Good Friends and Squirrel Bombs

The week before Christmas was unseasonably warm this year. Remember?

Everyone left town early, until it felt like it was just G and myself, the rest of Glover Park entirely empty. Smoking on my porch before bed one night, I thought: even the lights on the horizon look dimmer. We took to the porch again the next night, finished a bottle of wine nestled in second-story beach chairs. We went inside, then away for our holidays. I left the bottle out there for months.

I am the kind of asshole who clutters a perfectly lovely back porch with unwanted furniture, disintegrating cardboard boxes, discarded books, bags of clothes for Goodwill. Why bother with a table and real chairs when we could just sit on this old desk? You're too good to sink your ass to the floor into one of those terribly awkward canvas chairs? Of course you're not, I'm just kidding. I'm aware it's a terrible system. I've thought about changing it, about throwing all the shit away and making it a pleasant space to sit and chat. I think about it for two minutes before declaring: 'Isn't it already a pleasant place to sit and chat simply by virtue of being a porch? Just let it be a porch!' So it stays how it is, and yes, I see that's pretty bullshit and mostly a function of my general laziness and because sometimes I am a shit friend who does not care about your comfort. You know who is not a shit friend? Kyle.

A few weeks ago we were standing out there while I determined the proper outerwear, and Kyle, as he has done in the past, handed out the gentlest of porch shamings: 'It's so nice out here; 'Chairs would be awesome'; 'I could help you take the boxes down'. Wonderful, kind hints to which I typically respond "Come on Kyle, then I couldn't throw my garbage out here" because I am the kind of person who will regularly throw a bag of garbage or empty box of wine out onto the porch rather than carrying it down to the cans. Then, as usual, he left it alone. There are only so many times you can ask an adult to throw her trash away properly before you start wondering why you're still friends with this lunatic.

I had to go to New York last week for work. The Saturday before I left it was sunny and kind of nice and I opened the porch door hoping maybe it was reading weather. It wasn't. Even if it had been, the environs weren't exactly conducive to relaxing. Unless broken pieces of ashtray, scattered dead leaves, crumbling boxes and mildewing bags of clothes are part of your preferred spa experience. I picked up the months-empty bottle and accompanying glasses, took them inside to the kitchen. Got a garbage bag. Went back and swept up the leaves, the shattered bits of lacquered ceramic*. I pushed the broom under the a/c unit in the window, and noticed something protruding from the largest bag of Goodwill clothes, an enormous black canvas duffel bag, characteristically unzipped.  What initially looked like a stick, was, after closer inspection, clearly a leg. A small, furry leg.

My first thought: How did one of Baylor's toys get in there?
My next thought: Oh that is not a toy that is not a toy that is not a toy that is a dead fucking squirrel and it is super dead, super dead, all the way live dead, how do I get it out of...do I reach in...are there more...OHMYGOD NO, OH MY GOD DEAD SQUIRREL TOUCHING CLOTHES THAT USED TO TOUCH ME. 

I went back inside and had some wine and decided it was time to start packing. And I did. And I shut the squirrel out of my brain for the rest of the afternoon.

A few hours later, Kyle came over. We were hanging out, deciding where to go for food, and I actually considered not saying anything, but then I did: "Want to hear something really horrible that happened to me today?"

I finished telling him, and I think I assumed it would be like confession - once it was out there, the squirrel would magically disappear. I said "I didn't know what to do about it, so I just did nothing." Without judging the ridiculous words that just came out of my face, he said, clearly, reasonably: "Okay, you have to do something." He was right. I did. He helped.

What happened next was Dennis the Menace masterful, something I never would have thought up on my own. It was Kyle's idea to put garbage bags on our arms, Kyle's idea to position the giant outdoor trashcan directly below the porch, to maneuver the monster duffel over the porch rail together, heave it at the can. When the bag failed to land as aimed, crashing face down onto the patio stones a foot away, scattering clothes but concealing the squirrel carcass, I want to say it was my idea to get the snow shovels out of the utility closet and scoop the clothes into the trash can, but that was probably him, too. I invented the term 'Squirrel Bomb', although I also invented the situation that created said Squirrel Bomb, so I'm not sure what kind of pride to take there. Regardless,  the squirrel bomb was successfully diffused. And then we went to Surfside.

And my goodness, if the porch doesn't look so much better without that giant bag of unwanted clothes! And their attendant dead rodent limbs! Who knew? I'm thinking about getting rid of all the boxes now. I'm even considering a table and chairs**.

Happy Birthday Kyle!

*Sorry, D, I really did love that ashtray.
**Where do people get tables and chairs?

Fuck You February Part Eleven Million

A big part of achieving my goal of 'not falling apart in the face of every fucking thing in my life' this year has been 'being uncomfortably honest about some personal shit on the Internets'. My parents seem to be okay with it, and the only person whose real name I use is Kyle's (dude, I don't know why I have like, no concern for your privacy? I'm so sorry. Love you!) so I suppose I'll just continue in this vein.

Most of my time in the next 30 days will be consumed by The February Project. The February Project consists of 'not getting completely, utterly, soul-crushingly depressed in the month of February'. Which is REALLY HARD, guys. I know, 'self-fulfilling prophecy'...but the dread leading up to this month is unreal. Stuff REALLY DOES GO TO SHIT. In the last 90 hours I've had fights with two of my closest friends, and another is MIA, when I really need them not to be. Another one flipped our shit completely. My computer keeps threatening to die. I don't fight with friends! Friends don't disappear on me! (I disappear on them...recognizing a taste of your own medicine makes it no less bitter going down.) Flipped shit makes me cry a whole bunch. And computer, I need you. I need you to watch television shows I steal with my brother's HBO.GO password when I literally cannot work up the mental strength to do anything else.

Two of the hardest things to describe to people who've never experienced them are depression and anxiety. Normal people get sad, and normal people get nervous, but they don't seem to get the cloud that penetrates every pore, all the way into your bones, pumps through your blood, chanting; 'don't, don't, don't' when you should, should, should; 'it's not worth it' when it most definitely is; 'why bother', when there are so many reasons; and 'you are, forever, undeniably, a piece of shit', when that is certainly deniable, and nothing is forever.

Depression is a heaviness that settles into every crevice of you, your body, your brain. It makes everything simple seem impossible: getting out of bed, getting in the shower. You actually congratulate yourself for walking the dog, and this makes you feel worse, although he seems to appreciate it. Food loses its taste in your mouth. You think 'maybe seeing people will make me feel better' but then you don't want to see anyone, anyway, because you are just a little grey cloud personified, and there's a yogurt stain on these sweatpants, and oh my goodness, just the idea of finding other, relatively clean sweatpants is too much, please can I just hide in bed and find a marathon of some HBO programming that I've already watched twice? Yes? Okay.

In no way is this relaxing. Because the entire time you're submerged in your little foxhole of dread, currents of anxiety zap you at irregular, unpredictable moments. And anxiety demons are judgmental as shit. Anxiety is like a spider. She spins webs all through your body, settling wherever she sees fit. She never commits, never announces. She likes to make sure you're as uncomfortable as possible, always, right in your own skin.

The worst part is knowing not everyone feels this way. Lots of people do, but not enough so you can call in: 'I can't come into the office today because the world is too awful'. So you take a lot of deep breaths, and try not to cry at the bus when it's late. Try not to cry in the bathroom at work when you can't find a file. Try not to cry on the walk home for no reason at all.

I always want to go back to New Orleans when I'm like this. Isn't that strange? Maybe it's not strange at all. I suppose it's a place I associate with being crazy, and a place where being not-quite-right is okay. A lot more okay than it is here. Here: 'there's medication for that'. I know there is. Meds are a good thing - a great thing, the best thing - for a lot of people with wacko brain chemistry, but they aren't for me. So instead I'll peruse Craig's List every day, finding all the adorable apartments I could rent for so much cheaper than anything here. I'll watch Treme and cry a bunch, because they're always in my favorite bars (but why is no one ever in the park?) and David Simon can make you miss a place like you miss a person, the heart, the soul, the good parts, the terrible bits.

And for perspective, I'll read 'The Awakening' again, because as long as I don't feel like my only option is walking into the ocean forever, I must be doing something okay.

Everyone Is An Asshole

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

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

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

Everyone is an asshole. Sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone is an asshole. Sometimes.

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.

Rolling Like the Homeless...

Do you ever spy someone wandering around the city, and then find yourself unable to determine whether that particular individual is homeless, or if they've just been travelling for an extremely long time and are having, like, a really tough go of it?

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It happens to me almost daily. It doesn't help that I walk through Boston Common on my way to work every morning - a place populated by peoples in various states of homelessness, as well as hippies, students, demonstrators of ranging passions, tour guides dressed in colonial garb, worker bees eating lunch, wild children, harried nannies, and lost tourists evidencing different levels of distress.

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So I mean, there's really no way to know, with certainty, whether that dude is homeless, or if his luggage just totally sucks and he had to wrap his suitcase with twine somewhere in Iowa after the group of German house musicians he was hitch-hiking with parted ways. And that lady might be homeless, or she might just be having the worst time finding the airport EVER. And what is THAT DUDE's deal? Why is he sticking his entire head in that faucet? To wash it? To get water? Because he isn't able to do those things indoors? Or because it's been approximately 400 degrees for most of the summer, and one's hydration-situation can get pretty dire in a hurry? Oooh, although that's no reason to be sleeping on a piece of cardboard under a tree! Wait, but is someone filming you? Fucking Emerson kids.

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So then...what is homeless, anyway? What are the parameters? Why do I obsess over this stuff? Especially when it completely, totally doesn't matter? Because, in the end, you can't determine that kind of status with any real certainty?* I guess it's better than obsessing over something I saw last night on E News. Or what Frances Rivera was wearing on the Real News, even though that is admittedly, really fun to obsess over.

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You know what? All I can do is control my own actions. I'm just going to buy some really top-notch luggage and hope I avoid confusing people. You all can choose your obsessions accordingly. Just...don't let those Emerson kids record your image for too long, okay? I think they might be trying to capture your soul.

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*I take that back, I think. Because if all of your shit** is in a shopping cart, that's a pretty reliable indicator of...domestic flexibility.

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** If 'all of your shit' translates to 'garbage bags full of aluminum cans', then you have bigger problems than I'm ready to address right now. I'm sorry.

Front and Side Dickbags

General Life Guideline: If a vanity license plate makes any sort of reference to the make and/or model of the car that it's affixed to...then the owner of that car is a total fucking dickbag.

I'm just saying.