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.

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.)

A Dear James Letter

Dear James,

Maybe you remember me. It's okay if you don't. We met last year: a Sunday afternoon in early April, on the train from New York to DC. You sat near the front of the Quiet Car, by the window. By the time I boarded, it was one of the only open seats left. You indicated no one was sitting there, and did not seem at all alarmed when I collapsed shoulder-hauls of duffel bag and camera bag and giant purse and a plastic shopper of extra shit I could not manage to cram into my suitcase onto the seat next to you, then rustled through it all for ten minutes until I found what I was looking for and settled the fuck down.

I was about halfway through Anthony Doerr's 'Memory Wall'. There are those among us who feel very strongly about Mr. Doerr's stories. Specifically, we feel like 'keep small-talking at me while I'm in one of his worlds and I will fucking cut you.' I'm one of those people.

You did seem like a legitimately nice guy, what with the nice questions and the offering to get me something from the cafe car every time you got up. Even though I declined (politely, the manners don't waver easily, trust), and I tried to really shut it down by getting my own wine at one point, I still appreciated that you brought me back a water and a bag of pita chips. I am human. Pita chips are always nice.

So James, thank you for your lovely manners - buying a girl a water is actually quite chivalrous. Rare when a man meets a woman and doesn't immediately encourage her to drink. I was about to start drinking, but you couldn't have known that. I also wanted to thank you for the book recommendation. And apologize, a little.

When you noticed what I was reading, you made a thoughtful comment and mentioned you worked for...the publisher? I don't know, so sorry, I was straight-up half-listening to you. There's this thing, about being a woman travelling alone: creepy dudes are always out there, waiting to mack on you. And the best way to deal with this is by being totally aloof and writing in your beat-to-shit journal or like, crying over short stories or something that makes you look kind of too-intense and crazy. It's like - if you're a raccoon trying to make it through a field of coyotes, sometimes your best ploy is to pretend like you have rabies or some shit. Walk right through that coyote field in broad daylight wearing something insane. Coyote's be like 'woah, why is that raccoon out in the daylight wearing a long t-shirt and rain boots? Raccoons are nocturnal, bro! That rac's got the R for sure.' And the other coyotes are all 'Word. Leave that crazy ass alone. Also, we congregate in fields now? A whole field of coyotes? This is threatening as shit.'

Anyways. It had been a long week, and I was in Rabid Raccoon mode. It's a self-preservation thing. But my interest in self-preservation does not eclipse my interest in book recommendations, so when you mentioned Karen Russel's novel 'Swamplandia!' I asked you to write it down. And you did. And I ignored you for the rest of the trip, aside from exchanging a giggle over the old man being MAD DRACONIAN about the Quiet Car rules. You got off at the stop before Union Station. That must be someplace in Maryland. After you left, and said something lovely about meeting me, the woman across the aisle asked me if I knew you. I said no, and she proceeded to recap everything you'd done to her seat-mate, who'd boarded the train in Baltimore, closing with "I've never seen anyone be so nice." Then I kind of felt like a dick.

'Swamplandia!' followed me around for the next year. We must have met right before it's release, and Ms. Russell got mad press all through 2011. I kept running across it, and I kept not buying it. A book and I need to have a moment. I need to feel something, or find it someplace random, I don't know. I buy books compulsively, so I've set up really vague criteria that prevents me from buying too many, and allows a purchase when I really want it.

A few weeks ago - it had been almost exactly a year - I was in New York again, killing time between site visits when I wandered into the Strand. And there it was, a half-off Staff Pick, paperback and everything. I wasn't convinced - I carried it around the store to see if we bonded, like I do with a dress I'm not 100% sure about. Next thing I knew, I'd lost 75 minutes in there, and I just had to commit to whatever was in my arms and cash out.

I forgot all about it until I unpacked back in DC. I didn't start reading it until last week.  And...I tore through it in like, two days. That book was so amazing, James, thank you! I did love it! Exactly as much as you told me I would! And it's made me think about you, a little. I probably should have been nicer. I probably shouldn't treat everyone like they're part of a band of highly organized coyotes trying to maul my face off. I should probably be open and accepting and engaging, because there's all this love in my heart, and I should remember that people can enrich my life in myriad unexpected ways.

But really, James, fuck it. Whatever. It's fine. Because maybe if I'd talked to you, really talked to you, we would have become the best of friends, and you'd be a real and trusted source of perspective and love in my life. Or, maybe, you'd be one of those guys who texts me at 11.00 on Sunday night all 'what are you up to?' and I'm like 'Listening to New Edition and GChatting with D in my sweatpants, why?' and you, terrifyingly, respond 'I'm outside your apartment...I was in the neighborhood for a completely bullshit reason, because no one is ever in this neighborhood, but want to hang out?' and then we have to walk through why drop-bys are unacceptable, and no, the fact that you're 'already here' doesn't invalidate that. Ever. No. You have to go home. Unless...wait. Did you bring anything cool? Like a really fancy brownie with ganache from one of those pretty yuppie bakeries I pretend to hate? Season Two of the Sopranos? Xanax? Chai? Seriously, you didn't bring anything cool? Go home. And then I ignore your texts for two months, and you leave these really mean 2am voicemails about what a bitch I am. For not abandoning an evening of looking at pictures of crazy unicorn dresses on the internets with Miss D for your rude ass. It is Sunday goddamn night, bitch, please, the Amazing Race is on.
And then everything's awful.

This way, I write you a sort-of nice letter on my insane blog and thank you for bringing this amazing book into my life, and I'm totally going to read her short story collection now, too. See, James? Aren't you glad I didn't give you my number? We could have done this in person.

Seriously, though, everyone. Read 'Swamplandia!'

On Main Damies

Last week, I stayed at my aunt and uncle's place on the beach while I took pictures for work. Sunday, Kyle came down to accompany me to my Martha's Vineyard site visit, because it's a weird fun dork thing to do on a Sunday, and that's the kind of shit we both like to do. Because we're dorks. It's cool. 

We left around 12:00, we were taking my rental car. I guess I'd opened the front door a little too wide, because the shit would not close - the rubber-line thing on the bottom of the door got caught up on the carpet. You know. It was stuck.

So I pull and pull and pull, but the door does not move, at all. I'm using both hands and all my weight and everything, and JUST when I was about to abandon the effort entirely and turn to snap at Kyle: "HEY, motherfucker, any interest in actually HELPING ME with your man-arms, or are you cool to just stand there and watch me do battle with this Door of Degredation on my own?", the carpet gave, or something, and I pulled the door shut. Phew.

As it closed, Kyle nodded and turned. "I needed to know that you could do that on your own," he said. "For when you're by yourself later." And then he started down the porch stairs. 

"Goddamn," I said. "If that's not one of the truest expressions of real-ass friendship I have ever seen."


Because - isn't it?

This Hardly Qualifies as a Dope Beat

I write to myself all the time. Everywhere. It's like thinking, but you look crazier. The following is some shit I wrote to myself on the subway last week, loosely titled 'On Work Travel'.

April 17, 2012

It's possible that this hotel was created specifically for me.

It's pretty swag inside, yet situated between a police station and a methadone clinic. Precisely how I prefer my luxury: with a side of recovering heroin addicts.

The bed is awesome. I thought about lifting up the sheets and checking out what kind of mattress action this is, but I don't really care that much. Also, mattresses are hard to move, and I don't know where I'll be living in six months. (Not that I have concrete plans, of course. That's just like, a general truth.) Also, I'm poor and those shits are expensive as hell.

The shower! First of all, there's a window, which I always like. And the water pressure is on point. I don't know how anyone would manage this showerhead if they were more than an inch taller than me, but I don't care, because I am not more than an inch taller than me. The downside is that there's no tub (is it gross that I take baths in hotels? I don't know why it would be any grosser than anything else you do in a hotel. Not like it matters. If there were a resounding chorus of 'that's gross', I'd still do it.) but the shower door is this whole glassed-in floor-to-ceiling situation that would allow one to hotbox that section of the bathroom in the morning before a 75 minute subway ride to far-far-far Brooklyn, if one was inclined to do those sorts of things.

HBO. I realize free HBO was available at like, the Bates Motel, so it's not exactly a drawing point, but I was really excited to watch the premiere of 'Girls'. That was, of course, until I watched the premiere of 'Girls'. I think I hate it. Fuck. I did not want to hate that show! (I've watched it since, and I still hate it.) I really like Lena Dunham. And I really, really liked 'Tiny Furniture'. 'Girls' is like a watered down 'Tiny Furniture' with more annoying characters. I mean, I am the demographic they're appealing to, so I should empathize with the inertia inherent in the whole 'suffocated by our myriad opportunities' thing, and I do, but I also have limited patience for all this whiny bullshit. Oh, your boyfriend is too nice and the sex is boring? Break up with him. Oh, you hate your job? Find another one and quit. Oh, your parents aren't paying for your apartment anymore? Thank them for helping you this far - graciously, and figure your shit out. Although, her parents were kind of dicks. They just left the hotel without saying anything? My parents would not pay my rent, but they would wake me up and have coffee with me and tell me they loved me and that everything would be okay before they left. That's probably why I'm not an asshole, though. At least, not the 'Girls' kind of asshole. I did just talk about hotboxing the fucking shower. At least I don't eat cupcakes in the bathtub. What the shit was that about? You can't...you can't eat in there. Especially not baked goods, just...no.

(Okay, I have TOO MUCH to say about 'Girls'. I'm going to watch more episodes and give it its own post. Which will not talk about the show's lack of diversity, because that's the only realistic part. Have you ever met girls like that? They are only friends with other girls like that. That was the only part of the show I didn't want to stab at least a little. No one complained about the lack of diversity on 'The Sopranos'. It's a snapshot of a subculture, and that part, at least, was pretty right-on.)

The bar downstairs has really decent cheap red and an attractive bartender who is married with kids that I instantly asked to see pictures of, so all sexual tension is reassuringly put aside (seriously, this is a great technique, especially if you travel all the time and like to sit at the bar by yourself. Pictures of someone's kids are an automatic tension disabler.) and he just pours me a bunch of free wine. He also acted really irritated at other patrons, and shooed kids away from the bar like an angry grandpa when most people our age would have tried to play it cool. I love when people are over being cool. I just really adore cranky and/or emotionally volatile people. I have been totally Stockholm Syndromed by my upbringing; it's stamped all over my life. What can you do, though. I love a grouch.

We talked about California - he's lived everywhere. I like it when a bartender talks more than you do. Another reason dive bars are the best. You learn so much! I wish you could send your kids to bars with permission slips. I would send mine to the Tam at 16. Nothing bad's going to happen. That's a satiated addicts bar; everyone's got their fix. They aren't looking for much else. It took actually dating the bartender to get myself in trouble there.

I am writing this on the train and everyone can see, and Pops called me out on not posting anything new lately, so this is probably going to turn into a blog entry. So self-aware! That  is going to be awkward to type. (It wasn't that awkward.)

Were the BareNakedLadies kind of awesome sometimes? Or is my appreciation of 'Brian Wilson' just a wicked case of nostalgia? I literally cannot tell. No idea.

Sometimes you notice a girl, and she's so pretty, it breaks your face in half, somewhere really deep. Like, it just cleaves you. I don't think anyone ever feels like that about boys.

I am obsessed with where I might have left my deodorant. (I lost it between leaving the hotel for dinner with S, and not-finding it the next morning. What? I don't even think I took it out of my purse. Yes, I carry deodorant with me at all times, and you should, too.)

The sanitation grades here are a nice thought, but every time I eat anywhere in an old East Coast city, I pretty much assume there's trace elements of rat feces in whatever I've ordered. I don't like, actively think about it, because that's super unappetizing, but come on. Kitchen's are gross. Especially kitchens in the basements of 150 year old buildings.

History, yum.