This is serious

Cat for Gift

I never thought I'd have a cat, or any domesticated animal, for that matter. And it's not as if the cat is mine. It's David's. Sadly, it was given the name Misty; as her name indicates, she craves attention and behaves much like a stripper from New Jersey. Oh, what's in a name?!

I came home from an unpaid (in terms of monetary value) sabbatical in the Homeland last night, and Misty has scarcely left my side since. She slept on my back last night, which was stifling, but also suffocatingly cute. Until it dawned on me, Oh my God, have I become a cat lady?

I awoke late this morning to find Misty still curled on my perspiring back. I also awoke to a text from David, suggesting we get rid of the cat sooner rather than later. At first I looked at the ball of clumped fur beside me and was outraged, Misty is a living being! I though, "You cannot just pawn a living thing onto someone else!" until suddenly I realized how reasonable I was being and quickly changed views. Of course we need to get rid of her!

It's not as if we're backing out of a pet because we can't stand her, we simply have come to learn that we are not the proper caretakers for a cat. For one, we travel too much to properly love Misty. Also, I can't actually stand the thought of consciously touching her for a prolonged space of time.

SO, this is an advertisement! If you live in the Boston metro area and want to acquire a loving, beautiful cat, please let me know and I'll arrange to drop Misty on your doorstep (or in your living room) at your earliest convenience. Misty is a truly gorgeous feline, though I think she may be in need of a new name as well as a new environment and maybe even a buzz cut.

Well wishes,

Kate!

Rememberance

RIP Louise Bourgeois

15- Amour

And so begins another summer punctuated by tennis tournaments. For as long as I can afford to, I will arrange my schedule so I can watch my favorite players and be lulled into afternoon dozes (but only during the boring matches, of course) by John McEnroe's lazily authoritative commentating.

Roland Garros is a true indication of summertime, just as a gin and tonic on the back patio and flicking june bugs off the screen door are. It's the beginning of something great, in which the outcome is unknown but the energy of expectation pulses like thunderstorms in the bloodstream. Tennis is simultaneously relaxing and straining, methodic and unpredictable, mental yet physical. It's a sport with a narrative not about a team, but about a single player, a character, a champion- and as such the experience between viewer and competitor is intimate like getting to know a new lover, and sometimes tumultuous. Rivalries run deep, and compassion arrests the heart at the most surprising moments as players forfeit their dreams of winning a championship over a mental melt-down or unplanned physical strain.

It's a beautiful game, and I will enjoy watching the French, then Queens, Wimbledon, the US Open and whatever else comes in-between. And as I watch, I'll entertain thoughts of hitting a winning passing shot, of tensing, planting, then releasing and, with a burst of concentrated energy, moving a ball forward with the drive of perfection.

photo

Karen & Jack

I've mentioned it once and I'll probably mention it again and again and again, for it's worth repeating: I adore Jack White. Begrudgingly (my disdain exists for no reason apart from the fact that she is his wife) I also adore Karen Elson. Ergo, I love this photo. It's intimate, voyeuristic and a little bit weird. They're so cool.

Photos by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue.

Brothers

Sometimes, I really miss my brothers.

Neal is not pictured, which isn't to say he is any less loved!

Second Careers Worth Noting

Perhaps we're more noncommittal now than decades before, or maybe a globalized culture has instilled in us a kind of career schizophrenia- whatever the reason, people these days seem to be juggling a handful of jobs, not out of necessity, but because they want to. Whether they're moonlighting as a freelance photographer while working a 9-5 in human resources, or tending bar while working mornings as a yoga instructor, I'm fascinated by the different ways in which people choose to make their money. Particularly, I'm interested in the seemingly divergent second career paths of the middle-aged. For instance:

Bjorn Borg

During my internet strolling this morning, I stumbled upon Bjorn Borg's self-named fashion label, something that until just now I've been completely oblivious to despite being a loyal tennis fan. On top of being a tennis icon/mastermind/superhuman, Borg is always one of the best dressed men in a tennis stadium and his hair... Oh! His hair is gorgeous! so his trajectory into fashion is not particularly surprising, though some of his underpants styles are: (ahem).

Meanwhile, I have yet to embark on my initial career path/way to earn a satisfactory income. As I consider how I progress, I'm continuously encouraged by people who do what they love and can still feed themselves, especially if they have a handful of tennis titles to boot.

Things that remind me of birds, but aren't birds.

These sunflowers in particular look like hungry baby birds in a nest, waiting for their mother to regurgitate food into their little beaks for lunch.

Fire similarly reminds me of hungry baby birds chirping up at the sky from their nests, but bonfires structurally remind me of a nest. With the overlapping twigs, wood, and pieces of brush, they always remind me of an ignited nest/bird home.

Koi/fish in general. Probably it's because they congregate like sparrows and pigeons and eat a lot of shit that humans throw at them. But also, when swimming, fish fluidly move as one, much like birds in flight.

So, those are my thoughts for Wednesday. Not all of them, mind you, but some.

Need

These Cole Haan shoes would complete me.

Things you shouldn't lick

When I was a freshman in college, I watched a news segment as it was broadcast in the dining hall; it was very unappetizing and all about how filthy handbags are. The newscaster said something along the lines of: "It would be safer to drink out of a toilet at Disney Land than let your handbag, and its millions of germs, come into contact with body orifices or open wounds."

Of course, being a frequent user of public transportation, this was not news to me, but it did make me think a little more seriously about the following:

• Putting luggage/handbags on beds, countertops, tabletops, and yoga mats.
• Putting luggage/handbags on floors in restaurants, trains, bathrooms, school, and essentially everywhere else. And,
• How frequently I wash my hands after handling a handbag.

It is for this reason that I find it completely warranted that I just said to my roommate, as he looped one of my handbags over where I have my towel hanging, "Ohmygosh, remove that immediately! Do not put a handbag on something that I use to dry my vagina!"

He looked appalled. We both did, actually. But I'd just washed that towel!

P.S. You can substitute the word "cat" for "handbag" throughout this post and the sentiments in no way change.

Mirage...

I'm at David's. He's out of town and made the mistake of giving me access to his keys, suggesting I could use his car and apartment whenever/if ever I wanted. Of course I took the opportunity to go all teenager on him and take over his entire space. Later tonight I have fifteen people coming for a kegger. It'll be great.

Actually, I'm just doing laundry, drinking some white wine (it's hot outside! It's humid and 88 degrees! It's white wine season! Also, due to the water ban, I am forced to only drink alcoholic beverages. More on that later...), and am trying to research different avenues that I would like to follow as my life to progresses. I'm feeling pretty good about everything, especially seeing as I'm in a temperature controlled environment.

So, the WATER CRISIS! I haven't been too caught up in the excitement of the crisis (think Y2K-esque hysterics + bottled water storage), and all the information I've collected on the issue has been texted to me by caring friends. From what I understand, for the past 48 hours everyone in the city of Boston has been forced to boil their water like they're on some Oregon Trail expedition, or drink exclusively from bottles so as not to ingest any of the contaminated water that has infiltrated the water supply after some reservoir leaked, or something (if you want to know what really happened, just google it). Anyway, I celebrated the news of the leak/crisis/contamination as an excuse to solely drink delicious summer cocktails/beverages until the situation has been remedied.

I don't run for trains and I don't stand in line at grocery stores cradling my weight in bottled liquid. So, bottoms up, Boston! Here's to you and to hoping that I didn't accidentally kill myself while brushing my teeth last night with the tap!

Happy May Day

When I was young, my mother would celebrate May Day by sitting with my brothers and I and crafting coned baskets out of construction paper and filling them with cut flowers. We'd decorate these baskets with special messages and pictures. Once we finished putting them together we'd canvas the neighborhood, hanging baskets on the doors of our neighbors, ringing their doorbells, and then darting behind the nearest boulder or idle car to watch as the door was opened, the flowers found, and our neighbors looked about for the silly people that disturbed them. It was bizarrely charming.

I wish I had some construction paper.

Putting it out there

I've always admired people who create something and unabashedly put it out there for others to see and critique. Whether it be a painting, a film, a poem or a hand-carved wooden chair, the fact that the craftsman behind it took the steps to produce and then showcase the piece is worthy of recognition and respect, even if it's complete shit. Especially if it's complete shit.

I have stacks of paper, both physical and virtual, that I keep hidden and never intend for anyone to see. To an extent, I'm very careful about the things I let others view so as to craft my public persona. I'm not editing my interests and expression to become something I'm not, but the whole of my being is layered and complex, and much of the work I do- my writing, specifically- is not in a place where I feel I can share it. Sometimes this is because I'm afraid of hurting people, or of shocking them. Sometimes it's because I know it's not very good.

I was sitting in a cafe last week and was working on a self-promotional advertising piece for my portfolio. As I played with fonts and the way certain elements of the piece came together, I was painfully aware of the young man beside me, catching glimpses of my work out of the corner of his eye as he tried to read some terribly boring looking financial spreadsheets on his computer (I too was catching glimpses at his work). There were moments when I wanted to turn to him and say, "Look, it's not done yet, okay. It's not ready, so don't judge it," which is silly seeing as I spy on other people constantly. I try to read the scribblings of fellow train passengers, whether they be writing notes for their novel or their grocery list, I watch girls in the library retouch photos from their weekend out with friends, I watch boys in school draw cartoons alongside their notes in class. I admire these people for just doing it, for exposing their talents and letting others view their work while it's still in the process of being completed, even if it does just get shut up in a notebook never to be seen again.

I've always known, but have been loath to admit, that I am afraid of being bad at something. It is for this reason that I never learned to tap dance, play an instrument or seriously take up skiing. When I start something, I want to be good straight away, and fear or failing, or of not being spectacular right off the bat, has held me back. It's time that I start sharing my creativity, I think, and stand behind my work knowing that it's not the best, but it's at least a gallant effort.

And just for the hell of it, here's a picture of Ernest Hemingway in a bathtub. How's that for inspiration?

A Marvelous Day for a Marathon

After sending off one of my beautiful friends who was here for a terrific weekend visit, I find myself relaxed and solitary on this Patriot's Day. A few blocks away, incredibly fit men and women are running the Boston Marathon, an event I usually celebrate with a beer. As they pant and sweat and lose feeling in their legs (I refuse to believe in runner's high), I sit in my sun-filled living room and contemplate the types of marathons in which I am willing to actually participate.

• Project Runway Marathons- I will gladly watch any and all episodes from any season with the exception of this past one in which the Kardashian look-alike won, because that season sucked.
• Jack White's Projects Marathon- Night or day, rain or shine, I will happily listen to and watch the myriad of projects Mr. White has contributed to over the course of his career without ever tiring of his greatness. (New Dead Weather album out May 10/11- thanks for the heads up, Eric!)
• Mad Men Marathon- Speaking of which, have you seen Christina Hendricks on the cover of Esquire?! Like, okay: in my humble opinion the photo's a little too retouched, but she's still one of the most attractive women roaming the planet. And yes, I'm totally dyking out right now, sorry.
• Book Reading Marathon- I just finished The House of Sleep by Jonathan Coe. It was such a gripping story that I lost all sense of myself whilst reading and at one point even got on the wrong bus, found myself not at the Logan Airport (my desired destination) but rather an industrial park off the waterfront, and had the pleasure of being the only passenger for about ten minutes as the bus circled back on its route and took me to familiar territory. It was awkward, but I was enjoying my reading and didn't mind being stupidly lost so long as I had the book.

Now that I have successfully made myself out to sound like a terribly lazy person, I will go and do something productive with my day, like eat a hamburger as I cheer on the real marathoners! BYE!

One Day, Perhaps

On days when I'm feeling brave, I tell myself that I'll move to Nashville, Tennessee and have a peacock farm. I'll write books, smoke cigars, and admire the flamboyant prancing of the peafowl- the rare albinos like snowflakes, and the standard peacocks colored like toxic puddles of fuel and water, or bubbles floating in a summer breeze.

One of my favorites

The Canonization

FOR God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace,
Or the king's real, or his stamp'd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?
Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.

Call's what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find th' eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it;
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for love;

And thus invoke us; "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes;
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize,)
Countries, Towns, Courts: Beg from above
A pattern of your love."

- John Donne

Somethin' like a Terminator

She is so thoroughly cool. And the typewriter at the end is gorgeous.

Strangers are Strange

The lease for my wonderful Brookline apartment is over come June. This means a myriad of strangers have walked through my apartment and seen my dirty laundry (literally), typewriter, bookshelves, and the contents of my closets. Some have undoubtedly noticed the dust under the couch, the dishes piled in the sink, or the way my bedspread isn't perfectly smooth.

Out of curiosity, I would love to ask prospective renters to write a paragraph about the kind of person they think I am based on the contents of my apartment. Snap-judgements are rarely indicative of anything more than the viewer's own biases and values and I bet I could learn a lot about the people viewing my apartment just by reading their interpretation of me and my home. If only I could- I'd find reading the responses hugely entertaining!

Sunny

In the past couple days, I've made it a point to feel bright and sunshiney despite the depressing New England grey that's engulfed Boston. In combating the oppressive rain and cold, I've:

• painted my nails a ridiculous shade of bright pink. Think Rollerblading Barbie circa 1995.
• wore limey-green tights
• bought a bouquet of daisies for David, who needed a little something to cheer up his window sill
• purchased rain shoes

The last initiative was completely spontaneous and was actually done out of necessity. For as I walked out of my apartment yesterday afternoon, I quickly realized that wearing my suede boots had been a horrendous decision and after a few short blocks, my feet were soggy and cold. With the promise of an afternoon at work still ahead, I made a quick decision to duck into Lord and Taylor (a store I very rarely visit and whose font I find incredibly distressing) and went right up to the shoe department where a profoundly awkward salesman watched as I picked a pair of rain shoes off the display, slipped them on and said that I'd like to buy them and wear them out of the store.

I'd actually been meaning to buy these shoes for a long time but had been putting it off, hoping the weather wouldn't necessitate that I actually go out of my way to get them. But the rain stops for no one, and now that I have my new shoes I am very happy (that's not to say I wasn't happy before).

I once told a professor that a new pair of shoes can drastically alter the way in which one thinks about life- for when one has something attractive and solid on which to stand, one is more apt to feel and behave like a more confident, alluring and secure individual. In my rainshoes I feel adorable. And now I don't care if it rains for the rest of spring, so long as I have them on my feet.

Parched

For a hot sec. yesterday, I went to Rockport, MA for a healthy dose of ocean air. It's a picturesque town, to be sure, and like most tourist towns it has an array of candy/fudge/cupcake shops, sweatshirt stores, and art galleries that are situated on seagull-infested stoney bluffs that overlook the sea, which is all very good. But nice as it is, there is no way I'd be able to stay in Rockport for any space of time longer than 48 hours, or want to stay there for any more than five. Why? Because it's a dry town.

If ever there was a setting for a sticky, cozy bar with an ocean view and good beer, it would be Rockport. The fact that it's lacking in such amenities seems like an incredible tragedy.

Brent told me that Rockport is dry because, once upon a time the fishermens' wives got upset with their husbands always being drunk, so they took blunt objects and broke every bottle, cask and barrel of alcohol in the town. As we all know, women can be very scary when they want to be (though usually they are soft and kind and smell exclusively of roses). In this particular instance, the men of the town were too afraid to reintroduce alcohol to the locale and now it's banned by law (though I'm sure you can bring it in from, uh, wet towns and enjoy libations inside one's own dwelling). I don't know how true this story is- but it sounds about right.

Until this law changes, I will not go back to Rockport. Unless, of course, I really want some fudge and shellfish jewelry.

Hitched

Last night, I went to a debate between Christopher ("Not Chris") Hitchens and Rabbi David Wolpe. It was put on by the New Center for Arts & Culture and was mediated by On Point's Tom Ashbrook who is taller and more attractive than I thought he'd be (it's always so fun to see radio personalities in person. And the picture doesn't do him justice...) The topic, of course, was religion.

Being neither an atheist nor a Jew, but rather one who subscribs to the Christian faith, it was hugely interesting to hear the arguments (granted desciphering Hitchens' mumbling at times was difficult) of the two men and then think how their ideas interact with my own life philosophy, religion, and beliefs.

Here are some notes from the evening:

• The audience for this event was the strangest I've ever encountered. Weirder than an amusement park line, stranger than a comic book convention, more bizarre than an Emerson College orientation weekend. There were a lot of old Jewish people, a lot of old Jewish atheists, a lot of young angry atheists, and a lot of Christopher Hitchens infatuates- including one woman who brought a bottle of Jonny Walker Black Label to give to Hitchens as a token of goodwill and affection, or something. Also, there was a staggering number of severely unattractive people (not that it matters).
• There was an awful lot of disapproving tutting/head shaking/inappropriate clapping going on. If you show up to an event hosted by a Jewish organization that is about open ideas and acceptence, please try to be accepting. You came to hear ideas, philosophy and, essentially, two men disagreeing. I don't need to know every time you disagree, as well.
• What many people struggle with when accepting a religion is the antiquity of the teaching. It's easy to think that religious texts lack a forward progression, rendering them obsolete on certain issues that our society has since moved past (such as putting homosexuals to death- Leviticus 20:13). From what I gathered from Rabbi Wolpe, Judaism is more of a community than religion in many ways- as one Jewish audience member said, "I love my religion but I do not accept the idea of a God"- and it is in community with one another that the religion takes on modern day challenges and becomes currently viable. This is true of many religions. They need to be applicable to today, not just to the past. I'm not saying that, like the audience member in question, modernity necessitates the loss of faith in God, just that such ideas need to be discussed while the religious community stays intact. It's also important to contextualize what is written, and to understand it from different angles, including a modern one, so as to sustain the cultivation of new ideas.
• Before the event started, my roommate and I stood in line near the front doors and tried to bundle up our dripping umbrellas and get warm. Lo and behold, standing just outside in the shelter of the marquee stood Christopher Hitchens, smoking a cigarette and drinking what appeared to be water from a wine glass. Brent thought this behavior was pompous, and while it was perhaps a little ass-like, it also seemed quintessentially Hitchens- frumpy suit and all!
• The only moment of agreement came in the form of the golden rule, which is commanded by God but is also widely endorsed by [rational] mankind: love your neighbor. If everyone really does this- regardless of ideaology- I think we'll have a pretty level middle ground.

Won't you be my neighbor?

Found this over at The Daily Dish and thought it was really cool. My younger brother (the future Governor of Minnesota) once made an argument like this which I found compelling. The American population could sustainably live in a space-efficient, small area. We do not have a population problem in this country. That's not to say we couldn't manage our land, resources, and waste-disposal more wisely, just that we're not yet in crisis.

But let's be honest, who really wants to live in such close quarters with all our American brothers and sisters...

One Day

I've never been a horse person, yet for some reason I have a major desire to one day witness wild horses galloping across an expanse of depressed land. I want to see their matted hair struggle in the wind and their muscles ripple in wild animal ecstasy.

And perhaps it is for this reason that I love this:

Listen to: Ray Lamontagne's All The Wild Horses

Image/Sculpture by Sayaka Kajita Ganz

The boy was placed on suicide watch after an afternoon visit to the counseling center where, with glassy eyes, he told a woman in a cardigan that he was thinking that he just didn't want to live anymore.

"What is prompting you to think this way," she asked as she played with a pen cap in her left hand.

"I just don't want to be here anymore. It's always the same. I have the same conversations with the same people every day. Sometimes I don't think it would be so bad if I got hit by a bus while jaywalking."

She listened as he continued to talk. She asked about his plans, his goals. His sentences were disconnected and his eyebrows were bunched together. He had an inflamed pimple on his left temple and his cuticles were ragged and scabbed. After twenty minutes, she led him to the door and told him to come back if he wanted to talk later.

The RD called T that evening, told her there was a resident on the ninth floor who needed to be checked on periodically. Suicide prevention was above her pay-grade (not that she got paid to RA), but she went to the ninth floor anyway, knocked on the door to 9-13 and asked to see him. Like any other boy, he was on his computer when she came in . She introduced herself, gave him a limp handshake. "I just came to check-in, to see how you're doing," she said, unsure and hoping not to offend him. He nodded and looked at the floor. "There are a lot of people who are worried about you," she offered.

This prompted a response. He looked up quickly, scared, "Have you told my parents?"

"No, should we?" He shook his head. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Don't. My mom, she'd freak out. She'd start crying and wouldn't leave me alone. And my dad, he's a good man. He's busy. He'd get worried and distracted. I won't bother them. Don't bother them."

"But do you think they should know?"

"They'll know if I do it. But I probably won't. Not now, anyway. So what's the point?"

"Is there anyone you think we should tell? A sibling, a friend? Is there someone you know who could help you deal with your, uh, your emotions right now?"

"Oh, there are people I could call. But it's a Friday night. I don't want to bother them."

T stood next to his unmade bed, looked at his dirty clothes piled in the corner, his muddy shoes, the curling edges of his Weezer poster. If she were to kill herself, she wouldn't leave a mess.

"Do you have any plans for the evening?" she asked, remembering back to her training. Always ask a suicidal person if they have plans. If they don't, get them help (but wasn't that what she was doing- helping?).

"I'll probably do some laundry," he said, "Maybe get some pizza." He didn't look up again for almost an entire minute. "You can go. You don't have to just sit and watch me."

"I'll be back in an hour," she said on her way out.

"Don't worry if I'm gone." He turned back to his computer and she closed the door.

She was afraid he actually would be gone when she knocked on the door an hour later. What would she do if a boy she'd hardly just met killed himself on her watch?

He opened the door after the third knock, his laundry was still on the floor. "Surprise," he said, "I'm alive." But with no one for him to reach out to, she hardly believed it.

Tax Season

It's strange to think of life in terms of being taxed, but living is fundamentally a taxing process. It's a matter of finding a balance between what we give and what we take, what we're emotionally, physically and monetarily able to afford, and how we choose to spend our excess. We are given a lump sum of happiness and distribute it in ways that bring some people pain and others joy. We are a burdened species.

As the struggles of our political system suggest, this world is not black and white. There are marshes of grey matter that we must wade through continuously as we navigate through our personal challenges and ultimately find a way to a place we call Contentment, Happiness, Peace. For me, I can't imagine going to sleep at night without knowing there is a God in heaven who loves me enough to give me free will. A God who controls the will of his people-whether it be for good or bad- is a dictator. Time and again I am thankful for the pain, creativity, love and joy around me because God is not a dictator. He can advise and impact my decisions, but he has no more control over them than anyone else. In everything, I must take full responsibility.

I've always been taken by stories of struggle and redemption, of temptation and acceptance- of ultimate love. In East of Eden, John Steinbeck has a beautiful passage on free will and the word Timshel, which is Hebrew for though mayest, which God used to give man full autonomy over his actions. It's important we live informed lives, make informed decisions, understand the complications of our actions. Sometimes, those decisions go against our better judgment, will be seen as compromises of various ideals, but sometimes those same decisions will work to inform the way we live later in our lives. A wonderful friend recently emailed me some information on human brain development that explores the way in which the adult mind is constantly developing. We never stop learning (unless, I suppose, we want to), and each day, each struggle, is another detail in our individual human case study.

"There's more beauty in the truth even if it is dreadful beauty." - East of Eden

Like with all things that operate on a polarized scale, often the hardest place to be is in the middle. I asked a friend via text, "Over-thinking: Detrimental or imperative to living a fulfilled life?" I firmly believe it's imperative, but wouldn't it be great sometimes if it weren't?

"Only Boring Games are Bored" -Betty Draper, I think

I went out to Petit Robert Bistro with some creative professionals last night- the kind of people who get to swear a lot with their clients and show up to the office in stretch pants and mismatches accessories. One woman in our company mentioned that she and her husband had been thinking about buying a board game to keep them from spending every night out at a bar, and went on to say that they'd read interesting things about Settlers of Catan. At the sound of that name I light up like a dried out Christmas tree doused in gasoline as I sang its praises.

My friends and I started playing Settlers of Catan our sophomore year of college, and while it won't completely abate your drinking, it will move it to a more cost effective venue (namely your living room) where your bed is jut down the hall.

My charmed life is about to get charmier

I cannot even begin to tell you how happy I am that my roommate has finally learned to consistently refill the ice trays! There is nothing more disappointing than pouring a drink only to find that the only thing frozen in the freezer is the edamame I bought last July.

I'm also incredibly happy because the rest of this week is going to be beautiful. Here are the things I'm most looking forward to as the weather warms and the days get longer:

• Long walks with my pipe through Boston's various green spaces
• Lying on the grass and looking up at the sky through chlorophyll enriched leaves- the contrast between green and blue is so absolutely heavenly!
• Sidewalk cafes
• Drinking minty mojitos at sidewalk cafes and getting a suntan while I'm doing it
• Dresses, light jackets, and summer footwear
• Sunday mornings at the SoWa market
• Sleeping with all the windows open
• Grilling/grilled foods (chicken, burgers, peaches, zucchini, pizza, tomatoes, etc.)
• That pleasant evening air that isn't quite hot but isn't cold either... it's just perfect
• Driving with the windows down
• Reading in the sunshine

The list could go on and on and on, but I'll stop before I get too caught up in daydreaming about the next couple months. But it's quite nice, daydreaming- especially when the weather is crap and you've been sitting in wet boots all day...

Fantastically Lazy

I haven't done anything even remotely interesting today besides watch the second episode of Jazz: A Film by Ken Burns.

It was wonderful, having nothing to do, but only until about 3:00, and then I started to get restless. If it weren't so miserable outside I'd go for a walk, but seeing as that is really not an option, I'm going to pour myself a glass of whiskey, crawl into bed and employ my mind in something worthwhile.

Before I loll off to bed, I'd like to share with you another one of my very talented friends: a Minnesotan displaced in New York who's making charming knitwear just for you- Black Capped Crafts.

Who wouldn't want a giant tundra cowl to help one get through this gusting spring? She makes customized pieces as well, so check out the etsy shop and get some comfy, chunky wool!

Listen to this:

Probably because I'm tragically materialistic and possessive about my things, I still buy CDs. I like the tangibility and being able to put all my music on display as if to say, Look, here is my music collection! Also, I'm terrified of my computer dying (in which case my life would very quickly fall to pieces) and losing everything in iTunes (though I'm not a complete idiot and of course back everything up). In an effort to deter that from ever happening, I live like it's 1990 and trek out to Best Buy whenever I want a new album. Earlier this week I did just that and finally bought The Persuit, Jamie Cullum's newest record. Now, I adore Jamie Cullum- always have- and I've listened to the new album a couple times straight through and, as per usual, I'm thoroughly impressed with his arrangements and the way in which he makes jazz truly modern. As it stands, my favorite song is If I Ruled The World, which is quintessentially romantic but still maintains an air of lightheartedness.

Anyway, get the album. It's good. I promise.

Perfect Days

At some point in the past two days whilst walking through Boston in the beautiful spring sunshine (am I jumping the gun by calling it spring? Probably), my freckles came out. It's weird, I know, but growing up I always aspired to be one of those magnificently freckled people who get cute sunburned cheeks and a full face of tiny brown spots. Those same people are prone to ultimately ending up with skin cancer, but as a filthy child I didn't care about such things and gazed longingly at pictures of Pippi Longstocking and Huck Finn who ran through the sunshine with reckless abandon, their faces sprinkled with a smattering of sweet freckles.

I like to think that like the budding trees and growing grass, my freckles are some indication that winter is definitively behind us, however I know I'll probably get impaled by a rogue icicle for saying so.

Ho hum.

Be there

If you have nothing to do this Thursday evening, come to this:



See you there!

"We Need an Intellectual Challenge"

The human body is amazing. I went to bed last night and decided I wanted to sleep undisturbed until 9:00. This is my new tactic in dealing with my insomnia- making an absolute decision about the state of my sleep and willing myself to adhere to it. Lo and behold, I awoke exactly at 9:00, completely refreshed, totally content, and very very cozy. By 9:03, I was already thinking, okay, what next? So after some morning wandering and a cup of Peet's Coffee, here I am.

So, what is next? I found this video over at Kitsune Noir this morning. Stephen Hawking is always interesting, and, according to him, the key to our past and future lies in the cosmos. Old news, I know. The man's been saying that for years, but what struck me this morning was how the cosmos exists as the alpha and omega of scientific understanding and can simultaneously shed light on the beginning and the end of our world as we know it. Again, this is not a particularly unique thought, but when it comes down to our human wandering and desire for understanding, it's funny that we look to the one place (the infinite places?) we know essentially nothing about and rake through atomic matter with the hope that something will click and BAM, we will have everything understood. And even if that does happen- then what? If we knew the secrets of the Universe, would our quest for knowledge and our desire to live be stunted? Would a scientist who knew the key to the Universe sit back in his armchair and say, "Job well done!" and never again feel the desire to rise? Or would he move on to cure Cancer or build enzymes that protect bananas from contracting Panama Disease or... or what?

I don't know.

Pink Terror Hawking from mike barzman on Vimeo.

"All we need to do, is make sure we keep talking."
-Stephen Hawking

I went for a walk because I wanted to feel my feet move over pavement, wanted to traverse something solid and unmovable, wanted to find comfort in knowing there is something my weight cannot influence. Strong winds had come with the rain from last week and branches lay tangled in the shrubbery along the sidewalk- the closer we move to heaven, the further we have to fall before we hit the ground.

In the yard of a big home, painted red with white trim and looking slightly like a barn (why was this ever an attractive building style?) lay a crumpled tulip, its lavender petals covered in mud, its stem twisted like a broken limb. It looked so pathetic in the marred grass, still brown and soggy from the winter thaw, and it took me a moment to realize the tulip was not real at all, but rather a silk flower that must have fallen from the fist of a small child or blown from a dumpster where it had been discarded in favor of a more seasonal arrangement on someone's end table. I looked closer and saw the wire coming from the bottom of the stem, the frayed ends of the silk petals, the water stains on the fabric.

The pavement on which I stood was cracked and uneven, warped from months of ice, snow, heat. In the summer it'll need to be repaired. I knelt beside the flower and brushed the dirt away, leaving streaks of mud on the fabric as well as on my fingerprints and chipped nail polish. I picked it up and carried it with me for awhile, twisting it between my cold fingers, until I came to a bridge that passes over a small stream. I cast the tulip- if you can call such thing a tulip- into the water and watched it float away. How futile are our attempts to amend this world when everything is just temporary.

RIP

My most beloved [and very first] pair of heels broke just moments after stepping out my front door this afternoon. We had a good run (almost 6 years) and I'm glad I had a backup- or, more accurately, many backups.

So long, dear heels. The ground we traversed will never be forgotten.

It's been on repeat

I go through stages with music and will listen to a single album continuously for days, weeks, months. Since December, I've been time and again coming back to Bob Dylan's Infidels. Perhaps I don't tire of it because I've yet to actually memorize all the lyrics- not in terms of their actual words, for that's easy, but rather the sentiment behind them.

The album offers many interesting cultural criticisms, such as the raping of third world countries, the limits of free will and that fantastic murky area between good and bad (whatever those words connote to various people) that we as human beings must continuously grapple with as we find meaning in our every day lives.

A grungy peer of mine once called Infidels Dylan's worst album. I disagree, I think it's his best, and I think my grungy peer best start showering if he wants people to take his opinions seriously.

"Steal a little and they throw you in jail

Steal a lot and they make you king."

-Sweetheart Like You

Also noteworthy is Mark Knopfler's lyrical guitar throughout the album. It's actually beautiful.

On my impending doom

If you stop hearing from me, it's just because I'm dead.

No, no, I'm not going through some bout of depression, nor am I under the influence of any mind-altering drugs. It's just that, in the midst of my insomnia this morning, my agonizing wakefulness was disturbed by the beeping of my carbon monoxide detector. It only happened twice, and it only 'chirped' (that's the technical term used on the back of the device) three times, which is indicative of a device malfunction, or something. But it was annoying- so annoying!- so my roommate and I sleepily decided it was best to deactivate the device and go back to our respective slumbers (or lack thereof).

I'm well aware of how ridiculous this is, but I dare you to try sleeping when you keep thinking, what if I'm actually going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning because I tinkered with the alarm? It's difficult, I assure you. So I opened my window, which really didn't help to abate my paranoia. So now I'm just awake, and have the re-activated device sitting next to me. At least I think it's working now- but just in case it's not and I do in fact have gas that I cannot see or smell filling my lungs and killing me, please know that I love you, dear reader.

Goodbye?

From Brooklyn to Brookline: phonetic stepping-stones

Tomorrow, I have this to look forward to:

Coming all the way from Brooklyn, NY just to play cribbage with me- Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce to you Angela-lalala, mon petit chou-fleur and most terrific friend! With her in town, weekend updates will be nonexistent (probably) and I'll see you back here on Monday.

Until then, be safe, be wise and don't compromise... Unless you absolutely have to.

Check this out

My best friend is engaged to a wonderful man named Nate Knox. He has a blog, and it's always a good read. He's creative and smart and, above all, a terrific fiance to Sarah Jean. Today, his blog is particularly good because he's on a week long hiatus and I took over.

Anyway, check him out- today and everyday.

(Christmas 2008- We're grainy and drunk and so, so happy!)

My roommate asked, "What's up with all these Mtv dates you keep going on with your co-workers?"

Last night, I went to the Boston Skating Club and for the first time in years! laced myself into ice skates. Every Tuesday from 8:30 to 10:40 they offer open skating with live organ music of the polka variety. I expected to see a lot of tiny Olympic wanna-be figure skaters prancing around like fawns on ice, but the demographic was mostly comprised of middle-aged former skaters who took the opportunity to practice old moves and get some exercise. Also, there was a staggering number of the very elderly in attendance who had stayed up past their bedtime to glide around on the ice and couple skate like middle schoolers at a roller-rink. It was pretty adorable, and they were actually quite agile, all things considered.

Personally, I made myself very proud when, after a surprisingly short space of time, I no longer moved like Frankenstein On Ice and was able to do crossovers and little spins without once falling on my bum.

Sadly, I don't have pictorial evidence of the adventure due to the fact that the skating warden did not allow us to take pictures on the ice, but I can assure you that it was a truly magical way to spend a Tuesday night. Perhaps I'll even go again next week! But probably not.

I dare you to walk a mile in these shoes

Even though I have about sixty pairs already spilling out of my closet, I still need these glowing Rodarte shoes. The heels are a little Pandorian, no?

(Image via Highsnobette)

I should spend more time with CS4

As an INTJ, this makes me very happy. Not because I'm good with design, but because I like to think it means I have potential.

(image via Strategic Aesthetics)

Lists

I have a Blackberry Pearl and I know, they're so 2008, but I love it because I have tiny hands and am able to navigate all the keys with just one of them. In my phone, I keep various lists that are beneficial to my daily existence. These include:

• Books- those I should read, stumbled upon and am interested in, or are recommended to me.
• Gifts- because I habitually forget my great gift ideas unless I write them down.
• Man List - which was made at a bar and includes all my favorite men. It's topped by none other than Jack White. (More on this in another entry.)
• Music- comprised of bands I hear and like and will never remember the names of.
• Thirsty- basically a wine list. Further proof that I'm actually 50 years-old... excellent!

Then I have a smattering of lists which consist of fragmented story ideas, paintings I like, and whatever else I find important enough to passively remember (ie: Thoth is the Egyptian god of wisdom and writing. He's pictured below.)

Because I share a sleeping schedule with the very elderly, I was awake at 5:15 AM and decided I would later take a trip to the Brookline Booksmith for something new to read. I arrived at the bookstore shortly after opening and realized I'd forgotten my phone at home and I didn't remember off the top of my head my most anticipated titles.

To take a tangential detour, let me say that I get an obscene number of book recommendations from clients and friends because, having a degree in Writing, Literature and Publishing, people think I'll be interested in all the crap they read. There are very few people whose taste in literature I actually trust, which is attributed more to my bizarre interests than my literary-snobbery (though I am quite particular about what is categorized as literature, as many of my former professors can attest to- for I frequently disputed the validity of certain texts being studied in class). To purge my Books list of recommendations, I'll spend hours online looking up books and deciding if I'd actually be interested in them. Usually, I'm not, and only the best stay on the list.

So, I was at the Booksmith without my list and with one of those headaches that comes from not having had enough sleep (honestly, it wasn't a hangover!) and I was aimlessly wandering the isles feeling overwhelmed with book lust to the point of ambivalence when suddenly I remembered that my co-worker, Maura (she does awesome hair, FYI), is constantly telling me to read William S. Burroughs. She's told me many times, including Friday night, "Kate, he was all about bowties and scotch and typewriters and shit. You're going to totally love him."

I trust her with my hair and decided, perhaps wrongly, to trust her book recommendation and bought Naked Lunch. I'm now twenty pages in and feel in need of a Junkie Dictionary to get me through this. Someone (other than Maura), please tell me this gets better.

I'm just thankful the Olympics are on to distract me. BIATHLON! I love the sound of skies on crispy snow!

Neckwear in the year 2010

In this year of our Lord, 2010, it has come to my attention that the necktie is being horribly abused. No longer does it adorn the necks of our best and brightest, adding a pop of color and style to their business ensembles. Instead, it hangs limp like a bouquet of wilted flowers on the necks of those whose occupations seem to make the idea of tying a noose around their collar more appealing than a piece of attractive fabric.

These artless tie-wearing employees consist of the following:

• Waiters and (even worse) waitresses, whose ties spill down the front of their ill-fitting white dress shirts alongside coffee and ketchup stains. Ugh.

(image from the site that exists to perpetuate this problem)

• Flight attendants. They used to be hot, but I wasn't alive then. Now, they look tired, underpaid and wrinkled.
• MBTA employees (why? why?! why?!?)

(Charlie is sadly the best-dressed MBTA employee)

• Clowns. O,MG!

(Image found here)

• Fast Food Employees. I don't eat fast food, so I can't say for certain which chains make their sixteen year-old slaves wear greasy neckties, but I know they exist. And the ties are probably clip-ons.
• Evgeni Plushenko. I don't care who designed it- figure skating outfits are always wretched, which isn't to say I don't love them, because I do. It's just that I would never encourage anyone to wear them, no matter how perfectly sculpted their body. Pictures aren't up yet, but I assure you that Plushenko's sequins tie and vest applique was a big-time no-no.

Please, dear readers, wear your neckties with purpose and pride! Wear them on the weekend as well as the workweek! They serve to center your face and add personality to that gray suit you bought because it seemed practical. Don't look like you're constantly dressing for Casual Friday no matter how lax your office dress code; you'll do better work in a tie, and look and feel better, too. I promise! Wear your tie with pride! Wear your tie, now!

P.S. I'm sure to be missing many occupations that degrade the state of the necktie, so please let me know of those I've missed.

I'm about to be so broke

"Like, I like my typewriter, but I love my BOY blazer."

Just kidding, I love my typewriter just as much as I would love a BOY blazer.

Oh Band of Outsiders, why must you tempt me so?!

(via The Steel Closet)

Displaced nostalgia

It's not like I was alive in the heyday of the typewriter, and I never had a personal connection with one, so it's strange that my brand new vintage Olympia typewriter makes me feel so creative, productive and nostalgic for a time I never had. It probably has something to do with the fact that it's not connected to the internet.

The decision was difficult, but after a trip to Cambridge Typewriter, I decided on a beautiful machine that will really strengthen my finger muscles.

The final three, all with yellow pages filled with my lunatic ramblings to get a feel for the keys and style of the font.

It's beautiful!

I'm still in the honeymoon stage, and I don't know it well enough yet to give it an actual name, (though I don't encourage you, dear reader, to embark on a honeymoon phase with anyone without knowing their name) but I do know one thing for sure: this is love. A beautiful, clacking, dinging love!

Everyone I know was Born in February

Well, almost.

My roommate and I take [our] birthdays pretty seriously and we like to extend our celebrations over the course of the surrounding days, like Mardi Gras. With his 22nd birthday coming up on Tuesday, some friends and I got together last night to celebrate and we went to a restaurant in Central Square called Green Street, where everything from the hazelnut and honey-stuffed sardines to the bacon cheeseburger and our manhattans were all-encompassingly satisfying. Really, it was the kind of food that left all of us happily sighing and leaning comfortably against the back of our chairs as if we'd just done something extraordinary, like build a barn, not simply devour an exquisite meal. Best of all, the wait staff let us take our time eating and laughing and (in my case) changing from my heels to flats at the booth even though the restaurant was packed with couples celebrating an early Valentine's Day. Already I'm looking forward to my next visit to Green Street- and I don't even like eating meals.

Last year, my roommate (who's a twin) was sent this giant banner to commemorate the big day from his father, who insisted we hang it in the kitchen. Sadly, this year we are sans banner.

The evening took a strange twist, however, when dinner was punctuated by a series of text messages from my parents, who are going through some mysterious middle-aged moment of wanderlust. Like the couples at our neighboring tables, they too chose to celebrate Valentine's Day early and did so by visiting the Minneapolis Convention Center to check out the RV show.

I cannot stress how weird this is- like, my parents abhor camping; though they aren't by any means flagrantly extravagant, they are not prone to roughing it and generally don't associate with the kind of people that come to mind when thinking of an RV park (which, in my RV novice imagination include people who want to smoke inside, people who want to bring their numerous children on vacation, people who want to bring their [giant, shedding] dog, cat, or parrot on vacation, and people who never want to not be on vacation).

What began as a conversation that went something like, "Haha, wouldn't it be funny if your mother and I bought an RV and traveled the country? Ha..." suddenly morphed into a hurried text message declaring "We bought a Mercedes Benz, Great Western RV. I am shocked that your mother came around to my thinking on this. We are going to have some fun now!" accompanied by a grainy cell phone picture of this baby:

And to sweeten the deal, they're going to blog about their cross-country journey for the RV dealer's website. OH, MY GOSH.

Life sure has an unsettling way of getting weirder as we get older and my roommate and I will be sure to toast to this weirdness as we continue celebrating his miraculous birth. HAPPY SUNDAY!

Oh, and HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

Here's to you!

I know I said I was going to stay inside and wear my pajamas all day, but the snow never materialized and my feet were itching for a walk, so when my roommate suggested we visit The Boston Shaker, I was more than willing to put on a cozy dress and a pair of boots and get going.

The Boston Shaker is a civilian cocktail supply store in Davis Square. It opened last week and has all the cocktail-making paraphernalia a true mixologist would ever need or desire, including a wide array of [hard to find] bitters, made-in-the-USA equipment and a shelf of cocktail books that rivals Ina Garten's cookbook empire. It's about time Boston had a store to cater to those with refined taste and an adventurous spirit!

If you're in the Davis Square area, I suggest you visit. The owner is incredibly knowledgeable and informative, and their selection is truly wonderful. So, bottoms up! dear reader, and I'll see you in the morning!

Haven't you heard? There's a blizzard outside!

I could spit more than it's precipitating outside, yet my boss and the city of Boston still decided to call it a snow day, so here I am. Ta-da!

Though I'm bound to go a little stir-crazy, I'm actually totally cool with sitting in my candlelight apartment in my kimono with a bottle of red on the coffee table, and passing the time reading Andre Dubus. In fact, I'm quite happy about it.

Mmm, glorious.

Rules of the Baggage Claim

Look, I understand that flying is a bitch- having to pay to check bags, the fact that planes smell like baby vomit and stale farts and the stress and discomfort of TSA security all culminate in an agreed-upon wretched experience. But for me, these annoyances now come standard and I'm able to easily overlook them. What pisses me off about flying, dear passengers, is you*.

Particularly I hate the way you behave in airports- carrying stinky fast food onto the aircraft, meandering aimlessly through airport terminals so I have to dodge around you as if I were running an obstacle course in the boot-camp from hell, and worst of all, I hate the way you crowd around the baggage claim the way packs of salivating wolves do a wounded cow.



To help correct the situation, let me propose five baggage claim rules that, when followed, will make all of our journeys to our final destinations more pleasant:

1. When arriving at the baggage claim, do not stand directly against the luggage belt. This deters anyone from being able to properly see the bags further up the belt and also makes retrieving a bag without jostling, or seriously injuring, a number of people nearly impossible.

2. Do not, under any circumstances, let your children near the baggage claim. The belt is not a ride or a toy, it is something that will pinch them and make them cry and the last thing I need at the tail-end of my airplane journey is to hear your dumb toddler wailing at the top of his/her lungs.

3. You know how at neighborhood picnics there is always some imbecile who pokes every hamburger bun in the pile before finding the one he wants? Well, that person also exists at the baggage claim and he'll touch every black piece of luggage that is not his, regardless of size, shape, adorning ribbon, or luggage tag, just because he's an idiot. Know what you're looking for, pay attention to detail, and don't just fondle every bag that passes you by.

4. Help out old people. It's painful to see old people trying to hoist oversized luggage off the carousel, so when a decrepit 80 year-old walks up to retrieve her vintage floral suitcase, walk up beside her and offer to help. She'll probably say something really sweet about how strong and young and attractive you are for helping her, and everyone else will be relieved to know grandma's not going to break her arm off getting her bag and then hold them up in the airport even longer.

5. If you have many bags, don't pile them in an inconvenient place as you wait for the others to arrive. Put them in a corner, or at least far away from the belt and the main walkway. I know it can be difficult to maneuver many bags at a time, but your overpacking should not hinder my walking, so keep them out of the way.

Lastly, I just want to make a plea for everyone to take some calming deep breaths and chill out in the airport. It's not a scary place. It's a weird place, sometimes freakishly so, but overall the staff is doing everything they can to not piss you off. So, try not to get pissed off, use your manners, be considerate of others and have a good flight.

*You is the general populace and is in no ways indicative of you, dear reader.

(image via ivy league insecurities)

My Future Boyfriend

It's weird, I know, but at some point in my life I want to date a Foley artist. I'm not sure why seeing as the only other people who sit alone in small rooms are usually there by force and as punishment for some horrific wrongdoing. It's just that I imagine Foley artists have a really sensual attention to detail and would be really interesting to talk to. Like, they'd notice the little things- the noise of a mosquito hovering near the lamp, the way the ground quivers ever so slightly when the train goes past, or the way the spine of a hardcover cracks the first time it's opened. Someone who delights in such minute details must be a fascinating person, and someone who can recreate them with strange objects like aluminum foil, crunching masking tape and breaking celery sticks must be doubly interesting.



This Grey Goose commercial is, in my amateur opinion, a work of true Foley mastery. Even now, on this freezing February evening, I half believe I'm sailing somewhere off The Cape and am about to drink a crisp, refreshing glass of Grey Goose as I snack on fresh oysters and get a suntan. Literally, the sound in this commercial makes my mouth water and toes tingle as they're kissed by splashing sea foam. SO HOT!

If you feel so inclined, I suggest you watch the other Grey Goose commercials as well. They're good, too, but not as good as this one.

(And yes, I agree- Ketel One is better.)

Getting my Game Face On!

Today marks the many-month climax to America's favorite sport, and I'm celebrating as I celebrate most everything: with Doritos.

Anyway, before I apply my face paint and get my hands dirty with artificial Nacho Cheese flavoring, I decided to share some really beautiful photos a client showed me. If you have any interest in window displays, I suggest you check out the new window display at Anthropologie, she said.



The exploding ball of flowers in the background was constructed by a [probably] lovely and charming young woman named Dana and is made of plastic bottles which have been cut, bended and painted to look like flowers.



I want repurposed bottles adorning my apartment now! Actually, I want to just live in Anthropologie like Natalie Portman lived in Walmart in that one really awful movie from the nineties. For more photos, check out the Anthropologie flikr.