bending breath

2012-02-19T21:53:00.007-07:00

I have my pharmacology midterm tomorrow. I've been studying like a mad woman all week, and when I haven't been studying, I've been hanging out with friends and laughing and drinking a lot and working. There is a lot of information on this exam, and I want to do really well on it. This information is vital for me to know in becoming an effective practitioner. I have a massive amount of respect for my instructor and I feel like my performance on this exam needs to be suffice as an homage to her awesomeness.

Because of the intensity of the information and the effort it's taking to cram all of this shit into my brain, I haven't had time to go to yoga or go snowboarding or do any of the healthy things I normally do to balance myself out. Instead, I take study breaks out on my front porch where I smoke a half a cigarette and clear my brain. I am aware of the juxtaposition of these two things: studying a topic that involves health while being blatantly and recklessly unhealthy. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

I love these little breaks so much. I sit on the hammock out front and enjoy my nicotine buzz and fall in love with my neighborhood all over again. I appreciate the quiet of the city at night, the peace that exists on a street that is one block away from one of the most non-peaceful avenues in the city. I love the winter air, how clean and crisp it feels. I love the warmth that reflects from my neighbors' homes, lamps illuminating windows of toasty abodes where the occupants are likely reading books and watching television and not learning about benzodiazapines. I love the twinkling lights down the street where lovers and friends are having cocktails and conversations at The Thin Man. I love the people who pass by, some of them stopping to say hello and bum a smoke, and others so caught up in their own thoughts that they barely notice me rocking quietly on the porch.

I feel alive.

If someone could send me good vibes and a pep talk tomorrow morning at 9am, that would be really stellar.

And now for the part where I pour battery acid in my eyes.

2012-02-13T12:23:00.005-07:00

Didn't we almost have it all?

2012-02-12T23:26:00.005-07:00

So sad. She sang her fucking heart out.

My Whitney Houston phase occurred in middle school, when every woman alive owned The Bodyguard soundtrack and wistfully dreamt of someday having their own tragic love story and hoped that it would happen with a knight in shining bomber jacket that roughly resembled Kevin Costner.

Oh, the 90s.

The basement in the house I grew up in was gigantic and unfinished. It had smooth cement floors and large doorways in between endless rooms. There was a big open area where we would set up model trains. I used to drag my roller blades and my boom box down to the basement, throw on The Bodyguard soundtrack, and skate around the basement pretending to be Nancy Kerrigan in the Olympics. I'm pretty sure the routine I had for "Queen of the Night" would have won me the silver in Lillehammer.

I wonder what Tonya Harding is doing right this second.

OH MY GOD IS THERE ANYTHING BETTER THAN THIS.

2012-02-12T11:26:00.001-07:00

Read before using.

2012-02-11T09:26:00.009-07:00

Every time I've needed to flush my toilet for the past six days, I have had to manually let the tank fill. It's been annoying as all hell, but I haven't had time to meet the plumber and neither has my landlord. Normally this is something I would be confrontational about, but I get it this week. The whole world is busy. The whole world wishes they had time to fix their shit. So now it is Saturday morning and there is an old man in my bathroom wearing a Styx t-shirt and digging through a big box of toilet parts. He is cussing in Russian and I am about to be late for yoga.

I hung out with Margaret and Ethan last night and I came home early and talked to Kelly on the phone for awhile. Then I crawled in bed and watched an episode of Portlandia. It was from the first season, the one where Aimee Mann is the maid and Sarah MacLachlan is the gardener and the main characters do that freaky role reversal thing where they dress in drag and say raunchy things to each other. Sometimes that show is really funny and sometimes it feels like watching a bad acid trip. Last night was creepy. It gave me strange dreams.

I feel weird today. I think I should stop drinking for a while. Even if it's just a beer or two. It makes my brain tell me things that aren't necessarily valid. I have not done laundry in way too long and I've been wearing my mountain biking socks under my jeans and going commando for three days. I don't even care if that grosses you out because you know you've done it before. I have groceries in my fridge that are going bad because I haven't had a chance to cook them, and sometimes I just wish there was someone here to steam my broccoli and tell me stories and change the music.

I am desperately yearning for a different ending, all the while trying to convince myself to start a new beginning.

This winter must end someday.

It must.

In light.

2012-02-11T08:33:00.004-07:00

These are my parents and they are in California right now celebrating their 39th wedding anniversary. They were high school sweethearts, and they've shared their lives together since they were seventeen. They broke up once, in high school, and my dad dated another girl for like two seconds. My mom still refers to her as "that slut".

In my thirty years of life, I have never seen my parents argue or talk disrespectfully towards one another. We were poor growing up, and my dad worked his ass of at a job he hated while my mom stayed home and raised the three of us. There were home cooked meals on the table every night and family dinner was mandatory. We never traveled growing up, unless it was to visit family. What extra money we had never went towards frivolous things, it was always saved for us and our futures. My dad still flirts shamelessly with my mom, and they are the best of friends. When my mom went into cardiac arrest in 2010, my fear of losing her was paired with the realization that, if she died, I would lose my dad as well.

Words can not express the admiration and respect I have for two people who can navigate a marriage for thirty nine years and still be ridiculously happy. While everyone is able to love like this, I think that few people are capable of the compromise and commitment and selflessness that a marriage like this involves. I often look at my failures in relationships and think about the things I have to learn from my parents.

Congratulations, you two. I love you more than you will ever know.

Florence Welch is the jam. And so is this video.

2012-02-10T08:10:00.001-07:00

Everyone has something important to say.

2012-02-09T16:21:00.009-07:00

(Isn't this the prettiest picture ever? I saved it off of some blog awhile ago and I can't remember where it came from. I wish I could give someone credit for it.)

I had a dream in early December on a night where I didn't really feel like I was sleeping at all. I awoke around daybreak, and I had been tossing and turning so much that I had to really think about whether or not my dream was real. The dream itself faded very quickly, and my brain desperately reached out to hold onto it long enough to realize what it had been about. The only thing I remembered was what had happened right before I woke up. I was sitting in my living room with Janie. She was gripping my shoulders tightly and staring straight into my eyes. Janie has powerful eyes, as do most people who have lived a full and adventurous life. In my dream, as she held onto my shoulders, she was telling me the same thing over and over with such conviction that I can still hear it in my head: "Write, Katie dear. Write as much as you can. Write as if it's oxygen and you need it to stay alive."

It's been two months today. At the advice of pretty much everyone, I am not supposed to be keeping track of anniversaries and dates. But it's something my brain has always done automatically. I remember dates, times, scents, what people were wearing, what I ate, what music was playing. It's hard for me to not think about Ty this time of year because it reminds me of when we met. The bond and the energy that existed between us was so intense and so explosive almost immediately, and this time of year reverberates with that high. Even last year, as I reeled from Bailey's death, I remember feeling a sense of nostalgic excitement for the year behind me and curious wonder about the future.

Janie's words to me that morning played repeatedly in my head during those first few extremely dark weeks in December and January. On the days when I couldn't even get out of bed, I could still write, and I did. From the time I knew how to make letters with crayons, I have been writing. And writing. And writing. I posted on this blog more in January than I have ever posted in one month, and I've been working on Bending Breath for four years. Writing saves me, and the past two months have been no different. I have also been doing tons and tons of yoga--to the point that my mat has worn out in the spots where my hands land--and I have been meditating like it's my job. The deep depression has lifted and now it's more of a companion than an enemy. It's something that needs to be here so that there can be something after it. Something good. Something whole. I like the thought of that, whatever it may be. My sense of humor has returned full force, and I can make jokes about things that used to make me sob. My brain feels strong and my body feels strong and I am pretty sure I'm going to make it.

I saw an energy healer on Tuesday morning. I can't explain in words what she does because it simply won't do her justice. But it was insanely awesome. She cleared my chakras and she mended the wounds in my heart and solar plexus and she opened my third eye and my crown. (How's that for some new age nerdery?) It was incredible. I was on her table for for ninety minutes and it felt like ten. When I got up, I was laughing and smiling and my body felt so light. I felt clean. I have been in physical pain since the day I broke up with Ty, my chest has felt constricted and tight and my heart has literally hurt. My stomach has been sore and my intestines have been cramped. When I left her office, I realized the pain was gone. The emotions still existed, but they were clear and loving and I could feel them moving freely through my body. My vision was better, my head was clear, and the pain was gone. Gone.

She looked at me during our session as she stitched up the tear in my heart chakra, and she smiled reassuringly and said this: "Stop being upset with yourself about your capacity to feel. Stop comparing your process to others. You are who you are because of your intensity. You fall in love so deeply and so quickly, be it with men or women or hobbies or traveling or music. When you feel something is right, you jump in with two feet and you passionately--almost obsessively--give it everything you have. Feeling too much, loving things and people too much, that is a beautiful trait to have...that is not what you need to work on. What you need to work on is loving yourself, and recognizing when the love you have for someone else and the ways you are choosing to love someone else are not serving you. You need to have an awareness for when loving someone else is making you feel bad about yourself. You are on a bold and beautiful path, but be wise about who you take with you. Make sure that they love you and that they help you love yourself. Everything else will fall into place."

I love Ty so much that sometimes it feels as though he lives inside of me. In a way he sort of does. I can close my eyes and see his smile and hear him laugh and it's almost as if he's right here in front of me. But we are in different places in our post-breakup relationship with each other, and that difference and the feelings it has brought up are painful. Too painful to write about here. It does not serve me. I have to get used to loving him in a new way. I can't hang out with him anymore. I can't snowboard with him. I can't text him when some dude shows up to yoga wearing Crocs that look like dinosaur feet. I realized yesterday that I needed to figure out a new way to have him with me, and I have. Now, when I miss him and want to feel his presence, I will write. I will eat kipper snacks and watch Wayne's World and Ken Burns' documentary on national parks. I will listen to Where Is My Mind? on repeat and play solitaire. And when the miss gets really bad, I might wear Speed Stick and sniff myself.

Joking. Sort of.

Those things make me smile. Those things serve me.

(I also have a new pair of boots. Fluevog boots. They have brought me immense happiness, and we are getting to know each other very well.)

So cheers to two months down without going completely insane. Cheers to moments of weakness that are really huge moments of growth. And cheers to being really, truly okay with whatever is next on this crazy little journey.

The only man on the planet that could make me willingly read about football.

2012-02-08T22:22:00.001-07:00

I have never been able to answer the question, "Why does this matter to me so much?" That's just the way it's always been. Ever since I can remember. You get older, your life changes, your friends change, your house changes, family members start dying, your kids start morphing into miniature people … and yet, one thing never changes for anyone who truly cares about sports. See, there's no feeling quite like watching your team blowing a big game. It's devastating. It's paralyzing. It's the only feeling that a 6-year-old, a 42-year-old and a 64-year-old can share exactly. You never get over it. You never stop thinking about the three or four plays that could have swung the game. It becomes something of a sports tattoo. You live with it forever, and then you die.

-Bill Simmons

You should really read this.

This is sort of what today feels like. Times a hundred.

2012-02-08T12:24:00.006-07:00

Forget neither the flesh nor the senses.

2012-02-06T08:04:00.006-07:00

Things that are increasing my serotonin levels right now:

1. Bon Iver was on Saturday Night Live this week. He played two songs from Bon Iver, Bon Iver. The performance is absolutely the most wonderful thing ever, and when I watch Holocene I want to openly weep. I love what they're doing so much and I don't even care how popular they've become because their music just doesn't get old to me. I listened to For Emma over and over and over and Stacks is easily one of my most favorite songs on the planet. When he released his new album, Kona and I counted down the days for two months. When it came out, I laid on my couch and listened to the entire album pretty much every night for three weeks. We talked about this album incessantly at work, and we gushed over every song, every bridge, every note. When I told him about SNL, we talked about how Beth/Rest is hopefully what you see and hear when you die. It's so beautiful. That album gets me by regardless of how I feel or what I need. And really, how dapper is their whole ensemble?

2. I saw the Alabama Shakes on Saturday night. This group named A. Tom Collins opened for them. Both bands completely blew my mind. Easily the best twelve dollars I have ever spent. I danced my ass off and drank too much and we made fast friends with the people around us. Upon returning to Denver, I inhaled a Pete's burrito, I talked on the phone way too late, and I was the girl whose sweat smelled like gin at yoga Sunday morning, but all in all, it was totally worth it. They're gonna be big.

3. I am not going to pharmacology today. I am going to go to a coffee shop to read and write and study and look at people.

4. It's Fruition's birthday! Five years old. Man, what a run that's been. In 2007, after a particularly grueling day of accounting at Montecito, Mel handed me his credit card and said, "Lovey, why don't you just take yourself out for dinner?" So I walked down the block to the new restaurant that was stealing all of our business, and I proceeded to have one of the best meals of my life. I left giddy. I was so excited that something like that was happening in Denver. You must work there, I told myself.

There are days when I'd rather chew on rusty nails than be at Fruition, but I can say without a single shred of doubt that my life would not be what it is without that place. I get to talk to people about food and wine every night, I make a decent amount of money doing it, and I have fun. I am surrounded by creativity and passion every single time I walk through the door. I know that space like the back of my hand...the quirks, the fixtures, the sounds, the pulse of the restaurant when we're all so busy we can't think. My job there has taught me about the importance of being "on" even when you want to crawl in a hole. It has taught me invaluable lessons on human interaction, dignity, and forgiveness. It has taught me patience. And the people, my god. Our regulars are the most interesting group of folk I've encountered at any job I've ever worked. Some of them are the most cultured, intelligent, socially conscious people I know, and some of them are just a spectacle in and of themselves, but all of them come to Fruition because they feel like it's a home away from home. And there's something to be said for that.

Above all Fruition has given me a family. When I started, there was no grace period of getting to know anyone because they were immediately accepting of me, no questions asked. I have laughed harder with my coworkers than anyone else I know, and we all share the same politically incorrect, perverse sense of humor. Fruition has given me some of the best friends that I have. When you spend forty hours a week with people, for years on end, you know them unlike anyone else in your life. You get them and they get you and you work with idiosyncrasies and differences not because you want to, but because you have to. It's like a marriage--you have to work as a team, otherwise it doesn't work at all. And that's what we do. It works out pretty well, and we have all seen each other through some pretty heavy shit. When I thought I would never have another boss like Mel, I got Paul. Paul has always cared for us as people as equally as he cares for us as employees. His concern and compassion is unfaltering. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for Fruition. Not a single day.

5. The NFL season is over. And what better way to be rewarded for putting up with five months of Tebowmania THAN SEEING MADONNA PERFORM AT HALFTIME?! HOW AMAZING WAS THAT?

Ah yes.

2012-02-06T07:47:00.002-07:00

2012-02-05T12:32:00.007-07:00

The tendency once healed is to try and conceal the scars on our hearts. We shroud heart-scars in secrecy and buffer them with bravado. We build bulwarks and erect ramparts around our heartaches as a reactionary measure to try to ensure no one can ever hurt us again, as if such a thing were actually possible. We raise visages we know are false, in vain attempts to present the appearance of being shiny and new, because we’re ashamed. The stigma we attach to having lost at love makes us forget what a healing balm sharing our pain is. We don’t talk about our wounds because we’ve mistaken pride, that great millstone of human consciousness, for self esteem.

It is time to redefine what we are proud of.

I love my scars, both the ones you can see and the ones you can’t. Every bruise I’ve earned, body and soul, gives empirical evidence that I’ve lived, that I’ve loved. Some scars, I readily admit, are deserved; I’ve loved foolishly at times and been emotionally accident-prone. Sometimes I’ve been outright reckless with my heart, but my scars remind me that, even when I lost, I fought for what I desired.

I’m proud of the fact that being hurt hasn’t made me skittish, or bitter. Nothing great in life is accomplished by timidity. Loving and letting yourself be loved after you’ve been scarred takes real courage. Becoming emotionally inaccessible is a sure way to deflect some sorrows, but you will sacrifice an equal amount of joy in the process. It’s impossible for love to grow in the shadow cast by the fear of being hurt.

I love that I can now laugh at wounds I thought would never heal. This offers hope that still-open wounds might someday also become a source of amusement. My scars offer defiance, unwritten affidavits of the heart’s healing power. I’m learning to embrace the intractable honesty of my scars as the metaphysical narrative of my life—declarations that I’ve loved, I’ve lost, and I’ll love yet again. I’m trying to display them with pride, to recount in detail when and how they came to be. We all need to be reminded of our own regenerative capacity, and sharing stories engages a collective healing process. Everyone in the world has stories to tell.

And behind every story, there’s a scar.

-Jackie Summers

crying

2012-02-05T01:21:00.000-07:00

Today I am reading about India.

2012-02-04T13:10:00.001-07:00

Still, despite all this, traveling is the great true love of my life. I have always felt, ever since I was sixteen years old and first went to Russia with my saved-up babysitting money, that to travel is worth any cost or sacrifice. I am loyal and constant in my love for travel, as I have not always been loyal and constant in my other loves. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless, newborn baby--I just don't care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it's mine. Because it looks exactly like me. It can barf all over me if it wants to--I just don't care.

-Elizabeth Gilbert

Basically.

2012-02-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

Cliff Stearns is a slimy bigot and the Komen Foundation sucks.

2012-02-01T18:12:00.011-07:00

Way back in 2005 (read: seven years and fifteen lifetimes ago), I was finishing the final year of my undergraduate degree. I had proceeded to add another major and a minor to my declared major, so I should actually say that I was finishing two and a half degrees. Even though two and a half liberal arts degrees is the equivalent of like .75 useful degrees...but when you're 24 and super stoked that all you do for school is write (which you love) and make movies (which you love) and learn about the history of women's rights (love love love) you don't really care about the fact that you will be working in a restaurant for the next ten years before you eventually bust your ass in a graduate program that will give you an actual chance at having a real career so that you can pay off the debt you acquired while spending all of your 20s absorbed in some sort of higher education.

Anyways.

I was finishing my undergrad and pretty fucking sick of writing papers. At the time, I was super obsessed with women's bodies and how screwed up the media is and all that Susan Faludi/Naomi Wolf/Betty Friedan stuff. I was also super obsessed with my film classes. So one day, after reading about the 40 page paper I was supposed to write as a final project for my English degree and wretching at the thought of writing another paper, I walked into the English office at the University of Colorado and told everyone that instead of writing a final paper, I was going to make a documentary film. In hindsight, I realize that this is like defiantly saying "I am not going travel by airplane to New Zealand like you want me to, I am going to swim there. So bite me." They all looked at me like I had four heads, and then my guidance counselor signed off on my proposal.

Long story less long, I made a documentary film about women who have had breast cancer and how the effects of their treatment (losing their hair, their fertility, their breasts) impacted their self-image as females in a society like ours. For eight months, I drove all over Colorado and interviewed women about their experiences and what their lives were like. I talked to women who were 22, women who were 79, women who thought that breast cancer was the best thing that had ever happened to them, and women who were left by their husbands because they had to have their breasts removed. It was all very intense and yet such an incredible life-altering experience.

Through it all, I had a lot of exposure to the Komen Foundation. I have always thought their whole deal is kind of messed up. They commercialized a disease that kills thousands of women every year, and they did it in the name of finding a cure. Which they have not even come close to doing (okay, I don't hate them for not curing cancer but I just wanted to point that out). They generate millions upon billions of dollars in revenue off of all the breast cancer accessories they sell and the massive events they hold, but now they're pulling funding from Planned Parenthood--an organization that legitimately saves lives and effectively detects and prevents breast cancer--because of some misogynistic political bullshit that in no way furthers the betterment of women or their health. In fact, Cliff Stearns' argument for investigating Planned Parenthood is the antithesis of basic human rights. (Fuck that dude.)

I have this friend who used to date this guy. And I always had this inkling that he was up to no good. My rational mind would be like "He's really nice to her and she's so happy..." but my intuition was always telling me that this dude was a scumbag. They had been engaged for six months when she found out he had been cheating on her. Everyone was so shocked--He was such a nice guy! They were so in love! This can't be true!

How I felt about my friend's dickhead of an ex is how I feel and have always felt about the Komen Foundation. Good image and story on the outside. Helps a lot of people. But something is not right, something in all of it felt dirty and wrong. I felt that somehow these women with their pink shirts and their stories of survival were being victimized and I couldn't shake that feeling. And now I don't have to.

An organization that boasts the message of saving women's lives and valuing their health has just yanked funds from the underdog that has always strived to keep its head above water and continue to provide women with a choice when the rest of the world has tried to take it away from them. The Komen Foundation has done this in the name of "policy" even thought it's clearly because of politics, and where women's bodies are concerned, the political is personal and vice versa. By pulling funds from Planned Parenthood, the Komen Foundation is negating the very essence of its mission and women could die because of it.

Now get angry and donate some money.

Complimentary box of razor blades with album purchase.

2012-01-31T22:20:00.003-07:00

This breakfast burrito is going to give me diarrhea.

2012-01-31T10:15:00.004-07:00

Republican presidential candidates Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich released their most recent tax returns. Romney's showed that he made $21.6 million in 2010, paid taxes at a rate of 14 percent, and gave $4 million to the Mormon church over two years. Gingrich's return showed that he earned $3.1 million last year and may have cheated on his taxes. President Barack Obama made increasing the tax rate on the super-rich a theme of his State of the Union address, saying, "Right now, Warren Buffett pays a lower tax rate than his secretary," whom experts calculated earns between $200,000 and $500,000 a year. A Wall Street Journal reporter compared the practice, begun in 2011, of having Republicans and Democrats sit next to each other during the State of the Union to date rape, and a Chrysler 300C once leased by President Obama was listed on eBay with a starting bid of $1 million. "It's all about the money for me," said the car's owner, a self-described Reagan conservative. The Republican candidates faced off in their nineteenth primary debate, and former presidential candidate Herman Cain, jailed former congressman Duke Cunningham, and former Alaska governor Sarah Palin threw their support behind Gingrich. "Both party machines... are trying to crucify Newt Gingrich for bucking the tide," explained Palin. "Rage against the machine, vote for Newt. Annoy a liberal, vote Newt." PETA was offering a $5,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the person who killed an Arkansas Democratic campaign manager's cat and left it on his doorstep with the word "liberal" written across its body, and a penguin named Paula defecated in the chamber of the Kentucky Senate.

-Harper's Weekly Review

2012-01-31T08:48:00.001-07:00

I heard that your dreams came true.

2012-01-30T07:55:00.021-07:00

I am awake (again) way too early and I just sort of decided to roll with it. I am sitting on my couch with a cup of ginger tea and rereading a letter I got this week (last week? what day is it?) from a person I've known many years but haven't talked to in a very long time. I find it somewhat serendipitous that we've reconnected suddenly, and regardless, getting a letter in the mail is like the coolest thing on the planet. So I am happy about this morning.

I am doing better all around, albeit some really hard moments. I am just trying to be honest about the way that I feel and what is coming up for me, and it was really scary at first because every time I do it I feel as though I am completely vulnerable and naked but in actuality, I have never felt more true to myself. Every time I have to face the surge of emotions that explode out of nowhere, I feel as though my mind gets a little bit clearer. It makes the pain easier to deal with. I am going to be honest here: This is the first breakup I have ever had in my adult life that I have dealt with by feeling everything. Every single breakup I have ever had has involved me drinking a lot of gin and/or whiskey and having flings with men who, for a long time, had paid me more attention than the person I had just broken up with. These lovers have usually been co-workers. (I know. I'm an idiot.) In previous breakups, I have suppressed the heartache I've felt by numbing it with alcohol and by graciously accepting physical and emotional attention from the dudes that seem to show up out of the blue whenever you become single. However, when I broke up with Jeremy, it was almost as if the universe rubbed it's hands together devilishly and said "She never learns her lesson. This time she will get it. Mwahahaha." I partied so much with the kitchen boys that I lost fifteen pounds and threw up in the mornings at least once a week. It took me three months to find a home, and I slept on a futon mattress in Elizabeth's basement while looking. I was not alone on this futon mattress because I was having a very secretive emotional and physical relationship with one of my good friends, who was also a co-worker. It was secretive not only because we worked together, but because he still lived with (and was most likely still involved with) his ex-girlfriend, who is now his fiance. When the whole thing blew to shreds, I was not only left to grieve the end of my relationship with Jeremy, but also the end of my rebound relationship. I was sick and depressed and still homeless, and I had to go to work every single shift with a person that I harbored an enormous amount of anger and resentment and betrayal towards. Three years later, we are once again good friends, but it took an entire year of working with him four nights a week to even be able to look at him without wanting to stab him or give my notice. That's a long time to be uncomfortable at your job. Jeremy was dealing sort of similarly by sleeping with not one but many of his lady friends, all the while insisting we get back together, and eventually any semblence of a friendship I had with him faltered beyond recognition. It was a shitshow. An epic circus of dysfunction and self-disrespect.

Things are much different this time around. I did not have a strong desire to end my relationship with Ty. It was an awfully difficult decision to make and the aftermath has been different than anything I would have expected. For six weeks I have vacillated between grief, joy, loss, relief, lonliness, anger, hurt, betrayal, liberation--all at furious speeds and intervals. But I refuse to make the same mistakes that I have in the past when I've found myself with this gnawing ache of the unfamiliar. It isn't fair to my body to pour a bunch of booze in it when I am already under so much stress with school and when I am already not eating because I'm upset. Liquor, while it has it's purpose, clouds my perceptions between what is real and what I want to be real. I want to know undoubtedly what is real. In addition, it isn't fair to pretend I don't feel a certain way because I'm worried about what people will think or because I feel the need to placate mutual friendships (Tam says: "Be more selfish than you have ever been right now."). It isn't fair to not give myself the chance to grow as much as possible from this. And it sure as hell isn't fair to date someone new and to let them into my life when I still have deep feelings for someone else. So here I am. Figuring all of this out and trying to keep it as truthful as possible.

Oh, Time. You are such an annoying asshole.

I had dinner with the Fairy Godmother on Friday night and catching up witIh her was comforting and invigorating and exciting and I loved every moment of it. We had dinner at Il Posto and the kitchen was very kind to us and our server had the most wonderful smile and I got to see Kona and I wore my awesome new boots. It was a really fantastic evening and there was a lot of love everywhere. I had yoga and acupuncture on Saturday, both of which brought up a lot of really hard things to think about but all of which I needed to face (blah blah blah). I hung out with the kitchen boys after work on Saturday, and we sat outside in the chilly air and drank beers and I laughed really hard and for a long time. Annie came over twice yesterday, once for a walk and again when I got off work. The first time I wanted her company, the second time I needed her company, and both times I was very grateful that she was there. There is very small part of my tribe that has the freedom/ability/life schedule to be able to show up spontaneously at my house at 10pm (or 3am) and every time I take advantage of this, I am reminded that a lot of people don't have friends that are this amazing.

It is time for me to get ready for school. Thank you for all of the emails that all of you have sent and for your words of kindness, especially to those of you who do not know me personally. You're all very rad. With that, I'll leave you on this beautiful morning with a video that you've probably already seen a hundred times but is super awesome:

Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

2012-01-28T15:16:00.004-07:00

This week has felt like playing on a Slip n' Slide made of sandpaper.

2012-01-27T18:14:00.003-07:00

Crashes are good.

Crashes are hell, but in the end they are good for us. A crash means we failed. We gave it everything we had and we came up short. A crash does not mean we are losers. A crash means we have to grow. A crash means we are on the verge of learning something, which means we are getting better, we're acquiring the wisdom of our craft.

A crash compels us to figure out what works and what doesn't work – and to understand the difference. We got our selves into the mess by mistakes we made at the start. How? Were we lazy? Inattentive? Did we mean well but forget to factor in human nature? Did we asses reality incorrectly?

Whatever the cause, the Big Crash compels us to go back now and solve the problem that either we created directly or set into motion unwittingly at the outset.

-Steven Pressfield

(Thanks, Albert.)

Oh my god, you guys. This is brilliant.

2012-01-27T17:36:00.002-07:00

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Grim Colberty Tales with Maurice Sendak Pt. 1

www.colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor & Satire Blog

Video Archive

The Colbert Report
Get More: Colbert Report Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,Video Archive

Globus hystericus.

2012-01-25T21:36:00.005-07:00

I just paid my car insurance in full for the first time in my entire life. I will not have a monthly payment for six months and this makes me feel very mature.

I am also aware that the next time I pay my car insurance, I will have completed my Master's of Science degree, and I will be preparing to travel in Nepal and India for two months.

I need to study.

Just a man talking about his wife.

2012-01-25T12:34:00.001-07:00

All my life, I have been stitching together a family, through stories or memories or friends or ideas. Michelle has had a very different background—very stable, two-parent family, mother at home, brother and dog, living in the same house all their lives. We represent two strands of family life in this country—the strand that is very stable and solid, and then the strand that is breaking out of the constraints of traditional families, travelling, separated, mobile. I think there was that strand in me of imagining what it would be like to have a stable, solid, secure family life.

Michelle is a tremendously strong person, and has a very strong sense of herself and who she is and where she comes from. But I also think in her eyes you can see a trace of vulnerability that most people don’t know, because when she’s walking through the world she is this tall, beautiful, confident woman. There is a part of her that is vulnerable and young and sometimes frightened, and I think seeing both of those things is what attracted me to her. And then what sustains our relationship is I’m extremely happy with her, and part of it has to do with the fact that she is at once completely familiar to me, so that I can be myself and she knows me very well and I trust her completely, but at the same time she is also a complete mystery to me in some ways. And there are times when we are lying in bed and I look over and sort of have a start. Because I realize here is this other person who is separate and different and has different memories and backgrounds and thoughts and feelings. It’s that tension between familiarity and mystery that makes for something strong, because, even as you build a life of trust and comfort and mutual support, you retain some sense of surprise or wonder about the other person.

-Barack Obama (via monamade)

#$(&@^!!!

2012-01-25T12:17:00.000-07:00

The Daily Show
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Light my candles in a daze 'cause I've found God.

2012-01-24T10:42:00.005-07:00

I've had a really high couple of days and then yesterday I got really overwhelmed and it was like a Jenga game in an earthquake. The happiness tank ran out very abruptly and this ginormous sense of being smothered by my own life kind of took over everything. This trimester is seriously killing me because of the schedule, and pharmacology feels like the academic equivalent of waterboarding. I am not sleeping well and it makes it hard to have the energy to get shit done like I want to.

Things I need to do today:

laundry

go to Whole Foods

study

cook meals with food from Whole Foods so that I can stop eating at Chipotle everyday

go to the bank

email 45 people back about acupuncture, the family reunion, and other crap

write a paper for pharmacology

go to the gym

go to clinic

Things I want to do today:

clean my house (likely not happening)

eat steak (could happen, but probably not)

have sex (definitely NOT HAPPENING)

sew (eh...not going to happen)

watch the rest of the first season of Portlandia (I hate that this is the most realistic thing that could happen on this list)

Seven months. Seven months. Seven months.

On another note, the news is totally tripping me out. Everyone in the world is getting divorced and/or dying, the NBA is playing five games a week, and Newt Gingrich has a shot at becoming the President of the United States. What in the fuck is going on, people. Really.

2012-01-22T23:12:00.003-07:00

A man who assisted in autopsies in a big urban hospital, starting in the mid-1950s, describes the many deaths from botched abortions that he saw. “The deaths stopped overnight in 1973.”

He never saw another in the 18 years before he retired. “That,” he says, “ought to tell people something about keeping abortion legal."

-Abortion Before Roe v. Wade, Mother Jones Magazine

Today is Sunday.

2012-01-22T10:58:00.006-07:00

We've had a busy weekend at work, and it's been fun. I honestly have not minded being there, and it's awesome when that happens. We spent the night making perverse jokes and giving each other shit, which is not really that different than any other night. When service was over, Johnny told me funny stories outside, I drank two glasses of wine in excited anticipation of my bike ride home, and Matty and I nerded out on ski videos. This is a video from All.I.Can, a movie I saw in October. The movie itself is not that fantastic, although the cinematography is stunning. That said, this scene is pretty damn amazing, and I could honestly watch this over and over and not get sick of it. It's just straight badassery, and JP Auclair is sort of adorable. I love the song, too. The part when the music picks up (and the dude singing yells "Don't you want me to wake up?!") makes me want to bounce all over the place. It's officially winter in Colorado--the best kind of winter, too: It's dumping in the mountains and mild and sunny in the city. Life is good.

2012-01-21T09:01:00.003-07:00

Today I am thinking about pain and suffering and how people channel those conditions. Like many female music legends, Etta James had a heart wrenchingly difficult life, even from the time she was young. I was sitting in an outdoor cafe in Barcelona, reading her biography, when I got to the part about how her mother's boyfriend used to wake her up in the middle of the night and beat her until she would sing for his friends. She would become so terrified during the beating that she would wet herself, and then be forced to sing in front of these men in the middle of the night. I sat in the cafe crying quietly, and then decided that maybe I should put the book down for awhile. How can that not break you into a million pieces? I have fond memories of the song At Last, and every time I hear it, my soul smiles. But this a woman who dealt with abuse and addiction and lonliness and terminal illness. If you think about it, this song is actually as tragic as most of her life was. She has passed at too young of age, but I acknowledge her death with relief and a deep sense of hope that she is free.

Yesterday was the anniversary of Bailey's death and I had a truly wonderful day. I've had a wonderful week, actually. But now I am behind in pharmacology and I haven't been to the grocery store in nine days, and all of this is making me a bit nervous.

We took turns reading this article out loud to each other at work.

2012-01-17T12:16:00.003-07:00

Citing three years of exhausting partisan politics, constant gridlock in Congress, and an overall feeling that the entire nation has "completely lost it," President Barack Obama openly asked a campaign-rally crowd Tuesday why he'd want to serve another term as president of "this godforsaken country."

"My fellow Americans, I come to you today to ask, why?" Obama said to 1,200 people gathered inside a gymnasium at Taylor Allderdice High School. "Why can't our congressional leaders work together to create jobs? Why can't Wall Street ever be held accountable? And most important, why on God's green earth would I voluntarily subject myself to this nonsense for another four years?"

"I'm dead serious," the president continued, saying that any reasonable person would have walked away the moment the Senate minority leader announced his main priority—above creating jobs and improving American health care—was to make Obama a one-term president. "I'm asking if anybody out there can come up with even one reason why I'd want to endure this unmitigated shit show for another minute, let alone through 2016. What's in it for me, exactly? Can anyone answer that? Anyone at all?"

After a long silence during which crowd members mostly just shuffled their feet and stared at the ground, Obama said, "Yeah, that's what I thought."

-Obama Openly Asks Nation Why On Earth He Would Want To Serve For Another Term

Hear hear.

2012-01-17T10:23:00.002-07:00

Justin Vernon does it for me.

2012-01-17T10:08:00.001-07:00

Rest in peace, you beautifully brilliant soul.

2012-01-16T16:03:00.001-07:00

"Are we seeking power for power's sake? Or are we seeking to make the world and our nation better places to live? If we seek the latter, violence can never provide the answer. The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. So it goes. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."

Fact: I taught myself the dance steps to this entire video in sixth grade and I can still perform the whole thing.

2012-01-15T16:00:00.003-07:00

Tuesday's gone with the wind.

2012-01-15T04:53:00.005-07:00

It is five o'clock in the morning, and I am wide awake after a somewhat unsettling dream. I have spent the past hour reading Martin Luther King Jr.'s speeches and lamenting my pharmacology class that will keep me from going to the parade. I am exhausted, and with every minute that passes I am anxious that being awake at such an early hour will screw up my day. But it is what it is, and it's kind of nice to have this time to myself.

I have seven months and four days of school left. Man alive, this trimester is hard. I only have one class, but I've got three clinic shifts back to back, and the schedule it's left me with is fairly daunting. If I can stay on top of everything, and if I can sleep, and if I can try to remember that I need to study instead of making plans with people, I think I'll be alright. But that's a lot of things to count on. I am praying for a little strength and a small break from this insomnia that keeps haunting me.

That being said, I've had a really wonderful weekend and it's only going to get better. I have Fridays off this trimester, which hasn't happened since back in the days of clinic forum. I awoke Friday, after a sixteen hour day on Thursday, with a sigh of relief and a genuine appreciation of every second I could spend in my bed without having to answer to an alarm clock. I spent the afternoon hanging out with Ansel so Jackson could clean her house, and it was really awesome. I went to a yoga class that was so intense, yet so playful, that the whole thing felt like a revelation, and I did a handstand for the first time in a long time. It's exhilarating to remember what your body is capable of once you block out what it is you're afraid of. I came home and showered and then Ty came over to get some of his stuff and we went and got food and watched the Nuggets game at a bar. I went to bed early. It was a banner day.

I am doing okay with the Ty thing. Grief is an emotion that I do not process quickly, and I am trying to be patient with that part of myself. I get a feeling from conversations that I've had that he hasn't said the nicest things about me. I am trying very deliberately to just remember that he is hurting and we all work through that differently. But it's hard. It stings pretty bad. I also feel as though I've only really been able to know half of him. I feel like there has been this person in my life for two years, someone who I've spent so much time getting to know, and that he only really felt comfortable sharing a small part of himself with me. That's a big pill to swallow. I feel a lot of sadness and inadequacy and resentment about this. I think about what could have been had I been given the chance to understand more about how he felt, not just about us, but about everything. But I suppose these are the things that remain once you strip away the perceptions you had of what was. When it's all over, you just try to not lose yourself and you send some love and you wait for tomorrow because you know it will get easier. I am grateful for the time I have spent and continue to spend with him.

On that note, Kelly and Jack are here and there is really nothing that could make me happier at the moment. I am having coffee with Albert in a few hours and we are going to talk about life. It is Annie's birthday on Monday, and birthdays are always rad. Mel is coming this week and he is going to take me out for dinner on Thursday; the thought of having a meal with him makes me giddy with anticipation. After all of this, I am going to once again remind myself that I should be studying instead of making plans with people. I cut my bangs in a desperate attempt at staving off the boredom I have with growing my hair out. I was really worried that it would look silly and that people would make fun of me, but I like the way it looks and that sort of makes me not care. Kathy says I look like a pinup girl and that she wants to photograph me in a vintage dress. Shocker said that I looked so cute that I was giving him heart palpitations. These things made me feel nice and not insecure about something stupid and superficial like a haircut. I love my friends.

“Each of us has the right and the responsibility to assess the roads which lie ahead, and those over which we have traveled, and if the future road looms ominous or unpromising, and the roads back uninviting, then we need to gather our resolve and, carrying only the necessary baggage, step off that road into another direction. If the new choice is also unpalatable, without embarrassment, we must be ready to change that as well.” -Maya Angelou

I have watched this at least five million times.

2012-01-15T02:35:00.001-07:00

2012-01-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

“Memory is the only thing that binds you to earlier selves; for the rest, you become an entirely different being every decade or so, sloughing off the old persona, renewing and moving on. You are not who you were, he told her, nor who you will be.”

-Sebastian Faulks, Charlotte Gray

Word.

2012-01-11T19:00:00.002-07:00

Here. Connected down to my toes.

2012-01-10T08:44:00.003-07:00

One month.

2012-01-09T13:22:00.014-07:00

I remembered realizing that the only thing more unthinkable than leaving was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving.

"Groceries," Richard said, "Listen to me. People think a soulmate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soulmate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soulmates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soulmate's purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, introduce you to your spiritual master and then beat it. That was his job and he did great, but now it's over.

So love him. So miss him. Send him some love and light everytime you think about him and then drop it. But here's what you gotta understand, Groceries: If you clear out all that space in your mind that you're using right now to obsess about this guy, you'll have a vacuum there, an open spot--a doorway. And guess what the universe will do with that doorway? It will rush in and fill you with more love than you ever dreamed. Stop using David to block that door. Let it go."

-Elizabeth Gilbert

2012-01-08T16:54:00.006-07:00

Mike Mitchell took this photograph with his iPhone through a telescope. How amazing is this? Seriously.

I am tired today. I went to the Thin Man for a coworker's birthday last night. We all had a smashing good time and then I stayed up very late yakking at Kona's house. I am grateful for the simplicity of my friendship with him. We are fundamentally different on so many levels, and we don't hang out a whole lot anymore, yet I know if I ever want to stay up and drink tea with someone until five in the morning on a bitter cold Saturday night that he's probably game and he will make me laugh. Sometimes that's all that really matters.

2012-01-08T15:41:00.004-07:00

"Nothing makes me feel better — calmer, clearer and happier — than being in one place, absorbed in a book, a conversation, a piece of music. It’s actually something deeper than mere happiness: it’s joy, which the monk David Steindl-Rast describes as 'that kind of happiness that doesn’t depend on what happens.' It’s vital, of course, to stay in touch with the world, and to know what’s going on; I took pains this past year to make separate trips to Jerusalem and Hyderabad and Oman and St. Petersburg, to rural Arkansas and Thailand and the stricken nuclear plant in Fukushima and Dubai. But it’s only by having some distance from the world that you can see it whole, and understand what you should be doing with it."

-Pico Iyer

Your seat cushion can be used as a floatation device.

2012-01-07T13:25:00.009-07:00

This cat fell in a bean bag. Just look at his face. Animals are awesome.

So I went to bed last night and fell asleep like normal people do and I slept all the way through the night and woke up at nine o'clock this morning. Words can not describe the euphoria I felt upon realizing when I woke up that the sun was already in the sky--that it wasn't the middle of the night, that I wouldn't spend the next two hours trying to fall back asleep. MY BODY STILL REMEMBERS HOW TO SLEEP, PEOPLE. Corndogs for everyone!

I went to yoga this morning and then Annie came over and brought me big, juicy oranges her mom had sent her from Florida. She also gave me a pnuemonic device for remembering the ingredients of Xiao Yao San and now I feel smart. The sky is gray and it is starting to snow. I am studying for pharmacology and drinking ginger tea. Today is pretty much totally rocking my universe.

2012-01-06T10:45:00.015-07:00

There is a certain period of time on Phish tour when using hotel room appliances to warm your pizza will gain you some serious street cred. Definitely after your really hardcore days of selling patchwork skirts and hand blown pipes and sleeping in tents or someone's Volkswagen because you couldn't afford a hotel room, and also because hotels disconnected you from the vibe, man. But this was also before the days when you were making enough money at your grown-up job to go out for a serious meal after the show.

Yes, this type of shenanigan probably would go down somewhere in the middle of those life periods. You arrived on tour after buying tickets on StubHub last minute because you were sick of getting text messages from all of your friends who were already there, and you flew somewhere ridiculous to see the concert after putting everything on your credit card and calling in sick to work. These were the post-Phish show antics where, while using an iron to heat your grub, you reminisced about how you survived on grilled cheese and psilocybin mushrooms for weeks on tour when you were "younger", and then told yourself that these experiences were so integral to who you had become that you and your tour buddies would one day take your kids to shows together and that you would all see Phish until you died. Then you returned to reality, where you basked in the glow of being the stoner that figured out how to heat food with a hair dryer and you guzzled whiskey until the sun came up, only after which you probably missed your flight home.

No better way than grad school and monetary savings goals (and also realizing there are cooler places to vacation than some amphitheater in Kansas) to ruin your hopes and dreams.

Hot chamomile and why I quit Facebook.

2012-01-04T00:26:00.024-07:00

I am sitting on my couch with a mug of oversteeped Sleepy Time tea and praying to God and Buddha and Allah that I will be able to sleep tonight. I haven't slept a full night since New Year's Eve and it's destroying my already tipsy mental state. I had a treatment today during clinic, a Japanese protocol that involves burning rice grain moxa on the heel until the sensation travels up the leg and eventually into the brain. It was pretty damn amazing. If it works I will never talk shit about my clinic director again. Ever.

Contrary to what I had hoped to feel like 5 days shy of a month after breaking off my relationship with the dude I thought I'd be with forever, I am not doing very well. I am in one of the worst depressions I've had since my early twenties, but without the prescription antidepressants I had during that time. I'm fine with that, as I like to think that the perspective I have now is a fair trade off. But the physical manifestations and the melancholy are taking a heavy toll on my daily life. I really wanted to start this year with a clear mind and a positive outlook and I already feel as though I've failed at both. Which is way I've resorted to drastic measures:

I quit Facebook.

I wish I could say that I did it for privacy reasons. That I quit because I was sick of my information being out there for all of my friends of friends to see, that I was alarmed of the idea that Big Brother was watching me, that I was disgusted by the seemingly nonchalant ways that Facebook continues to "conveniently" use my information to sync me with other websites like Pandora so that my life will be easier, when really it just sort of creeps me out. Did you know that you can't actually quit Facebook, that you can only deactivate your profile? It's still there when you're ready to come back. In fact, it will be there until the end of time because FACEBOOK OWNS YOUR PROFILE. And yet, none of those reasons are why I quit. I mean, I type out all of my brain on this blog for the whole world to read, do I really appear to give a shit about privacy?

I wish I could say that I quit because I checked my profile countless times a day, whether passing by my computer at home or compulsively reloading the Facebook app on my phone whenever there was a dull moment. I wish I could say that I quit because I was sick of wasting countless minutes--hours probably--waiting for that funny status update or informative link that made putting up with all of the other mundane, narcissistic posts worth my time. But alas, not even the daily waste of what little freedom I have was enough to make me leave my online community.

No, no. The reason why I quit Facebook was because I was checking Ty's profile every time I felt a twinge of sadness. Which was basically every moment of the day. At first it was because I just wanted to "see" him. It was a secret way of being able to look at him, to see things that he was saying, to retain some glimpse of his personality that didn't involve rereading text messages or cards or anything else that made me want to slit my wrists. The final straw was on New Year's day--a day for new beginnings and fresh starts and happy thoughts--when I sat down after a long walk with a good friend and, like a Colfax crackhead looking for a fix, typed his name into the Facebook search box. After reading some vague status update posted at a very early morning hour about how fucking happy he already was about the new year, and then seeing that an old fling had "liked" the update which was followed by a wall post from this drop dead gorgeous ballerina he goes to school with who misses him so much, I might have sort of lost it. I completely convinced myself that at that very moment, he was lying in bed with every woman he's ever even thought about--relaxing after a night of naked, drunken carousing in his parents' hot tub--and that while these said women were sleeping soundly in the crux of his arm that smells like Speed Stick, he was texting Ballerina Chick and telling her how excited he was to fly back to Denver to see her so they could finally consummate their relationship and he could introduce her to all of his Colorado friends now that his emotionally deranged, slightly chubby, wigged out bitch of an ex-girlfriend had set him free of any conjugal commitments.

And then, what little dignity I have left spoke to me: "Put the knife down, Lorena. You are two decibels and six inches of hair extensions away from being Isla Fisher in Wedding Crashers and everyone knows that shit is not cool. Fucking get it together. NOW."

Without hesitation, without dwelling on how much I would miss my favorite updaters or whether or not people would worry that I defriended them, I clicked on "Account Settings" and chose the "Deactivate" option. And you wanna know what happened next?

Really Facebook?! REALLY!!?!?!

Mark Zuckerberg can go straight to hell.

As the Fruition boys say at the close of service, I shut 'er down. Turns out, I don't miss Facebook as much as I thought I would. Sure, my pointer finger is still in the habit of pushing "f" when I begin my daily scroll through my favorite websites, but that's to be expected when it's done that 403 times a day for the last five years. I miss the quirky updates from people I followed and I miss being able to post Onion headlines and early 90s pop videos on my friends' walls. But I don't miss the people I went to high school with and their boring posts about what their kids ate for breakfast. I don't miss the horrific grammar. I don't miss reading about what people who aren't in grad school and working full time are doing in the mountains. And I sure as shit don't miss feeling like a jealous, co-dependent, psychotic former girlfriend on the brink of institutionalization.

I vowed to stay off for thirty days and I think this will be totally achievable. Without Facebook, I am reading more, I am writing people actual emails, and I am reconnecting with myself. I'm in the process of applying for an internship in Nepal after graduation, and it has given me something healthy to look forward to. Now if only I could sleep.

2012-01-01T15:31:00.007-07:00

Onward.

2011-12-31T10:42:00.007-07:00

I have absolutely no qualms about saying goodbye to 2011. This year kicked my ass in a big way, and I feel like I spent most of it trying to embrace the ways that my life was changing so quickly. I feel like I did a pretty decent job. I grew a lot. But I am excited for 2012, if for nothing else because I know that at this very moment next year, I will no longer be a student and I will be doing some really rad stuff.

Here is what my brain can recall about 2011...

Happiest moments: Watching Margaret give birth in April, and being there as William came into this world. Spending four days at the Felton's cabin with Ty in July. Kayaking around Big Bear Lake with Kelly in August.
Worst Moments: Holding Bailey after she died. Breaking up with Ty. Twice.
Best outdoor experience: Anytime I went mountain biking.
Best meal I ate: Fresh lobster tail with herbs and homemade aioli at Mel and Janie's in August.
Best Books: The Girl Who Played with Fire. The Help. Rules of Civility.
Best Purchase: The tattoo I have of Bailey. It makes me feel like she's with me. The Patagonia ski jacket I bought myself. It is the Bentley of ski jackets and it's amazing.
Funniest moments: Sitting too close to the firework stand in Brian Head, Utah. Every time that Annie has ever come over to hang out in my living room.
Number of tests I passed in school: 14.
Number of tests I failed: 1.
Most grateful moments: Ty moving here. My friends kicking it in Breckenridge with me for my 30th birthday. Being able to celebrate my mom's birthday with her instead of without her.
Angriest moment: Two words: Jerry Sandusky.
Biggest accomplishment: Learning how to mountain bike with clip in pedals.
Best drink: Cardamom gin fizz at Root Down. Sandy Stark's cranberry margaritas.
Number of times I dropped the f-bomb this year: 34,937.
Number of times I went telemark skiing after buying all of the equipment: 1.
Number of times I bailed on adult commitments because I was too hungover from drinking with the kitchen boys: 7.
Pairs of shoes I bought in 2011: 5.
Amount of money I spent on shoes in 2011: $1100. Eesh.
People I didn't spend enough time with this year: Everyone I know.
Most favorite album of 2011: Bon Iver's Bon Iver.
Album I listened to the most: I had Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix in my car stereo for 4 months.
Cans of Coconut Juice consumed: 97.
Number of shifts I worked at Fruition: 132.
Number of times I ate at Chipotle: 46.
Times I thought about cleaning my bathroom versus times I actually did: 76 to 9. Don't judge me.
Favorite obsession of 2011: Amazonian shamanism.
Things I am most looking forward to in 2012: Passing my board exams. Graduating. Leaving the country. Having free time.

The wind is blowing fiercely today and I kind of like to think that Mother Nature is cleaning off the mantle of the last twelve months. In with the new, people.

"May today there be peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us." - St. Thérèse de Lisieux

Sweet nothing.

2011-12-24T23:23:00.009-07:00

I am in Minnesota at my parents' house celebrating Christmas. Jackson picked me up very early this morning and we got drive-thru coffee on our way to the airport. The airport was packed but everything ran like clockwork, and I sat next to a very friendly girl and her boyfriend on the plane. Their conversation, which lasted the entire plane ride, felt more like watching a performance than eavesdropping. They seemed very happy and supportive of one another, and also blissfully naive. It was beautiful and annoying and sad all at the same time.

My rental car does not start with a key, but with a button that sits in place of where the key normally goes. You just push the button and the car starts. I am way more excited about this than I should be.

Everything here is exactly as it's always been. My parents are simple and wonderful. My brother and Heather are hilarious and I love spending time with them. My sister is overly dramatic about everything, although I've found that if I don't say much to her, it is pretty easy to avoid her bitchy, bipolar pedestal of self-righteousness that usually involves her screaming maniacally at me while my parents try desperately to calm her down by suggesting that I leave the room/house. My parents' cat, Zoe, is this big, fat, soft, calico ball of fur, and she hates being held, but it's nice to be in a home with an animal. I found Zoe the summer after my freshman year of college. Tessa and I were smoking pot and drinking PBR at a campground party when this itty bitty emaciated kitten wandered past us. Tessa kept her in her top dresser drawer for two days before her mom heard her meowing, so I brought her to our house because I knew my mom wouldn't be able to say no. I was right. I wonder if Zoe remembers all of that.

Everyone is in bed and I am doing a damn fine job of entertaining myself. I am slightly drunk, and I just poured some Chivas into my egg nog while only half acknowledging that that is a pretty redneck thing to do. When in Rome, I guess. I am listening to Velvet Underground on my iPod and lip synching in the kitchen. I am having fun, but there is a small part of me that knows that shit like this will feel downright pathetic sometime in the near future. I have decided to ignore this voice for tonight.

I miss Kelly on Christmas more than any other time of the year. I make an effort to prepare an egg bake and watch Mixed Nuts every year, and we talk on the phone. But it's never the same as actually being in San Diego. Every year we promise each other that next year we will be together, but life always happens. And yet again, I say: next year. Next year, for sure.

Happy Christmas, everyone. We are so blessed to have the lives and the love that we have, regardless of our daily trials and tribulations. I hope each and every one of you is warm and full and grateful.

2011-12-18T11:32:00.000-07:00

I would like put in my notice.

2011-12-17T13:22:00.006-07:00

Bear Grylls and Jake Gyllenhall. In winter jackets doing outdoorsy man things somewhere. Like right now they are probably watching a grizzly bear fight, and next they are going to poach some salmon with hunting spears that they made themselves. This photograph is pretty much my equivalent to pornography.

I have the next three days off. The girls I started school with are graduating this weekend and Annie is having a party today. I am going by myself. I am not super comfortable with the idea of going to a party alone today. Then again, I don't really feel comfortable in general. I am trying desperately to find my groove but I'm pretty sure it's buried in my closet with red heel that I've spent the last twenty minutes looking for.

Capote and rubber boxes.

2011-12-15T10:17:00.009-07:00

In breakups, mornings blow the hardest. Especially when you don't actually have to get out of bed for a job or a baby or a repairman. I've been doing this thing where I just try to get through an hour. It's like getting things done before an appointment or class, only I don't have either of those. And when that hour is done, usually I feel better and I'm not squirming in my own skin, or I just do it all over again. Make it through another hour. And eventually, I feel pretty good.

This morning I reorganized my storage area in the basement. I was moving some boxes when I found a book that someone gave me when Dustin and I broke up (speaking of: I ate at Bittersweet last night, and the last time I ran into him he told me he was working there. My friend Tim also works there, and last night as we were hugging goodbye I asked if Dustin was there. "Nope," Timmy replied with a shiteating grin, "He ran his big mouth again and got fired." Some people never change, and that's the truth.) Anyways, it's this book written by that son of a bitch that wrote He's Just Not That Into You, only this one is a breakup book: It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken. It's cheesy as hell, but it made me laugh. And I'll do anything for a laugh these days.

Highlights:

"Starting right here, right now, it's time to dry your tears, log out of his email, put down the potato chips and start turning this breakup into a breakover."
This book promises to help me keep my friends and not lose my job and it comes "complete with an essential workbook to help you put the crazy on paper and not take it into the world". It also claims it will transform me into a hot, happening Superfox. (This sounds exhausting.)
There is a chapter about getting over someone titled He's Not Hiding In The Bottom Of That Pint Of Ice Cream.
"Welcome to Sadville, population Drunky The Clown." (Yep. Pretty much.)

And my all time favorite, a testimonial from Karen in Cleveland:

For awhile he would take my calls and I would cry and scream and plead and beg, but after a couple of months he stopped taking them. It would always go to voice and he would never call me back, probably because I said some pretty shitty things in those messages. I tried emailing him, but it was the same thing--he wouldn't respond, even when I put "I'm having your baby" in the subject line. I stalked him on his computer by IMing him until he changed all of his screen names so that he no longer showed up on my buddy list. I had run out of ideas when I remembered the he and I both had phone cams and could email each other pictures, so I sent him a picture of me naked. Now it's on the internet. Next time, I'd think about not contacting him.

DAMN, GIRLFRIEND.

Ty called last night and we had a really healthy conversation and it was awesome and it made my heart feel good. I totally became aware of my head when I realized that I was about to suggest things he could do to make himself feel better, what I thought he should do to grow from this. Instead, I said nothing, I just listened and tried to be there. And it was really hard because I want so badly for him to be happy, but he can only make those choices for himself and I was really proud that I didn't try to control the situation like I have before.

One more hour.

Too many nights of being with to suddenly be without.

2011-12-14T07:00:00.008-07:00

I broke up with Ty.

My heart literally hurts. I feel like I'm going to puke pretty much every second of the day. It sucks and it sucks bad. I feel like a large part of me has died and that there's this appendage that is just kind of fumbling around and falling off in little bits. But I've been around long enough to recognize this as grief. Loss. Sadness so severe that sometimes it's hard to see through it.

Breaking up with someone who is a total prick is easy. Breaking up with someone you fight with incessantly is easy. But Ty is not an asshole. And we never once had a real argument about anything. He is the sweetest, funniest, most genuine person. One of the best I have ever known. Ty has been there for EVERYTHING in my life for the last two years, the good and the bad. He's who I hung out with when I was bored (even for movie nights when he wasn't living here), he's who I ate dinner with, he's who I went for walks with. He was the first person I talked to in the morning and the last person I talked to at night before going to bed. He was my best friend and my partner in crime.

So why, you ask, did I just decide to selfishly blow it all apart? Because deep down inside of me I've had this nagging feeling that I needed more from someone I could potentially spend the rest of my life with. I tried to justify this in a million ways. I thought if we worked on our separate issues we could be whole. I thought if I asked him to be more romantic it would feel better. I thought if I just paid attention to my married friends long enough that I would realize that I wasn't bored, that I was just really safe. But no matter how many talks we had, no matter how many days I spent really truly feeling like things were better, I always wound up back in the same place. With the same feeling. And the list of options that didn't involve breaking up had come to a very staggering end.

Upon realizing that we were on very, very bad ground, I called him to come over in hopes that really hashing it out would make me see that I was completely crazy and that it would be a fucking travesty to just throw in the towel. When the conversation was over, I felt hopeful. But then I realized that what I was feeling was not hope. It was a relinquished adrenaline rush directing me to make a list of things to change about myself. I was thinking about all of the things I could do to help Ty with the dark realizations he was having about himself. I thought about the things that were important to me that I could sacrifice a little bit longer, because if I could just salvage our relationship, going without those things would be worth it in the long run.

And then, as they say in therapy, I recognized my patterns: I was ignoring my gut because I don't trust myself. Again. I was trying to save someone that didn't necessarily want to be helped. Again. I was sacrificing the things I want, that I (Jesus, this is hard to say) deserve, to make someone else feel good. Again. And I probably wasn't even doing that great of a job of it. Again.

The last time I ended a relationship, I knew undoubtedly that it was over long before I had the balls to break it off. It was a dick move in hindsight, and I will never do that to myself or someone else again. With Ty, I clung to the notion of what our relationship could be for a very long time. But when you break up with someone you love and then get back together with them, when they move their entire life for you, when you see them more than any one else in your personal life and it still makes you feel weird six months later, IT IS NOT GOING TO WORK OUT.

FUCK. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

We made breakfast plans, and I grasped onto my last thread of desperation. I went to his house and we listened to Christmas music while he made eggs and bacon. I asked him what his three favorite Christmas songs were, and he asked me mine. I remarked to myself in my head how adorable he was in his t-shirt and messy hair, how I love the way he smiles when he's giggling mischievously about something. We finished breakfast and caught up on Dexter. We were laying there in his bed all snuggled up and I was reveling in how great he smells when a voice popped into my head:

This happiness is temporary and you know it. Stop putting this off. It is not fair to either of you and you are being an asshole. You need to figure out what you are going to do about this RIGHT NOW.

And so we broke up. And it sucked. And while I felt unusually calm while it was happening, I left his apartment and promptly lost my mind. And then I got my graces back together because I had to go to work. I had to study. I had to wait until Wednesday to be sad because there was just too much bullshit to get through before I could truly honor this process in the way I felt I needed to.

But life happened, and on Sunday, I had the biggest panic attack I have ever had in my thirty years of freaking out. It lasted almost two hours before I called Kathy and told her I literally felt like I was going to die and that, not only did I need her find someone to cover the shift that I was about to be late for, but that I might need her to take me to the hospital. She was at my door in minutes, shoving sedatives down my throat and patiently waiting while I hyperventilated and bawled and rambled incoherently. LOW POINT.

I miss him. I hope desperately that we can have a friendship at some point, but he said that it would be hard and I need to respect that. Everything feels so weird and so foreign. I keep thinking of random shit to tell him and I reach for my phone before realizing that I can't really call him. I am officially on Christmas Break, two weeks of solace that I had planned to kick off with Ty, in the mountains, learning how to telemark ski. I won't get to have that experience. We won't ever sleep in together again. We won't travel together again. I can't cook him dinner or ask what's new with his parents. I won't get to see all the cool art he makes in school, I won't get to be there when he graduates. Instead of being a few blocks away from each other--a luxury I wanted for a long time that finally became a reality--it feels as though there is a lifetime of distance between us.

It's difficult socially, as well. We have a lot of mutual friends. Margaret has always said to me that if we didn't work out, her and Ethan would love us both the same. And I truly believe that. But when you need one of your best friends to be there and she can't be because she also needs to be there for the person you just broke up with, it kind of stings even though it's nobody's fault. And then there's Facebook, reminding me every time I check in that I am in a relationship with Ty and his funny mustache. There are pictures of us all over the place. I wish desperately that I could call him and be like "Dude, let's have a funeral for us and get drunk and change our Facebook statuses and watch people get awkward." But in reality, one of us will probably do it before the other--and the other will inevitably wake up one morning to Facebook's painful declaration that it's officially over. There will be obligatory condolences, my aunt will talk about how much she liked him, and people I hardly ever speak to will scour my wall trying to elusively figure out "what happened". (I hate the narcissism that the cyber world has created, and I should seriously just cancel my fucking Facebook and stop it with all of the self-centered whiny crap.)

So that's what's going on. I know that time is what heals and all that stuff. I have really amazing girlfriends. When I break it down, I am so very thankful to have had this beautiful experience, to have had this incredible person in my life the way I did. At the end of the day, if I can be grateful for him and for our relationship, and if I can honestly say that I followed my heart even though it was insanely hard, I know that I'll survive whatever this process throws my way.

I will be okay.

2011-12-07T19:58:00.006-07:00

2011-12-03T13:59:00.001-07:00

“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it's true I'm here, and I'm just as strange as you.”

- Frida Kahlo

Update.

2011-11-27T12:16:00.005-07:00

1. If you don't believe in the miracle of life, you should peel a pomegranate.

2. The pie had weed in it. It all makes sense now.

Random acts of pie.

2011-11-26T23:43:00.010-07:00

So I spent Thanksgiving in Utah with Ty's family, which was lovely because I hadn't seen them since last Thanksgiving. We had a wonderful time eating and drinking and eating and drinking, and we got to see a lot of friends that I hadn't seen in a long time. It was rad. Except for two things. First of all, Ty's family does not subscribe to the cook-never-cleans mindset. Which means that on Thursday, his mother spent seven hours in the kitchen cooking dinner for ten people and then another two hours afterwards doing everyone's dishes. I had offered to help but she insisted that I had done enough by helping her make dinner. Ty and I sat in the hot tub and when I came upstairs afterwards, her back was sore from standing. This scene repeats itself every time I go to their house and it makes me feel horrible. AWFUL. And apparently I'm the only person who thinks this is a crude injustice.

And second, there was no pumpkin pie.

I flew home this morning and went back to work tonight. The night was sluggish, guests were tired from traveling and entertaining company and my coworkers were lamenting the absence of a weekend the rest of the world was enjoying. One of my first tables was a chatty couple who had never been in before, and we quickly hit it off. They loved their meal, but they declined desert when I placed their menus down and explained that they were going home to enjoy some pumpkin pie.

I told them I was jealous, that I had sorely missed pumpkin pie during my Thanksgiving meal. "Honey," the wife said to her husband while taking his hand, "Why don't we bring her back a piece?"

Embarrassed, I told them that was unnecessary, then hurried away to close their check. When I returned, they explained to me that they lived nearby and that I was welcome to come over after work for some pie. When I told them that I wouldn't be out of work until way past their bedtime, they assured me that they would leave it on the front porch.

Lo and behold, when I crept up the stairs to their massive Cheesman Park mansion after I finished my shift, there was a plate wrapped in tin foil sitting under the porch light. Inside I found half a pie, as well as a plastic pouch which contained the ingredients needed to roll a joint. I'm eating a piece as I type this, straight off the plate without whipped cream, and it just may be the best damned piece of pie I have ever had.

My boss gave me a book two months ago and I've been saving it for a stretch of time where I could pour myself into its story. I brought it to Utah and put it down only to eat and socialize during the Utes game. It's called Rules of Civility and it's about a young woman finding her place in the world in late 1930s Manhattan. It was absolutely breathtaking and I think you all should read it immediately. All I wanted to do the entire time I was buried in it was smoke long cigarettes and wear pretty dresses and drink too much cold gin and watch my language. The sentences were stunning--some of the most sensual writing I have encountered in years. It was beautiful.

An appletini a day...

2011-11-14T21:40:00.004-07:00

I went back to Illinois to visit my mom's side of the family and my grandma last weekend. It was fantastic. My grandma has lived in her house since 1956, and everything inside is an artifact. It's a museum of awesome. The upstairs bookshelf has a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and the author is listed as Samuel Clemens instead of Mark Twain. It's that old. My aunt's stationary from college is still in the desk drawer in her bedroom and there is wallpaper in every room. Her curling irons are those black and white striped things from the early 80s that look like The Roundbrush from Hell--but they sure can feather your bangs!

So anyways, somewhere between the airports and unsuccessfully sleeping on an air mattress and not seeing a vegetable for three days, I caught the flu. I've pretty much kicked its ass, and I think it'll be gone by tomorrow, but I've made sure to use this sick day for all it's worth. I ate pho with Ty and then came home and put on the crappiest pajamas I own, took off my bra, and proceeded to watch four episodes of My So-Called Life, followed by two episodes of Boardwalk Empire, and then the new episodes of Beavis and Butthead--which, might I add, is the funniest fucking shit I have seen in a long time.

And in the last hour I've read these articles on my laptop while texting Marge about absolutely nothing:
1. Jay-Z: GQ Man of the Year 2011
2. I've Become an Amazing Mom in the Six Hours I've Been Sober
3. The Four Things That Happen Right Before A Stroke
4. Kate Bolick on Refusing to Settle
5. 16 First and Middle Names of Babies on 16 and Pregnant, in Order of How Much I Spit Out My Drink When They Were Revealed
6. Michael Buble Calls Kim Kardashian A 'Bitch'

Oh, Internet. I love you.

2011-11-14T20:57:00.001-07:00

"I work on a lot of magazine pieces. I write a lot for Vogue. I'm probably doing something for some piece for them every day. Right now, I'm doing a story for New York that's taking me a long time. I think I wrote 1,000 bad words today for them that will probably have to be re-written. I have this other idea for this other thing that's probably not going to work out. This morning, early, I wrote 1,200 words for that. On Sunday, I was planning to write a lot, but I did not write anything. I think I made notes about what I was going to write, but today I can't find them. If I have a big story due and it's that week, then that might be a 5,000-word piece. But, simultaneously, in my "free-hyphen-lance" life, I have to be working on a book at the same time otherwise I die. There's the Woody Allen line about how a relationship is like a shark and it has to keep moving. Someone recently told me that when sharks mature, they don't have to keep moving. So, I don't know. Do I have to not move anymore? I don't know. Everything is a big question mark for me."

--Robert Sullivan

2011-11-02T11:40:00.010-06:00

This is absolutely wonderful.

Ode.

2011-10-26T14:41:00.007-06:00

Ten years ago today, I packed everything I owned into my '91 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cierra and moved to Colorado. I had hair extensions. I also accidentally buried my cds under a bunch of stuff on my passenger seat and I was forced to listen to Tom Petty's Wildflowers album the entire way here. The hair extensions were pretty bewildering, but I think my forced musical selection held a bit of meaning.

I was barely twenty years old, and I was filled to the brim with wanderlust. I had spent the summer in Maine and had traveled all over the East Coast. I returned to Minnesota only to be greeted with a gnawing sense of boredom, and six weeks later I headed west. When I set out on my adventure, I figured I'd hang out in the Rockies for a year or two and continue on to California. Little did I know, I was about to fall madly in love.

In ten years, I have lived many lives in this wonderful city. These different lives have seen me through eleven different living arrangements, two degrees, ten jobs, five relationships and a handful of flings, some of the greatest friends I will ever meet and not so great people who have taught me valuable lessons, three trips abroad, and countless concerts, camping trips, and mountain adventures. I have had heart-breaking low points that felt like they would never end, and I have had moments of extreme happiness that made the hard times completely worth it. In these ten years I have learned more about myself and the world than I could have ever imagined.

I love Denver and this state more than I thought I would ever love anywhere. I still get excited when I drive by the Genesee exit on I-70 and suddenly see the peaks in all their glory. I love the quirkiness of the city's neighborhoods and how each one has it's own dynamic, it's own demographic. I love Colfax and it's humanity. I love the restaurants here and the passion behind the people who run them. I love the sunshine--a beautiful reminder of why winter can be good, a radiant symbol of rebirth in the spring when the flowers in Washington Park start to bloom, for the intense heat it provides in the summer months when one could ride bikes around town forever and sleeping naked feels really good, and for the autumn, when the aspens peak and every stretch of highway throughout the entire state is speckled in masses of vibrant gold. I love the Denver courthouse during the holidays, all lit up and glowing. I love seeing concerts at Red Rocks when the moon is full and the party is raging. I love the way this city embraces alternative lifestyles, even if that means giggling at the cliché names of weed shops whenever I turn a corner. I love that this city is made up of a melting pot of people who all left wherever they grew up and came here in search of a happier and more fulfilling life. I love that even after ten years, I feel as though I have so much to see, but yet I run into people I know almost everywhere I go. I love getting in my car and only having to drive a half hour to ride my bike down a mountain. I love Pallisade peaches and Olathe sweet corn.

Above all, I love the family I was able to pick here. I gave up the idea of home being defined as a house a long time ago--here, in lovely Colorado, I have found home in the people I love and cherish, and in the way I feel about myself when I am thriving. I love that Colorado has shown me that in the end, the love you take really is equal to the love you make--that marriage is strong enough to last for many more decades.

Aaaaaand exhale.

2011-10-25T10:41:00.012-06:00

The restaurant I worked at in my early twenties was owned by an eccentric British couple named Mel and Janie. I have spoken about them before--Mel was the one who forwarded my story about meeting Daniel Boulud to the entire East Coast and thus earned me my fifteen minutes of fame in 2009. They are incredible people and they've lived an extraordinary life that has taken them all over the world. They are food and wine afficionados; Mel is a negotiant and makes his own juice and Janie is hands-down one of the best chefs I have ever encountered. They speak fluent French and are still madly in love with each other after forty years. They left Denver in 2008 and I have been trying to visit them in New Hampshire ever since. It finally happened in late August.

After an excessively long day of traveling, followed by an hour of driving through the lush, emerald, forested hills of coastal New Hampshire, I found myself sipping rosé and laughing hysterically while anxiously awaiting a plate of Janie's roasted chicken. We told stories and caught up on each other's families as we nibbled on chicken so savory and tender that the juices permeated the garden greens that sat on the plate awaiting their turn. I soaked fresh pieces of bread in the salty broth as I listen to them talk about how simplifying their life together has made them happier than ever. And when the meal was over and we finished our desert of fresh fruit, Janie sent me to my hotel with a bowl of cherries and a half-drunk bottle of viognier. I watched Jurassic Park on the local cable in my little room at the Dunes Motor Inn, and fell asleep to the waves crashing against the beach across the street.

Janie picked my up the following morning waving cheerfully, dressed in a floral-printed sundress and orange sneakers. I smiled to myself at how adorable she was, and at how wonderful it felt to know that I would be spending an entire day with her. We hopped into her red cloth-top Cabriolet and drove along the coast before winding inland. We stopped at an old house that had been converted into a bakery run by local women who marinated in confidence, bandanas, tattoos, and flour. It made me swoon. Janie bought me an Americano and a massive oatmeal cookie that was perfectly moist and filled with chunks of dried berries. It was divine and half of it was enough to satisfy me as if I'd eaten a large breakfast. We watched puppies play with their owners and then we walked across the street to buy fresh pasta and Nicoise olives. And then we crossed the bridge into Maine.

Once in Maine, Janie steered her little red convertible down a steep hill towards a dingy steel structure on the harbor. The smell of fish and salt water hit me like a train as we entered the building, and the gritty fishermen softened with Janie's whimsical flirtations. I curiously analyzed them behind my sunglasses, feeling shy and amused. One of them hiked up his waders and pulled a crate out of the water while Janie described exactly what she was looking for. He grasped three large lobsters by their bodies and threw them onto a scale. Janie handed over some cash and made sure that they were all having a good day at work, and then we climbed back into the car with a paper bag full of the squirming crustaceans.

Back at the house, Mel poured spritzers while Janie lovingly explained to the lobsters that it was "time to go to sleep now" before placing them in a pot of boiling water. Mel and I retreated to the backyard where we read the New York Times and took turns swimming in the pool. We bitched about politics and healthcare. We nibbled on olives and I tried to explain past life regressions to him while he looked at me like I was insane, but then asked me a bunch of questions before telling me that I "must tell Janie about all of this". I laughed as I felt my body completely relax, and then Janie beckoned us to the back porch for lunch.

I have been fortunate enough to have eaten some incredible meals in my lifetime. Three or four of them have happened at Fruition on my night off. There was the first time I ate at Chez Panisse, a meal that made me so happy I thought my head would explode. My mother's chicken and dumplings make everything in the world right. There's the Daniel story, a recollection that still gives me heart palpitations. To this day, I can taste the veal scallopini I ate during a four course meal all by myself in the living room of a house belonging to an old woman in Florence, Italy. And now there is the memory of Janie's lobster lunch.

The tail--white and crimson, plump, perfectly peeled, and redolent of the Atlantic--sat in the center of my meal. Fresh sliced mangoes sprinkled in tarragon capped one end of my plate, while an herb salad straight from the front yard occupied the other. The grassy aroma of olive oil wafted into my nostrils as Mel handed me a small dish of homemade aioli. I ate as slowly as I could in a desperate attempt to enjoy every morsel as long as humanly possible. Mel made me tell Janie about ayahuasca and why I want to go to Peru. Afterwards, Janie looked straight at me and told me that she thought it was very important for people to expand their horizons as much as possible and that she thought what I wanted to do was very noble. Mel agreed and then said, "But the Amazon?! Really?!" in a very concerned tone. And then we all decided to take a nap.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Irene was about to hammer the North Carolina coast and the national media was in a frenzy about the storm destroying everything in its sight all the way through New York City and upper New England. Everyone on the news was completely losing their shit about how we were all going to get swept away. I found out that evening that my flight home had been cancelled two days in advance. Mel frantically tried to find me another flight while I contemplated driving to Cleveland to catch a plane that hadn't been cancelled. Janie had just arrived home from Zach The Fisherman's house, and was stuffing a bluefish full of rosemary. We nibbled on sharp cheddar cheese and poured Kirs while Mel charmed the pants off of everyone at United Airlines. Janie gave Mel a cigar and then told me that Mel's true calling in life was to be a travel agent, and then she pulled me outside and threw the bluefish on the grill. We sipped our wine and smoked skinny cigarettes in plastic lawn chairs while our dinner cooked. Mel found me a flight, and then we took turns passing the phone around and thanking Chris The United Employee for his outstanding service while we sat down to a dinner of bluefish and perfectly roasted fingerling potatoes.

By Saturday the hurricane had hit North Carolina but had decreased in strength. We had lobster salad and roasted beets for lunch, and while Mel and Janie napped, I listened to music in the poolhouse and went for a hike through the wooded area behind their property. There wasn't a trail, but Janie had tied yellow ropes around the trees that led to a small pond near the ocean. It was a dense forest of moss and trees, and oodles of tiny frogs peered at me from the small stream that passed through the woods. I felt like I was five again. I returned to the house, where (based upon a conversation that morning during which I realized he had fantastically hip music taste) I made Mel a mix CD. We walked down the street to a neighbor's pre-hurricane cocktail hour, and returned for a dinner of egg noodles and homemade pesto.

Later on, after two hours of watching national weather reports--during which Janie and I laughed hysterically at the "chaps in the rain" on every major channel desperately trying to give updates into water-logged microphones--and after Mel chastised us for being too loud, I hopped into the Cabriolet to head back to my hotel. It had started raining, and I found myself excited at the notion that I was twenty-four hours away from potentially experiencing my first hurricane.

As I turned the corner into the parking lot of my little hotel, I realized that the entire place was nearly deserted. Not like Everyone-Is-Hunkered-Down deserted, but more Is-This-The-Effing-Apocalypse? deserted. A small lantern with a spotlight revolved in the window of the main office above a note that said the office would reopen in two days--an eerie alert in the midst of a creepy silence. However, there was one room with a light on, and this was all the assurance I needed to park the car and head up to my quarters. (It should be mentioned that the folks occupying said room had put their beach towels out to dry...in the rain.)

I drank wine from a plastic cup and watched Kill Bill on the television. When the movie ended, I opened the sliding glass door looking out towards the beach. The waves were crashing loudly and erratically. I noticed that the bar below me, which had been bursting with music and debauchery all weekend, wasn't even open. On a Saturday night. I began to wonder if everyone knew something I didn't.

This paranoia lasted for about a half hour, during which I pondered the structure of the building and how well it would hold up if Irene were to hit while I slept. I thought about how sad Mel and Janie would be if her little red convertible was washed away into the sea. And then I thought about all the videos from the tsunami in Indonesia. I decided to get the hell out of there.

Years of sneaking out of my parents' house left me with a keen ability to drive up to someone's property and sleep in their backyard virtually unnoticed. Which is exactly what I did. The poolhouse was open, and I slipped inside feeling triumphant that I had probably saved my life by driving two blocks inland. An ashtray on Janie's writing desk led me to a pack of Benson and Hedges, and I pulled a copy of Julia's My Life In France off the bookshelf. When I remember that moment, smoking long cigarettes with the window open, listening to the rain in my secret hideout and reading by myself, my heart fills with a deep sense of content.

I made it home the following day after spending five hours in Logan Airport drinking horrible coffee and returning to the Dunkin' Donuts counter more times than I will ever admit. But for days afterwards, I longed for the lush landscape of the East Coast and for my dear friends that nurtured me during my stay.

As time moves forward, I cherish my relationship with Mel and Janie more and more. They believed in me long before I fully believed in myself. They entrusted me to run one of their restaurants when I was merely twenty-five years old (although I'm sure they regret this in retrospect). They have always treated me as an equal and a surrogate daughter, both of which I am insanely grateful for. At times when my own parents have chastised my life choices, Mel and Janie have encouraged me to explore my passions and the world outside of traditional conformity and normalcy.

A good friend will love you just the way you are, but a great friend will make you want to become a better person. When Chef Boulud invited me to dinner two years ago, I called Mel and Janie during my panic attack. For weeks afterwards, Mel sent me countless emails and text messages begging me to write about my experience and try to get it published. They adamantly encourage me to write every time I see them and I often feel as though they are more proud of my talent than I am. I admire their longevity as a couple who have shared a most remarkable life together, and I am inspired by their continued curiosity with the world and how it operates. I can only hope that by the time I have that much life experience that I will be able to live with the reverent, unapologetic honesty and love that they still share for each other and for their growth as individuals.

But for now, I'm okay with apple oaties and lobster lunches and long talks by the pool on sunny New England afternoons. I am so very lucky for this life.

2011-10-15T10:40:00.005-06:00

"Until I was 30, I dated only boys. I’ll tell you why: Men scared the shit out of me. Men know what they want. Men own alarm clocks. Men sleep on a mattress that isn’t on the floor. Men buy new shampoo instead of adding water to a nearly empty bottle of shampoo. Men make reservations. Men go in for a kiss without giving you some long preamble about how they’re thinking of kissing you. Men wear clothes that have never been worn by anyone else before.

OK, maybe men aren’t exactly like this. But this is what I’ve cobbled together from the handful of men I know or know of, ranging from Heathcliff Huxtable to Theodore Roosevelt to my dad. The point: Men know what they want, and that is scary.

What I was used to was boys.

Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival."

Mindy Kaling rules.

Things I am embarrassed about today.

2011-10-14T12:43:00.007-06:00

1. There was a world map poster included in my National Geographic this month. I really, really love maps and I hung it up in my bathroom. While I was brushing my teeth this morning, I realized there are two countries in Africa that I have never even heard of, thus had no idea existed.

2. I took a study break to catch up on the Occupy Wall Street news. Right after reading about the bullshit corporate America is responsible for, I went to Starbucks. Yes, Starbucks.

3. I went to Starbucks to get a pumpkin spice latte, the only reason I go to Starbucks this time of year, or ever. Any justification I can provide for going to Starbucks is null and void because of this: This year, a medium soy pumpkin spice latte will run you SIX DOLLARS.

4. I didn't bring enough cash with me--because who the fuck expects to spend six bucks on a LATTE--so I had to pay for it with my debit card. And after fifteen years of working in restaurants, my server brain is incapable of leaving the tip line on a credit card receipt blank. I'll let you do the math. To top it off, I'm not even enjoying my seasonal treat because now it tastes like corruption.

Heaven restores you in life.

2011-10-06T22:52:00.003-06:00

I am kind of sad about Steve Jobs dying. I would love to post something poignant about his death, like a quote from the incredible commencement speech he gave at Stanford, but everyone on facebook has been posting that shit all day and it just kind of feels cliche now. Like sending someone red roses and baby's breath.

But such a visionary he was, true inspired genius. And his products and mission really did change the world. And that is a tall order these days.

I feel like I am in this perpetual game of catch up at the moment. I'll try to be more verbose soon. I have good stories.

Self evident.

2011-09-11T12:48:00.002-06:00

yes,

us people are just poems
we're 90% metaphor
with a leanness of meaning
approaching hyper-distillation
and once upon a time
we were moonshine
rushing down the throat of a giraffe
yes, rushing down the long hallway
despite what the p.a. announcement says
yes, rushing down the long stairs
with the whiskey of eternity
fermented and distilled
to eighteen minutes
burning down our throats
down the hall
down the stairs
in a building so tall
that it will always be there
yes, it's part of a pair
there on the bow of noah's ark
the most prestigious couple
just kickin back parked
against a perfectly blue sky
on a morning beatific
in its indian summer breeze
on the day that america
fell to its knees
after strutting around for a century
without saying thank you
or please

and the shock was subsonic
and the smoke was deafening
between the setup and the punch line
cuz we were all on time for work that day
we all boarded that plane for to fly
and then while the fires were raging
we all climbed up on the windowsill
and then we all held hands
and jumped into the sky

and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast
and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed
and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar
looked more like war than anything i've seen so far
so fierce and ingenious
a poetic specter so far gone
that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling
over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on
and i'll tell you what, while we're at it
you can keep the pentagon
keep the propaganda
keep each and every tv
that's been trying to convince me
to participate
in some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution
perpetuate retribution
even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
is still hanging in the air
and there's ash on our shoes
and there's ash in our hair
and there's a fine silt on every mantle
from hell's kitchen to brooklyn
and the streets are full of stories
sudden twists and near misses
and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters
with tales of narrowly averted disasters
and the whiskey is flowin
like never before
as all over the country
folks just shake their heads
and pour

so here's a toast to all the folks who live in palestine
afghanistan
iraq

el salvador

here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation
under the stone cold gaze of mt. rushmore

here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors
who daily provide women with a choice
who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city
just to listen to a young woman's voice

here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now
awaiting the executioner's guillotine
who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads
to find peace in the form of a dream

cuz take away our playstations
and we are a third world nation
under the thumb of some blue blood royal son
who stole the oval office and that phony election
i mean
it don't take a weatherman
to look around and see the weather
jeb said he'd deliver florida, folks
and boy did he ever

and we hold these truths to be self evident:
#1 george w. bush is not president
#2 america is not a true democracy
#3 the media is not fooling me
cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation
i've got no room for a lie so verbose
i'm looking out over my whole human family
and i'm raising my glass in a toast

here's to our last drink of fossil fuels
let us vow to get off of this sauce
shoo away the swarms of commuter planes
and find that train ticket we lost
cuz once upon a time the line followed the river
and peeked into all the backyards
and the laundry was waving
the graffiti was teasing us
from brick walls and bridges
we were rolling over ridges
through valleys
under stars
i dream of touring like duke ellington
in my own railroad car
i dream of waiting on the tall blonde wooden benches
in a grand station aglow with grace
and then standing out on the platform
and feeling the air on my face

give back the night its distant whistle
give the darkness back its soul
give the big oil companies the finger finally
and relearn how to rock-n-roll
yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there
so it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets
and clear the air
get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand
of someone else's desert
put it back in its pants
and quit the hypocritical chants of
freedom forever

cuz when one lone phone rang
in two thousand and one
at ten after nine
on nine one one
which is the number we all called
when that lone phone rang right off the wall
right off our desk and down the long hall
down the long stairs
in a building so tall
that the whole world turned
just to watch it fall
and while we're at it
remember the first time around?
the bomb?
the ryder truck?
the parking garage?
the princess that didn't even feel the pea?
remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?

can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design
following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline?!

it was a joke, of course
it was a joke
at the time
and that was just a few years ago
so let the record show
that the FBI was all over that case
that the plot was obvious and in everybody's face
and scoping that scene
religiously
the CIA
or is it KGB?
committing countless crimes against humanity
with this kind of eventuality
as its excuse
for abuse after expensive abuse
and it didn't have a clue
look, another window to see through
way up here
on the 104th floor
look
another key
another door
10% literal
90% metaphor
3000 some poems disguised as people
on an almost too perfect day
should be more than pawns
in some asshole's passion play
so now it's your job
and it's my job
to make it that way
to make sure they didn't die in vain
sshhhhhh....
baby listen
hear the train?

--ani difranco, 2001

The perils of apartment hunting.

2011-08-09T11:15:00.003-06:00

How I need you so.

2011-08-09T00:00:00.009-06:00

"Do you hear that? It's the pumping bass of a week-long fiesta. It's the rattle of a silver cocktail shaker. The chirrip of a bar filled with tiny caged birds, the heartbeat of a group playing bongos in the park, the yell of a seller of butane gas, the hush of the sea on the beach at midnight. It's the silence of midday in a hidden library.

Can you smell that? It's dope, it's fireworks, it's incense waved by a dancing transvestite, it's olive oil cracking as it hits fresh lobster. It's sweat, it's perfume, it's freshly ground espresso. It's the aerosol tang of freshly sprayed graffiti.

Do you feel that? It rumbles underneath your feet. It's probably the Metro--or maybe it's the groan of the city itself. Restless. Throbbing. Moving.

Barcelona is about being in the right place at the right time. It's about knowing the right bell to ring, the right drink to order, the right person to talk to. Barcelona is about being RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW."

--Le Cool Changed My Life: The Weird and Wonderful Guide to Barcelona

For Danders.

2011-08-08T23:49:00.001-06:00

"If you have to ask someone to change, to tell you they love you, to bring wine to dinner, to call you when they land, you can't afford to be with them. It's not worth the price, even though, just like the Tiffany catalog, no one tells you what that price is. You set it yourself, and you're lucky if it's reasonable. You will have a sense of when you're about to go bankrupt. Your own sense of self-worth takes ahold of the wheel and says, 'Enough of this shit, stop making excuses. No one's that busy at work. No one's allergic to whipped cream. There are too cell phones in Sweden.' But most people don't get lucky--they get human. They get crushes. This means you irrationally mortgage what little logic you own to pay for this one thing. This relationship is an impulse buy, and you'll figure out later whether or not it was worth it."

-Sloane Crosley

2011-07-28T10:00:00.001-06:00

I just want to be cool.

2011-07-27T15:02:00.005-06:00

So I took my proficiency exams and I failed one of them.

I was pretty indifferent to tests before TCM school. I was an English undergrad, and I have always been a writer. There was no anxiety about handing in papers, and the only thing I ever worried about was whether or not it would be good enough for an A. Medical school is entirely different. I study and study and yet I can count on one hand the number of times I have left that godforsaken building in the last two years and felt completely confident that I PASSED. Not even that I did okay. That I did good enough to not be required to take it over again. And I commit this huge mental assault on myself and I compare myself to everyone and pretty much feel like shit until I see my test scores. And I've always passed. Many times only by the hair of my teeth, but I've always passed.

I failed my case studies exam. It was only by one point, but to fail an exam that is a written evaluation of a patient seems particularly brutal. I mean, I'm two years into my program--I should know this shit, right?!

So I had my retake today and I was pretty sure I failed it AGAIN when I walked out. And I kind of just lost it. I cried in my living room for two hours and then sluggishly washed my dishes and threw a load of laundry in the washer. I felt like shit. And then I got an email saying that I had passed, and that I did much better than the last time. And I feel really light right now and that is nice. It's been a long week.

I haven't been sleeping well. I started taking sleep herbs again and I changed the setting on my fan to the sleep mode. It makes this whirring noise that gets really fast and then dies off. I am guessing that it's supposed to simulate the sound of a noise machine or the ocean. The sound reminds me of when Jeremy and I were in Montezuma, Costa Rica. Our tiny room at the Hotel Lucy was on the first floor and faced the ocean. It was so close to the water that the front of the building stood stilted above the sand, and when the tide came in you could hear the waves rush under the floor. It was hot as fuck and we had to sleep in mosquito nets, but it was such a wonderful way to fall asleep. I loved everything about Montezuma.

Jeremy got married last weekend. His wife is pregnant with a little baby. Of course the pictures were on facebook, and it looks as though they had a really beautiful ceremony in the mountains. I am so happy for him and so glad that he has everything that he's wanted for so long. I kind of stopped my effort to maintain a friendship with him when Bailey died and he never offered any condolences. Sometimes I wish that we were still friends. It's strange to have someone in your life for so long and then not have them there at all. It makes me think a lot about past lovers and friends who I'm no longer in contact with, and with certain people it makes me uncomfortable to think about why. Facebook usually exacerbates this ponderance. But I guess one of the great lessons in life is that sometimes you don't get to know people forever, and that's just the way it is. It does make me realize how grateful I am for my friendships that have withstood the centuries and tribulations of my twenties. Longevity is a valuable gift.

Ty and I spent the Fourth of July together in the mountains in Southern Utah and then he decided to move here and go to art school and not be afraid of a lot of things he was afraid of before. And we're basically back together and it's really nice to talk to him and be excited about having him in Denver. I am really, really proud of him and what he's doing because I know it's a long ways from where he used to be and that part of him is still a little terrified. It's entirely bizarre to think about the fact that in less than one month, I will be able to ride my bicycle over to his house in under 78 hours. It seems unreal.

The clouds are starting to clear and I think I should treat myself to something nice and remind myself that I'm pretty intelligent when it comes down to it.

Eesh.

2011-07-17T23:58:00.002-06:00

I have proficiency exams tomorrow morning. They're these stupid tests that we have once a year that cover everything we've learned in school. EVERYTHING. And while studying for this round has been a little bit easier than the last round (last time I seriously almost died), I am still very nervous. I feel incompetent. I feel unworthy. I feel like I will be a subpar practitioner. And I kind of just want to ride my bike in the mountains and drink beer and have a clean house again. It is midnight and still hot as shit outside and I am scared to turn up the volume on my ceiling fan because there are five hundred flashcards arranged in little piles on my living room floor and they will go flying everywhere if there is even the slightest breeze.

I got into this super nerdy email conversation about music with one of my most favorite professors today, and he told me about this outdoor music festival he saw in the 90s where Jewel was headlining. And whoever organized the festival had The Violent Femmes come on right after Marc Cohn.

He also said that Marc Cohn got pissed off at the audience for making noise.

Rich. Rich, I tell you.

Amazingness.

2011-07-07T10:22:00.001-06:00

Good day sunshine.

2011-06-29T13:50:00.011-06:00

Midterms were not fun and they made me feel really unsmart and I had the usual panic attack about whether or not I passed all of them. And then I went to San Francisco and forgot all about school.

Blake surprised me at the airport and saved me from having to take the BART into the city. We checked into my hotel and ate lunch in Chinatown. Blake was just as excited about the House of Nan King's scallion cakes as I was, and we spent the rest of the afternoon strolling around the Embarcadero. I wanted to check out the San Francisco MOMA, so we went, but it completely sucked and I spent the rest of the weekend referring to it as the BLOWMA. We had cocktails at a place called Bar Agricole and I told him all about my new obsession with Amazonian shamanism, and then we talked about relationships. The bartenders wore bow ties and had slicked back hair and vintage clothing. (Fucking hipsters.) We had dinner at Delfina in the Mission and it was delicious. Then we wound up at the bar across the street from my hotel, where we proceeded to slam gin and tonics and drunkenly string together the plot line of the movie Foul Play.

On Sunday morning we went back to the mission and cured our hangovers with oysters and chorizo tacos. The sun was shining in the sky and the breeze reminded me of how much I love that part of San Francisco and its vibe. We walked from the Mission all the way to the Haight, stopping in boutiques along the way so that I could buy cards. We spent an hour in a bookstore and then decided to walk back to Union Square. The Gay Pride parade had just finished, and as soon as we hit Market Street we were enveloped in tutus and rainbows and boobs and teenage boys making out in the middle of the road. We took in the crowd for a few blocks before jetting up a side street to head home. We were hot when we got back to the hotel, the city air had made us sticky and tired. We chilled and read books for an hour and then headed to Oakland to grub at Camino. We had some really amazing squid and some of the biggest sardines I've ever seen in my life. We talked about hockey. We talked about the food we ate as children that we still long for today even though our palates are far more developed. We talked shop about Fruition, about the personality of chefs, and he told me that he thought what happened between Matty and I should have never happened. I agreed with him. We skipped dessert for cocktails in the city and drove back over the bridge. It was the first time I had been over the bridge in the night time and the skyline looked stunning.

A street man stopped to serenade us with a love song and it was super awkward but kind of funny. Another street man led us to a bar called Swig, where we listened to a rockin' jazz band and I finally convinced Blake to swing dance with me after four shots of whiskey. It was fun, but we got tired quickly. We decided to grab beers at the corner store, and we spent the rest of the night hanging out on our fire escape. We talked about religion for a really long time and Blake told me about the night he cooked dinner for Thomas Keller. We stayed up way too late.

On Monday I bid Blakers adieu and Jen Lee finished the tattoo of Bailey she started in March. She took me to see the Golden Gate Bridge because I had never been there before, and then we bought Fluevogs. I love them so much that I don't even feel guilty about how much they cost. The dinner we ate at The House paled in comparison to what Blake and I had gotten into, but it was nice to kick it with Jen and I was very excited to go back to someone's home after staying in a hotel in the middle of Union Square for two nights. Plus, she had pot.

Yesterday I met up with Ryan at the Pork Store and we ate potatoes with vegetables and pork and eggs while we drank beer and thoroughly enjoyed hanging out. He told me about his work and the movies he's been watching. Then we talked about smart people and how important good friends are. He told me about a girl he has a crush on who is Russian and doesn't smile because apparently that is discouraged in Russia. Ryan said "I can't really blame them, they've had some pretty rough decades." We got another beer and I told him about a picture I had found of him from six years ago--he's sleeping on my couch under a quilt with a bottle of Crown Royal and a grin on his face. We said a lot of things about music. After he took me to the train station, he sent me a text that said my smile had brightened up his week and it made me really miss having him in Denver. I love his brain and the way he sees his world.

It was a terrific trip. I didn't take nearly the amount of photographs that I wanted to, I spent way more money than I should have, and I drank above and beyond the amount I had planned. But it was amazing and wonderful and it ended up being exactly what I needed. I love when it all works out that way.

Begin to notice.

2011-06-18T10:30:00.001-06:00

I can not put into words what this essay does to my stomach.

I did not dance last night.

2011-06-18T10:26:00.004-06:00

(via awesomepeoplehangingouttogether)
Confession: Amy Poehler used to bug the shit out of me. I am mortified to admit that, because she is seriously amazing and awesome and the kind of person I want to be friends with. And will someone please force-feed Kelly Ripa a cheeseburger already?

It sounds like we would have had a great deal to say to each other.

2011-06-17T15:10:00.004-06:00

One week from tomorrow, I will be all done with my midterms and I will be in San Francisco. I am getting a tattoo finished by the lovely Jen Lee. My original plan was to kick it with Casey and spend Sunday in the wine country with Blake. But Casey's family's cabin burned down in the Adirondacks, and Blake is being more flaky than usual, and I kind of just thought Why not make this a solo trip? And I am really in love with that idea. New York has always been my solo city, and wandering the streets of Manhattan and the boroughs by myself is probably one of my most favorite activities in North America. I've been to San Francisco plenty of times, but it's always been with other people. So I am going to stay in a hostel and spend three days walking around the city stuffing my face and taking photographs.

I am very excited.

Today I am thinking about the gallbladder meridian, living in the mountains and having a big garden, and the Violent Femmes. They finished paving the road on 16th Avenue and the air doesn't reek of asphalt anymore. It's smooth and black and it makes me wish I had rollerblades.

God this makes me so stupidly happy and nostalgic.

2011-06-16T13:36:00.006-06:00

He used to do surgery for girls in the eighties, but gravity always wins.

2011-06-16T09:29:00.006-06:00

I had a really great day yesterday. I slept in and then I went to see my fairy godmother. We did an unintentional past life regression, and I discovered that I was killed in a sacrificial Aztec ceremony that was total bullshit and they cut out my heart and the betrayal from that probably plays into the anxiety that I've had since I was a teenager. And I know I should probably explain all of that way more, and that it sounds horrific and awful, but just know that it was a huge and rather amazing breakthrough and it completely fucking rocked my world. Then I came home and studied gynecology for a long time and cleaned my house. I met my friend Randy at Fruition and we had dinner and drank two bottles of really yummy wine and I found out that he owns an original manuscript of Richard Brautigan's The Pill Versus The Springhill Mine Disaster. Which is pretty much the coolest thing ever. He also picked up the bill and left a ginormous tip for my coworkers, which is also very cool. Then I came home and drunk dialed everyone I know and ate ice cream out of the container while listening to Radiohead and facebook stalking Ty.

All in all, it was a banner day.

Then this morning I woke up and wanted to kill myself. Not literally, but I am now painfully aware of why I don't drink an entire bottle of wine in one sitting anymore. It is hot today, and I didn't wash my makeup off last night. My stomach is making really funny noises and it is taking every morsel of willpower that I have to not order a takeout breakfast burrito from Pete's Kitchen and catch up on South Park after I go visit Margaret's baby. I have midterms to study for, I have class this afternoon, and my house smells like someone took a shit on my living room floor and I need to figure out why. I am also preoccupied with the notion that Ty's family might hate me, and it makes me feel sad. To top everything off, I just realized that I left the rest of my tuna from last night in my car. Overnight. And now it's been in the sun all morning. That is just fantastic.

I will write about my breakup soon. I also just realized that I never wrote about Margaret giving birth, which is a crying shame because it's a wonderful story. So much to do, so little time.

2011-06-15T09:28:00.003-06:00

Do the things you used to talk about doing but never did. Know when to let go and when to hold on tight. Stop rushing. Don't be intimidated to say it like it is. Stop apologizing all the time. Learn to say no, so that your yes has more oomph. Spend time with friends who lift you up, and cut loose the ones who bring you down. Stop giving your power away. Be more concerned with being interested than being interesting. Be old enough to appreciate your freedom, but young enough to enjoy it. Finally know who you are.

-Kristin Armstrong

Cupcakes and cellophane.

2011-06-14T11:09:00.003-06:00

I should be studying for my gynecology midterm next week. But my neck is on the verge of going out, and I just walked to the pharmacy at school to get some herbs. There is a large church that I walk past on my way home. I like this building a lot, and when I used stroll home from class on Wednesday nights there was always some dude performing Christian hip hop inside for a bunch of people and I could hear it from the sidewalk.

Today when I walked by, the minister came out through the side door and greeted a transient who was hanging out by a tree eating a banana. "How ya doing, Joe?"

"Homeless as ever, but today is my thirty-sixth birthday."

"Well then, has it been a happy birthday?"

"Of course, man! These days, birthdays are anniversaries. I can't complain at all." And then he high-fived the minister.

Sometimes, it's all about perspective.

Also, this is awesome and made me smile. And so did this.

I need the mountains and some lemonade and a hug.

2011-06-13T10:22:00.001-06:00

(via Southern Smoke)

It's okay to cry.

2011-06-12T12:02:00.007-06:00

So Ty and I broke up. I will post about it soon, as I'm hoping that writing will help to rectify the end of one of the most beautiful relationships of my life. But for right now, my heart is writhing around on the floor and I am unable to muster up something poignant.

Yesterday was Margaret's 30th birthday and a small but wonderful group of us went to the Grizzly Rose to celebrate. It was quite the shindig, and for being city folk we fit in with the western bumpkins pretty damn well. At the end of my third beer, a gentleman clad in Wranglers, a button-up plaid workshirt, and a Stetson asked me if I wanted to dance. I figured what the hell, and relished in the fact that a line dance would definitely add to the Grizzly Rose experience. "I just want you to know that I have no idea what I'm doing," I warned him. He reassured me that he'd show me the ropes, and the band started up again.

I am a terrible dancer. But I am especially horrible when it comes to dancing with another person to coordinated movements that I don't know. I was too bouncy at first, and the shuffle felt awkward. The pro-military republican cowboy laughed and told me to relax a little bit more.

"You're not used to letting a man take the lead, are you?"

"No," I replied, suddenly sober. "No, I am not."

2011-06-01T23:05:00.001-06:00

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

--Marriane Williamson

2011-05-31T14:00:00.009-06:00

I met Des my freshman year of college, a few months after I had moved up to the smoking floor of my women-only dorm because the roommate I had on the second floor was diabetic and hated me because 1) I could drink and she couldn't and 2) because I was a complete asshole when it came to balancing my newfound freedom with my liquor consumption and the fact that I was sharing a twelve by twelve room with someone I had only known for three days. Des was a total badass and I fell instantly in love with her, and we got into quite a bit of trouble together. She drove this little gold Saturn that we decorated with glitter pens and she smoked Marlboro Light 100s out the driver's window constantly, and she always had awesome music. Anytime I hear Ani Difranco's Dilate album, anything by Our Lady Peace, and Hole's Celebrity Skin in it's entirety, I think of her. We don't talk much anymore: we moved to Colorado together, whereupon I realized I was actually really in love with her (like in a sexual way) and that I hated the way she treated her boyfriends and I felt she was doing too much blow. All of which are now extremely ironic arguments for a number of reasons, but at the time it pretty much destroyed our relationship. Regardless, our friendship completely changed my life, and I will always be indebted to her for what it showed me and how it helped me become who I am.

The opening guitar riff to this song will never get old, and I could listen to it on the highest volume possible for days. While ironing work shirts last night, I watched Courtney Love's Behind the Music, which is pretty much the most amazing Behind the Music EVER. She talks about this video, and how the opening riff was Billy Corgan's idea, and how much she hated it but she left it in because Billy said it would make people lose their shit.

I never thought I would have a reason to say this, but THANK YOU BILLY CORGAN.

It will steal your innocence, but it will not steal your substance.

2011-05-24T14:11:00.005-06:00

So it's not that I haven't been writing. My brain has been churning in full force for about a month and I'm processing a whole lot of life right now. Until I become confident in the way I feel about the state of my affairs, privacy is a warm gun. And by 'warm gun' I mean 'journal'. Actually let's call it a diary, solely for the fact that I've been reconciling my adolescence by rewatching every episode of My So-Called Life ever created. My thesis on that will have to wait because when I think about how completely spot on that show is, my head wants to explode. I am also revisiting every album that has ever had a profound effect on my life, starting from the age of eleven. In addition, I suddenly want to hear about what everyone I know was like in high school, the more awkward and cringe-worthy the better.

Is this what a mid-life crisis is going to feel like?

I am so fucking bored. I have this inkling that something amazing is about to land in my lap, but my brain is moving so fast lately that to even sit and meditate and focus on what that lovely thing might be seems like an unattainable feat. I am restless, I am sick of being tethered to school, and I desperately want someone (anyone really, this is not a 'need for sex/romance/attention' thing...I think) to dress in pretty clothes with me and take me out for dinner or fifty gin and tonics and tell me interesting things and ask me questions and compare our lives and how we feel about the universe. I want to leave the country. I want to look at Zebras and meet people with accents and do something that feels deeply worth it. I want to dance around in a field like the one filled with sunflowers in that music video I can't remember the name of right now. I want an oasis of opportunity.

And once those things are out of the way, I want a house that I can decorate and hang photographs, one that has a porch swing and a garden in the backyard. I want a man and a dog in said house, and I want books everywhere. I want dinner parties and weekends spent watching my friends' children grow up. I want a vigorous inspiring schedule filled with making people healthy and helping women with their bodies and I want days off that are filled with mountain activities and talking about my future--our future--with someone.

In the depths of the unknowns, the reality that I am finally at a point in my life where I can honestly say that I want to be domesticated in the relatively near future is more perplexing and terrifying than the feelings of restlessness and urges to run away that have toyed with me on a regular basis my entire adult life.

2011-05-21T14:41:00.003-06:00

I was listening to Julie’s charming and perfect podcast interview with Neko Case, and she (Neko) talks about being single and 40 and what a shame that is because she is awesome, and how the notion of dudes being intimidated by her is kind of bullshit because it’s their problem and not hers, and it made me feel grateful and validated to hear her say it. I mean I already knew that kind of thinking was foolishness, but it is always good to be reminded of it by someone else. I can’t be responsible for someone else’s weakness, just as I can’t be responsible for someone else’s strength. Your core is unchangeable. But I believe in applauding the people you love, and also I believe in holding someone’s hand when they need it, and even when they don’t. All of this I have learned in my life.

But then later that night I had dinner with a friend and I was telling her about my love life and she said to me, “You know, you might intimidate men.” I rolled my eyes at her because I had now been EMPOWERED BY NEKO. (I would totally read a Neko Case advice column, or maybe she could host her own daytime talk show?) Because you can either hang with someone or you can’t.

Listen, what could I change? My brain? But I love my brain. When I write it’s like making out with my brain. Brains are the best.

--Jami Attenburg

2011-05-02T07:13:00.001-06:00

2011-04-12T13:32:00.003-06:00

It's like everyone's given seeds that are capable of growing into the garden of their dreams, but no one's been told they even have them. Then, when they see their neighbor's garden growing, whether it's because their neighbor actually found their seeds or accidentally spilled them, there's a rush to see what's happening. In fact, whole industries are built around the buying, selling, and trading of other people's gardens. Agents are hired, sales teams assembled, and sometimes stocks and bonds are issued. Vendors compete, lawyers are hired, and accountants are sued. There are mergers and acquisitions, buyouts and takeovers, and of course 401k's, company picnics, and vacation days.

There are seeds that grow into private gardens. Seeds that grow into best sellers. And seeds that grow into happy families.

It's quite a riot, and often good fun, but Katie, would you believe that one of the biggest impediments one has to discovering their own seeds, these days, is their fascination with the gardens of others?

We're already selling stocks and bonds on your garden.

Hoe,
The Universe

Would you like ranch dressing with that?

2011-04-12T13:16:00.005-06:00

Ty was going through some pieces of writing he did in college and he came upon this last week. The assignment was to write an obituary for someone, living or dead.

Former NBA great Michael Jordan died Sunday night after choking on food at a New York City restaurant. He was 42. Jordan was taken to Columbia Medical Center where doctors pronounced him dead on arrival. He was dining on charred salmon. A server at the restaurant attempted to apply the Heimlich but Jordan’s bodyguard intervened and performed the process himself.

He was dining at Tavern On The Green around 8 p.m.

Michael Jordan, who is considered one of the greatest athletes ever, led the Chicago Bulls to six world championships in eight years. He also helped the United States win two gold medals at the Olympics in 1992 and 1996. At the University Of North Carolina, Jordan aided the Tarheels in a national championship during his freshman year. He left for the NBA after his junior season.

Jordan is known well for making the comeback famous. He retired from basketball twice and came back on both occasions. During his first retirement, Jordan went to play his other favorite sport, baseball, but was never successful. After a stint as a general manager during his second retirement, Jordan came back to play for the Washington Wizards, a move widely criticized by many. He most recently retired in 2003 and made it clear no return will happen. While he endured a great career, Jordan also experienced tough times as an athlete. His father was murdered during one of the Bulls championship runs. Jordan was also accused, and tried for betting on NBA games.

While I hyperventilated from laughing so hard and tried to touch on all of the gems (Charred salmon at Tavern on the Green?), Ty pointed out what an asshole move it was to bring up Jordan's father's murder and his gambling habit in the obituary: "Clearly I was still pissed off about the '97-'99 finals."

Golden.

Jesus.

2011-03-17T15:01:00.008-06:00

My flaming gay esthetician Richard: So, how did your midterms go?
Me: Uh...I thought I totally nailed them. But turns out I didn't.
Richard: Oh, honey. You obviously aren't sleeping with enough of your professors.
Me: You think that's my problem?
Richard: Girlfriend, absolutely. It's like my mother always said--you gotta give head to get ahead.

It should also be mentioned that Richard was wearing a t-shirt that said: "Tom Selleck saved my baby."

2011-03-06T11:21:00.001-07:00

Sometimes when you think you are done, it is just the edge of beginning. Probably that's why we decide we're done. It's getting too scary. We are touching down onto something real. It is beyond the point when you think you are done that often something strong comes out.

--Natalie Goldberg

So 2011 has been super awesome so far.

2011-02-22T20:18:00.008-07:00

2011-02-06T15:07:00.002-07:00

January 1985 was a major month for Kim. She wedded an air force defense contractor (unusual choice of husband for a rock chick, perhaps) called John Murphy. She also became bassist/backing vocalist for the Pixies after answering an ad for a bassist who was equally into hardcore punkers Hüsker Dü and folk icons Peter, Paul and Mary. Kim Deal was the only person to respond and arrived at the audition without a bass guitar; she'd never played the instrument before. She claimed her twin sister had a bass back in Dayton and that she had no money to get it. Thompson lent her $50 for the airfare and Deal returned with a bass guitar. And then she learned to play it.

--Mookychick

She said a good day ain't got no rain...

2011-02-04T18:55:00.012-07:00

On January 20, I lost my first true love and best friend. After an irregular breathing pattern revealed a hole in her lungs, we spent a week in and out of the emergency room drawing out the air that had been accumulating in her pleural cavity from a spontaneous canine pneumothorax. After weighing her options over discrepancies in her diagnosis and a strained financial situation, I had decided to admit her for an extended hospital stay where the vacuum inserted into her lungs would hopefully save her life. In a wretched--but perhaps blessed--twist of fate, her little heart gave out almost immediately after the anesthesia was administered, before the procedure even started.

The shock has yet to subside entirely, and many days I am caught off guard by how suddenly life has changed.

On a better day, I feel blessed to have had such a wonderful and constant companion for so many years of my life that seemed to be in never ending transition. I feel grateful for what she taught me about loyalty and love. I breathe a sigh of relief that she wasn't in pain when she passed, that she was asleep and unaware. I feel gracious for the staff at the hospital, people we saw almost everyday for a week while taking her in for her chest taps--the same staff that tried desperately to revive her when she arrested. I am thankful that I didn't have to leave her at the hospital while she was stuck miserable in a metal crate for two days waiting for her lungs to heal, and I am grateful that she passed while I was in the other room instead of a twenty minute drive across town. I am thankful for the time I was able to spend with her after she died, for being able to hold her and say goodbye and thank her for being my family for seven years. I am beyond blessed for the people in my life who reached out with everything they had, for the people who helped me that had never met us before, and for Ty, who is the biggest blessing I have ever received.

On a bad day, I ache for her like nothing I have ever felt in my life. I feel intensely uncomfortable in my own skin, in my existence and the way it has shifted. I question every decision I made about her care, I accuse myself of not doing enough. I deny the fact that she is gone forever and I try desperately to wake up from the nightmare. My brain hears her jump off the couch when my feet hit the bedroom floor in the morning, and coming home from work to a dark and lifeless apartment is a harsh and brutal slap of reality. I am enraged that she only got seven years, a rip off for a dog that wagged her tail up until the last hour of her life. I regret the choices I have made to better myself over the last two years--moving and school, choices that left her with less attention than she was used to, less attention than she deserved. In the depths of depression, things that are supposed to make one feel better, like walks outside in the sunshine, only make the sting of her absence worse. I feel as though I betray her memory every time I sweep my floor and throw away lingering balls of dog hair.

But in the end, none of this matters. She is gone and death is as much a part of life as living.

For my sweet Bailey, I want you to know I loved you more than I ever thought I could love someone. You taught me patience and you grounded me at an age where I most surely would have run away for a very long time. I will never forget your head-butt snuggles, the way you used to talk to me with your squeaks and honking, the way you would lick my face relentlessly when I was having a bad day. I will always miss our roadtrips--you were the best co-pilot a girl could've asked for and I will buy beef jerky in your honor everytime I travel for the rest of my life. I will never forget your first swim (and gigantic shit) in the ocean, or the way you used to completely freak out over the patches of snow we would come across in the summertime on top of mountains. You were an incredible friend, and your willingness to adapt to the many homes we lived in (and boyfriends I subjected you to) made my life more fun and more enjoyable. The garbage can won't be the same without you, nor will my dirty underwear. I will always miss the way your ears felt when I was petting them, and I'm sorry I didn't rub your belly more. I miss your strut and the way you never listened when you thought you had something better to do. Thank you for your enthusiasm for my presence every time I returned home, no matter how long I had been gone. Thank you for taking a walk with me everyday for seven years.

I hope that wherever you are, that there are more bones than you can handle and that the squirrels are three-legged and blind. I hope that there are plenty of couches for you to sleep on and that your food bowl is filled whenever you want. I hope that there are no such things as veterinarians and that you can breathe again. I hope that you have a doggie door and endless pastures and rivers and mountains to run around on and explore. I hope that all of the garbages in doggie heaven are easy to tip over and that there are beef tenderloins around every corner. May there be sprinklers for you to run through and vacuum cleaners for you to chew on. I hope that your new friends wrestle with you and bark back and race you whenever you want.

I miss you more than you will ever know. I hope someday at the end of this journey we meet again.
I love you, mama dog.

Upstaged. Again.

2010-12-21T08:00:00.001-07:00

2010-12-14T07:22:00.001-07:00

2010-12-14T06:32:00.002-07:00

Did I think the Cavaliers would win? Actually, yes. I thought the fans would push them to another level, that it would play out like a sports movie: the overachieving underdog taking down the big bully. When TNT's Kenny Smith said he had never felt such electricity in an arena before a regular-season game, I was convinced even more. The fans were ready for a war. As LeBron was warming up, an unmistakable "A--hole" chant reverberated through the building. A few seconds later, TNT showed us a fan wearing a "Lyin' King" T-shirt, another holding a "Quitness" sign, then eight fans standing in a row with T-shirts that spelled out "B-E-T-R-A-Y-E-D." Instead of the national anthem, I half-expected the Cavs to bring out Alanis Morissette to sing "You Oughta Know."

--Bill Simmons

(swoon.)

2010-12-11T13:58:00.007-07:00

Patti Smith: Speaking of books, I was thinking about the letters and manuscripts you have--Dylan Thomas, Kerouac, Rimbaud. Can you remember the first of these that you obtained and how that came about?

Johnny Depp: It was 1991, and I was finishing a film called Arizona Dream in New York. And I wanted to take a trip to Lowell, Massachusetts, to see Kerouac's town. I'd read everything and been inundated with the Kerouac thing. And so I went there and hooked up with Jon Sampas, who is Kerouac's wife's brother. We talked. He took me around the town. We went to various bars and went to his house, spent a couple of days like that. At the time it was prior to all that stuff being sold off. He gave me access, total access, to Kerouac's things. He just opened up--BAM! I read the Book of Dreams that was under his bed. I read it cover to cover. There it was, like right there in front of me.

Smith: In his handwriting?

Depp: Handwriting, watercolors--the Book of Dreams. It was right there, little notepads, tiny little steno notebooks that he carried in his back pocket. I read, cover to cover, as many as I could. And opened up suitcases of his that hadn't been opened in years. All these amazing things. John Sampas gave me a coat so that we could walk to the cemetery to visit Kerouac's grave. And the coat he put on me was Jack's. A black raincoat, three-quarter length, slight check in it. I reached into the pockets. In the right-hand pocket there was a tissue, just some old wadded-up tissue. And on the left-hand side there was an old matchbook. And I thought, you know, okay, I've touched these. It's like the Smithsonian Institution was in my pockets, you know?

Smith: You must have felt like you fell down your own rabbithole.

Depp: I was happy not to leave. I was happy to stay there.