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.