Reasons

I'm not so good at "reasons." You know, reasons for doing things or not doing things, having things or not, caring about things or not. I'm a spur-of-the-moment kind of reasoner. Why do I have a blog? Because I one day decided I wanted one. Why am I writing this blog entry? Because I felt moved to do so. Why am I doing what I'm doing in life? Because this is where I have been led. I don't put a lot of stock in reason... because, as far as I'm concerned, you don't make the reason - the reason makes you.

I've never been a staunch believer in a higher power - of something dictating what and when and how things will happen. However, I do believe that everything we do is somehow "supposed" to be done, because it brings us somewhere else, somewhere we wouldn't be if we had made any other choice.

Do you recall the "Choose Your Own Adventure" books? If not, or if you do but not to a sufficient extent, check this out for an introduction/refresher. Anyway... the "Choose Your Own Adventure" life model is how I generally feel about making life decisions. You make one, or another, and one of two - or three or four - reactions is possible. This particular reaction inspires another spontaneous action on your behalf, and so on and so forth. The point being - your actions elicit reactions based solely upon the choices you make. It's not that things are fated, so to speak, it's that your decisions build consequences; sometimes the consequences amaze you, and thus, you have been "fated," and other times the consequences are crippling, and though you may curse the decision initially, you eventually find that the consequence was actually a door - or, a page turn if you want to follow the "Choose Your Own Adventure" metaphor - to the "right" way, or the "right" event,  or the "right" person. It's all... purposely consequential.

This concept is not totally cryptic, and I apologize if it's coming across as so. Mostly, what I'm trying to say is, you don't know where life will lead, but if you make decisions based solely - or, at the very least, mostly - based on your instinct as to what it is that you want, what you truly, truly believe is right, then for the most part things will work out in your favor.

I believe in karma, I believe in the "everything happens for a reason," I just don't believe in reason. If I believed in reason, then that would imply that the reason's outcome would totally be in my control, and it's not. It's not who, or what, or where - it's how. How you handle a situation, how you build a relationship, and how you make yourself the person that you want to be. Reason has nothing to do with that - reason is the secret that you don't know until it's too late. And, I do mean "late" in the good way. Reason catches up with you and you say "Holy shit, it was supposed to happen this way."

We make instinctual choices, and those choices lead to results, resolutions, and retaliations. All of which are the spawn of more instinctual choices. Reason builds a following along the way. Reason is based on the past, on the experience of having reasoned before... and you don't need "a reason," you just need an answer. The question will follow suit, the rest of your life will unfold, and everything - yeah, everything - will eventually become totally and completely clear. You'll know the reason. The reason is the end result. The reason isn't obvious until the credits roll and the popcorn is empty and the house lights come up.

At least, that's the kind of reason I deal with. Inconspicuous, totally secretive, unobtrusive reasons for everything. But, everything does have a reason. So, at least there's that.

Now, as far as the reason for this post? Two cocktails and some quality time with my best friend. That's a good enough reason for me. Just enough to make me contemplate how we're still friends after meeting in seventh grade, how we work together, and how we have the same amazing group of friends we've always had.

Now, I'll fall asleep and wake up in the morning to do laundry and dishes and I'll probably reread this and go, "Ooooh, Katie, you were feeling theoretical last night," and that'll be okay. 'Cause someday, I'll need this reason for reason, and someday it'll all make sense.

Maybe even tomorrow.

Nine Innings

I have a thing for the number nine.

My bestie's getting married on 9/9 and I'm just superstitious enough to think that's for the best. My phone number is compiled of numerically consecutive multiples of nine. Often the ninth of any month is the best day.

I could go on and really take you through the crazy, but I'll refrain.

For the purpose of this post, you need only remember the awesomeness of nine innings of baseball.

..........

Have you ever smiled so much, and for so long, that your face literally starts to ache? 

If so, then you are one of the lucky ones. You are one of those people who can stand to exceed the physical limitations of how happy one can possibly bee. (That spelling is not a typo. That spelling is an homage to Eric Marshall.)

Last night, my smile kicked my ass. It was one of those face-hurting nights.

You know, I've been having more and more of those nights lately, and that's pretty awesome. My cheeks are gettin' a sick workout.

(Flash to scene: I'm standing in front of one of those huge gym mirrors dressed in full sweatsuit attire and wearing a sweatband, smiling and unmoving. A really muscular bro walks by and pauses for a moment, studies my determinate stance, then says: "Nice cheeks, dude." He walks away, shaking his head, he is both in awe of my insanely toned cheek muscles and reminding himself to work on his cheek muscles during his cardio tomorrow. This illustrative digression has been brought to you by Katie's Wicked Good Mood.)

So, last night. Smiling. Right...

Last night Nick & I went to the Red Sox game, pretty much on a whim.

On Monday, while driving back from Vermont with my parents, we had a textversation:

Nick: "Do you have plans Wednesday night?"
Katie: "Nope. You?"
N: "I just got tickets to the Red Sox game."
Kt: "And you want to take me?"
N: "I do!"

Immediately following that message I may have squealed and clapped, which alerted my mother - who was driving - that something mayjah was goin' down.

Mom: "What's going on?"
Kt: "Nick got tickets to the Sox game Wednesday!"
M: "Oh! Nice! Is he taking you?"

Now, I'm a nice person, and I do enjoy watching others succeed and have nice things... but I wouldn't exactly be squealing in excitement for Nick's good fortune if he got the Sox tickets and was just letting me know.

Just sayin'.

Anyway, so, we arrive at a rainy Fenway park to attend what I've then realized is my first night game ever. Also, it was the first game at which I did not purchase a single twenty billion dollar Solo cup of beer. Cheers.

As is typical, as soon as I stepped ontoYawkey Way, I felt like a kid and I started smiling like an idiot. Then, I feel the Fenway vibe turning it into one of those goofy grins that I can't really control. Seeing NESN & Tom Caron makes me smile every time. Then, Eck stories made me smile. Oh, and Bill Lee made me smile. And, of course Nick made me smile. Then a Papi HR made me smile...

I was overwhelmed... in the good way.

So, okay, the abbreviated version of our journey at Fenway went something like this:

Stage One: Fenway Franks.
Stage Two: Seats in the bleachers, row 37.
Stage Three: The incarnation of Chris in row 36.
Stage Four: Drying off.
Stage Five: Walking around.
Stage Six: Being ushered into the second row inches from the Twins' dugout to watch the rain disappear and the Sox win.

Go ahead, you can reread the sixth stage.

Got it? Yeah...

Now, I've left out some stuff, because I want to let Nick tell you how that all went down. It's only right... most of the Fenway freakiness was happening to him. I was just a willing participant along for a lucky, lucky ride to a field box at Fenway Park and half piece of baseball card bubble gum.

Oh, yeah, and an awesome cheek workout.

A Long, Long Time... But None At All

Have you ever had a moment where you feel like you've been somewhere forever and never all at the same time? If not, this might sound crazy... so, I'll try and explain. Okay, for example, the physical reminders of a place are present, and constant, and remind you of a thousand other moments in time that have existed in a similar "place," but you yourself are very, very different.

The smell of a thunderstorm in the spring reminds me of late nights in high school. The smell of rain in the morning, when grass and leaves can't shake the dew and the sea is rocky, remind me of boarding the bus for Sea Lab as a kid. The smell of a fire burning reminds me of Vermont in any season. The smell of fireworks reminds me of being a girl in a hooded sweatshirt, waiting for a boy to hold my hand and tell me that the sparklers were as pretty as I thought they were. The smell of cigarettes and bleach reminds me of the smell of laundry when I was sixteen and he was nineteen.

I guess I'm a sensory memory person. Words escape me. Lines leave me. Laughter fades But, the sensory feeling of a particular situation will forever and ever put me right back to that place... whatever the place might be.

The same, of course, can be said for songs. They're like cheap time travel.

I'm in the midst of making a mix "tape." The theme of the CD is "Audiobiographical," which is an ingenious name we came up with, if I can say so - ingeeeenious. I mean, I like puns, and this is one of my new favorites.

What makes this so hard is that everything... every noise... every sound, lyric, instrument that I hear has a place in my memory. So, making a history out of music that made the history is especially difficult.
Because... what doesn't count? And, what doesn't mean something?

I can remember the car where I first heard The Get Up Kids. I can remember the boy who wrote "One Two Three Four = Love" on label maker plastic tape when I listened to Neutral Milk Hotel. I know the feeling of standing in the Met Cafe and hearing The Promise Ring, someone making fun of Davey's lisp. I can remember driving in a car on the long commute to Worcester State and singing along to The Secret Stars in hushed unison... "Hearts don't break, the division is innate, do you need to brush up on cardiology."I remember the first mix tape ever made for me: "Bad Mix," and I remember the playlist.

I remember.

But, there is a lot that I don't remember.

I don't remember how it was in my house from about 11 until I was almost seventeen.

I don't remember high school after I stopped caring.

I don't remember being me in junior high school; but, my besties disagree - apparently I've been Me for longer than I can remember.

That makes me sad.

But, as I make this mix tape and think each song selection through with the same effort it takes to recreate the actual moment... I remember.

Sort of.

Lucky Girl, Lucky Life

I suck at updating this blog lately. And, of course, I'm updating it now because I'm sitting at my computer trying to finish an assignment for school tomorrow. Therefore, I'm enjoying the distraction of writing for fun because the alternative is writing for a grade. Boo.

Today the weather is chilly and it's raining. It's okay, though. It's the April showers that bring May flowers; it's what fattens tree buds and teases out leaves and flowers and new life from wet bark. Today, I want nothing more than to snuggle up on my couch with another warm body and read a book. Sometimes, I crave words. I know that might sound silly, but it's because I love them. Think of something you love; a person, a food, a movie, or whatever it might be - don't you just need that sometimes? Like, you can't imagine moving forward with another task until you've gotten that fix. That's how I feel today - like I could devour a book, savor every word and every metaphor and every sentence.

If only I wanted to devour school-related assignments. I don't. I've been trying really hard lately to be the person I see myself becoming. I've been making conscious choices about myself and my life; I've been taking risks and learning new things about who I am and what I want and where I'm going. It's all this progression, you see, from point A to point B, and I'm not dragging my feet anymore. The odd trade I made for this behavior is that school is coming last. My efforts to expand beyond my normal range of experience has become what I focus on, not school. I want to see and do, not sit and learn. It's a bad thing. Maybe it's just spring fever. Maybe it's just my last "real" semester of grad school. Maybe it's just the voice in my head; maybe it's louder than everything else.

All I know is that I'm happy. Ridiculously so. I'm in love with my life and the people in it. I am so amazed every day at their loveliness, their honesty, their humor, and their kindness. I think of how blessed I am to have these friends and this family and it makes me so incredibly happy and grateful... and I feel lucky. I really do. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

It's chilly out, but I'm a lucky girl. I just wanna hug everyone. Squeeze 'em. Love 'em to bits and pieces. 

Oh, and just for the hellofit here's some Magnetic Poetry I wrote:

I mostly don't stop.

Like club music.

One of Three Hundred and Seventeen

In the midst of my teen-aged years, at age fourteen, I started a list. It began in my Five Star college-ruled notebook. I wrote it in pencil, and I can recall starting it, and adding to it, from where I sat at the desk in my room on the second floor of my parent's Cape on a busy road in New Bedford.

The desk that I sat at, from age fourteen to age sixteen, was a lame, somewhat rickety, fiberboard construction - what my dad had granted to me in favor of his new giant, regal desk; a desk with a recessed shelf for the computer's monitor - the screen protected by a tinted slab of glass, on each side there was a drawer, one for the printer and the paper, too, and one for files. Upgrade. For both of us. I had no desk prior to his purchase.

So from this hand-me-down fiberboard desk, I looked out onto my driveway and the house next door, and the sunset, and the traffic, and the general you-know-what... and I started to write this list. And I kept writing the list. On, and on, and... on.

The list that I wrote is entitled "Things That Make Me Happy," and it is three hundred and seventeen items long.

Now, I do, on a daily basis, recognize what makes me happy. Everyone and anyone who's had the - ahem - privilege to meet me for a minimum of five and a half seconds knows that that's the case. Regardless, when I found this list, it occurred to me that at one particular point in my life I felt it especially necessary for me to document what made me happy, even at the most basic, rudimentary level. And, reading it... makes me smile wider and wider with each list item.

I laugh. My eyes water - sometimes for good, sometimes for what I've missed or lost, or forgotten. Some sections of the list bring back certain, very specific memories, like the time I was in Nantucket for Kelly's birthday; the time I discovered New York City and taking cabs; the time Karin, Heather and I made up the nickname "King Friday."

Other items make me sigh and think, "Not much has changed in over a decade. Not much at all..." Like, for example, I still love toast, my mom, and the smell of a baby's soft scalp.

But, I digress...

Number one on the list is the topic for tonight; the introductory topic also being the list itself, but the Number One being the primary topic.

#1 Friends

Today, I moved. It was very short notice and it was very rapid. Very short notice. But, necessary. Insisted upon, in fact. So, I'm in the midst of a serious semester, I'm strapped for cash as always, and I have been trying to deal with LiG (life in general) which seems to throw crap things at me more often than not, lately. (Like somewhat severe back injuries on the week that I'm meant to move.)

Anyway. Number One on the list. My friends.

My friends, who spend an entire Sunday lifting heavy things like couches and tables, and the like.

My friends, who waded amidst a year's worth of dust bunnies and carted off furniture and furniture and boxes and boxes... and boxes.

My friends, who did seventeen point turns in fourteen foot U-Hauls in and out of parking lots.

My friends, who had homework, and boyfriend/girlfriend time, and their own LiG bullshit to deal with.

My friends, who had bridal expos and family dinners, and better things to do.

My friends, who had chest colds, and sore muscles and hangovers.

My friends, who do FAFSAs and tax returns.

My friends, who listen and talk and laugh and laugh... and laugh.

My friends, who buy me the most thoughtful and "me" birthday gifts that I want to show off to the world; "Look how awesome my friends are! Look how they know me so, so well. Look at what a lucky, lucky girl I am."

My friends.

I'm so grateful. So, so grateful, that I have these people in my life.

So, so grateful.

This is why, forever and ever amen, they will be Number One on the list. Whatever list. Any list. All lists.

Thank you, Friends.

Thank you. I love you all, always.

Anthropologically Correct

Recently, during a conversation with my bestie Eric, he attempted to describe the close friendship between three people I don't know and have never met. Part of how he described the friendship to me was to say that they - the three close friends - had their own language, their own vocabulary.

In the seconds that followed, I did a quick tally in my mind. Yup. My friends and I have our own language. A large, expansive vocabulary of things we've just made up. Sometimes we make up words, and sometimes we attach completely arbitrary meanings to words that already exist. The fact is, if you'd never met the besties and me, and you sat down and listened in on a conversation - you might discover that you have no effing clue what we were talking about.

Learning how we talk, and what we mean when we say the things we say, is part of getting to know us; being briefed on our vocabulary is a good sign - we like you and think you should be able to understand what it is that we're saying.

A long, long time ago while I was a fresh-faced undergraduate, I took a class in cultural anthropology. Now, as is custom for my memory, I remember - vividly - a mere two things from that class. The first is the exact location and appearance of the room in which we met for class. The second is that my professor lived on Nantucket - my school was in Framingham, not at all near Nantucket - and she flew over in a plane every week, stayed in her local apartment, and then flew back to the island from whence she came.

Needless to say, the anthropological value of this trip-taking to the mainland constantly preoccupied me - and, perhaps that's now why I can't remember a single fucking thing about that class except for those two things: The location, and my professor's extensive commute and time spent living amongst the natives (read: mainland college kids).

Do not let my lack of memory take away from the fact that I wholeheartedly enjoyed the class, and was on many occasions struck by a sense of "holy shit the world is so big and so small all at once, and everything is related to long-held cultural standards that we don't even consider anymore."

According to this website, anthropology is "a science of humankind. It studies all facets of society and culture. It studies tools, techniques, traditions, language, beliefs, kinships, values, social institutions, economic mechanisms, cravings for beauty and art, struggles for prestige. It describes the impact of humans on other humans. With the exception of the Physicial Anthropology discipline, Anthropology focuses on human characteristics generated and propogated by humans themselves."

So, let's just break it down really quickly. I'll tell you that the besties and I are all from the same geographical location, we all work in the same business, and we all went to elementary & high school together.

Okay, that being said - let's take it a step further; this website says that a tribe "is, in anthropology, a notional form of human social organization based on a set of smaller groups (known as bands), having temporary or permanent political integration, and defined by traditions of common descent, language, culture, and ideology."

So, basically, we're a tribe.

And, as a tribe of crazies, I think there should be an anthropological investigation that reports on us. I think it would be highly, highly entertaining and amusing.

Anyone with a camera feel like making a hilarious anthropologically-driven documentary about a tribe of best friend waitresses in the wondrous Whaling City?

It could be good. Really good.

'Til Death Do Us, In Four Parts

Part One: The Ladies

I've said it time and time again, but it never ceases to be true: my best friends are my remarkable, extended, and amazing family members.

We very nearly operate as one unit. Have you ever seen these? It's like that with us. We're a fragile, well-balanced system - and it's not to say that sometimes things are a little wonky, but it's like that with all self-sustaining systems; the possibility for conflict exists, but it's all about how the system recovers. And we recover. Every time. Sometimes, I think we're stronger afterward.

When we're all in the same room, when we're all talking and laughing and being our individual spazzy selves - my heart nearly explodes with all the love. I feel so grateful. So happy. So content. We "get" one another, and for someone who has spent a great deal of time trying to "get" herself, this feat does not go unnoticed.

Part Two: The Gents

The night before last, I received a phone call from one of the besties, Ms. Meghan Ryan, and she informed me that her long-time beau Marc had proposed; she was engaged.

Engaged! With a diamond! (Obvi.)

Three of my besties have had some lovely luck finding the boys that want to be with forever. They found a version of best friend that they want to date and marry and that, my friends, is what everyone's out for, right?

And, now, one of them is engaged to that very boy. The best friend.

Part Three: The Aging Process

A couple of weeks ago I found two gray hairs while in a vibrantly-lit restaurant ladies room. I then returned to the table, ordered a dirty martini, and forcibly brandished my ID at the waitress - who wasn't going to ask.

"You want this, right?" I said accusingly, "Because I just found two gray hairs, and you need to see this. Right?"

"Uh. Sure..." she obliged.

Now, my birthday is in a mere five days, I'll soon be 27. Late twenties. Almost thirty. I guess it's an acceptable time to find some grays.

And, now, to add to the feeling of aging, suddenly I'm moving into a new apartment all by myself, and my best friend's getting married (cue Princess Bride, "mawwaige..."). So, sometime next year I'll be a gray-haired, likely single, livin' on my own, 28 year old bridesmaid.

Part Four: Conclusion

You know what? There isn't another group of people on this earth that I'd rather get old with. There is not a person I'd rather see get married, be happy, and live life to the fullest than any one of my best friends, who are the loves of my life.

So, bring it on, life, age, gray hairs, whatever. Bring your worst. This self-sustaining ecosystem isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Fear Of the (Un)Known

Today, from my living room window, I looked out onto a street covered in heavy, wet, white snow, and realized I couldn't identify which car was mine. Maybe that one? No. Maybe that one? Maybe...

When everything is blanketed in snow, the world is exactly as we know it, and yet, it is not at all familiar.

Streets that we have memorized are physically changed, they are altered and slightly foreign; we don't know what to expect from them anymore, when they're covered in snow. We have to approach them like we've never met before. We adjust our speed, we accommodate for ice, salt, sand, a plow's path, and - in general - we're tentative.

The familiar shapes of objects we know to exist in our environment - garbage cans, recycling bins, rocks, rakes, fences, bushes - are masked in the white cloak of winter weather. They are misshapen, faceless, their identities concealed, their hard edges bulbous, their silhouettes shapely.

A long time ago, I tried to run away from this city and everything in it; I tried to know new people, see new sights, and establish a lifestyle that allowed me to embrace the person I thought New Bedford wouldn't. Then, time passed, and I realized I was the same person regardless of my geographical location and through a series of unrelated events, I ended up here again.

What happened after my return, even I can't quite believe. I realized it wasn't just "here," it was "home."

And, it was as if I never left.

My friendships didn't skip a heartbeat. It was the same as it ever was. The same friendship it had always been - it just waited for my return.

My heart skipped a beat every time I felt increasingly at ease here, as I flawlessly fell into the patterned normalcy of a life in this city, a life in this place that I know like I know nothing else. Except maybe me. I've never felt more right, more whole. I've never felt more safe.

I've been back - both as the person I thought I could not be, and as a resident of the city I thought would not care - since 2003. I love it here, and I love what being here means to me and the people I care for. And I wouldn't want to change that.

However, lately, I find myself longing for the days during which something was unfamiliar; when I was unfamiliar. Not to myself, but to the people I existed amongst.

I've been listening to a lot of random, unfamiliar music lately; I catch myself longing for the feeling of recognizing something old in something new. A lyric, a beat, a voice, a feeling of a chorus when it hits me; like deja vu, a place where I've never been, but it is familiar nonetheless.

I've been thinking a lot about moving lately; moving away from these worn-in paths that lead to worn-out bar stools and heading toward uncharted territory, following the road less traveled toward unmapped spaces and places. Places where I can discover more about myself by discovering something more about the road that rises up to meet me and the people on either side.

So, when that happens, and I think about moving, I consider it. I consider leaving this all behind.

And, then, just like this morning, when I looked out onto a snow-covered street and tried to find my little green Subaru amidst piles of heavy white snow, I panic.

The thing about the snow is... it melts. And then, after it melts, everything is exactly as it was before the storm. But, before it melted, for a brief time, I got to see the world as an altered and barely recognizable version of itself; the world, pure and untouched and amorphous.

My life here needs a white winter blanket every once in a while, and maybe I'll travel for brief periods and seek it's affect elsewhere until that no longer will suffice; until what I have to do is crawl under the blanket, put my head down, and see what life is like when all the shapes have changed and nothing is as it seems.

Every Action Has An Equal and Opposite Reaction

Sometimes - scratch that - most times, there's just no way of knowing the ways in which our actions, or our lack of action, will change our lives. It's part of what's amazing, what's beautiful, what's miraculous, and what's fucked up about our lives here while we're living them.

It's amazing to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's fucked up to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's all a mystery. It's all chance. Ot at the very least, it's chance with a twinge of intent. It's kind of like my friend Tyler from Tennessee who tried to let go of his southern drawl when he moved to Massachusetts; his accent will always be laced with a hint of Tennessee. You can take the boy outta Tennessee, but you can't take the Tennessee outta the boy's accent. It's the same with chance and fate; there's always some fate lingering behind a remnant, elongated vowel sound.

If you look at things the right way, there will always something you can't control that leads to something else that seems like it should have always been, but wouldn't ever have existed had it not been for that chance. That moment. That split second where you went right instead of left; up instead of down; one block instead of two... you get the idea.

I take my Chance shaken - not stirred - straight up, with a twist of Fate. Though, lately, this new bartender's been giving me the cheap house Chance and it's all comin' to me on the rocks, with no Fate.

It's rough.

Okay, so fine, the Universe has a plan, I trust in that, I guess. Maybe that's called "fate," I don't know. It's debatable, but not here, not now. Besides, this post isn't about fate, it's about a shitstorm, and how to see a silver lining in a cloud of poo.

Yesterday, in preparation for some Superbowl watching, I decided to make chili and cornbread. I've never made chili before. Cornbread, yes. Chili, no. I'm freaked out by things that stew. I like adding precise amounts of things so that certain baking-science-related shit happens and an exact thing happens as a result - I like baking. Not stewing. Not souping. Not roasting.

So, I called Tiffany, my chili-making bestie, for her recipe. Turns out - Tiffany's "recipe" is really just a list of ingredients that go in a pot together in a certain order. Some beer, some chili powder, some beans, some turkey, some chorico, some tomato paste, some tomato, some onion, some pepper, some jalapeno.

Luckily, when I made the chili, my mom was here, and she's the kind of "Oh, just throw some in there," kind of cook, so it made it all okay. She coached me through approximation cooking, adding water here and there, more tomato paste, a little more cumin. Before I knew it, the chili smelled like chili, and then, not long afterward, it looked and tasted like chili. I made the cornbread using my exact methods of baking, and then later topped the whole meal off with cupcakes and homemade frosting.

I like cooking. And, everything turned out to be pretty delicious. Even the chili.

Today, while I was in the midst of a leftover chili lunch and some tortilla chips, I got some shitty news. Later, I found out about three other people who got fucked up news today. Like, the kind of news that makes you cry so hard you have to do your eye makeup all over again. (Which, for me, is like starting with a blank canvas and painting a fucking Picasso - not something I do without begrudging the jackass who made it all possible by causing the tears in the first place.)

So, like I was saying in the side note - February 8th is a shit day in not just my book, but three other people's as well. So there.

Anyway, generally after receiving shit news, I have to talk about it. I have to tell people, I have to talk to my friends and family about it, I have to lament, discuss. I get all worked up and slowly but surely, the more I discuss the topic, the more sense it begins to make as one of those moments where I should just recognize the fate. I should just shut the hell up and be grateful for the chance at change; the change that might be the reason for something else way more awesome.

I realized that life is not unlike making a big, giant pot of chili. Someone can give you the gist of it, the general order that a bunch of stuff is supposed to cook in, and you can do your best to assemble all those things together at once, and in the correct order - but it doesn't mean that shit is gonna taste good. You might not know how each ingredient is going to effect the batch before you put it in, but someone will be there - in my case, my mom - saying "Oh, I'd say about a tablespoon," and you'll listen - because that person has made chili before - and you'll taste it again and decide what to do. Or when to stay and do nothing. Or when to fold. Or when to just say "fuck it," and throw another bunch of jalapeno in the pot.

Life is like chili. It is.

No, really... it is. Think about it...

The Scandalous Cabinet

Not many people have friends like I have friends. That sounds pompous and asinine, but I think it's true in this case, and I'll explain why.

In particular, I have four friends who are like family. No, they are family. We fight like family, we love like family, we bullshit like family, we reconcile like family. They're it for me. Love them or not, love me or not - they're it. Always have been, since I can recall, and always will be.

Now, you must understand, I have a very, very small biologically related family. (Two parents, one sibling, two uncles, one aunt - two of the three are estranged.) The majority of my family is extended, step, and not at all physically "relative" to me. That being said, the concept of "family" has been, over the course of my lifetime, manipulated, re-ordered, re-justified and profoundly altered. I do have a lot of step-family, which is awesome, but they remain almost as distant as my actual family because we're just not... attentive. Well, some of us are. Others, are not. There seems to be, in my eclectic family, a common strain of DNA that hinders communication. It's odd.

So, these four friends of mine, who've been there for a varying number of years, but let's say round about fifteen, happen to be labeled in my "book," as family. The reason being that I love them, trust them, laugh with them, and couldn't live without them. At a pivotal point in my life, they became all I lived for. My parents were divorcing, my sister was four years younger than me - and at the time, that age difference was an eternal void of dissonance - and, in general, the only people who I felt like really understood me were my best friends. That was maybe true at the time, but it's absolutely, without any question, true today.

Tiffany and I met in fourth grade. Fourth. Crazy... I mean, I could have a child that was in fourth grade right now, that's how long ago that was. (Let us all bow our heads for a moment of silence, thanking whomever you thank Up There for the fact that I do not, in fact, have a child in any grade. Phew.)

I'll never, ever forget the exact moment that we became friends - and I can't say that for the others, just her, and I'm not sure why, but that's the case. And, because of that, because she's my oldest friend, because I remember the moment like it was yesterday, I feel the strongest about our friendship. It's how I imagine one would recall a firstborn - like no other. You've never experienced "it" before, and you freak out, and you remember it 'cause it was the first time you felt that - whatever "that" is. And maybe that explains why I'm lackadaisical about keeping in touch with her sometimes... because I don't feel like there's a need for effort in our friendship, I feel like it's natural, like she'll always be there... because she has been. (Hm. Note to self: Appreciate Tiffany more.)

Anyway - the moment. The moment I met Tiffany - my firstborn, if you're keeping up with the metaphor - was at a school concert in fourth grade at the AJ Gomes School. We were sitting in those plastic, stackable chairs in the "auditorium" and we were listening to - I think - a Navy band. At one point, they played "Tears in Heaven," and I happened to look in her direction, and she had tears in her eyes, and running down her cheek. I won't go into detail as to why, but you get the idea. It was that moment. That's when she became my best friend. My family. Now we're twenty-seven and twenty-eight. Time has passed, our friendship hasn't.

Ohh boy, this post is losing it's footing, and fast, so I'll cut to the chase.

When I was twenty-three, I moved into an apartment in downtown New Bedford, above the restaurant I work(ed) in, with three of the four frienmily (friend, family combo - get it?) members. The apartment was ridiculously nice - probably, without question, the nicest place I'll live for a long time - and we had a blast living there. A blast. Hm. "Blast" might actually be an understatement... but it'll do. Point being: There were four girls, who worked in a bar, were best friends, and lived upstairs from the bar they worked in in the sickest apartment in New Bedford. So... a blast. Yes.

And, in this apartment, in the kitchen, we had what we referred to as "The Scandalous Cabinet." In this cabinet were about fifty-seven shot glasses, a variety of nips that were so fucking disgusting nobody would drink them under any circumstances (and, booze didn't really have a shelf life in that apartment, so that's saying something), and other various paraphernalia.

That cabinet was fucking scandalous.

We all live separately now; some of us have bought houses, or moved in with boyfriends. Others (points to self) have gotten new apartments and tried to grow up a little bit - but not a lot, not as much as the other girls, who bought houses with, and moved in with, boyfriends. I guess in this case I'm establishing "having a boyfriend" as growing up. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I know what people will say back, because it's been said before. They say, "You're in grad school, you're doing things, you're totally a grown up," to which I reply, "School? Really? No. I want to be in love. I want someone to share my life with... besides my dog, who is awesome and loyal, I agree." That conversation never goes anywhere, and usually results in my cold shell of a heart eking at least one tear - or twenty - from my baby blues.

Anyway, The Scandalous Cabinet.

I don't have a scandalous cabinet in this apartment. Now, when my parents come to visit, they meander around my house, opening and closing and cooking and eating and whatever... and there's no risk involved. There's no way they're going to open a door to something - anything - scandalous. My life is an open book. What you see is what you get. Literally. I don't even have doors on ninety percent of the shelving in my kitchen.

Sometimes, though... sometimes, I miss that small piece of us that was kept hidden, set aside, and locked away in our world. Sometimes I miss having a hiding place.

Sometimes I just want to put something away in The Scandalous Cabinet and walk away, knowing that nobody but those three girls will ever know that it existed.

Ballads, beats, and the banter of Sabrina Blaze.

(Side note: This is my one hundredth post. Hollah.)

So, all day yesterday I was feeling a little claustro in my homecity of New Bedford. I wanted anonymity. I wanted to not be contacted, connected, or technologically tied down. I really wanted to throw my phone into a ravine and walk away and not see anyone I knew who might ask me where my phone was and why I didn't respond to their text message. I wanted to not see anything Facebook; no mutual friends, no more fucking doppelganger photos, no more status updates, friend requests, page suggestions, Kidnap requests, Yoville requests, Farmville bullshit... just nothing.

And, while I'm near the topic, the "Kidnap" thing is fucking creepy. Please stop trying to kidnap me, I never accept. I don't want you to kidnap me. That's a terrifying concept. Jesus.

So, anyway, last night... I shut my phone off, got in the car, picked up Jesstie and drove to Providence. We had no plan, no destination, no ideas, so we stopped in to my fave default spot as of late: DownCity. The general plan for the evening was to migrate... but then we got comfy.

All About Eve was playing full volume on the telly behind the bar when we arrived. We were just in time to wish we were in black & white, and born to a different era. I have a feeling my hips would look better in black and white. So would my issues. Kind of like this one line, that just couldn't have been more perfect in that moment.

Margo: "So many people know me. I wish I did. I wish someone would tell me about me."

Me, too, Margo. Me, too.

Just as Jesstie and I finished our delicious dinners - two words, one exclamation: Tater Tots - Sabrina Blaze showed up. A statuesque blond with a bouffant to die for, Sabrina Blaze hosts karaoke at DownCity every Monday.

For as long as I can remember, Mondays have been associated with Neal & Kenny, the Monday night gig at Freestones. I've worked there for six years, which makes my total number of Mondays worked somewhere in the hundreds. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, about Monday has changed since I was hired six years ago. The same band plays the same set. The same people come in, sit in the same seats, drink the same drinks, sing to the same songs, and see the same staff.

I kid that there should be a Monday night discount for people suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's not entirely a joke... Monday at Freestones is evidence of the world on repeat. It is predictable, safe, know-able. Mondays are familiar and lately all I've wanted is the unfamiliar, the unknown, the shot at experiencing something other than what I've already experienced.

Monday at DownCity, with Sabrina Blaze karaoke, is not repetitive. Monday at DownCity is just what I needed.

There's something about karaoke... It's really an intimate relationship between one person, their song selection, and a television - and then people watch. There's very little eye contact between performer and audience, because most people are just reading the television... it's like we're all voyeurs, watching a person define themselves, declare themselves, express themselves.

Last night, I watched people chase letters across a screen, their lyrics chased laughter out of strangers, their banter chased a community out of booths and barstools - it chased an identity out of me.

Last night, all I wanted was to go somewhere and be nobody, but instead I went somewhere and I was me.

And, on the way home, Jesstie and I listened to Amy Winehouse in honor of Randy Bush (yes, real name), who is the new bestie we made at DownCity karaoke, and who's voice is - can I just say - bananas, and who's rendition of Beyonce's "Ego" I will not soon forget. We left before we could hear his Winehouse, hence the choice for driving home music.

Well, would you look at that... my tears really do dry on their own. Drip dry.

Gracias

So, I don't want to get all in-depth and emotional with this post, as I have a tendency to do at times, but I just wanted to say that part of the reason why I love Thanksgiving is because people say "thanks," when they normally don't, or wouldn't, or don't have time to, or whatever the reason may be.

That being said, I just want to mention how thankful I am to have the friends I have.

They are numerous, and they are awesome.

I am so lucky, and so thankful for old friends, new friends, same-age friends, older friends, younger friends, boy friends, girl friends, musically-inclined friends, local friends, faraway friends, married friends, mom & dad friends, business-y friends, school friends, fun friends, crazy friends, sober friends, drunk friends, work friends, family friends... the list goes on and on and on.

And on.

I'm going to give myself some serious credit for picking the coolest people ever to hang around with.

So, be thankful for something this week. Or, be thankful for more than just one thing, be thankful every day. If you're not, well, then, you suck.

And, put a couple bucks in the Salvation Army bucket; then when the person ringing the bell says "Thank you, have a happy holiday," I promise you'll get that warm feeling in your chest that makes your step lighter, and your stresses a little fainter, if only for a moment.

Happy Turkey Day.

Foxwoods: A Haiku

I went to see Bodies Revealed today. (Which, is an amazing exhibit, and I highly recommend it.)

It was a nice day for the drive to Foxwoods, and I was with my bestie, Meg, so we had a blast... we always do.

But.

I have never been to a casino before.

And, guess what I learned?

Casinos are totally effed.

A haiku about Foxwoods:

Fanny packs, booze, smoke.
Elderly scooter drivers.
There are one cent slot machines.

Oh, hey Optimism, where have you been?

So, today was pretty rough on me. I ran a gamut of emotions, most of which were in the "I'm totally effed" to "I'm only kind of effed" range. Mostly, I was pretty sure that - in one way or another - I was effed.

Mostly I'm stressed about thesis work because it's a lot of effort to put into a "job" that may or may not exist in a year, or might exist but with different qualifiers, or might exist but with different standards or requirements or prerequisites or whatever you want to call it. It's just... a lot. A lot to handle.

My chest is tight, it feels like someone is sitting on it. It's not a good place. I hate this place.

Anyway, I started thinking about my "path" and then I recalled a conversation I had on Saturday while I was at work. And, it made me feel okay again.

So, I work in a restaurant where a lot of people are regulars. (Think Cheers, but multiply the regulars by fifty or so.) And, being that I've been at the restaurant for six years, they're now my friends. We hang out, we share stories, we're friends on Facebook... we're friends.

One of those friends came in on Saturday and, like he usually does, talked to me about my various Facebook status updates. He loves my often clever, pun-ish updates, though he never comments, he just waits until we see one another in person, and then he's all "Oh, remember when you wrote this... that was a good one!" It's funny.

Anyway. So, his friend was with him, as usual, and after witnessing this conversation yet again - because I think we have it every week - he, in all seriousness, said "You should be a writer or something, you're good at it."

I should be a writer.

No one has ever told me that I should be the exact thing I was trying to be.

I think it's a good sign. I'm where I should be. I'm doing what I should be doing. I'm doing what I love, what I'm good at.

That feels good.

So, get away from me, tension and stress. You can't stop this. You can't keep me from what I want... even if the only way I can express myself is in an effing Facebook update.

Whatever.

Forward & Back

In March I moved, and now I live in the house I grew up in.

Sort of.

Well. No. I definitely live there. But, I only sort of lived there as a kid.

It was the house my best friend lived in her whole life.

Isn't it weird how things come full-circle?

Twenty-five years of friendship and now I wake up every day in her piano room.

In Tune

Another lovely day.

One part work, two parts frozen strawberry lemonade, and three parts besties.

My confidence, and thus fun-ness, has increased dramatically with this new 'do. Who said blonds more fun? Pshaw. Red stripes do.



Also.

There's a mayjah change on the horizon... I think. I just can't chat about it quite yet.

When it happens (if it happens) I'll sing it from the rooftop.

In other words... you'll know.

Get ready.

Also.

New fave band of the day is Discovery. They are sick.

Vampire Weekend + Ra Ra Riot = Discovery & Discovery = the first thing to bump the Dirty Projectors out of heavy rotation.

Listen, enjoy and dance... you will want to dance.

And you should.

Dance, that is.

Robin, Ash, and Cherry

I have amazing friends.

They impress me regularly with their humor, wit, patience, intelligence, creativity, strength, and general awesome-ness.

I'm such a lucky girl.

Case in point:

Yesterday, my extremely talented bestie Robin delivered to my door the table she designed and built for me.

It's beautiful.
Every time I walk into the kitchen and see her creation... I smile.

I'm so proud of Robin, so thankful for my beautiful new piece of furniture, and so eager to see what more she does... because I have no doubt that whatever it is, it will be amazing.

Seen & Heard (or) How I Spent My Sunday

So, I worked a double at the restaurant today. Being a Sunday, it was fairly slow, but of course, we try to keep laughing, keep busy, and keep entertained.

The first laughter-to-tears moment of the day happened after M & I stopped for coffee & a bagel before heading in to work, which is part of our regular routine.

As we approached my car, I gestured to the passenger side rear window and exclaimed, "I'm so glad that the torrential rain on Friday night washed all the seagull poop off my car!"

Not three seconds later, a seagull missed M by mere inches and dirtied the very same window that had been recently rained clean.

How does this happen?

The second hysterical moment came when the first table of the day handed their dirty chowder cup to their server for her to clear, and told her that they put their topical steroid in there because they were done with it, but that there was more in the tube and so she should "feel free to use it for any bites or itches" if she needed it. Are these people serious?


Then, since I had the camera out to document the topical steroid incident, I couldn't resist another picture when, while M was cutting fruit, I happened upon this:

Love Sundays. Love watermelon.

Sunday Funday

It was a beautiful, well spent day off, in three parts:

First: Brunch for two. Two Bloody Marys, two Eggs Benedict, and two steaming cups of coffee.

Second: Cocktails at Joe's.

Third: Mussels at the Black Bass, followed by a delicious butterscotch creme brulee. One table outside, one bowl of mussels, two martinis and a couple hours of conversation; it was an awesome afternoon.

I have to work in the early morning so I called it a night early. But, being awake & alert at the office tomorrow seems worth it.

In other news, R & I have been talking a lot and I'm wondering: What happens when the future changes because of the long-since past? Was it always like this?

Even though I came home early, my active memory will keep me up all night.

I Do... Maybe

This past weekend, my brother tied the knot. To be completely honest, I was dreading the wedding (ha), but my cynical expectations were dashed with near-immediacy and I actually had an awesome time. I am now willing to amend my previous rant regarding the stupidity of marriage; I would like, instead, to say that it is not marriage that is stupid, it is those who marry for the wrong reasons that are stupid. So, an apology to my wonderful, happily married friends, and congratulations... may I someday be as lucky as you.

Moving on.

Highlights from the weekend include the following:

I met a very nice boy who likes stick figures and abhors odd numbers. This may sound completely arbitrary to most, but to me it sounds lovely. I'm a happy girl.

There was an impromptu sing-along featuring Leaving on A Jet Plane which was led in no small part by a rather boisterous German man, while six or seven of us sat around the designated Cigar Smoking Table by the pool. A surreal moment indeed.

I fell down. Tumbled. Took a knee. Bit it. However you want to put it - yes. I fell down in front of the majority of my immediate family at a very nice Italian restaurant. It was due in part to a decent amount of wine and one extremely tall pair of wedges, which brings me to my next revelation, which is that this is exactly the reason that I hate wearing high heels. Keep me in flip flops, flats, or, at best, barefoot. Please. That way I remain stable. Now, I have a skinned and bruised knee.

In other news:

I'm reading, at my mother's suggestion, Malcom Gladwell's Outliers and have come to wonder that perhaps every occurrence of success or tradgedy is in fact brought about a preceding number of coincidences that, unless happening in that very same way in that very same order, would never produce the exact same result as they do. It's a hopeful and troubling thought. One that I'm beginning to think might be true.

I'm beginning to see the coincidences more clearly now... or is it just that I'm looking too closely?

B has decided to move out. She's moving in with the boyfriend. I'm not yet freaking out - I'm trying to see the coincidence factor in this (perhaps a door will open I didn't know existed previously... perhaps).

Expect freak out to commence sometime soon, however.