Friday I'm In Love

Hello friends! It is Friday. I am in love with:

- Wool socks
- My dog romping in snow
- Not dealing with daycare for two whole days
- Egg salad with sriracha

Also:

Compliments. They are the key to EVERYTHING. (h/t to Julie!)



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This month I discovered the Tumblog of John Darnielle (of the Mountain Goats). It is strange and fabulous, as one might expect. A recent post in which Darnielle advises a fan about matters of faith embraces the paradox of agnosticism in a lovely and affirming way:

"You don’t have to apologize to yourself or anybody else if you like to pray, or attend services, or observe feasts/holidays/saints’ days/etc. There is no requirement that you believe. Do you enjoy praying? Does it connect you to something — maybe something within, maybe something beyond, maybe to a community whether that’s in real space or a broader community out there in the world? Then pray! Do you have a nagging feeling that your prayers ascend into an empty sky? Me too! Who cares!"

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Ever wonder where that italicized quip over the soft-focus picture that you found on Pinterest actually came from? Quote Investigator can help! With proper citations, of course.

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The website Oscar for Channing actually makes a kind of compelling argument. Or at least a pleasant afternoon read.

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John Hodgman recommended Arthur Bradford's weird little short story "The Box" on his Tumblog* THAT IS ALL. The story is at once both otherworldly and deeply mundane, and it has wandered back into my brain several times since I first read it.

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Sigh. Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal strikes again with a depressing truth-bomb about elections.

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The title pretty much sums it up: Uncomfortable Heterosexuality in Art History. (Thanks to MWC!)

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"When at long last the day of work is through,
I'll always aim to find my share of joy.
I'll walk within the sun's enliv'ning rays
for girls just want to have some fun within their days."

Cyndi Lauper, bard style. C/o Pop Sonnets.

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You look really great today. Have an awesome weekend.



*listen I really like the word "Tumblog" and I will not apologize for it. Pointless internet portmanteas: I know that the world is a cold and careless place, but know that you are loved.

Use Their Words: You Can't Carry It With You

As usual, we had nothing to fear. And in saying that, I mean: we have everything to fear. Death is slated for us all. And maybe it is years from now, in a soft bed, surrounded by the soft eyes of the people that we love. Or maybe it is not so many years from now at all. We have every reason to be afraid. But, we also need to learn to put that fear aside, like a library book. Sometimes we need to check out our fear, and read it, and study it, and peruse it closely, but at a certain point return it to its proper shelf and experience something else. Contentment. Worry. Calm. Hunger. Spinal parasites. And, a great deal of love, of every kind. So put that fear in a place where you can find it when you need it. Don’t carry it with you. Don’t carry it with you.

- Welcome to Night Vale, The Librarian (live at Skirball)

Use Their Words: "We keep our eyes fixed on the horizon to avoid having to look back over our shoulder in embarrassment."

"What accounts for the popularity of watching folks walk for long days? . . . The truth is that many waves sweep mass society that have no more explanation than the oceanic kind: a random blast of wind drives a swell, it snags on a rock, and then the wave crashes. By the late eighteen-seventies, walking had started getting ferocious hate mail, or sermons, chiefly from New York City preachers, who thundered against it as a "gladitorial" sport. Soon there was legislation, still on the books, prohibiting six-day walking marathons.

The contests, one comes to see, were no longer really walking competitions. Mostly, they were, or became, something crueller. They were competitions in not sleeping. The ability to walk well--to have [Edward Payson] Weston's odd big stride or [Daniel] O'Leary's right light step--had surrendered to the more brutal ability just to stay awake for six days. (Weston eventually admitted to having chewed coca leaves while racing, although, Barry Bonds-like, he strenuously denied that the drug really helped.) The crowds were not coming to watch the walkers walk. They were coming to watch them drop.

Competitive walking, in its maturity, turns out to be less a charming game from an age of innocence than one more episode in the modern fascination with rituals of human endurance, made exotic by technological advance, and fuelled by the same morbid curiosity that gives us the demolition derby, books about survival on Everest, and the ice-bound stunts of David Blaine, along with "Survivor" and "Deadliest Catch." Our appetite for watching people stumble from exhaustion soon moves from one kind of spectacle to the next, perhaps partly because we're ashamed of having enjoyed the previous one. This may also explain why each one, when it goes, can leave so little track behind. We keep our eyes fixed on the horizon to avoid having to look back over our shoulder in embarrassment."

- Heaven's Gaits: What we do when we walk by Adam Gopnik, from the September 1, 2014 issue of the New Yorker

It's not quite the same situation, but as a Serial completist I wonder how that show will fare in the annals of history. Any number of its"characters" could be considered exemplars of "human endurance" - the subjects (Adnan, Jay, and the rest) as well as Sarah Koenig and her colleagues. Morbid curiosity? I think we can all agree the show has that in spades.

Looking uneasily over my shoulder.



Thanks to S&J for the most edifying, and most voluminous, of all of our wonderful wedding presents.

Sun comes up and we start again

Well, it took me two years but I finally completed my 2012 New Years resolution. Behold:

Onward.

Obviously it's been a while since I blogged, and it'll probably be a while before I do it again on any sort of regular basis. Partially that's because I got kinda busy this year becoming a new parent.

But the truth is that I have dozens of drafts here in Blogger that never made it to post - so that's a bit of a bogus excuse. The real issue is follow-through, which has always been a challenge for me. It's all about anxiety: I get an idea for something I want to do, but before I get to the execution I decide that I would probably just fuck it up or the person(s) involved wouldn't like it or would think I'm weird or would be disappointed. So I put it off until I forget about it or it's no longer relevant and then I drag myself through the mud a second time for not acting in the first place.

A surprising (or perhaps not very surprising) amount of my life is lived this way. And, honestly, that is not likely to change a great deal. I'm about to turn 33 (helloooo Jesus year) and while I dig the Eat-Pray-Love-How-Stella-Got-Her-Groove-Back late-in-life epiphany narrative on an aesthetic level, I don't see myself achieving enlightenment on a tropical island any time soon.

Which is not to say that I'm ditching out on that whole self-value thing altogether. But in keeping with the fake-it-'til-you-make-it philosophy that has dominated my life as a parent, I'm more interested in how I can work around the anxiety rather than trying to banish it. It just seems more practical.

So. This year I resolve to do more things when I think of them. Even if I think they might not turn out how I expect or people might think I'm weird. Newsflash: I AM weird. Also kind of awesome.

I also resolve to hang the words "BE HERE NOW" in an obnoxiously large frame in our kitchen. Maybe I can actually accomplish that by 2017.

http://youtu.be/0z2GLCmKqLQ

Fashion (turn to the left)

While in Europe I collected some thoughts on global and regional fashion, and I'm still mulling them over. But then I got back this week, caught up on my social media, pulled my one fashion mag from the mail pile, and dove into my Feedly blog backlog (RIP Google Reader). And I found that I have a more pressing concern than which foreign country most enjoys scarves.

Here's the deal. I am super duper sick of women policing each other in the name of "fashion." I understand that the workplace has rules about clothes, and I don't begrudge that. But out in the world? I don't give a flying fuck what you're wearing, and I don't see why you care what I'm wearing. Much less how my - or anyone's - clothing choices could cause any sort of personal offense.* If you're truly offended by someone's choice of pants** or display of decolletage, it seems to that you must be 1) so unusually sensitive to the aesthetic choices around you that you probably shouldn't venture outside in the first place, 2) deeply uncomfortable with the realities of the human body, which you should maybe work on, and/or 3) not paying very close attention to all the other things in the world that deserve far more attention (and disdain).

Like, for example, the way that women are socialized to compete with one another on any and all grounds, including and especially physical attractiveness. Which is a value that is primarily defined in our society by straight men, no matter what the fashion industry may say. Straight men, who, as a group, stand to benefit from women focusing their energies on judging each other and propagating personal insecurities rather than on demanding equal power with men in social and professional settings.

So, here is my proposal. Next time you see a lady out and about, and you notice her clothing, consider these two options:

1) If you like her style: Smile! Make a mental note of anything you'd like to replicate in your own wardrobe. Consider complimenting her on said fashion choice, because compliments are awesome! Everyone likes to be told that others admire their choices, and compliments make both the complimenter and the complimentee feel pretty great.

2) If you're not digging what she's wearing: Think to yourself, "huh, that's not the choice I would have made." And then MOVE THE FUCK ON. Do not pass Go, Blogger, Twitter, or Facebook. Do not collect $200. The end.

And thanks. I really like the outfit you're wearing today. You look great!

*Of course I except clothing with hateful words/symbols on it from this statement, but even then: your body, your hate, not gonna get worked up over it. Just privately disappointed. 

**Here's a handy trick, by the way, for anyone wondering if an article of clothing constitutes "pants": are they being worn on the legs without something on top of them? Then they are pants. End of story. Your opinion on their quality as a pants choice is only your own, and frankly I probably don't want to hear it.***

***Finally, I acknowledge here that I have been guilty myself of fashion policing. I can think of one friend who I (playfully, I hope?) teased for wearing extra-short workout shorts that I know she really likes and that are really comfortable. Today I say, gurl, you wear those shorts. They look great on you, and even if they didn't, wear what you want. YOU DO YOU.

All pictures in this post taken at the Louvre.

H(aterade)

New slogans for H St. NE that I brainstormed during today's bike ride (among other experiences):

H St. NE: Why Have a Functioning Light Rail When We Can Just Delay the Project Indefinitely and Still Cripple Cyclists With Giant Track Grooves?

H St. NE: When Biking On Georgia Avenue Is Just Too Pleasant and Safe

H St. NE: If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now, And So Would The Angry Yelling Man On The Bench Over There


H St. NE: Yeah, We Know Taylor Gourmet Kinda Sucks


H. St. NE: I Took A Pole Dancing Class There Once And It Was Honestly Kinda Fun.

H. St. NE: There Is No Such Thing As A Socially Appropriate Country Club. On the Other Hand, Skeeball.

H. St. NE: I Am Part of the Problem.

H. St. NE: It's Really Not So Bad, And There Are Lots of Nice People There From Many Different Backgrounds.

H. St. NE: We're Trying Real Hard And You Are Not Helping

H. St. NE: Maybe You Should Just Lay Off the Haterade and Go Stretch Your Quads, Asshole

FTF

It's Friday, I'm in love! With the following things.

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Sooooo guys I have been living under a rock for most of a year and just saw the Gagnam style video for the first time! Turns out it's pretty good?



I bet though that YOU haven't seen the "Groundhog Style" parody performed by the emcees at Gobbler's Knob in Feb. PRETTY SOLID.



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On a slightly more relevant pop culture note, I kinda really like this Taylor Swift song . . .


WANT THAT T-SHIRT

I'm on the fence about Tay Tay in general - she promotes a certain amount of female "empowerment" but only within pretty narrow, socially-acceptable boundaries that emphasize romantic relationships as the primary source of identity. On the other hand, I know she wouldn't get as much flack in the media about her romantic travails if she were a dude, and that rankles.

Regardless, I am on board for the embrace of early-twenties ridiculousness. At 22, my job was to make teenaged miscreants (some of whom were a mere four years younger than myself) care about the written word more than their hormones/cell phones. I spent my summers trying to make slightly younger teenaged miscreants care about caring for yet younger children. I lived with a roommate on the "single women's corridor" of DC (along the left side of the Red Line), and I was on the verge of a relationship with the second of two gentleman I dated from my alma mater's alternafrat. Life was weird. Not jump-in-a-pool-at-a-swanky-house-party weird, but I guess "happy free confused and lonely at the same time" wouldn't be a terrible description. Young adults who recognize and embrace the silliness of your own lives, I salute you -- but, a reminder: 22 is a means to an end, not an end in itself.

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These blue cheese cookies sound very confusing but taste VERY DELICIOUS. Possibly because they are approx. 75% butter and cheese. And the recipe is surprisingly forgiving for being french baking.

image via Serious Eats

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Digging this post from Eat the Damn Cake about real vs. ideal bodies. So many people, myself included, carry around invisible goggles that scrutinize and revise the contours of our own bodies to create what we think they "should" look like. Spoiler alert: those imaginary images are NOT YOUR REAL BODY. The body underneath is your real body. EMBRACE IT.

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Pls someone find and buy me this coconut-infused tequila? Or I guess I could make it myself probs. Buuuut I want a coconut margarita NOWWW. Found via How Sweet It Is.

image via http://www.proximospirits.com

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We went to Sandy Point on the Chesapeake Bay last weekend . It was nice! They only allow dogs from Oct. 1st to April 30th unfortunately. Still, a nice day trip - lots of space, lots of beach, lots of volleyball courts, lots of parking. Wet dog pictures coming soon.

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And finally, my new plan of psychological well-being: every night, make a list of the following:

1. Things that I'm proud of having done that day
2. Things that I'm grateful for
3. Things that didn't go as well as planned PLUS why it's still okay
4. At least one compliment about my own physical appearance

Then: SLEEP.

Happy Friday!

And I Quote

"Okay, you're getting close to being able to perform miracles. Little ones. Pitiful ones. Like curing pimples. Or lowering price tags on designer clothes. But keep these acts a secret. It's a personal power you've reached through spiritual study, but don't expect the stupid little outside world to believe you. Scientologists call it "clear"; we'll call it "cloudy." Once we have identified and embraced our sickness, we'll have strength!And that's when we get dangerous. Identify the spots of guilt on your body and pluck them out like the chicken livers evangelists pretend is the cancer they cure in shills planted in the congregations of their tent revivals. Where are you feeling you're not worthy? In your hair? Behind your ears? In your private areas? Well, cast it out! We're Porn Again and we have no regrets! Repent? Hell, no! I HAVE A SCREAM! NO REMORSE! NO SHAME! ALL LAUGHING ALL THE TIME! CINEMATIC DELIRIUM!

There's only one way we want to die--spontaneous combustion. The unexplained phenomenon of being so guilty and happy, so obsessed, so driven, and so fantastical that you just burst into flames for no apparent reason. On the street. At work. Hopefully, for me, in an airport. And if we work together, it could happen to us all at once when we're out somewhere causing trouble. It's a beautiful death, dramatic, scary, internally cleansing, and all you leave for the rest of the world to see is a really good pair of shoes. I have a lot of books on spontaneous combustion, or "fire from heaven" as it has been called, and all the pictures of the lucky dead are the same. Ashes. Shoes. Ashes. Shoes. So it all boils down to a religious lesson. Be prepared. Always wear stylish shoes. They won't be comfortable. They shouldn't be. It hurts to be this pure."

- the last two paragraphs of John Waters' book Role Models

I Want to Ride My

Just started biking to work again after going on hiatus in fall of last year. Biking is awesome, I should do it more often/always. Besides free exercise, shorter commuting time, and fresh air & sun, I will also have a head start when the zombie apocalypse comes. Or when we find out suddenly that the world will end in an hour and there’s nothing we can do about it. (Ugh I still hate that comic. I hate you Ryan North, no, come back, I love you.)

Of course, because this is me, biking to work also involves Lessons.

1. It’s hard not to feel holier-than-thou while commuting by bike. Even though I almost toppled myself while setting off after a red light at R & 14th. Even though this was literally my first bike ride since September. Even though half a dozen people passed me today. STILL BETTER THAN YOU, CARS.

2. It’s not a race (but if it were I would lose). As a deeply insecure person, I am also deeply and secretly competitive. Which means in practice that my not-super-in-shape butt gets sad every time someone charges past me on a hill, even when they’ve given fair warning and I AM going, like, negative miles an hour. And I’ve been passed by all types: fit folks in spandex, normal-looking people on bikeshare bikes, older folks in work clothes, ambitious snails. To be fair, sometimes they’re passing me in order to do something illegal and/or dangerous that I am too timid/law abiding to do. And sometimes I would like to pass the person in front of me but I am too scared/lazy to do it. I’m getting better about that bit, I think.

In general though it is hard not to feel inferior when comparing myself to the veteran cyclists on the road. Hello badass year-round DC bike commuters! Fair-weather biker here! Just wanted to let you know, now that’s it April: I‘M ON YR STREETZ, CLOGGIN YR BIKE LANEZ. Please try not to roll your eyes too hard!

3. The clothes don’t make the cyclist, but they help. The length and hilliness of my commute necessitates the wearing of workout clothes & shoes - which is turn makes me feel like an Exercise Imposter, because a) I am not a small person, and in my head spandex is reserved for small people and b) I am not really a consistent exerciser. I just have an athletic friend who generously passes me her extra workout clothes. If only street cred could also be transmitted via hand-me-down! On the plus side, wearing proper workout clothes does make me feel less like an unmitigated mess on my daily journey. Plus I keep my work clothes clean (if a bit rumpled), my toes protected, and my sweat where it belongs (i.e. in my crotch).

4. Not all traffic rules are created equal. I continue to build my working knowledge of when to obey and when to flout traffic regulations. Just as new drivers have to feel out for themselves how fast to drive above the posted speed limit, when to run a yellow light, and how to manage merges, I’m still deciding which rules make sense for a cyclist and which don’t. I remain overly cautious in general. Biking between cars stopped at a light on a bike-lane-less street? Fine: stay on the right side of the cars (unless turning left), watch for clothesline potential from parked cars and pancake potential from cars turning right, and stop if there’s a bus. DON’T MESS WITH BUSES. Running stop signs? More acceptable at four-way stops and infrequently-traveled streets than elsewhere. Slow down on approach and look both ways in all cases. Still, since my coasting speed is not far off from the average speed of most cars’ “rolling stops,” I don’t feel too bad about plowing through. Running red lights? Rarely. Again, evaluate the how busy the road is; one-way streets are better. Pull into the crosswalk if possible to maximize visibility, but be careful not to block or hit people walking there. Then, if your ears, eyes and judgment recommend, proceed with caution. Left turns? My best advice so far is, keep your eyes open and embrace the chaos.



5. Learn the ways of the pack-rat. Cycling in DC is a sweaty business. Don’t forgot your work-appropriate bra, as well as a towel and extra undies. Plus deodorant, everything of value in your purse/pockets, and bike lock & key. If you wear prescription sunglasses to ride, make sure your regular non-sun glasses are safely stowed on your person lest you spend the day at work looking like Tom Cruise in Risky Business (but with pants, unless you forget those too). It’s also worthwhile to squirrel away some essentials at work, including neutral shoes (black moccasins are my preference), even more extra undies, perfume, hairbrush, wet wipes, snacks, etc. Essentially, pack like you are the parent of a toddler, except that you are the toddler, so all the clothes should fit you.

6. There are hazards to Biking While Female. So far I haven’t been on the receiving end of too much harrassment, for a lady wearing spandex in public. I did have a guy lean out of a truck at a stoplight to tell me that he could understand how I “kept that body” since I bike. I told him that was inappropriate to say and he didn’t subsequently run me over with his truck so I’m calling that a pretty minor incident. On the other hand, I know folks who have been verbally and physically assaulted for possessing two x chromosomes and a pair of wheels, so YMMV*.

7. Here be monsters. Mythical monsters of the cyclist’s world include trash trucks, buses, vehicles parked in the bike lane, people spitting into the street (c'mon, folks, really?!), Segway cops, construction areas, trolley tracks, and lack of curb cuts. Also did I mention BUSES? And all also all the run-of-the-mill assholes just like in every part of life. Good luck with that.

8. Despite all the hazards and cautionary tales, biking really makes you appreciate The Little Things. For example, the guy who passed me on 15th street this morning performed a positively uncanny – and, I presume, unintentional - impression of Butthead (of Beavis and Butthead, duh) when warning me he was passing.

Happy trails.




*I just learned that acronym! INTERNETZ.
**Sorry this post is super long. If it makes you feel any better, it used to be two posts! Take THAT post that I wrote and never posted six months ago. 

31 Today(ish)

My birthday was last week. Going strictly by the numbers, this depressing song should have been my birthday theme song:


But, as much as I dig Aimee Mann and her rad 'Til Tuesday hair, I'm way more into this song right now (also forever, perhaps not incidentally):


The day of my birthday, I took the day off of work, had a couple glasses of bubbly, and spent the day in my pjs in my beautiful house with a sleeping puppy in my lap. I made homemade cheez-its and blood orange sherbet, and threw some kale in the slow-cooker. In the evening I had pizza, watched a movie, and snuggled with my beloved/partner in crime.

So, you know, life is going pretty okay.

I meant to do this when I turned thirty but obviously didn't:

Things I have learned in the last 3(1) years

- Wool socks. November through March. Nonstop. Especially at bedtime.
- Having a lot of feelings about a friendship is not the same as being a good friend.
- Drama =/= Import. In fact, more often than not, it's the opposite.
- Taking care of others who are having a tougher time than I am can be an admirable and valuable thing to do. It can also be a way of ignoring my own problems and creating false self-esteem based on external comparisons rather than internal truth.
- Smarts, like other "inherited" traits, don't mean much unless they're in use. Accordingly, compliments about actions can be much more constructive than compliments about states of being (though really, all compliments are good compliments, and I will never stop wanting more).
- I am a pretty decent dancer, singer, and writer. I am good at organizing things and making plans, but not always great at follow-through. I am fundamentally wired for language, and not just in the normal human way. Thinking creatively in numbers or 3-D space is not my strongest suit, but I am perfectly functional in those departments for the purposes of my life and work. I am not awesome at drawing but I like to do it and should do it more.
- The older I get, the more important rhythm is in my musical choices (as compared w/ lyrics & melody).
- Aging in general has meant for me a narrowing in some ways, and a broadening in others: I focus on fewer things, but I focus on them more intently and more consciously.
- Having thoughtful, specific life routines solves a lot more problems than my teenage self would have imagined.
- I will always struggle with personal and social anxiety, and residual obnoxious-teenage-girl low self esteem. But I've come a long long way (through the hard times and the good).
- Tying my self-worth too closely to a job is a recipe for eventually hating both.
- 95% of the time when people complain, they don't want constructive advice - just sympathy. This knowledge will probably never prevent me from wanting to give advice anyway. (see "taking care of others," above.)
- I'm never going to like the act of cooking itself, even if I like the results. And that's okay.
- In cooking as in life, I am usually my own worst critic.
- Dresses are the best articles of clothing.
- People who are personally offended by the fashion choices of others are truly obnoxious. (If you don't like dresses, I am not personally offended. You do you!)
- I am a Feminist with a capital F. I reserve the right to be offended by people who aren't feminists (but not uniformly, since there is a lot of misinformation about feminism floating around, and punishing people for ignorance is, well, ignorant).
- Pee after sex. Every time.
- Light sleeper? USE EARPLUGS. (Can't believe how long this one took me.)
- I only like to hydrate via hot water or, on very very hot days, ice cubes.
- The ways in which I've been lucky in my life - from my family to my friends to my loves to my general life circumstances - are ongoing and endless. To be anything but grateful would be downright stupid.

Thanks all.