'd gone to DC that summer, I might have realized that I loved old buildings, but not in the legal sense. I might have turned back then. Or maybe it would have taken longer. I don't get to know that, that alternate future. But since then, I've learned to trust myself more, to follow what feels right, even if it looks crazy. And that was actually enough.

I said here, four years ago (good lord!), that we always return to our truest states, whether by pressure or force or space or time. We just do. Because it's our nature. I still believe that. Hurricane Katrina would have happened either way. Of the millions of lives that storm affected, the stories of me and mine are just one tiny, relatively uninteresting tributary.

So, really, this was all to say: when it's the wrong path, I think there's a moment when you just know. And it doesn't mean it's an easy decision, or a clear one, but you get where you're supposed to be in the end: your life will take you to all the important stops, if you listen to it, if you let it.

Until then, as my father says: just keep writing.


*I called my father before I posted this, specifically to ask how I was on that ride back. He said I seemed relaxed and happy to be done, so at least I put on a nice face. And I'm glad I called to ask, because of all the things I don't remember about that year, I do remember that drive, and how lucky am I, that every long drive with my father has been a wonderful one. 

Lunches, Brunches...Dinner's Not So Cool

Sorry for the lack of new shit lately. (That apology is mainly to my dad, who will be horrified by what is to follow.) I have a couple posts I've mostly written - one about my lack of SmartPhone, another about my embarrassing crush on Adam Levine - they're funny, but I can't bring myself to finish them. Because I'm in my June Blahs, I think. I always forget about these.

Two months a year typically kind of suck for me - February and June. February, I'm always prepared for - come on, that month is the WORST - but June always surprises me. I don't know why it's tough. It just is. I'm sure that reads as a self-fulfilling prophecy, but it's the truth. Every few years I might have a perfectly nice (aka not soul-crushingly-awful) February and think the curse is lifted, but the next year, WHAM. It's back, stabby with a vengeance. Same deal with June, which is a shame, because at least a quarter of my favorite people have June birthdays. It's a lovely month! I just get bummed out.

When I am bummed out, I sort of hate everything. Topping that list tonight, is dinner. Just fuck off, dinner.

Dinner's a complicated meal for me as it is. Breakfast and I are cool, lunch is practically my boyfriend, but dinner? Lose my number, thanks. Not like I don't eat the exact same salad-with-salmon-burger 95% of the goddamn time, so I'm not at a loss for what or how to eat it. It's just that by the time I get home from work, and walk the dog, and settle down, I feel like I should be through with the responsible part of the day, and now you're telling me I have to fucking FEED MYSELF AGAIN?

(You will note that dinner is not a problem when I am staying with my parents, or Miss D, or any of my boys. I will enthusiastically help prepare the dinner, and I will certainly enjoy the shit out of it. This all ties into my Peter Pan complex. I realize this is a fairly significant obstacle on my path to self-actualization.)

And dinner in the summer? Oh, just shut up. It is HOT. And humid. Can't we just sit outside and drink white wine and watch people walk by and forget this whole 'evening meal' business, which seriously cuts into aforementioned sitting outside time? I'm sure plenty of bugs will crawl into our mouths while we're sleeping. Bam, protein. Rebel against this tyranny of dinner!

Happily, there is one thing I always want to eat in the summer: Watermelon. Watermelon is the greatest! There's this one salad you can make with watermelon and feta and black olives and mint and it is so good, I could eat a pound of it before I remember that I want to strap dinner down and inject it with a massive dose of sodium phenobarbital. Another excellent dish is watermelon-vodka salad. Oh yeah. Here's the recipe:

Watermelon-Vodka Salad:
What You Need:
- Any amount of watermelon you feel like eating
- Any kind of vodka you feel like tasting (the nicer the better. Even though you're just pouring it over melon, spend the extra fifteen bucks and go to at least the middle shelf -- it makes a world of difference. And feel free to experiment with flavors, but cucumber is by FAR the superior choice, if you can find some. The only cucumber options at Pearson's tonight were like, $40 for a 750, though, so I called an audible and went with Absolut Citron. We'll see how it goes. Oh, and if you're like 'what about that new Smirnoff marshmallow kind?' please, please close your browser, and leave us in peace. Maybe jump off something high. Or something less dramatic,whatever, but you people should not be passing your predilections for disgusting alcohol onto future generations.)

What To Do:
- Cut the watermelon into whatever sized chunks you find appetizing. (Bonus points for maximizing surface-area-to-volume ratio!)
- Put the chunks into some kind of container. Tupperware with a lid works best.
- Pour vodka all over the watermelon chunks.
- Shake (or stir, if you're less Bond/don't have Tupperware with a snug lid)
- Put that shit in the fridge for a while.
- Eat it.

Oh my god, isn't your night so much better now? Do you maybe even feel up to going back in the kitchen and assembling a reasonable, wholesome meal for yourself? Yeah? Okay, then. Go make that spinach salad your bitch.

Dinner, we live to spar another day.

(Seriously, Mom and Dad, I ate dinner as I was writing this. And it was totally nutrient-rich and fortifying. Also, watermelon is SUPER good for you.)