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.

I CAN'T Forget the Lyrics

This morning I woke up in a mood so fabulous I was like "it must be Friday!" Not exactly, but kind of, because on real-Friday (tomorrow, would be an easier way to say that) I'm driving Baylor and myself up to the 413 for the first time in a YEAR, and I'm kind over the moon about it.

First, of course, I have to make a few stops outside Poughkeepsie and New Britain to take some pictures for work, and I am almost guaranteed to get lost, because at the rental car counter, I'll reason: 'You know what, I am an independent lady with a fresh stack of GoogleMap printouts, so I don't need to rent that GPS for the week'. So, tomorrow, some of you might get call from me-in-tears, reaching out from the wilds of Western Connecticut because I'm lost and I'm hungry and I really have to pee. You'll only have to help me with the first part, but I get really emotional when I have an empty stomach and a full bladder, so you'll hear a lot about those last bits. Get excited!

That probably sounds like a really shitty time, but it won't be, because I will be listening to the radio. I know, who listens to the radio? I do. I fucking love the radio. Hot 97 - or whatever the regional variation on that station is - makes me so happy. I love bad r&b. I love mainstream hip-hop. I love how bad r&b and mainstream hip-hop are actually good sometimes. I love all of it.

But sometimes (often) I get so caught up in the catchiness of a jam, it takes me like, eighty-five listens to realize that it makes absolutely no sense. And then I obsess about how nonsensical it is, and that's really fun for me because I'm a nerd. Usually this happens in my head, or only to the people in my life lucky enough to get one of those 'I am lost in central New York and I just drove to the LITERAL end of a road, like it just ENDED, and I have to pee so much and all I've had to eat today was blueberries and I think I sat on one, so now maybe the back of my dress is stained, oh my god, I can't pee outside, where AM I???" (Pops, I'm kidding. This never happens. Ever.)

Anyway, these three that are so straight-up befuddling, I thought I'd share.

1) Bedrock - Young Money

Yeah, I realize this was on the radio a billion years ago. So I have been pondering the following lyric for approximately a billion years.

Nicki Minaj's verse: "Okay, I guess it's my turn/Time to put this pussy on your sideburns."

I'm sorry, what? I mean, I am open minded as shit, but that particular sex act makes no damn sense. Does she mean like, she's a female MC, so open up your ears as she delivers vaginally-powered rhymes? That's as much as I can do with that one. But even that's unsatisfying, because if that's what she was going for, couldn't she just have rhymed 'year' with 'ear' instead of 'turn' with 'burns'? I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE DOING WITH YOUR VAGINA, NICKI. I mean, not like it's really my business, but you were the one who brought up sideburns time.

2) Five O'Clock In the Morning - T.Pain, Lily Allen, Wiz Khalifa

Okay, this entire SONG makes no sense. WHO IS TALKING TO WHO? I get that they may all be telling a different story, but even the thread linking them together is madness. Like, okay:

"It's 5:00 in the morning, the conversation got boring." Okay, I'm with you.

"You said you'd go into bed soon/So I snuck off to your bedroom" Wait, in the middle of the conversation? In which the intention to go to bed soon was announced? That's abrupt. And wait, whose bedroom? Boring Conversation Guy's? Why don't you just go together? Anyway, that's hardly sneaking, because...wait, where are you having this conversation? Near the bedroom? Are you at a house party or something? Because later Wiz talks about coming home from the club, so...did you abandon the conversation, drive to your man's house, and then like, break in? Whatever's happening, this is the most poorly executed 'sneak off' in history.

"And I thought I'd just wait there/Until I heard you come up the stairs/And I pretended I was sleeping/And I was hoping you would creep in..." WHAT ELSE WOULD HAPPEN? Dude TOLD YOU he was going to bed soon. Also, this is his bedroom. Just get into bed authoritatively, man. LILY'S OBVIOUSLY NOT ASLEEP YET, it's been like, thirty seconds. Unless she just passed the hell out, in which case, there's no need to creep.

T-Pain and Wiz do not go on to shed any light on the matter. I just hope these three never get accused of a crime, because they cannot construct a coherent narrative.

3) I Love My Bitches - Rick Ross

I cannot tell you how much time I've spent thinking about this lyric:

"Am I really just a narcissist/Because I wake up to a bowl of lobster bisque?"

Well, the simple answer is no, man, you're cool. A penchant for cream-based shellfish soups is mentioned nowhere in the definition of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. (Actually, I think they might have taken NPD out of the most recent DSM entirely? Doesn't matter. Bisque consumption is not a criteria. )

Now that we've got that cleared up -- what the fuck kind of question is this? Where in the world does lobster bisque come off as a narcissistic thing to eat? The only way this question makes ANY sense is if Rick Ross is entirely confused about the definition of either 'narcissism' or 'lobster bisque'. Or both.

A more appropriate lyric might have been 'Do you think I need a nutritionist/Because I wake up to a bowl of lobster bisque?' Seriously, Rick. Lobster bisque for breakfast? You really want a heavy, cream-based sodium bomb to start the day? Or do you wake up from naps to bisque? Either way. I don't know how you expect to keep running through jungles on that diet.

And I've been operating under the assumption that this bisque is being served to you, but alternately, if you're passing out mid-bowl, you can't just wake up and resume eating the bisque, Rick. You need to refrigerate that shit. Food poisoning is not boss.

Seriously, this is the shit that goes on in my head. So surprising I get lost all the time, right?

Girls, Girls, Girls Pt. 5794

Right before I started second grade, my parents moved us back to Amherst for the second, and final, time. I remember my first day at Wildwood the way I remember the first day of everything: I was really anxious, and really bored.

When you grow up in a college town, there are always new kids in class. In the fall of 1988, this crop included myself, and a French girl whose parents were visiting at Amherst for the semester. They were living on Lincoln Avenue, the gorgeous street downtown where the college keeps some grand old houses for visiting professors and their families.

I don't remember much about her. What I do remember, I don't trust. But my brain says she was petite and blond with skin like milk and a perfect petal mouth and she wore blue dresses every day. So, yeah. If Madeleine and Bridgette Bardot had a baby. Whatever. She wasn't imaginary.

Anyway, I love everything French, and her - let's call her Madeleine Bridgette - eighth birthday party is probably why. Don't even talk shit. I call them frites, bitches.

This party. I want to say it was in November. There was a scavenger hunt where we each had to follow a different colored string that wound through the house. At the stairs - the amazing, sweeping central stairs - a massive tangle derailed the hunt as 15 second-graders extricated their string from the yarny cluster-bang, but no one CARED, because they were the kind of stairs people dance down in musicals. The yarn, when finally untangled, led us all to different - but equally wonderful - prizes, scattered under old oak and maple trees, concealed amongst the rhododendrons, nestled against the mossy side of rocks.

And they fed us radishes. I don't think I'd ever had a radish before (at seven! The shame!) Madeleine-Bridgette's father cut one in half, sprinkled salt on the skin, and handed it to me. I think I ate like, four. Then I demanded my parents buy me radishes to sprinkle salt on and devour. (That's how I know it all happened. Whenever radishes are brought up - which isn't that often, but more often than you might think - my parents remind me of this.) All their soap smelled like lavender. The windows were leaded glass, and there were pillows on the floor of the living room, like you were supposed to sit there.

When my parents came to get me, I was not feeling going back to my American house to watch Back to the Future Part 2 for the eleventy billionth time*.

School let out early the day before Christmas break. We lined up against the door, waiting to be dismissed, or however they did that shit. When we finally were, Madeleine Bridgette broke from the line (I think we lined up by buses? I walked to school - when no one cares when you leave, you stand at the end of the line) and ran back to me. She hugged me hard and kissed the side of my face twice.

"Goodbye, Katie!" she chirped in that ADORABLE accent all foreign children have. "I will never see you again!" Then she kissed me again and ran out the door. I remember leaning back against the wall and thinking "How would she know that?"

Because she just did, I guess? It's been 23 years, and of course she was right. I don't even know what reminded me of this. It's just...how many people do you say goodbye to, totally accepting - expecting - that you'll see them again whenever you'd like? That this is your show, you pick the players? Nah, son. We've got no control over anything.

Also, how fucking cool are French people? Girlfriend was seven years old and dropped some truth that took me TWENTY THREE YEARS to process.

Madeleine Bridgette, I do wonder where you are. I hope everything's turning out wonderfully. Hugs, baby girl.

** That is a straight-up lie. I love BTTFPT . I enjoyed every viewing. On Saturday mornings, before Pops woke up, Beets and I made cushion forts while watching Biff's alternate reality play out. If I remember correctly, we had some pretty advanced conversations about the space-time continuum for people too small to reach the cereal without climbing on a counter.

Global Warning As a Madeleine

It's like, 65 degrees out right now. All the bars along Wisconsin have their storefronts and doors open. That new place, Mason Inn? I guess they have live music sometimes. I usually only see them setting up, but tonight when I was walking Baylor by, someone was seriously getting his trombone on. The door was wide open, and the wind was blowing, and it was warm, and the bouncer smiled at me, and Bay looked back at me like 'yo, this seems cool', and all of a sudden I was 24 years old, walking him down Magazine at midnight, asking the door guy at Balcony to keep an eye on him while I ran in to buy Camel Lights out of the vending machine.

It lasted all of five seconds, but I almost started crying right there on the sidewalk.

Sometimes I can't remember why I'm not back yet.

Stranger In My House

Perhaps you've seen some of the recent press devoted to the epidemic/trend/bias word for 'observation': lots of people live alone these days. More than ever before, I guess. And it's making some people weird.

Like, really weird. I read about one dude who so delighted in the 'freedom' of living alone, he took the damn doors off his bathroom. Dude, I mean...I'm glad you're so comfortable, but this also suggests that you're at a place where you've stopped considering even the possibility of entertaining guests - or, really, any other human beings, ever - and that doesn't seem like a great sign.

I don't know how they do it.

And I'm not even really a 'people' person. In theory, I am full of love for all people and things. In practice, I hate like, 90% of everyone. Hate them a lot. I also really enjoy my own company. (Convenient, no?) Most things that people want company for, I really, really like doing by myself:

- Shopping

With the exception of Miss D, I really hate shopping with anyone. It takes too long. I only really care about what I want to buy. I want to be able to get really neurotic and try one thing on four times without judgement. Sometimes after two minutes in a store, I'm like 'fuck it, I don't want to shop right now, I want to talk a walk by myself and look at buildings' and if you're with somebody, that's hard to explain. It's also crazy selfish and flighty, so why put that on someone else?

- Going to Museums

I LOVE museums, and while I enjoy them with other people, I only truly LOVE them by myself. It's impossible to find someone who dorks out over the exact same shit you dork out over. Sometimes it's cool to have someone nearby, so you can exclaim 'OMG they have four Reginald Marsh's here!!!' except then they're like 'who's Reginald Marsh?' and that's fine, but still, Reginald Marsh! I'm going to check that out...by myself.

- Having any Kind of Spa Treatment

You know what I would LOVE? A hairdresser that did not feel the need to speak to me. I have so much anxiety before every haircut. What am I going to talk to this person about for 45 minutes?!?! It's why I don't think anyone needs to have breakfast with strangers - perform your service, and let's get out of here. We shouldn't have to make up common ground! The only time I've ever had a regular hairdresser was when I lived in the North End. This lady made my hair look fabulous, and was completely indifferent to me and I LOVED her for it. Then she moved and didn't really say goodbye, and oh my god I loved her so much.

But living alone? Uh-uh. I've done it for a month at a time, tops, and it's always awful. I drink so much! I hallucinate faces outside the windows constantly (probably not helped by the drinking, I know) I get glued in one spot. I don't get anything done. I watch entire seasons of America's Next Top Model that I've already seen. It's a total fucking meltdown. And I guess I'm lucky in that I've had pretty excellent random Craigslist experiences. Maybe it's weirdish, but it also seems like a really human thing to do. Like we're all this band of survivors who got out of our mid-20's without our living situations figured out, and now we have this weird little community in the New World. I don't know, it's not that dramatic.

Back in law school, my friend T extolled the virtues of solo living: "You can eat toast in your panties at 2am!" And as cool as that sounds, not once in the seven years since she dropped that on me has 2am rolled around, and I've I been like "I wish you motherfuckers did not live here, SO I COULD JUST SIT HERE IN MY UNDERWEAR AND EAT THIS TOAST IN PEACE." Like, seriously, most living situations I've been in, I'm pretty sure everyone would have been like 'dude, if it means so much to you, knock yourself out."

Certain things just seem unnatural to me. I guess living alone is one of them. Actually, besides living, I think there are only two other things I CANNOT DO by myself:

- Go to the Movies

This is not unnatural to me at all, I just can't do it. I don't know why. It's not like you can talk to someone during the movie anyway? Probably it's the post-movie discussion. If I'm paying $10, I want someone to chatter with afterwards. Also, I need someone to tell me what happened while I was in the bathroom. Oh, I totally get why I don't go alone.

- Attend a Party/Wedding/Function Where I am Expected to Mingle and/or Network

Oh, my goodness, I HATE doing that shit on my own. I tell people this and they're like 'but kk, you love parties, you love talking to people, you love...' Actually? I don't. Actually, I'm cripplingly insecure with a rabid case of social anxiety that I refuse to accept, so I end up drinking, and then I'm really fun and I do love meeting you and talking to you, but also, I'm drunk, and would you rather just go for a walk and look at buildings?

People + Buildings. It just always makes sense, to me.

Poor People Love Welfare and Tiny Closets

"Have you ever thought you might like a walk-in closet? Every place you live, I always think you could use a bigger closet."

- Kyle, commenting on my closet, which can reasonably be considered an Insane Asylum for Clothes.

(ALTERNATIVE CAPTION)

- Kyle, being a dick.

Seriously, this picture was one of the first results for 'Ballerest Closet Ever'. Google Image, you crazy.

Sweat It Out

For Halloween 2008, I was Amy Winehouse. It was the illest costume ever. On seeing photos, my own brother was like 'You make an incredibly convincing crackhead'. (Also, no hate here. I am a huge huge huge Amy Winehouse fan, this was a tribute costume. It just happened to be an uncanny one.)

Kyle took all the pictures of the night, and I'm glad he took approximately five minutes longer than I wanted to wait to post the pictures on Facebook, because I had a fortunate realization, leading me to send him the following message - on Facebook.

Yo,

I was going to be like 'PLEASE PUT UP THE HALLOWEEN PICTURES ALREADY' but then I was like 'wait, in the 'morning after' photos I'm totally wearing sweatpants that I stole from some dude I hooked up with this summer and we're facebook friends and I don't want him to see those pictures and be like 'OH, NOW I REMEMBER WHAT I DID WITH THOSE PANTS' because they're absolutely the kind of pants that a person would drive themselves nuts trying to find, because they're the most perfect sweatpants ever, and I don't want to give them back.

And I actually only thought of this because that guy just called and I think God sort of text-messaged my brain like "MAKE SURE KYLE KNOWS TO TELL YOU BEFORE HE POSTS THE PICTURES SO YOU CAN UN-TAG YOURSELF" because I don't know if I'm going to see this guy again, but if I do, I definitely don't want him to bring up the pants, because he's a Republican, so I don't see it going anywhere, but I foresee a long, happy life for those pants, and I am TOTALLY IN IT.

Guess what happened?

And remember, the life of kk is sort of an inverted romantic comedy, so everything works out in the end. By which, I mean:

I still rock those sweatpants on the regular - and now they're all shrunken and frayed and perfect and a wonderful part of my home life. And I have no idea what happened to that Republican guy. Although we probably are still Facebook friends.

Wait a Minute

(Yeah, you remember)

HOLD THE TRAIN.

Whitney and Ray J were in a relationship? A five year long relationship? Are you kidding me? I've been all 'Don't blame Bobby, Whitney was a grown ass woman, there has to be some accountability...', but come on, Bobby. You had a child with this woman. You want Ray J around that child? Sexy, you canNOT.

This has been kind of hard to take. I lost my virginity to Whitney Houston. She was important to me.

Woah, I meant Whit was on the radio. I didn't lose it to her, physically. Although that would have been a way better story, sorry.

What Are You Looking For?

Google Search History for the Week of February 6, 2012

- Hickey Spoon Trick

- Cilantro Lemon Hummus

- Washington DC Animal Shelter

- Does anyone else eat half an apple at a time, or does everyone eat the whole damn apple at once? (Sometimes when I'm feeling too crazy to ask another human being a question, I ask Google)

- Beyonce Discography

- I have a ton of cilatro recipes

- Can you buy just a handful of Xanax at a time anywhere?

- Tribe documentary Michael Rappaport

- 30 Rock Writers

- Do individual slices of cake need to be refrigerated?

- Pretty Woman Flossing Bathroom Scene (These search results were way less weird than they could have been)

- Eat Your Vegetables Saturday Morning Cartoon (Does anyone remember this? The veggies, and maybe some cheese and a glass of milk like, march along the table? It was the shit. I can't find it anywhere)

- Can you make Hummus in a Blender? (You can.)

- Children's Book Awards 2011

- What time does SuperBowl 2012 start

- Where My Killa Tape

It was a weird week.

Share Your SpinBrush, Whore.

(I always mean 'whore' in the good way)

Wait, so it's weird that I keep a toothbrush in my purse at all times? Everyone doesn't equip themselves with a full-time Travel Toothbrush? Other people are that certain about when they'll see their at-home toothbrush 100% of the time?

Maybe this speaks to my somewhat unstable lifestyle, but I find it's excellent social planning. No one bats a lash when you're like "Yo, can I borrow your toothpaste?", but most people are hard core weirded out when you're like 'Hey, so I'm just going to polish mes dents with your Spin Brush real quick?' (Bless the friends who are totally cool with that*.) I mean, humans do all manner of weird shit to each other with their mouths - the toothbrush seems like such an arbitrary line. A toothbrush is probably one of the cleaner things of someone else's that you can stick in your mouth.

Anyway, yeah, I do find myself wanting to brush my teeth in other people's bathrooms on the fairly regular, and no, it's not because I'm some kind of escort (I wish! If we learned anything from the 90's, it's that if you're a hooker with good oral hygenie, Richard Gere will save you in the end**) but because I have emotional problems and abhor regularity and routine and frequently find myself not-at-home when it's time to brush my teeth***.

I don't think it's that weird, or necessarily indicative of sluttiness (although I am both kind of weird and kind of slutty, I don't think there's any correlation.). But today, when my Travel Toothbrush fell out of my bag, my boss had a lot of questions about it, and it got me thinking.

Also, it had gotten separated from it's container (by which I mean 'the off-brand Ziploc bag I store it in had busted') so it was just floating around in there all raw, which is gross, but it's a pretty new purse so there's not a lot of tobacco flakes and Kashi dust littering the bottom yet. Still gross, okay. Sorry.

Anyway, Travel Toothbrushes are cool. Brush your teeth, yo! And eat your vegetables! I know I seem like a shitty person to take lifestyle advice from, but that shit is probably why I'm still alive. Also, drink water. SEE? I'm a genius.

* Like following the debased summer of 2006 when - in September - four of us realized we all thought the purple toothbrush was ours. And then were like 'We should probably just toss the purple one? Since we have worked it out.' (Word up, Spot kids!)

** And that George Costanza is mad rapey! Seriously, I'm not letting my hypothetical daughter watch Pretty Woman until she's like, twenty-eight. That movie does not prepare young girls for life. Don't trip, though, we are going to watch the shit out of Dirty Dancing. No fast forwarding through the botched abortion scene, either. That's a useful message. Wrap it up, yo!

***Which is actually like, all the time. I have the worst teeth. I look at sugar and I pop a tiny cavity.

See what I did there? Richard Gere saved you in the end!

For My Ladies, Single and Otherwise

I don't think I've made a habit of endorsing products here (though I have made some specific warnings about certain gross foods. Frozen pudding, gags and gags, ugh.) because I feel like: if you care about my opinion on something like face cream or conditioner, you'd just ask me. And since no one's like, banging down my door, I'm assuming no one cares. But today, I have to say something. I can't keep this to myself.

Holy shit, Garnier's BB Cream. Holy Shit. This stuff - it's like making the switch from pads to tampons. Your life will improve that much. Honestly, there is no reason I shouldn't look like absolute shit this week. I went out too much last weekend, and I smoked too many cigarettes, and because I'm old now I just can't stop being exhausted, and I'm probably PMSing and a whole host of other shit that should make my face look like, haggard. I keep waking up and expecting to see Heidi Fleiss in the mirror. But I don't. I look kind of fly. Because of this stuff.

I am a maddeningly inconsistent human being, but when it came to foundation, I kept things pretty regular for the last fifteen years or so*. Until last year when I was like 'I am tired of putting all this shit on my face every morning' so I went to just concealer, but then sometimes you're like 'my face looks like a pile of garbage this morning' and foundation's really good for that.

Then the other day I was reading XOJane.com (Cat Marnell is totally what I would have become had I grown up with money, so, naturally, I love her and read everything she writes. Also, she's a fabulous writer) and she was raving about this BB Cream, and her opinion's been gold in my book since I first saw her rocking these tights (look at these tights! They are the most fabulous things ever. I'm wearing them right now.) So I was like 'I'll try it'.

Holy shit. Holy shit! First of all, it smells better than foundation (it's more like a tinted moisturizer) and you can just smear it on your face and it blends in easy, and then - it actually makes your skin look better. For reals. Measurably better. After like, three days I noticed a difference, and then I was like 'maybe I'm just drunk' - and I was - but, here it is Wednesday and my skin looks fucking awesome. That's it. If you want your face to look fucking awesome when it has no earthly right to, then use this shit.

If you're a guy and you made it this far, I have a prize for you. And by prize I mean advice. Buy this shit for someone in your life**. And if they respond 'Um, why the shit did you get me face cream and hoisery?' Just be like: Woman, I am about to rock your world/make you feel like the sexiest motherfucker alive/whatever it is you say to your lady friends, because I'm betting you don't talk to them like the character that resulted when Shaft and Leon Phelps mixed their DNA. Anyway, they'll appreciate it.

*In a sort of backhanded product endorsement, that old standard was CoverGirl AquaSmooth. I've tried everything out there, and that shit is my second favorite. And it's like, $30 less expensive than the third favorite, which I don't even remember what that is I've been on CG so long.

**I don't know, probably not for Valentine's Day? I don't really know the rules for that, though.

Honestly, There's Nothing Sexier Than Manners

(Not even those sex-line ab muscle things that go into a guy's jeans. Those are totally top five, though.)

So I have some beef with DC. Mostly it's my own shit, because I have beef with everything (including, even, beef itself), so I'll leave most of it aside and just focus on the manners thing.

Oh my goodness, why does EVERYONE in DC have the most terrible manners? I have three examples from JUST TODAY. Pretty much every single time I went somewhere, some motherfucker was just so crazy rude/oblivious it made it hard for me to continue about my business.

Example One: Not Saying Thank You.

This afternoon I got some grub at Zorba's*. I was waiting on the wall for my number to be called, so I had an amazing perspective on the guy whose order was called right before me, who picked up his souvlaki and fries from the gentleman behind the counter and DIDN'T SAY THANK YOU. He didn't even look at homie. Just picked up his shit and turned his back. The cook was like 'thank you!' without a hint of snark in his voice, and I just wanted to apologize on behalf of all people who've ever eaten at his restaurant, ever.

Like, when, EVER, ever, is it acceptable for you not to thank the person who made your meal? I don't want to think about what kind of upside-the-head-slap I'd incur from my parents if I pulled that shit. Oh, wait. Zero, because my parents taught us to thank people who do things for you, because they were interested in raising decent human beings. Imagine being on a date with that guy? There's literally no explanation he could give me that would make me see the rest of that situation through. Almost anything would be easier to rationalize than that:

Second Worst Date Ever: "I gets real Norman Bates with it. My deceased mother is on a rocker in the basement."

kk: "Oh, word? Is she...was this a request of hers? Is she like, at least preserved and shit? Are you waiting for an ideal location in the cemetery crypt to open up? Are you saving up for an ill plot? That shit is pricey."

I mean, I'm not going home with Bates Jr., but I'm staying through the end of lunch. For the story, at least. But Non-Thanking Guy? Bye. Give me your falafel, and I'm out. Yeah, ALL your falafel, son. Also, that guy was with a lady. Unless she was on a pound of Xanax from dealing with that dick day in and day out, there's no excuse for letting that slide. She's accountable, too.

Example Two: Not Giving Up Your Seat on the Bus for a Child

I'm breaking in some new boots, and my right foot hurt like woah, so I took the D2 rather than walking home this afternoon (I swear, it's just as fast.). Three stops in, a woman got on with her adorable, curly haired girl child. The kid could not have been more than three. Despite the fact that both rows of seats along the front of the bus were lined with able bodied adults, not ONE person offered their seat. (I was standing, towards the back, before you throw your stone.)

My father once said, in reference to the Titanic and other disaster situations: "That women and children shit? No way. Children only. I'm not giving up my seat to no lady. I might kill your ass and float on you, but I'm not giving up my seat."

Which, word, I totally get that. I should know how to swim if I get on a boat. I can't rely on my tits for everything. But children! Children! Yo, get the fuck up and give that baby your seat, jerk off. I mean, seriously. You know what's right.

Example Three: Yo, SAY EXCUSE ME

I am getting heated again, so I'll cut this one shorter.

But, on the real, I don't know if it's because there are so many international people...no, okay, that doesn't excuse the fact that there is no real flow to the pedestrian traffic patterns here. I was going to be like 'well some people in the world drive on the left...' but in reality, if some adorable British dude walked into me because he didn't get how to pass and shit, that would probably charm the tights off me, and that has also happened a total of zero times. Usually, it's what happened this afternoon: a crazy white lady on a run spasms and runs directly into me, and just spins on by, like how an insect flies into you. Also, why are you running down Wisconsin at 5:30 in the afternoon? You realize there's like, woods and paths and LESS CONGESTED STREETS AND SHIT, RIGHT? No. You don't care. And it's not just runners. It's people everywhere in this city. They bang into you, and just don't excuse themselves. How is this okay, ever? I want to have everyone's parents over for a conference: You raised some rude ass humans. You have failed so solidly. Address this.

That's it for now, I guess. I'm also really annoyed that the whole city recycles at a second grade level and no one knows how to cross the street, but I can save those for later posts, I'm sure.

*Shout out! To the bomb ass Greek gentleman who ran the coffee shop on the 8th floor of Boston's City Hall, and who made the straight up greatest Avgolemono soup I have ever had in my life. Nothing has ever come close. I half expect to go to Greece and be disappointed. It was also like, two huge servings for three dollars. Homeboy kept me sa-ti-ated.

...PP, Yeah, You Know Me! Yeah, Everyone's Probably Making that Joke.

Planned Parenthood is not an abortion clinic.

That's like...that's not a hard concept. If all they did was perform abortions, they'd probably be called something like 'Termination Parenthood', or 'Abortion Place', or probably neither of those, because they aren't very catchy names*.

For reals, though, besides the fact that only like, 3% of PP's money goes to funding abortions...even if you're pro-life, you really don't see the benefits? I know my bleeding lefty liberal goggles make my vision all hazy and blue, but - seriously?

Listen, I've never had an abortion. I hope that's a decision I never have to make. But Planned Parenthood has definitely had a hand in helping my womb stay empty. (Or who knows, maybe they had nothing to do with it. Maybe I'm barren! Probably not. I'm Irish. We've got that rabbit DNA.) Boston, that mecca of wanton liberal urbanity, has plenty of convenient, accessible PP locations. Do you know how poor I was the first years I lived in Boston? I mean, I was poor the whole time - I'm still poor - but those first years in the North End? Dude. When your stove is also your heater, shit has gotten interesting. (Like, the apartment was set up that way. This was an OG North End apartment. By which I mean we lived in a tenement.) I was broke - and Planned Parenthood was my jam.

And just, even if you have insurance, birth control can be expensive as hell. You can get like, every kind of birth control at Planned Parenthood. So you can experiment with different kinds and see what works for you, which is important from a reproductive freedom standpoint. And, everything is WAY CHEAPER than at any pharmacy. Plan B is literally 50% cheaper at PP than at CVS. At least. And condoms are always free - they're in a big old bowl by the doorway, just like in gay bars. (Why don't straight bars do this, by the way? If you ask me, conservative straight people are irresponsible as shit. Wrap it up, yo!)

I went to PP, I never got pregnant. The same, completely sensical point that lots of people make: Planned Parenthood is keeping abortions off the street, friends. And I'm just a regular ass person with no additional shit going on in my lady cavities, but if there were trouble in the neighborhood, Planned Parenthood could give me a hand with that, too. Planned Parenthood: It's More than Just Birth Control (And It's Hardly Ever Abortions)**.

Whatever programs the Susan G. Komen Foundation wants to fund is up to them. That's their prerogative as a private organization. And it's your decision as an individual citizen where to donate. If you're uncomfortable with their politics, don't give them money. Honestly, I've never understood all this Racing and Walking and Biking and Scuba Diving and Dog Sledding for The Cure fuss anyway. If I want to donate money somewhere, can't I just give them the money? I don't see why anyone needs to like, perform feats of athleticism for it. (And all that pink swag seems a bit...precious. To me.) Cut down ya overhead, son! But again - personal choices.

If we had our socialist healthcare by now, this wouldn't even be an issue. But we don't, so this kind of shit happens. Health care shouldn't be politicized. It should just be. You know?

Seriously, has someone put a remixed version of 'OPP' on the internets yet? Because I've been making up lyrics in my head this whole time: "I'm down with the PP, that's why I've got no baby!" Yeah, you have to shoehorn that in there a little but it works, trust me.

*They'd probably stick with 'Planned Parenthood'.

**Man, I suck at slogans.

Yo, it was HARD to find an amusing image using the search term 'Termination Parenthood'. So - enjoy this still from the Motion Picture 'The Never Ending Story'. Because I think we can all agree: Falcor is the bomb.

I made a Tublr! I don't know what Tumblr is, really.

It's here: http://kk413.tumblr.com/

If you figure out what the title's a reference to, you get five dollars. In dollars!

You're Beautiful, And You're A Joy To Be Around.

I just got off the phone with my Dad. His little sister was dying and he flew up to Boston to say goodbye. She waited for him before she went.

He gave her last meal: half of an orange Chuckle, the inside of a Bulls-Eye, and part of a Clementine. The nurse asked him 'What are you doing?' And he said 'feeding my sister things she likes.'

Clare: you were your own delightful thing from beginning to end. To the lady who gave me my first Star magazine, and my first tube of mascara: I love you forever. I've still never found a mascara I liked better.

The Point Here Is That Eventually I Start Talking About Baby Kimonos

Yo, so sometimes on Fridays, when I get to the end of the internet, I Google myself. I think my Mom told me to do this back when the internet was newer - to make sure all my shit was in check over in cyberspace. Not like there's anything I could do, really, if my shit was not in check (were we both operating under the assumption that Google search was like a credit report?) but I still do it sometimes because I'm a crazy narcissist and part of me is always expecting people to be talking about me.

No one is. There's a bunch of articles from when I worked at Boston Landmarks, some other boring stuff, and then it's into other people with my name: some Midwestern high school girl's MySpace page (apparently that's where MySpace is still a thing?), a crazy chick signing on YouTube, and then we're into Magdalena Neuner, who is awesome, but no relation (that I know of. I don't anything about the German bits.).

But today I came across something new: a baby registry! Because I'm way more nosy about shit when I'm not invested in a person's life** (that's when being judgmental is at its purest form of joy), I started clicking my way through a complete stranger's baby registry. At first I thought it was a wedding registry, and it was just mad full of baby shit and I was like "Wow, these two are not coming at it coyly, huh?" Then I felt like a jerk. But not really,because I don't know them, so who cares! See, it's fun like this. Anyway, the point here: baby stuff is crazy expensive!

It's so expensive that for a minute I was like, 'you should totally buy something for them off this registry, how awesome would it be if a complete stranger with the same name as you bought you something for your baby!' But I can see how that might be the creepiest goddamn thing in the entire world, so I decided against it. Also, I'm poor. But now it's time to go home!

I am AWESOME at wasting time on the internet.

** Seriously, if you're friends with me, and you send me a baby registry, I am never going to read it. I'm just going to get you something cool that you didn't ask for. Or maybe you did ask and I just know you so well I didn't even have to read the registry! But probably not. Probably I bought your baby an awesome infant kimono, which I don't even know if that exists, but now I really want to get it for someone. Baby kimonos! Holy shit.

***I'm sorry, how CRAZY CUTE is this baby in a kimono! It's like, ten hours later - which is an awkward amount of time later - but this baby is still my jam.

One of the Many, Many Who Sip Henny

More Disturbing:

That the newly released 'Best of Ja Rule' album exists, or that I know almost every word to every song included in said Ja compilation?

**Okay, there are so many hilarious pictures unearthed by the Google Image search 'Ja Rule be Trippin', but this one of Ja in a tiny mirrored space is one of my favorites. Why are you in a tiny mirrored space, Ja? Where on Earth could this possibly be? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ASHANTI? Seriously, Ja, where is she? Lady should be singing hooks somewhere. Wouldn't it be awesome if she went and found LL Cool J and they did a song for Ludacris to do a crazy remix of? And even the non-remixed version is sort of awesome because the video has Uncle L doing push ups under a waterfall while Ashanti lounges on his back, and they play it on Vh1 Soul all the time?

Yeah, I don't know what we're talking about anymore, either. Someone find Ja Rule so we can make sense of all this!

**I just spent a LOT of time Googling Ja Rule.

Best Of List, Yo!

So like, three people read this blog. I think my mom even stopped because I quit updating it for eight months, and she totally has better shit to be doing on the internets. Even so, people do end up here.

The Most Awesome Search Terms Used in Finding My Sporadically Updated, Cabernet-Soaked Blog:

I hope you all found what you were looking for, eventually. These are in a semi-particular order.

'Sex Mimosas and Donkey Com'

I don't know what Donkey expectorate they misspelled, and I don't want to. Okay, I know. We all know. I think this combination is known in some circles as a Tijuana Brunch. Even if they were talking about video games. Tijuana's crazy.

'Labeled Diagram of Mimosa Fruit'

So...maybe just Google 'Orange'? Sometimes a classy joint will impale a strawberry on the side of the glass. I don't know, it usually involves Cook's or Andre. You need a diagram?

'Bonectomy on Toe'

Wha? Does that mean taking the bone out of your toe? So you'd just have like, a squashy skin-grape at the end of your foot? Why would you search for something this grave and then click on a blog? I am so embarrassed that I've used the word 'bonectomy' on the internet.

'2011 NCAA Tournament Results'

How deeply did you Google these results that you ended up at this post on my (Never) Award Winning NCAA pool strategy? (Fucking TRY IT. It's fun. And you will have so many weird conversations with dudes in bars on this. People have OPINIONS about which imaginary creatures would win in a fight.)

(Sidebar: Why does Everclear have a Greatest Hits album? Can you name three Everclear songs? If you said yes, just - get out of here. Or go wait in the corner over there until we're through. Seriously, that's awful.)

'Lynn Dorms'

There are dorms in Lynn? Are there even enough high school graduates in Lynn to populate a dorm? Ohhh! Just kidding. One of my grandmothers was from Brockton. I can't say shit. I might have even just made up that stereotype about Lynn. But...I don't think I did.

'Tom Tancock'

Yes! I will happily glorify any reference to the 2008 Olympics. Controversies aside, those Olympics were the shit.

'Angry Rocket Play Therapy'

This is probably a better band name than Rocketship of Intelligence, but I feel like it's totally not the sound we were going for.

'They Call Me USHER RAYMOND'

You're damn right.

'Bingo's Dream Dorm'

When the shit did I write about dorms this much? (Oh wait. The Meadow Soprano time.) More importantly - what is Bongo's Dream Dorm like?!?! I hope you found it, searching friend. Sounds like it could be a weird time.

'Follow the Drinking Gourd Fake'

BLASPHEMY. Go sit in the corner with the guy who knows all the Everclear songs!

'Tom Bergeron Eats Chips'

Who searched for this and DO YOU WANT TO GET MARRIED?

(Yeah, I still have a Tom Bergeron thing.)

'Yinka Shonibare Child Obsessive Alien'

I don't know what the shit this is about, but holy band name. My lord. (Originally, this one was ALL IN CAPS but I felt like I needed to calm down. I have to go to bed soon. Seriously, though, this is awesome. But I'm never searching for it on my own. I don't want to know.)

* I don't know what the hell this picture is about. I searched for 'best search terms ever'. Google Image is my favorite.