Late Fees, Penalties Apply

They wanted to know about my nightmares. I asked, 'which ones?'
'All of them', they said.

It's always the hill first. Halfway up the pavement turns to porridge. Sometimes that's as far as I get.

The house is in the woods, some nights deeper than others. I'm looking for something I can't remember. Escher stairs and baseboard panic, the kind you see before you feel. I apologize for being out of breath. I apologize for being there.

Then at the airport. I want to leave but there are things to take care of. I buy a sleeve of Mambas. I sit on the floor and wait.

Threats masquerade as good decisions. I wake up salty and ragged, avoid the mirror like it will show on my face. I don't feel brave but I must be, to return to sleep every night, to that empty house full of strangers. 

I wake up bathed in chilly sweat that smells like tears. I stand in the shower and think 'is this what you wanted'? I think, 'these are your dreams'. I think, 'they should be better'.

Some nights there are stairs. Sometimes they creak. Sometimes they are rotted straight through.

How dark is this place I’ve made. In the morning I vow to add lights but night falls and I feel along in the shadows again. 

I tell lies about sleep to make it look bad. It does not evade me. I duck its advances until I have no options left. Until it takes me by surprise. 

I wake up looking for the things I misplaced. I pat myself down, for what I left behind in the dark.

I've wanted to write about this for a long time, but I didn't know where to start. Now I do. I want to tell you about the last thing Bay did for me.

He started having seizures in May. A week apart, for a little while. I took him to the vet and they narrowed it down: brain tumor. He was almost 13. I knew it was coming.

There was a point I was sure it was the end - he had one while I was away visiting my parents. I've never felt a tear quite like that, this desire to stay with the people I love and see so little; and the overwhelming ache to be back there, with him. If these were the last days, how could I miss them? You can feel like that about everyone you love.

I got home and it looked dire. But the next day he was bouncing back. I fed him bagels and sushi for a week and he was normal; I figured I'd discovered the cure to doggie brain disease.

I'd wanted to get another dog for a while. Someone Baylor could coach, someone who could maybe absorb some of his phenomenal soul by osmosis. The feelings went into overdrive when Kyle got a puppy. And then Bay was okay for so long -- it was like it had all been a terrible dream.

Stalking the Humane Society websites was a hobby. I'd seen a hundred adorable little pittie pups before I saw her. I sent her picture to A, and it was decided in a weekend: if Bay was still okay at then end of it, if she was still in the shelter, it was happening.

He was and she was, and it did.

The people at the shelter said it was  one of the best dog introductions they'd ever seen. Bay was perfect even for Bay. So I took her home on a Thursday. Her name was Evony, we call her Willa now.

They had a great weekend. It was the 4th of July. They both like cuddles, and no one was afraid of fireworks.

Sunday 1PM: The two of them were great on walks together - generally, Bay tolerated no shenanigans, he was a great puppy mentor. We're walking up Tunlaw when two cardinals swoop down out of opposite trees to cross our path. I shudder. Multiple cardinals are a harbinger of death, says Irish Voodoo. I must have stopped, because the pups huffed and puffed and pulled me towards home.

Sunday 6PM: It's our evening walk, and Bay has a seizure, the first in over a month, right there on the sidewalk. I crouch by him and tell him this is nothing, this is fine, Willa sits down next to us, good as gold. Bay gets up and seems okay, but I am thinking about the cardinals.

Monday 6AM: I wake up to Bay seizing at the bottom of the bed. He comes out of it groggy and disoriented, he tries to climb over me and out the window. I bury my head inside my elbow and sob.

Monday 8AM, We go for a little walk and he has another seizure two blocks from the house, the worst yet, He bites his lip, the blood and foam mix with bits of dirt and I actually feel my heart break.

The rest was a fog, although I remember it easily now. It wasn't easy. Eleven years I spent with that little guy, eleven strange, beautiful, chaotic, hysterical, terrible, perfect years. I can now tell you what feels like to feel the life leave a loved one's body. I hate that it happened, but I'm glad that I was there.

I walked out of the animal hospital with his empty collar in my hand, and L was there, and Willa was there, and I held my new little puppy and I realized what Bay did.

He waited. Call me crazy, I don't care. I will always believe this. He waited until he knew I'd be okay without him.

I'm not, of course. But I get it, they can't stay forever.

Bay was something else. He was the most confident creature I've ever met. And that - that, I think, helped me grow out and up, and into a person who's actually ready to take care of something. Willa, this perfect, exasperating little puppy - she seems to be that something.

I don't know how I would have done this without her. Hyperbolic or no, I don't want to think about the alternative, my life not occupied with feeding and chasing and loving and snuggling this funny little pup. And he fucking knew that. What on Earth did we do to deserve dogs.

Thank you, Bay-man. There are dozens of us that will never get over you.

Mom most of all.

Comfort Stones

I was on the phone with my dad last night. It was a long talk, it's been a rough week. You guys never believe me about February, but then it comes over and blows the house down.

Near the end of the chat he says, I'm going to ask you something. Promise not to be mad?

I declined the promise. That is the least fair of all the questions - you're on the defensive before you even know what's coming. I promised to try.

He asked, and it was a long question, the kind you have to clarify at the end, so I said, You want to know if I'm warm? Yes, he said. Comforting. He wanted to know if I could be comforting.

I wasn't mad. It's a weird thing to be asked, because we all assume that we are, we can be, when it counts. I assume that I am, and I can be. When it counts.

It was a fair question. I haven't had much opportunity to comfort my father; when the worst things happened, I was always far away.

There are levels of concern there, I can see that. Concern for me, concern for the people I love, who need comfort. And concern as a parent, did I set them up right, what did they take away.

We had been talking about people, but then we were talking about dogs. Our dogs define us, when we remember their lives, we're remembering our own. We remembered all the way back to the first dog, the one there when I was born. He said he had some guilt, how life got in the way of their bond, the one in the beginning, before the kids and the jobs and the school and... life.

That's not what it looks like from my perspective. I see a member of the family, who was loved, and nursed, and partnered for adventures, who grew with us, who was then loved more. So much that 25 years later, she is still loved, and cared for, and nursed, in the heart of someone she loved right back.

He said he wished he'd done better by her. I doubt that's what she wishes. I understand why people believe in things. It would be something to know these messages were getting through. It would be comforting.

We all think we could have done better, because we're cursed with remembering everything we've done wrong. We don't give each other enough credit for what we learn, the good we do in between the moments we're fucking up. I think dogs do - or they're just blessed with limited memory - and that's why we love them so much. We'll allow them to judge us by all the things we've done right. It's a gift we infrequently give ourselves.

I think I can only comfort in the abstract. So, it was a fair question.

I'll be coming back to this.

Books I've Never Read

Hi. 
I realize that I have not updated this in several months. Formal complaints have been lodged*. And you have my sincerest apologies, Seven People Who Honestly Care**, but I just haven't been struck by the bloggiest thoughts of late. Which is probably a good thing, considering the archival abundance of sad-blogging. 
I am super not-sad right now. 

But never fear! This one's totally got sad. Even if it's not totally true. Parts are completely true in that they happened. Parts are completely true in that I just re-read about them in an old dream journal***.  And parts are completely made up. 

Anyway, I might do more of this. Stories about books I've never read. We'll see.

*******

I've never ready any Jane Austen.

I told that to someone I thought I loved once, and they whispered 'me, neither', and I thought that meant something. 

There's a cultural assumption that women love Jane Austen, and that's probably why I never bothered. Besides, plucky heroines aggravate, pining is a bore, matchmaking is gruesome. I gave Bridget Jones a shot, but watching someone whimper their way between a snooze and a sleazeball tries the nerves. Of course no one likes the singles table.

At a reception I regretted attending as soon as I arrived, a woman spent twenty minutes complaining: “I am so hungry. I might literally faint. Do you think they have any bread? Honey?”

Because of course there was a Honey, a dead-eyed hunk starting into his beer, counting the seconds until he could have another without her asking if he shouldn’t slow it down some. She pawed at his elbow. “Honey? Can you ask if there’s bread?”

I signaled the waiter for another and told them about my morning: While emptying the bathroom wastebasket into a larger bag, a roach tumbled out. A giant roach, with what looked like a second roach emerging from its rear end. By the time I realized what it was: a giant egg sac, engorged with a billion little pre-roaches - it had maneuvered its way to the outside of the metal basket, which I tapped against the toilet until it fell into the bowl, and I flushed it away.

Hungry Woman was silent for a gorgeous moment before she asked why I would tell a story like that. I finished my wine. It was really good wine. The waiter appeared at my shoulder. Honey got up to get another beer.

I said: “I bet you’re not as hungry now.”

Do you want me to tell you that’s where I met the man I thought I loved? Of course it wasn’t. I didn’t make a single new friend that night. I don't live in a very Austen world.

One night, I told the man I thought I loved that I loved him. He'd said it first. I thought that meant something, too.

But then I started having these dreams.

In the dreams, we: myself, the man I thought I loved, and my dog, ran through absurd, Dali-esque airports, everything melting or turning into mountains. We were trying to find something: the gate, the plane, help. In the end, someone had to choose: the flight, my dog, each other - the situations varied. But every time, he left on his own.  

It is probably unreasonable to hold someone accountable for things they did in your subconscious. But he left us, every time. So maybe I got a little cold after that. Maybe I let things get a little strange.

He moved. Not far, but far enough.  

A friend told me, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I said: “Bullshit. Absence only abstracts.”

I wondered if any of Ms. Austen’s characters understood that love can exist, yet mean absolutely nothing at the same time.

A few months after I was pretty sure it was over - mostly over, at least - I started having a different dream. We’d be in a classroom, or a prairie house: me, some other people, and my dog. We’d pass a lovely afternoon until funnel clouds appeared on the horizon. Everyone scattered. Some took off through the fields, some went in search of a basement. Other people stayed in the classroom, the prairie house. My dog and I always stayed. We hid under a table, he laid across my chest and I covered his head with my arms, his eyes with my hands. When it was over, we crawled out through the wreckage together, to see who else we could find.

There’s a lot of love in a life, in a person. I don’t think we’ll always know what to do with it all. You might have to let some of it pass. Like books you’ll never read. Pining’s such a waste of time.

*Seriously. Three people have lodged sincere, formal complaints.

** I really really do appreciate anyone who reads this, ever. Even if you only hate-read it just to be able to tell me to shut up in your head, that is still totally cool and I recognize it is a legitimate vital brain function and am honored by your selection.

***Of course I did.

When It's Over

I don't want to do this any more. Any of it.

I want to meet a guy who works on a farm. No, owns a farm. Owns a farm, but looks like he lives in Brooklyn. Plaid shirt, sensible jeans. Maybe a beard, but a well-manicured one. He has a dog, and it's a mutt, with a human name and a white patch on its chest, and it does something cliche-amazing like bring you the paper or your slippers.

I'm exhausted.

I want to live in a little city - a cool one, one populated by post-hispsters, where concert venues host shows that begin at reasonable hours and play at reasonable decibels. Never on Tuesdays. It's a little city, so you have to leave your house to meet people. It isn't overwhelming out there, yet there's plenty to do. There are little dive bars and little coffee shops, and woods nearby, and it's way less twee and annoying than that all sounds.

I'm hollow.

I don't want to help rich people anymore. At least not like this. I don't want to soothe them, coddle them, sweet talk them out of making stupid, tasteless decisions with their stupid, tasteless money; console them for making poor decisions in the pursuit of getting richer.

I'm stuck.

I don't want to do this anymore. At least not like this. In Cobble Hill the other day, I saw the back of a brownstone next to the one I was photographing - 'protecting' - and this neighbor building had its back blown out, created this glassed-in Zen garden situation, and it was fantastic design, modern rear juxtaposed with historic street facade and it was lovely and amazing and inspiring and nothing I could ever allow based on guidelines I'm required to enforce. And just like that, my internal compass went Bermuda Triangle.

I know better.

I suppose it's okay, because I know what I'm supposed to be doing, and it's not this, anyway. This is a way to pay the bills, which became a way to stall, to keep an arms length from the things I most want, and am most frightened by. This is a necessary evil simply because I've made it necessary. I've been doing that my whole life.

So now what?

The guy on the farm (dude, I don't know) the little city, the early shows, getting paid for something that doesn't suddenly make my skin crawl - it's not like there's a door somewhere, I find the right key, and on the otherside: everything. Right? Or is there? It's not like I want to pretend the last four years never happened, but lately everything's become so heavy. Like it needs to be shed.

My move.

Dr. Scarfinger or: How I Learned to Stop Fighting and Tolerate 2014

I have a habit of hurting myself in the same places.

I'm not even being metaphorical. I mean like, my foot. I've broken my right foot twice. And now I've fucked up my stupid right pinkie finger. Again.

The first time was at Gwendy Pagan's ninth birthday party. I always felt out of place at birthday parties when I was a kid. I was uneasy around children so fully inhabiting their own childishness. It was a skill I didn't acquire until my twenties.

Gwendy's family lived in graduate student housing on the UMass campus, buildings that have long since been torn down, buildings my memory continues to superimpose on the landscape. There are these holograms of our past, things we never get used to not seeing.

There was a row of single-story garages across from the apartments, built into the hill somewhat, enough to entice children to climb onto their corrugated-metal roofs, if those children were so inclined. I, of course, was not, but I was equally unwilling to be the only able-bodied fourth grader left on solid ground. I was the last to climb up, however, and the only one to slice her pinkie finger open on the edge of the roof. So I was also the first one off the roof, the first one back into the house, the only one in the bathroom with Gwendy while she poured hydrogen peroxide over my finger, her giggling as I despaired over the bubbles, both of us shushing the other while we wiped my blood off the tile before her mother noticed.

It left a tiny scar. It's been more than twenty years, I haven't seen Gwendy in at least fifteen, and you can barely see the scar unless you're looking for it. I look for it sometimes. It's nice to have a physical link to a memory. Of course, I have a new one now. Thanks to Wednesday night.

Hasn't 2014 been an absolute bear so far? I figured we were due some reprieve after the strangeness that was 2013, but no. I wasn't even that scared of February this year, I went into with my head high, and then...it was like a month of bombs going off around me. I got through fine, but Jesus, the casualties.

So Wednesday. It was late and I hadn't eaten, hadn't made Thursday's lunch. Sometimes it gets past 10pm and I abandon responsibility, but Wednesday, I said: 'No. Handle your business.' Business step one? Dishes. There weren't a lot, but I washed a bowl and a spoon, some forks and a mug, and then my favorite wine glass, a stemless number from a wine tour this summer.

You know, now that I think of it, I do remember knocking it over in the sink that morning, hearing it bang loudly into a mug. But it didn't look broken, and I was in a hurry, so I forgot. It was the last thing I needed to wash.

You never remember the immediacies. One minute I was humming some Beyonce, hands gloved with soap suds, the next minute the sink was full of blood. Why the hell do your fingers bleed so much?

I have lovely friends, to whom I probably undersold the nature of the injury by neglecting to mention that I could see my tendons and shit, and who advised me to splint and wrap it. Since my first aid supplies consist of a dusty package of wisdom-tooth-removal gauze and a miniature tube of off-brand Neosporin with the cap missing, I was pretty impressed with the Q-tip and Scotch tape bandage I jerry-rigged together. And I slept fine. But when I woke up on Thursday morning, I a) was dismayed it was not Friday, b) spent 15 minutes cutting the tape-gauze-swab tenting off my finger, and c) could still see my fucking tendons. So I went to the hospital.

I don't like hospitals. I assume no one like, really does, but they honestly upset me. The nakedness of the experience is too much. People come in on stretchers and I just shut down. I feel complex emotions, and this deep, overwhelming, simultaneous desire to smother them all. But I didn't have too many choices. I considered just powering through with butterfly bandages and gauze, daydreamed about the resulting mean-ass scar I'd tell people was the result of a particularly gnarly bar fight - but nothing scares the vain of heart* more than the possibility of gangrene. I can walk to Georgetown Hospital from my house in eight minutes. Also, I might have mentioned - tendons. Visible tendons.

Whenever I go to an emergency room, I am irritatingly polite, because it's never been a real emergency. I always look for something more appropriate, like a 'Moderately Uncomfortable Triage Lounge' because hi, my finger is just fucked up. It's not like I'm missing my finger. So I apologize my way through all the intake stuff, which is awkward. Especially considering everyone who looked at my finger was like 'Oh..hhh' in that way where people are trying to be nonchalant, but are really thinking 'Bitch, those are your tendons."

Also, it's a teaching hospital - which I HELLA SUPPORT - but I'll admit it's not entirely heartening when your student doctor literally doesn't know where the band-aids are. It was her first day in that particular ER, which, I mean, that happens! And she was mostly super competent and lovely, but there were still moments when I was like 'okay, can that supervising lady doctor take over because I am not convinced you've ever seen thread before.' And that, people, is a lesson in the power of confidence. Or at least projected confidence. Listen, I have NO IDEA how to heal people. All my faith is in you. So if you're projecting "Oh, I got this', I'll assume you've got that. Even if you're like, randomly sewing my other fingers together, I'll likely rationalize 'they are probably on some holistic wellness tip'. You can do anything. Just please don't act nervous. Because then I get nervous. And then I have an anxiety attack. Because of course I do.

I didn't realize what was happening at first. I assumed it was a reaction to the numbing medication, despite the fact that I've never had a reaction to medication in my entire life**, despite the fact I recognized these feelings: the nauseau, the sudden cold sweating, the impending swoon. "Is it normal if I feel like I have to throw up?" I asked, trying to ignore the big green globby gumdrops dancing across my field of vision, the gold fireworks, the descending panic. "I don't know," she said. Not the answer I was looking for. "Is it okay if I run to the bathroom for a minute?" I asked, because that seemed way politer than ralphing in the trash can behind her. "I don't know. Let me check." Also, not the answer I sought, but I heard her supervisor say 'of course' from the other side of the curtain and I took off down the hall. Of course, this was mid wound-irrigation, so I took off trailing bloody water down my arm and onto the floor, every single event another weepy, diluted version of an emergency.

I was fine, of course. I didn't even throw up, just coughed dramatically and took some deep breaths behind a locked door. Sometimes that's all you need. When I got back, they gave me water in a plastic cup marked with measurements, and the supervising doctor patted my arm and offered consolance so sweet and completely rational that I was actually offended for a minute. I'm not afraid of pain, I'm not afraid of needles, nothing scares me less than my own blood, I'm the toughest. Then the student doctor got to work tentatively shoving a curved instrument through my finger and it all happened again. This time I just sweat in silence and fended off the swoon, and fifteen minutes later I had Frankenstein tracks curling towards my palm, compliments on my nail polish, and permission to leave. Try to leave, anyway.

I could not get out of the fucking hospital. None of the exits took me to a reasonable point of departure. I wanted a main entry, some circular drive where there might be cabs. I kept finding myself in employee parking lots. Finally, I was like 'fuck it' and decided to make my way to the road through the parking lot. It looked like those edges met. Of course, they did not. The parking lot was about four feet below grade, getting up would require a hoist and a scrape, actions I don't relish, even without a busted hand. But it snowed on Monday, and it's been cold, so like a frozen ladder from heaven - there was a snowbank, exactly the height of the sidewalk. Perfection.

I'm from New England, so I've essentially been climbing snowbanks since I could wear a snowsuit. Even if you hate snow, climbing banks of the stuff is just fun as hell. You'd think, then, that I'd remember the particular physics of snowbanks in March, when the temperature is above freezing. Their tendency to give suddenly underneath you, like when, say, you've reached the top and are shifting your weight to your left leg so as to hop onto the sidewalk. In those circumstances, the snow beneath your left leg tends to...disappear. Your leg along with it, plunging all the way to the ground. Just your left leg, though. Your right foot will still be firmly planted on top of the snowbank, leaving your right knee somewhere around your ear. This will of course happen in full view of everyone on the street and the sidewalk, including the small horde of people waiting to cross the intersection. In that moment, you may make a few choked sobbing sounds before you begin to laugh uncontrollably, wriggle yourself out of the hole in the snow, belly-crawl onto the sidewalk, and hide behind a bush to finish laughing and wipe the snow off your tights. That's what I did, anyway.

And it was then, half-concealed behind some shrubbery, pretending two dozen people hadn't just watched me perform impromptu frozen circus yoga, that I gave up. Okay, 2014, I get it, you've proved your point. You're tougher than me, and there's nothing I can do about it. Big deal. 2015 will be here before you know it, and I'll still be here, new battle lines and all***.

So here it is, my newest scar, down the street from the Pagan birthday slice, and right around the corner from the dish-washing wound I incurred this summer in Maine. Our last morning, I cut the side of the same stupid pinkie with a knife hidden deep in the oatmeal colored sink suds, literally an hour before we left. We drove to Kyle's parents' house and I taped it back together with some incredibly effective Star Wars band-aids I found in the medicine cabinet. That one didn't scar.

Not everything does, I suppose.



*Or Deadwood super fans, is gangrene even a thing anymore?
** My mom later confirmed it was probably a reaction to the medication.
***Also, maybe I am just fucking terrible at climbing on stuff.

Lent

I miss midnight after Mardi Gras, the hours everything shuts down.

I don't remember why I was out that night, the first time I ever saw it; in New England snow plows clear the streets after storms, in New Orleans they pushed beads to the sides of the roads, pulled from the trees what they could.

There's a clarity that comes when something is over, the initial quiet after the storm, before the real pain, the real work. The hours when you heave off what was, make room for what will be.

There are beads in the trees year round, though.
You can't ever clean everything away.

Recycling for the Reluctant Adult

Do you ever think about the new people in your old spaces?

I do. Mostly in the fall. Winter, too. Mostly at night. Mostly in regard to boys I used to love - some of them I still love, but differently; will always love, but differently.

Their roofs, their balconies, their fire escapes. Stoops, backyards. Private outdoor spaces, places that make the universe seem like maybe it belongs to you. Walls covered in graffiti. Tree tops. Twinkly blankets of stars overhead; skies so clouded with people and their lights, it's all a dappled purple above. Radios playing, rain falling, sirens squealing. Or quiet. So quiet you can hear the breath move through your lungs.

Places you will never go again. Places that would never look the same, even if you could. Perspectives shift, they do not play.

New people on those balconies now, occupying those barely-outside spaces; drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, considering the bricks across the alley. Hearts breaking out of their chests, bored out of their minds. Lost to everything, desperate for anything. Falling in love, falling out of love, hiding from love entirely. Always feeling like they are on the verge of something.

Just like you, just like you, just like you. Just like you.

Girls you will never meet. You're all connected, though, right through. Through the railings you've held, the stairs you've climbed. The tears you've shed in bathrooms; the smiles that come when there's not even a reason, the moment just takes you, it's too perfect, it's fleeting, and you know it. We miss those moments all the time, sometimes just seconds after it's too late. But when you manage to catch one....I don't surf, of course, but I imagine it must be something like catching a wave. I can see how they might be transcendental the same way.

Memory is a double edged sword. It can be sharp on one side, dull on the other. It cannot be trusted. But it is infinitely valuable. A moment you couldn't wait to get out of ends up being one you return to over and over again. The lessons you didn't enjoy learning: how to admit to yourself that you're wrong, how to recognize you're making a mistake in the middle of it. That's probably the shit that makes us better able to jump up and catch the next one. To see it coming, to appreciate it while it's happening. Metaphorically speaking.

I don't know what even made me think of all this. Other than it's winter, and I started writing this at night, and I'm thinking of people I've loved.

Best of 2013

"There are years that ask questions and years that answer."
- Zora Neale Hurston

I've always like that quote. It's just so...accurate. Especially as I get older. I'd like to add, though - it might be a while before you know which years are which.

2013 was kind of a weird year. Intense. One of those slow burns, where you don't realize how much has changed until it's over and you do, suddenly, realize - how much it's all changed. It can take a while to comb through all the Qs and all the As. Some things might belong in both piles, some in neither. Some might make their way from one to the other over time. I'm grateful for all of them, though - even if, in the moment, my feelings were more akin to 'Are You Fucking Kidding Me?'

It'll be a minute before I dig into that deep shit. Also, I just got back from visiting my parents and my dog isn't home yet (sometimes we holiday separately), so I'm somewhat emotional, and I don't really need to hop aboard the New Year's Crazy Train of Emotion right now. It's a local, making frequent stops for tiny tearful outbursts. It's fine, it just takes fucking forever, that route is exhausting. So, for now, some lighter - but no less true - fare:

Hotel Experience I Only Need Once: The Yotel.

Almost every hotel I stayed in this year was purely lovely. It was an utterly charming year in hotels. Even the Holiday Inn Express near Penn Station - the bed was apartment-sized, and I had a view into a kids' fencing academy across the alley. I didn't even know that was a thing!*

The Yotel was...different. I think the concept was 'The Future' - specifically, the future envisioned by people in the year 1995. Which included a lot of purple track lighting and pod-like spaces. Man, we really toned down our cultural expectations in the 90s. In Back to the Future Part 2, everyone was like '2015: Flying Cars, Hoverboards.' By the Clinton administration, we were like 'purple, smaller.'

Bathcorner adjacent view

So, in the future, New Age Murphy Beds are a thing. Your tiny couch will extend into a bed, extremely slowly, via a vaguely hospital-looking button installed into the leg of your tiny desk. When extended, the bed will touch the wall, bathing your feet in the warm glow of the giant television, allowing you to wonder if your whole life is occasionally a terrible Truman Show performance art piece. (Note: I was basically standing in the bathroom when taking this. Excuse me, the bathcorner. It was not a room.)

Watching tv from the shower was pretty cool

In the future, you can see your toilet from your bed. I don't like that. It makes me feel like I'm in jail. Fancy jail is still jail, people. Also jail-like (clearly I have never been to jail): the body wash and shampoo/conditioner (a 2-in-1, SHUDDER) were in dispensers, bolted to the wall. I'm not sure, but I feel like this takes innocent toiletry-hoarding into misdemeanor teritory. Yotel: the airport-jail experience. Of the future.

Salacious Yet Inspiring Memoir: Pam Grier's Foxy: A Life In Three Acts. Do you want to read about the time Richard Pryor's mini horse destroyed in the interior of Pam Grier's Jag with its mini horse pee? Of course you do.

Trip I Will Make My Assistant Take Next Year: The answer to this question should be Buffalo, because Buffalo is the worst. (Sorry, anyone from Buffalo. Sorry on several levels.) We should just give it back to Canada and see if they can do better**.

Even getting to and from Buffalo is an exercise is late industrial depression. My flight was supposed to leave at 10:10am. At around 10:15, myself and the other sad individuals making their way to Buffalo on a Tuesday morning were permitted through the gate and loaded...onto a bus***. I'm pretty sure it was the bus that transported Andy Dufresne to the penitentiary in The Shawshank Redemption****. We were driven to a 'plane' with about eleven seats and nine seat belts. I don't think I heard an engine, we were just catapulted into the air and piloted on like, air currents and hope. The lone flight attendant was a cranky 80-year-old man who immediately reminded everyone aboard that alcohol was available for purchase. (He was Hall of Fame. I asked for seltzer water and he kind of rolled his eyes. He asked if I wanted ice and my affirmative answer earned a double roll with a side of 'of course this bitch wants ice' airs. I LOVE HIM.)

It didn't get a lot better from there. It was snowing, then slushing, and I spent much of the trip was sliding around in a filthy white VW Beetle trying to avoid hitting rogue Buffalonians trudging down the middle of unplowed streets like refugees from a nuclear holocaust. Outside the tiny historic district I was visiting, the city was ringed with big-box dollar stores and fast-food joints; relics of once-lovely early 20th c. architecture, now host sites for methadone clinics, windows boarded across the upper floors. Mega churches that could double as indoor stadiums, schools easily mistaken for 1980s courthouses. I got lost and the sliding was unsettling, but the streets - and the stores, and the buildings - were mostly deserted. Except, of course, for the refugees We failed you, Buffalo. My lord.

That said, everyone I met in Buffalo was so nice. Like, absurdly, ridiculously nice, the kind of nice that makes me sort of nervous, but that can more than compensate for a shitty snowy afternoon and road zombies.

So, my actual answer is New Rochelle. Holy shit. I was there for less than an hour, and I'm pretty sure I stared directly into the face of evil about four times. It was like that movie Fallen, except the evil spirit was just being passed around to wherever I was likely to look next. One guy looked exactly like Laura Palmer's dad at like, the height of his possession. I realize none of this is specific or seemingly based in reality, but believe me, it was deeply unsettling. And absolutely the place I visited this year where I felt most in danger of being kidnapped and organ harvested^. I was terrified it was all going to downward spiral into a Mouth of Madness situation, I'd never be able to escape the city limits, and some old lady would chain me up behind the desk of the Trump Tower (which HAS to be ironic, right?) and eat me. Also, I had a vicious hangover for a portion of the trip, which is not New Rochelle's fault, but  it really didn't help impressions.

Okay, sorry, the actual answer is: Buffalo and New Rochelle. Both. My assistant will have to do both.

Repeat Offense: One afternoon, late in May, I sat at the window of a tiny restaurant in Woods Hole with a perfect taco and a glass of red wine, watching the ocean turn indigo as the sky grayed. I had an hour and a half to kill before the next ferry to Martha's Vineyard, so I went to get lunch. I've made this trip three years in a row. In 2011, my father and I had a talk about families and mortality, surrounded by noisy teenagers en route to a varsity baseball game. How strange to grow up on an island. In 2012, Kyle came with me. We sat inside and made a list of the most efficient ways to cross water, depending on distance. I still have the list. Across the top, the game ending answer: 'Like Jesus: Walk^^.' In 2013, I went alone.
It wasn't raining, but it was more than fog, and from the window I watched the ferry pull in and thought about those trips, about those years. We all have our unexpected places, rearview mirrors we stumble across, angles that have become our own. I have this corner of this street, this hour before I get on the ferry, the air full of water, water everywhere.
You can learn a lot in three years.

Happy New Year, everyone. May it bring you love, and laughter, and plenty to remember.


*Maybe it was a YMCA class and not an academy but WHATEVER, those crazed little beekeepers just delighted me.
**I know it wasn't part of Canada. Actually, I don't know that at all.
***I am not even going to get into the passengers. Okay, briefly: they included an Australian lady who I'm pretty sure was lured to Buffalo in an organ-harvesting scam, and a noticeably drunk guy in a rumpled suit who was 'in the perfume business' and planned on 'starting his life over'. In Buffalo. 
****I will admit to asking myself at this point 'are we just going to drive there?' Given my limited handle on American highway geography and like, physics, this thought probably generated more pondering than it warranted.
^And...the second organ harvesting reference I've made in the footnotes to a blog post? What the hell is the matter with me?
^^Which is certainly not the most efficient way, but it made us laugh. We'd also listed 'scuba walking' and 'water skiing tubing' (short trips only)'. While we were on a boat with cars inside of it.

I Can't Forget the Lyrics, Holiday Redux

I've been meaning to write this forever, but sometimes...life, man. Whatever. It's pretty boring. I got a promotion! Because my boss moved away, but I'm sort of killing it regardless, so it counts. Anyway, I've been distracted. Until now! I've been compiling my Year End Spotify Playlist, which I just capitalized the first letter of each word like it's a fancy thing I do each year. It's not. But it is a wonderful opportunity to revisit some lyrics I loved, loved to hate, or absolutely did not understand.

My Story -  R Kelly f/ 2 Chains
Problematic Lyric: This is my story/yeah I'm from that Chi town dirt/I went from being broke/To sleeping in Versace shirts.

I don't so much have a problem with this as I do a question: Does R. Kelly own a drawer full of Versace nightshirts? (Are there Versace nightshirts? Can someone get Kanye to design theVersace nightshirt?) Or does he simply end most days by passing out in the Versace top he'd been sporting all day? Either option is delightful.

Also, his new album is amazing, if simply (like most things R Kelly related) for the mere fact of its existence. At one point he claims that every baby in the 90s was conceived to his music. Which might not be entirely off-base.

Fine China - Chris Brown
Problematic Lyric: It's alright/I'm not dangerous.

I hate Chris Brown. And I REALLY hate that he makes catchy ass music that I car-dance to a whole bunch before I realize what's happening. This track is like, particularly wrong, though.
He's just lying. Look at that - I'm not dangerous.
Oh, really, Chris Brown? You're not? Are you not the same dude who beat up your girlfriend and then got a COMMEMORATIVE NECK TATTOO OF THE EVENT? Fuck you.

How Many Drinks? Miguel f/ Kendrick Lamar
Problematic lyric: How many drinks would it take you to leave with me?/Yeah, you look good and I got money/But I don’t wanna waste my time/Back of my mind I’m hoping you say two or three/You look good, we came to party/But I don’t wanna waste my time

This song raises like, a host of red flags. First, as Kyle and I have repeatedly discussed: ladies love Miguel. Like, we love Miguel. And why shouldn't we? He makes jams. His hairstyles are consistently creative. When he was a guest coach on The Voice, he seemed like a legitimately lovely young man. He is the best. And he knows what ladies like! We like him. Anyway, this song has me wondering if he realizes all this. Also, if maybe he needs to look elsewhere for ladies. And also like maybe when he's at the club he's sort of a panicky jerk. Let's break this down:
a) How many drinks, Miguel? Zero drinks. It will take zero drinks to get that lady home. It sounds like you're in a club, so she's probably already had a drink. You're fine. You're Miguel! No one needs to drink to want to spend time with you. I bet your shoes are amazing.
b) Are you on a schedule, Miguel? Time management seems like an issue for you. Not money, though. I don't really understand this dynamic.
c) Miguel, this seems like a terrible strategy. Biggie told you: let that other guy go buy the wine, then creep up from behind and ask her what her interests are, who she's there with. You know - things to make her smile, and what numbers to dial. Don't make her guess at a magic number of drinks like it's a fucking carnival game. And what if she wants four drinks? Is that okay? What if she's like 'five drinks'? Besides the fact that she's drunk now, is that a deal breaker? She needs to know beforehand, exactly how many drinks?
d) Wait, is this normal? Do people walk around the club assigning How Many Drinks to other patrons? I am so happy I never go out anymore.
e) I don't know. Miguel says he came to party, but I really wish he would just like, hang out and enjoy the night. This all sounds really stressful.

Bad - Wale f/ Tiara Thomas
Problematic Lyric: Not the lyrics - just the metal bedspring that creaks in the background throughout the entirety of the song.

WTF is happening in this song. Are they in an abandoned house? Is this mattress from the 70s? Wale. Aren't you a rapper? DON'T YOU HAVE A POSTUREPEDIC?


BEYONCE*.
There is a new Beyonce album. I haven't bought it yet, because I think iTunes is stupid and I won't watch any of those videos more than once, but it's fine because Beyonce can do whatever the hell she wants. It is a completely true fact, that every emotion you've ever had about a boy, Beyonce has a song for. EVERY EMOTION. I love her. She completes me.

I'm sure I'll love the whole thing, but for now I've only heard what they've played on Hot 97's morning show:

Drunk in Love f/ Jay-Z: I have no idea what's going on here, other than Beyonce and Jay have a fucking WEIRD TIME when they drink, and they seem to enjoy the hell out of it. From what I can put together, they wake up on the kitchen floor post-blackout, continue drinking, retire to a half-filled bathtub for some adult time - for which 'surfboarding' is apparently the chosen euphemism in the Knowles-Carter household - then Jay Z eats her boobs for breakfast.

Obviously I prefer the Jay of a simpler time, when he boasted about acquiring Magnavox television sets, rather than his personal art collection and Twitter beef. That said, dude is a grown ass man and has nothing to prove to me. But it is really nice to know that even if he isn't popping Molly (ugh**) he's still down to occasionally get inappropriately drunk with his wife and make what sounds like an ungodly mess for the staff to clean up the next day.

Mine f/ Drake: Is this a song about post-partum depression? An emotional trial I've never had! Beyonce is a GENIUS AND WE'RE LUCKY SHE SHARES HER EXPERIENCES TO BETTER PREPARE US FOR OUR OWN LIVES. Also, I suppose if I were to pick any male artist to collaborate on a song about post-partum depression, it would totally be Drake. Well done, Bey.

Merry Christmas and shit!



*That Beyonce and R Kelly released new albums within two weeks of each other is my Christmas Miracle.
**I think my deeply judgy attitudes regarding Molly can be chalked up to some old lady hater issues, since it really came on the scene after the time in my life where I'll be trying any new drugs. Like, that's it - I'm not going to be trying any new fun shit. My body simply can't take it. My body recently brought to my attention that I can't even drink through hangovers anymore. That's off the table. Getting older is sort of like slowly realizing you're a superhero, except your abilities are only revealed as you lose them. I think Molly represents all of that for me. 

Big Pissin Up In NYC*

*My dad came up with this title. Months ago. He won't stop reminding me that I haven't written 'the most important thing' yet - a post about places to pee. Anyway, the title is brilliant. So, here you go, Pops. (This is also your birthday present.) 

A significant portion of my job entails scooting around* Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn taking pictures of gorgeous old buildings. I've mentioned this. I'm led on weird micro-tours of insanely luxurious interior spaces. I get lots of reading done on the subway. I meet pseudo-and-actual celebrities in surreally intimate environs. It's pretty great. Except when I have to pee. That part can be a bit of a bummer; I have to pee all the time.

It's my own fault, because I am absolute freak about hydration. I understand that skipping one of the eight (or ten or twelve, stop counting) glasses a day won't immediately transform me into shriveled and flaking cornhusk-doll version of myself. I know that's not true But...what if it is true? (What if I turn in to a scarecrow???) It at least sounds like a slippery slope. So I drink fucking tons of water all the time. Which is fine, since bathroom access isn't usually a serious issue.

Except when it is. When I'm running around all day, and my water bottle's empty, and my bladder's full, and I am nowhere near my hotel room, and won't be for hours. Then I have to find somewhere to pee. Those times, I wish I had a George Costanza app that would tell me the closest, cleanest, accessible bathroom. Then I remember that would require me to own and operate a smartphone, and I'm all 'blech, nope', and give myself a baby high-five (right -I clap softly) for my unmatched self-reliance. I have scouted these locations on my own. You're welcome?

Starbucks:

 My boss told me that Starbucks gets a tax break for allowing complete public access to their bathrooms. The tax break may or may not be real, but the access thing certainly is. This is good, because there are approximately three Starbucks locations on every block. This is bad, because 97% of those bathrooms are full of people already hip to this. Including people in various stages of homelessness. Not judging! But if you're waiting in line for more than a few minutes, be aware than you might be waiting on someone to finish washing their armpits in the sink.

Of course, they're not all overrun with people making the best of a hygienic apocalypse. Just use your judgement: avoid Starbucks bathrooms proximate to subway stations. Or in the Village. The Christopher Street/Sheridan Square location (YEAH I KNOW THEIR FORMAL NAMES) is a fucking horror show. It's staffed by the nicest people ever - seriously, so pleasant, all of them - but the line for the bathroom, which is constantly five people deep, is like a slow-moving human conveyor belt of impending tragedy. Everyone exiting the bathroom looks like they were just forced to slaughter a childhood pet to survive a famine. Avoid.

DudeBros seem to be an antidote. DudeBros must be some sort of bathroom-dweller repellent. I get it, I also find them fairly repellent, but I'll take a minute to appreciate their contributions to my bladder relief. It doesn't matter what neighborhood  you're in, if you notice a Starbucks packed with DudeBros, just run in and use the bathroom, even if you don't have to go. They're immaculate. It's weird.

Restaurants: This is a better move, but you might have commit to a story. At least have one prepared in case someone tries to seat you. 'I'm looking for someone' is usually enough. Then on the way out just be like 'Sorry, guess they aren't here! I even looked in the bathroom!' and run out. The best play is to not even make eye contact with the host and walk in there like you were out having a cigarette or something and you need to wash your hands before you eat. Pick some place midrange, and it's likely no one cares about their job enough to stop you. This applies to bars, too - I'm just too likely to get waylaid in a bar, it's not an efficient time-management option for me.

Large Retail Stores: 

Large retail stores are so much better than restaurants. You won't have to interact with anyone, you won't need a story. They're rarely crowded. You might get to spend some weird time in a store you'd otherwise have no use for. My personal favorite is the Babies R Us in Union Square. Why there is a two-story Babies R Us in this location, I have no idea. There's no parking. Are you going to stock up on cribs and strollers and manhandle them onto the subway? That seems awful for everyone. It does help explain why the whole store is always empty. Especially the bathroom! Sometimes you'll wander into my favorite species of human: The Confused Male, holding like, a breast pump and a mobile, just looking absolutely terrified, but don't make any sudden movements, and they won't bother you.

Whole Foods are also great for bathrooms. Except the one, interestingly, also located in Union Square. This bathroom is basically a bare toilet semi-concealed behind a Venetian blind in a rectangular room that allows way too many people inside. It's like being pee-interrogated in front of a firing squad, it's awful. But most of them aren't like that.

Note: Bathrooms in large bookstores are basically the same as a Starbucks bathroom. There's always weird puddles inside and somebody's lost grandpa is standing by the door trying to figure out how to drink out of a dirty water fountain, it's horrible, don't use those.

Hotels: So hotels are my favorite way to go, and I highly encourage you to seek out the bathroom in the lobby or ballroom and maybe get a little lost and explore in there. These bathrooms are ALWAYS the nicest, and have the best soaps and mirrors and lighting, but I implore you to MAKE SURE IT IS A HOTEL. And not a named apartment building. One afternoon this spring, I ducked into a lovely, grand old building somewhere near the 72nd Street subway station and found myself tangled in a conversation that hopped an express train to Crazy Town. When I walked in, a doorman asked me who I was there to see, as was his job. Rather than just admitting my mistake like a normal person, I MADE UP A NAME. But not a whole name, I just said "Mark". When he responded that there was more than one Mark in the building, I said "I have to make a phone call" and just ran out the door. I didn't reach for my phone or anything. Dude was legitimately trying to help me, and I created a situation where - best case scenario - he thinks he kept a Craigslist prostitute out of the building. I bet the bathrooms in that joint were amazing, though.

Portapotties:  NO HAHA JUST KIDDING NEVER.

This is a picture of the last time I used a PortAPotty for urination purposes.

That is the face of a person's whose sensibilities have been so deeply offended, she's afraid they might never recover. Honestly, I don't know if they did. Note the sadistic joy on Farid's face, as they awaited my exit. (Kyle took the picture, they'd used these filth chambers already.) I hate PortAPotties. Loathe. I find them vehemently uncivilized. I don't like peeing on top of other peoples' pee. It's disgusting to me. And I know there's no way the mix of filth below me will like, travel up my pee stream and infect my urethra but that's all I'm thinking about when I'm in there. But we were at a beer festival, it was literally a hundred degrees outside, there was nowhere else to go, and I was dying.
Next time, death is an option.

Anyway, stay hydrated! It's worth it, honestly. Your skin will look great.



*I can scoot on foot. I'm like the housekeeper from The Jetsons.

Gravity: Underpants and Confusion

Okay, so I owe my dad a post about peeing in New York (that was weird to write) and it's coming, I promise - especially since I have another travel week on the horizon - but first: my review of the critically-discussed movie Gravity. Massive spoiler alerts. Sort of.

As a disclaimer: I'm not really into space. I actually think space is pretty stupid and don't understand why anyone would want to go there. Did you run out of amazing places on Earth to visit? Yeah? Liar. It takes forever to get NOWHERE in space. There's no wine. You can't bring your dog. I'm pretty sure there's no internet. No bookstores. Space is literally infinitely boring.

So the whole premise of the movie - some lady like, falling out of her spaceship or whatever* - is not that sympathetic to me. If you fall out of your spaceship, that is your fault. For being in space in the first place. I feel much the same about people who get eaten by bears while camping in remote areas. Do you know that we invented hotels? People bring you new soaps every day. Nice soaps. And towels. You want to sleep in dirt, fine. But don't blame the bears. You failed a Darwin test. There are no bears in hotels.

Anyway, you're like 'so why the fuck did you go see Gravity, you joyless harpy?' Fair question. Kyle had two free movie passes, and we'd heard Gravity was kind of visually ill when viewed on IMAX/3-D, and that was happening at the theatre near Kyle's house, and the idiot government is still shut down - you might have heard - so no museums are open, and it was rainy, so we were like 'let's just do that'. Everyone likes George Clooney. Even if he's in stupid space.

Before we left, we spent a moment with the new inhalation contraption favored by cool kids and people like Action Bronson. Kyle took a shot of E&J in the basement, because that's where they keep their E&J. We had weird/great/unnecessarily strong mango margaritas at a Mexican place near the train station. This paragraph kind of explains the rest of my review.

We got tickets to the 5:30 show. It took forever to get popcorn and Junior Mints, and once I was out of the line we walked through the first door we saw with 'Gravity' scrolling across the marquee line. Inside, the ONLY seats left were in the middle of the very front row. It didn't seem like we had much choice, so we just sat.

It was close to 5:40 - figuring three to five minutes for previews, we didn't think we were in such bad shape. But everyone was SUPER SETTLED IN. No shuffling around or anything; it was sort of intimidating. I was a bit put off. How seriously can you take any situation where every person in the room is wearing the same silly glasses? On screen, Sandra Bullock was deep into some existential crisis, and I was like, Jesus, space movies are IMMEDIATE bummers.

But whatever, we were there, so I tried to commit. Even though the first row of a 3D IMAX movie is unpleasant as HELL. It should be illegal to sell tickets to those seats. If you have any kind of seizure disorder, I am almost sure you could sue AMC for triggering the shit out of you.

After ten minutes, I was pretty bothered by the lack of set-up. Was this movie just throwing conventional narrative structure out the window? That seemed unlikely, given the target audience. Something was wrong. Kyle was on the same page.

"Do you think this is maybe the middle of the movie?" It seemed possible. We had no idea what was going on. Then George appeared. He and Sandy already seemed familiar. He dropped some knowledge. I elbowed Kyle: "Yo, let me look at the tickets." He handed them over. They said 5:30, and it was only 5:58, so this must be the beginning. It took another five minutes for me to realize the movie might be playing on several screens.

"This has to be the middle of the movie." We agreed. "Should we leave and find the right theatre?" We could not decide. Kyle'd become invested. That more or less settled it. And it was cool, I kind of was too, and we'd likely have similar problems in the right theatre at this point. I was mostly just annoyed that no one seated around us had the decency to be like 'hey, morons, this is the middle of the movie' when we walked in.

Anyway, onscreen: Clooney gives Sandy a pep talk, justifies her child's death-related depression, then disappears. I assume George died earlier in the film and that was his space ghost or something.  The talk works, because he's George Clooney, and Sandy's inspired to live or whatever. So she punches a LOT of buttons in an attempt to send herself back to Earth - like honestly, she gets out an instruction manual and just presses a ton of shit randomly-  it's exactly how I approach every DVR/cable set up I've ever encountered, so now I'm pretty confident I could be an astronaut. Then she blasts back to Earth and lands on a tropical beach, and gets out of her pod and lies on wet sand (gross) and cries, and she's wearing a tank top and underwear and I was like "When did she take her pants off? Did they burn off on re-entry? Is this Bali?" And those remain my biggest questions about the movie. Because then it ended. Also, Sandra Bullock is like, 50 years old and looks AMAZING in her underwear. Just wanted to shout that out. Hot-ass middle aged people in this movie, if that's a drawing point for you.

I asked Kyle if  we should  find someone and explain what we did wrong and see if we could watch the beginning parts that we missed, and he replied "I don't really feel like I need to, and now we have time to catch the Sox game." Which - word. Because it was probably better with more George Clooney, but even the parts in space that we did see were pretty boring, because they were in SPACE and that shit is boring as hell. So then we both went home. On my way, I bought some brown rice sushi at the Foggy Bottom Whole Foods and it was terrible. But there was still a whole box of Junior Mints and half a bottle of wine in my purse, so I'm chalking it up as a win.

Overall, pretty great little Saturday.

*My confusion regarding the premise of the movie will become clear in a moment.

Mr. Jackson If You're Nasty

The summer before my 2L year, I walked into the New Orleans LSPCA a little after 4:00 in the afternoon, looking for a puppy.

My roommates were still gone, and would be until right before classes started in a few weeks. I was lonely. (I've never denied being emotionally impulsive.) Besides, I'd wanted a dog all last year anyway, I lived a five minute walk from school, in a big, wonderful house with a little backyard - it might never be a more perfect time for a puppy. And it didn't feel right, living in a house without a dog. I'd always had dogs, I was a dog person.

That's what I was looking for: a dog, some charming mutt of unknown provenance, a puppy that would grow into a hefty canine, one that would take up space in my car, on the couch, in my life. There had always been a dog. My parents adopted Onyx, their pointer/lab mix three years before I was born. She guarded me when I crawled around on my baby blanket, wouldn't let strangers too near without my parent's permission. Simon, the massive Rhodesian we adopted the summer before ninth grade, slept outside my mother's bedroom door nights my father was working in Boston, keeping an eye on all of us, on the street outside, from the top of the stairs. We had our own special thing, too - he protected the hell out of that house, but never blew up my spot when I snuck home late. That's what I was looking for.

But it's not what I found, those puppies were a mess, either sickly-looking, oddly-tempered, or like they'd grow up to be about purse-sized. No, no, no. That wouldn't do at all. So I turned around and started back. You can try again in a few weeks.

The puppies were at the back of the building, so I had to walk through a full row of the adult dogs to get to the door.  I kind of said hi to them all, but didn't pay them much mind - I wanted a puppy, someone I could know from their start. I was three-quarters of the way down the line of kennels when, on my left side, a stocky brown dog who'd been sitting patiently, stood up on his hind legs, and pounded the cage with his front paws. Not aggressively, just a 'Hey! Over here!' Then he sat back down, and looked at me.

He was adorable. Chocolate brown with a white streak down his chest, big liquid eyes, a face shaped like something between a heart and a square. He didn't bark, he didn't pace. He just looked at me. I read the card pinned to the cage. His name was Hershey, he was about a year old. He was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier mix. I'd never even heard of that before.

The staff starting coming out through the kennels - it was almost dinner, time for everyone to go. One woman saw me standing where I was and stopped. Her face lit up, slowly, almost cautious. 'He is a great dog,' she said. 'Great.' I nodded. 'We're closing now, but come back tomorrow, take him out.' I said I would, said goodbye to the dog, and left. I don't think I'd planned on coming back, but the next afternoon there I was.

I took him outside, and he was friendly and sweet and all, but kind of...aloof. He wasn't fawning all over me just because I happened to be there. It was cool to meet me, but let's all be reasonable. It was weird, but I kind of respected the hell out of that. And, let's be honest - there's nothing I love quite like an emotionally unavailable man.

The staff was thrilled. They were all in love with him. He'd been there for months, after being left in the parking lot with a chain around his neck. They'd put him in a children's camp program, brought him around as a breed ambassador dog. They could not figure out why no one had taken him home.

And that's the story of how I met the dog we now call Baylor Jackson, canine homie extraordinaire, the oldest soul I think I've ever encountered, and every single thing I was looking for the day I walked into that animal shelter. We had to spend too many months apart that next year, because I went a little crazy, and then nature went very crazy, but otherwise, we've been together ever since. I picked him up in Houston, after Katrina - a friend's aunt had taken him in, one of the greatest kindnesses I've ever experienced, for which I am eternally grateful. She fell in love with him too, of course. When I showed up that night he was fat as a pig, she'd been cooking him his own dinners, full plates of food. She gave me a gallon-bag of frozen turkey on our way out the door: 'he loves my turkey.' He sat on my lap the whole drive home. My legs lost feeling somewhere outside of Lake Charles, but I didn't care.

In the end, it didn't matter that we didn't know each other from the beginning. I'll never know what happened to him that first year. There are clues - he still has scars on his ears, and one on his head if you know where to look. He's not a big fan of tall men, and he hates it when people give daps. HATES it. There's something about knuckles-hitting-knuckles that upsets him deeply. So no, I don't know, exactly, but I have an idea. And it doesn't matter. The day we met was it's own kind of beginning, for both of us. You can start over anytime.

We made his birthday August 12 - exactly a month between my brother's and mine. Which means he will be ten this year. Ten. He's grown in a grizzled bit of old-man beard, but otherwise he's largely the same. People on the street regularly ask if he's a puppy, actually don't believe me when I tell them, which is hilarious to me, that would be the weirdest thing to lie about. And now, nine years down the line, I think about that puppy lesson all the time. You can have the grandest plans, you always think you know what's right for you. But you probably don't. There's probably someone who knows better than you. And it's okay to trust them.

Happy Birthday, Baylor Jackson. Thanks for picking me.

A Post Apocalyptic Year In Review

"That's all right. I like to have my heart broken." - Kurt Vonnegut

***

"Getting my heart broken was one of the best things that ever happened to me."

I said that to a friend last night. We were standing in the kitchen, talking about boys*. Technically, I was crouching in front of the fridge, trying to find a spot to shove the broccoli, so she didn't see my face. I'd had the thought before, but I'd never said it out loud. And I'm glad it was a weirdly semi-private moment of revelation, just me staring down some hummus and a giant rogue beet, because it almost bowled me over, how true it was. I didn't say it to comfort, or provide perspective. I said it because it was goddamn true. I don't think I could have made it through the last twelve months otherwise.

It's a storm at first, of course, and you're just one tiny person alone on the open ocean, in a terribly leaky raft. In the dark. Shit looks pretty dire. It's like all the scary parts of 'The Odyssey', but with cheaper wine. It's fine, though. You'll get through it. Because you can get through anything, you know. And once the sky clears, and the churning stops, there's a gratitude: I didn't know I could do that. A clarity: you can see again. It looks different, everything's been rearranged, this new landscape is totally unfamiliar, but all these new things: caves and craters, majestic gnarly trees along the shoreline, sea boulders baked in the sun - they've been there all along. All this upheaval has simply allowed them to reveal themselves. Get acquainted. Explore it all. You'll only get better for it.
Here's what I found:

Tardy Hardy: Sometime in April, while scrambling to make an early morning appointment in Brooklyn, I realized my perpetual lateness (understand that I am referring to not only PERPETUAL tardiness, but also, in many cases, extremely exaggerated tardiness. Sometimes I show up literally hours late for shit, and no one is surprised) was a primarily a twisted attempt at keeping a stranglehold on youth. Via staggering immaturity. That it was sort of complete bullshit to be all 'Oh, I just don't understand how clocks work' (WHAT? I know! I SERIOUSLY SAY SHIT LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME) while actually never having missed a flight in my life**. Including morning flights. And those early morning appointments in Brooklyn. Because I apparently do understand levels of consequences, and if I can navigate those, I can probably figure out rudimentary time management, right? All this dallying to way-beyond-the-last-minute, followed by tizzies and scrambling was just ME creating unnecessary hoops to jump through, with the sole purpose of making myself crazy, because youthful people are harried and crazy, and old people are calm and boring. Then I was like 'LOOK AT THAT CRAZY TRAIN OF ILLOGIC, YOU PROBABLY DON'T HAVE TO PUT MUCH EXTRA EFFORT INTO KEEPING THINGS NUTTY AROUND HERE, ALSO, WHY ARE YOU YELLING, THERE IS NO REASON TO YELL. CALM DOWN.'

Then I remembered that I like being really calm and I sort of hate young people. That a hundred times in the last six months I've said "You could not pay me to relive my twenties" and meant it all the way down to my core***. That my constant commitment to unreliability is not proving anything to anyone. That it's actually pretty selfish. Not that I've actually done anything about this, but it was a new perspective to consider: I can hang on to my immaturity as long as I'd like****. It will leave my youth in the dust. And I get to be completely calm about it.

Puff Puff Pass: Related, I quit smoking. Considering I will basically hold you down and slather you in sunscreen if you so much as think about exposing your bare face to a UV ray, it started feeling hypocritical to be so actively contributing to my own dermal wrinkling*. It's the same misguided immaturity bullshit. Again, my rampant disrespect for my own little lung sacs is not proving anything to anyone. No one cares. Why does this need to be part of my identity? Because when I got down to it, that was the whole attachment: 'This is something I do'. That's an ivy-and-vines way of thinking: such a nice contrast at first, a highlight to the whole, some lovely organic decoration that will, if left unchecked, eventually obscure everything underneath. That will, eventually, tear apart the very thing it's anchored to. Cut it off, man. There's nothing to be scared of. You're still you under there. So, yeah. I quit smoking. Cigarettes**.

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N, In the Summertime: That was my mother's personal jingle for summer vacations when I was a kid. She'd start singing it before we even pulled out of the driveway, before we'd even packed up the car. She was so excited. My mother is not exactly the emotionally effusive sort, so it just kind of radiated out of her, this sincere joy. On the highway, my brother and I would cast semi-withering glances at each other across the backseat: Calm down, lady. We are not even close to there yet.

It wasn't until this year, this grindy year of work travel, emotional mountain climbing, coupled with the steadily amplifying atmospheric DC grime, and the undeniable reality that I am getting fucking OLD and all this shit tires me out in ways no one adequately prepares you for... Of course we did not understand my mother's elation back then, I'm pretty sure I only have the most basic comprehension of it now, considering she was like, a full-time nurse with two full-time children and car payments and shit, and I take pictures of pretty houses, and am responsible for solely my astonishingly well-behaved dog. I have a SmarTrip card. That like, never has money on it. And yet - the weeks leading up to vacation were like the first three weeks of December when you still believe in Santa. I might be old now, but I can still recognize that sort of anticipation, the kind that oozes all through you, drips over your heart like honey.

And goddamn if it wasn't one of the best vacations I've ever had. I have a habit of tempering my expectations, lest I be disappointed by the end result, but I didn't here, and I'm glad - because I wasn't. Fuck man, Maine. That whole 'Vacationland' motto is NOT hyperbole. I've been to Maine before, I've loved Maine before, but not like this. This was like a balm. In the kayak, collecting mussels off the rocks, water so blue it was black in places, cold like only ancient things can be, I told Kyle: "Whatever is wrong with me, this makes better." It is a simple thing to say, a tremendous thing to realize. And it's inside me now, I can go back any time I want.

Later that week, after midnight, sitting around a table with two of my favorite people in the world, I laughed so hard I cried (for a variety of reasons), so hard I had to get up and leave the table. I walked the five steps to the bathroom, slid my spine down along the door frame until I was laughing and crying on the linoleum, sitting and rocking and laughing and crying and eventually just straight up crying, these pure love tears, straight from this well of joy I can't always get to on my own. I wish I'd thought to taste them at the time - I know it's impossible, but part of me believes they wouldn't even have been salty. Then I pulled myself together and rejoined the boys at the table. We went outside and sat on the dock and watched for fireworks - there were fireworks almost every night that week, like exclamation points, like confetti, like even the sky was as happy as we were and had to let us know. We were quiet, and we sat in a row, and looked up at the stars until we almost fell asleep.

So I get it, Momma. I get the song now.

Love you guys.



*'Standing in Kitchens, Talking About Boys' is an alternate working subtitle for 'The Katie Neuner Story'.
** ...because I got there too late. I've never missed a flight because I got there too late. I have missed two flights due to distractions in the airport bar. Statistically, this is sort of amazing.
***Unless we're talking about a LOT of money, and only my late twenties. What? I've got loans, bitches.
****Boom Pow Surprise! That probably wasn't the conclusion you were hoping for. Whatever, it's honest. 

* Remember that early 90s PSA where these girls get their friend to quit by appealing to her vanity and crumpling up a photo of her face? That works, PSA people! It just takes like, 16 years.
**The caveat to this being: if I lose any of this hard-earned smoky vocal seasoning, I will suck down packs of Parliaments until it returns. I mean, duh, it was sort of the whole point. That, and being able to duck out of any social interaction whenever I got bored.