Make Good Art.

-Neil Gaiman

Thursday, August 28, 2014

OK, Stupid

"This is going to end in with me stuffed in the trunk of a car somewhere."

"You're being dramatic."

"Or, best case scenario, it's going to be a repeat of BDF."

"You never did tell me what that meant. I resorted to Urban Dictionary."

I cackle. "Yeah, that's not the right definition. It's just shorthand that . . . one of my more ruthless friends came up with to describe that whooooooole situation."

"Oh. Oh. Oh. "

"Got it?"

"Yeah."

We're quiet for a little while before she says, "Seriously, though. So you have one more BDF adventure, so what? Although, I really think that made you learn your lesson."

"Don't be such a slut?"

"Yeah, you hussy. And, what happens if it does happen again? You go off dating for another few months, you settle down. You get back into it again. The law of large numbers means you have to find someone you don't dislike eventually."

"The fact that you just invoked the law of large numbers to demonstrate your point makes me want to date you."

"Yeah, well. That's your classic Catch-22. The amount of alcohol it would get me to agree to that is greater than the amount of alcohol that would cause me to pass out. So stop equivocating and just do it."

"I hate when you're right."

"Just don't be stupid."

***

It's official.

I now have a pickup line. An actual, honest-to-goodness, I think you're cute and would like to get to know you better line. And, somewhat weirder, it actually seems to be effective.

"Can you tell me how a warp drive works?"

First of all, let's get one thing straight. I know how a warp drive works. I'm neither an idiot nor a scifi newbie.

I've also only used it a couple times, in situations where I can be reasonably certain of success (The Source, tabletop game nights, online dating), and while I haven't met anyone to date long term as a result of it, it has started some interesting conversations about physics (if I'm really lucky), comic books, and the merits of the various Trek franchises.

Mildly disingenuous? Yeah, okay. A good way to start a conversation when you're shy and the chances of that cute, skinny guy in the Picard vs. Kirk shirt also being shy are pretty high? Absolutely.

There are worse approaches.

***

"Is that a mush . . .OHMYGOD WHAT?"

She peeks over my shoulder and starts laughing.

"You should start a Tumblr of these."

"WHY WOULD YOU THINK ANYONE WOULD WANT TO SEE THAT?"

"Do I need to get your paper bag?"

"Okay. So. One gross photo. Fine. Whatever. Maybe this doesn't have to be soul-crushing."

"Are you pep-talking yourself?"

"Yes, fuck you, I am. Did you see that thing? It was like The Spooky Old Tree!"

"You realize you're the only person in the world who has to pep-talk themselves into filling out an online dating profile? And that you've ruined that beloved book for me, right?"

"IT'S AN ACCURATE DESCRIPTION. And, screw you. I'm a shy introvert who's scared of serial killers. What do you want from my life?"

"Seriously. Get some therapy about the serial killer thing."

***

It takes an hour and a half back on OkCupid before I get my first "Ew, gross" message. 

In fewer than twenty-four hours before I receive one invitation for a FFM, four messages that are, shall we say, forward, and a surprising number of offers for explicit pictures. 

Oh, OkCupid. I really didn't miss you at all

Right. So. I'm back to online dating. 

Before the Spidey-Senses of my female relatives start tingling, let me be very clear about something. I'll own up to a few "lady protesting too much" moments in my life. I will. But everything I wrote during July and August about being happy being single, that still holds. I freaking love being single. Yesterday I went for an impromptu dinner with a close friend. Then I came home, opened a beer, and played Civ IV for three hours and then watched the Lizzie Bennett Diaries until I fell asleep straight down the middle of my bed, with my rattley fan in the window and snuggled in with all the blankets. 

It was great. 

I'm not just whistling in the dark. I take a lot of pleasure in my life the way it is. It's full of people I love, work I find meaningful, passtimes I enjoy. My life is better than I ever imagined it was going to be. But at the same time, I recognize that it might be nice to surprise someone on Saturday morning with scones and have someone with whom I can talk about books and play video games and have sex afterwards. It's possible to love being single and acknowledge that my life could be a richer place with a partner in it. 

I'm the Schrodinger's Cat of relationships. 

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Tiny

Tuesday, August 26th, 2014
St. Paul, MN
6:14AM

Hey Tiny,

I woke up to a text this morning about how your mom started labor about, what now, five hours ago? Not much news since then, aside from your grandma and grandpa (my mom and dad) announcing that they were at the hospital (as of 2014, they're still not totally sure how to work a group text).

Kid, I have started this letter to you about sixteen times now. A couple times I've apologized for the colossally fucked up world you're going to inherit (and also to your folks for dropping the F-bomb in your letter. I'm supposed to be cleaning up my mouth in advance of meeting you.). That was just too depressing for me to think about. A few times I've tried to tell you a little about your dad's side of the family, but you'll decide about us as you're growing up (Good luck and Godspeed). Once or twice I ended up writing about my own disinclination for children, but this isn't a therapy session (It's not even a therapist's idea that I write to you). Although, that said, it is strange to me that my baby brother, your dad, who I still think of as a fellow conspirator in broken lamps and lineball, is a dad. What a trip.

Tiny, you scare the hell out of me.

It isn't just because your skull hasn't closed all the way or that I'm afraid I'm accidentally going to drop and break you (although it hasn't and I am). It isn't that I'm worried about whether or not you'll be a shitty teenage or if you'll like science, or what you'll think about the books-through-the-mail idea I had for you. Nah. Those things don't scare me. What scares me is the amount of serotonin, dopamine, and oxytocin that hit my brain when I heard you were on your way.

That's your aunt's way of saying, "I love you, kid."

That's what scares the hell out of me.

I don't like a lot of people, Tiny. I really don't. And of the people I actually like, there are very few that I'm willing to say that I love. And the people that I do love and say I love? Tiny, they've been in my life for years. We've broken lamps and climbed trees and butchered deer together. We've shopped for homecoming dresses and cried over broken hearts. We've traveled through foreign countries, worked our asses off to make the world a better place, shared meals and booze and funny and sad stories.

We've been in one another's lives a long, long time.

I've gotten used to loving people that I've known for a long, long time. It makes sense to me. It's familiar and comfortable. It made me think that this, this knowing is what love is, what it's supposed to be. And now, suddenly, you're about to be here and . . . Jesus. I love you without meeting you, without having a conversation about The Great Gatsby or going for runs or singing along to Metric.

I don't know what to do with it.

That's really it, Tiny. That's what I got out of bed early to tell you. I'm reasonably certain that by the time you're old enough to read this, you'll have realized a lot of crazy shit about me (including how much I relish cussing). You'll have received a lot of books and unsolicited advice, some hugs and age-appropriate music and dinosaur toys. You'll get lots of stuff from me over the years, and we'll (hopefully) have some fun together, I'm almost certain of that. But those things, like the things I have to tell you about Shakespeare and our family and universe aren't important right now.

I love you. And it's terrifying and amazing. Right now, that's all you need to know.

See you soon, kid.

Kelly

Monday, August 25, 2014

Just Another Girl

"What song is this?"

Over the sixteen odd years of our friendship, Michelle and I have come to a tacit agreement with regard to driving. Namely, I don't drive. Ever. Instead, I'm in charge of watching for deer at dusk, navigating (inexpertly), keeping an eye out for roadside attractions to take goofy pictures at, and (most importantly) am in charge of the radio.

"It's your jam!"

"Nope. No idea what this is."

"The Killers."

"Honey, my jam is Shot at the Night."

"Oh, right! This is my jam."

She shakes her head.

"Give me a break. It's been a rough couple weeks."

"Just this once, I'll let it go."

***

On the list of embarrassing places to start crying, a feminist sex shop has gotta be at the top. 

I know because over the past week I've made a list of embarrassing places to start crying, as a result of crying all over the damn city. The bathroom at work is fine as long as you can muffle it. The car is less than ideal as there's always the chance of causing an accident. The bar during trivia and the bus are also right up at the top of the list. 

And I'm not talking dignified, silent weeping. I'm talking loud, totally unanticipated sobs that make the entire establishment turn and look at you. 

It's been a pretty great week.

So crying in a feminist sex shop is awkward for a lotta reasons, not the least of which is that you're harshing everyone's dopamine high. When I start welling up in the middle of the Smitten Kitten, I reach into my purse for the packet of tissues that's been in there for the past couple days, wave my friend off (wondering for a moment if refraction is distorting the size of what's in her hand) and bolt for a bench outside. 

The woman I'm with comes out about twenty minutes later and starts rubbing my back. "Are you all right?" 

"Yeah," I manage to hiccup out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." 

"No, it's my fault. You said you didn't want to come. I hoped it would cheer you up."

"Yeah. It's just . . ."

"Oh, honey. I know." 

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I put my head in my hands. "I forgot it was like this." 

***

"I think that saying that you love someone unconditionally is idiotic."

I was prepared for a lot of things on this road trip, but this conversation was not one of them.

"Why?"

"Because no one means it. If someone murders your whole family are you still going to love them?"

"I think that might be a bit of an outlier."

"What if they spend all the money in your joint account? Screw your best friend?"

"Really, I think that people who say that they'll love someone unconditionally would accept those as, you know, extenuating circumstances."

He blows a raspberry and I start to laugh. "Why," I ask, "are you so worked up about this? Has someone claimed that they'll love you unconditionally recently?"

"No, but I'm a firm believer in saying what you actually mean."

I study his profile for moment before saying softly, "Yeah. Me too."

***

"Kels, do you think that maybe you're pushing yourself just a little bit too hard?"

I'm standing off the path, about waist-high in some bushes, dry-heaving. I shake my head. "I'll be fine in a minute." 

"I'm just saying, maybe I need to take you over by Michelle's so you can talk it out?" 

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and emerge from the bushes. "I am so fucking sick of talking. Let's just run."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm certain." 

***


"I don't get dumped."

"Kelly, everyone gets dumped." 

"I don't. It's one of those laws of the universe, like the second law of thermodynamics or how Doctor Who is the greatest sci-fi show ever written. I am always the rejector, not the rejectee. It is known."

"Yes, well, I mean, it's really not that different is it? You'll do the same things you always do: drink a lot of bourbon and listen to a lot of Patsy Cline, eat Indian takeaway, and run until you're exhausted." 

"You forgot "Come to in four weeks with a new PR and a haircut I don't remember getting." That's always an important part." 

"See, it's not actually that different."

"It is."

"How?"

"All that serotonin, oxytocin, and dopamine made me stupid. They made me giggly and gushy and just stupid." 

"What's different? That's what happens every time with you." 

I sigh, giving my best impression of eighteen year old, emo Kelly. "I felt like I was someone special. Like this time I was more than just another girl." 

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Midwestern Girl

"Today," I say, pausing to take a bite out of my corndog, "is everything I wanted it to be."

"You really are a Midwestern girl at heart, aren't you?"

"What the hell does that even mean?"

We're walking around the Minnesota State Fair. I'm happily eating a corndog and drinking lemonade, on my way to see the butter sculptures of Princess Kay of the Milky Way. I've been relentlessly, ridiculously cheerful the entire time we've been here, no small feat considering I've spent most of the past week really down.

"For all your love of big coastal cities, for as much as you talk about the West Coast in particular, you're just so damn Midwestern."

"Yeah. Again. What does that mean?"

We detour into the Horticulture building so I can talk to the beekeepers and see if I can identify the queen in the display hives. I charm the beekeepers with equal parts erudite questions about bees and hives and sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm. When we get to the crop art section of the building, I literally clap my hands and jump up and down when we see a picture of Nikola Tesla made out of grain.

"That's what I mean." He answers my question from half an hour earlier.

"Exuberance is the antithesis of Midwestern." I retort.

"Nah. That's not what I mean. I mean, well, a lot of things. Mainly that when you love something, it's unironic and intense and maybe just a little bit weird. And that you love, well, Midwestern things. Corndogs. Lemonade. The sound of Canadian geese migrating. Scott Fitzgerald. Winter."

"I honestly don't know if I've been complimented or insulted, but if you really want to see me love something, we should go get some cheese curds."

We go for cheese curds. We see the Butter Princesses. We talk and laugh and get stopped by an impromptu parade and listen to a marching band arrangement of Fireworks, which prompts a long, funny story. We marvel at the paddlefish in the DNR exhibit. We eventually say goodbye and he heads one way to his moped and I walk to the transit hub and board a bus home, ruminating on something Fitzgerald wrote in Gatsby (have I mentioned how it's my favorite book?). Nick Carraway, reflecting on the summer and Gatsby writes:
I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all--Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.
The quote's been rattling around my brain for most of the summer. Time during which my private writing has consisted of me muttering about being discontent, distracted, and dissatisfied. There was nothing concrete to complain about, just a vague sense that settling here in the Twin Cities was, well, settling. That I've never done anything or been anywhere. Prior to now I've never lived anywhere for longer than nine months without actively scheming to go somewhere new and try something different and (trust me, I know how batshit crazy this sounds) spending this much time without being dissatisfied is making me dissatisfied. I spend a lot of time wondering about Gatsby and Nick and Daisy's subtle unadaptabilty to Eastern life, and wonder if I would be the same.

The discontent is something that I only discuss with Kerry. I spend an entire Sunday afternoon spilling my guts about how I'm worried I'm settling and that I've never done anything. My every instinct is to bolt, to pull up my stakes and head off to Boston or Seattle. When my landlord slides my lease for the next year underneath my door, I run for a paper bag. Kerry reminds me, gently (in the way of really lovely friends) that perhaps I've spent too long pulling up my roots, that staying is the uncomfortable, difficult thing for me.

So it's more likely I'll learn something if I do. 

My 20s have been about bolting, about learning to leave bad relationships, bad jobs, bad cities. Those lessons have, literally, saved my life. However, they also made me terrified, well, of things being right. I spent most of my 20s unhappy, either as a result of other people (aforementioned bad relationships) or because I was slowly going crazy. Happiness still feels a bit like walking on ice at the end of March. I'm reasonably certain that it'll support me, but it every creak and groan leaves me anxiously counting the steps until I get to the shoreline. 

I get off my bus a few blocks from the Mississippi and take the long way home, thinking about what, if anything, it means that I loved the Fair unironically. That I look forward to fresh squeezed lemonade and long, lazy summer afternoons on the boat. That I can't wait for autumn and anticipate winter with the kind of eagerness that would horrify my fellow Minnesotans (still a little shell-shocked from three Polar Vortexes).

Maybe it means I would be subtly unsuited for life on the coasts. Perhaps it doesn't mean anything. But for the time being, I'm going to trust that it means that I should be content to be content, and learn to trust the ice under my feet. 

And eat more cheese curds. It definitely means eat more cheese curds. 

Friday, August 22, 2014

Games II

"This is some guy's fantasy."

"To be fair, this is about three-quarters of the way to way to one of my fantasies."

Krista and I are half dressed, in my bed, waiting for the air conditioner to catch up with the weather, and she's watching me play The Walking Dead. We've been here for about an hour and made it most of the way through the first episode. This wasn't the plan for the day, but when I got to the airport an hour and a half earlier, Krista got into car and found me crying. She got me back to my apartment, and immediately started asking if I wanted a cup of tea, to talk, a hug, to go for a run. I haven't slept in three or four days and am feeling a bit like a zombie myself.

"Honestly?"

"Yeah, Kels. Honestly. What do you want?"

 "I want to kill some zombies."

"Then let's kill some zombies."

So we're snuggled up in my bed killing zombies. After I drop a particularly vehement string of cuss words (fucking Kenny) she leans in and kisses me on the shoulder.

"I love you, Kels."

"Now we're nearly all of the way into one of my fantasies." I reply, distractedly, before I frantically start smashing buttons. "Oh, shit!"

"Careful, honey, that guy's about to eat your face off."

"Nope." I say, after a particularly gruesome scene involving a hammer and a zombie skull. "Got 'em."

I forgot how therapeutic video games can be. 

"Bad" does not even begin to describe the past few weeks. They've been a potent, emotional catastrafuck cocktail of stress, long days, bad decisions, and failures to communicate. I'm so worried about my coming race that running is only adding to the frustration that I feel (I cried, twice, after runs this week), my attention span is so short that the books I'm reading can't hold my attention, and I have zero emotional energy left over at the end of the day to invest in television. So I've been knocking around the house. I honestly couldn't tell you what I've been doing, sitting and staring at a page or the wall, probably. 

Until I started listening to the Love and Wario podcast. 

You know that feeling when you meet someone and instantly think ohmygodweshouldtotallybefriendsbecauseyou'resocool! If you're an adult with a functioning self-control system, you won't immediately blurt that sentence out, but will go about being friendly and kind and outgoing and the other things adults do to make new friends.

Spoiler alert: I don't have a functioning self-control system.

After binge-listening to the podcasts I immediately messaged one of the hosts and, well, let's just say there were a lot of capital letters and exclamation points. 

(I also maybe said that being a special guest on the podcast was my new life's goal.)

I can be cringe-inducingly fangirlish sometimes. 

So it's sort of a bad news/good news thing. The bad news, of course, is that I might have did come off as a total fucking nutjob. The good news is that I ended up with a long list of games that would run on my ancient laptop as well as a couple that I could play on my phone. 

I forgot how much I love video games. 

I met my first boyfriend at a LAN party. My younger brother and I used to spend hours in the basement testing Age of Empires strategies. I don't think I slept the week after we got Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (the nostalgia I feel for the game is incredible). I once nearly gave my brother a black eye after a particularly tense afternoon of playing first-person shooters. When Diablo II rolled out I created a special character (melee, I typically play ranged) specifically so I could go hack apart demons after stressful days. 

I stopped gaming kind of abruptly when I started dating someone who preferred we spend our time reading Great Books and listening to Bartok (that guy was the fucking worst). He made me feel really guilty about the amount of time I was spending playing games. After we broke up, the guilt remained and I switched to the occasional tabletop game because I could be social and feel less guilty about the time I was spending on games.

I was pretty fucking dumb. 

Don't get me wrong, the eight-twelve hours a day I used to spend on Diablo was probably a little much (between the game and my social anxiety, I was like a proto-Codex). But going cold-turkey, especially for an  pretentious asshat who didn't understand why I might enjoy playing video games (nerd boys for life now) was colossally stupid. Equally stupid was never picking them back up because of some kind of misdirected guilt about what I should be doing with my time. 

The truth, I realize as I choose to save Carly instead of Doug during a particularly tense moment in The Walking Dead, is that video games are as therapeutic and soothing for me as a long run. A good one can take me out of my own head and immerse me in a storyline as easily and completely as a good book. And when Krista reaches over and rubs my back I'm reminded they can be just as social as any of my other hobbies.

Thanks, Love and Wario. 

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Grown Up

"I'll tell you what."

"What?"

Krista and I are sitting on my bed, drinking tea and staying up later than either one of us really needs to be up.

"This whole thing has made me so glad I never have to do my 20s over again."

"Really?" She's suspicious. "I've had a lot of fun."

"Really. They were great and crazy and fun, but I knew fuckall about anything. I had no idea what I wanted from jobs, relationships, apartment, cities. My sex life was grotesque." I repeat, louder, over her groan. "Was grotesque. I don't know if it'll be this way at the close of every decade, but I am so glad to be turning 30." I pause. "The Gospel According to Kelly."

"Thanks be to God."

***

"So basically everything is a whole lot of meaningless bullshit."

"You sound like we're back in college. But if you want to drink beer and sit up talking about the existence of God and the futility of our lives and sentient bags of carbon, we'll have to run to the liquor store."

My reaction when friends start existential crisis-ing around me is always one of three things. Best case scenario, I'll make them a cup of tea and listen. Second best case scenario, I'll say "Oh, honey" and give them a list of reputable therapists in the Twin Cities that I've compiled. Third scenario? I'll make fun of them.

That's what I do in this case. A friend of mine, normally the counterweight to my emotional excesses, has been reading a book of New Atheism. It's depressing him. I've spent the last few minutes listening to him talk about the meaninglessness of existence and how we're all wasting our lives eating, fucking, and shitting (three activities I know he enjoys thoroughly while in a better mood).

"C'mon," I say, tying my shoe laces

"What?"

"Put on your shoes. I'm taking you for a run."

"What's the point?"

"At the moment? Spiking your dopamine levels so you enjoy eating, fucking, and shitting again. It's either this or we're going to have sex. Your pick."

He puts on his shoes.

***

"I've been asking myself the same question a lot of people as around our age."

"What's that?"

"What would 18 year old me think if he could see me as I am now?"

"Well?"

"I think he'd be pretty zazzed."

Pause.

"The problem is that my reaction to that kid would probably be to yell 'You know nothing!' and punch him in the face."

"For what it's worth, 18 year old Kelly would probably stage a hunger strike over the life I'm living now." I wait for a moment. "God, she was such a cunt. But. Either way, maybe neither of us is getting it exactly right."

***

"Adulthood is a weird thing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."  We're in the car with the windows down, covered in a fleece blanket because it's cold, but we like the feeling of the wind washing through the car. "I have this job that I love and that I'm actually kinda good at. I pay my bills on time, take grown-up vacations, juggle social obligations and personal needs. I had a whole fucking therapy session where I complained about all of the things my parents did wrong, cried, and then stopped blaming them."

"Those do sound like things you do as an adult." I can hear the slight, sassy edge in her voice.

"Phhhhhhhbt. But here's the thing. For years, that whole time I was in graduate school, and again while I was living Duluth, I was miserable."

"You were depressed."

"Yes, and I know there are a bunch of chemical reasons why that was happening. I get the brain chemistry, or at least as much as I'm ever going to, but I was heaping extra shit on top of an already enormous shit sandwich." I shiver and pull the covers up higher. "Since I was a teenager, I had this idea of what adulthood was like. It meant that you had to give up all the stuff you loved."

"Kels, I love you, but you are a complete fucking idiot sometimes."

"I know. So now. It's funny. I have ice cream for dinner sometimes. I read comic books on a regular basis, listen to a podcast about video games. I spent an entire hour and a half yesterday looking for a cosplay wig. And do you have any idea how many hours, hours I sit cross-legged on my livingbedroom floor in my underwear and a tank top blogging about comic books and video games and feelings. This is adulthood?"

"This is adulthood, honey. Welcome to it."

"What the fuck?"

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Just Dance

"What I really want to do is take her somewhere like The Cardinal, where no one is in on the joke, and have everyone in the bar wonder 'Is she trying to harmonize with the other person and they just aren't getting there?'"

"Kels, how much alcohol would it take to get you to do karaoke?"

It's late summer and we're siting around a picnic table in South Minneapolis. I don't know why or how, but the conversation has turned to how much I love to sing and how bad I am at it. The teasing is sweet and good-natured, and while I'm exhausted and have had a string of bad weeks, I'm inclined to take it rather than dish back.

"It's a Catch-22. The amount of alcohol required for me to be that brave is greater than the amount of alcohol that would cause me to pass out."

"So it's never going to happen?"

"Never."

From across the table I can hear someone mutter "Thank God."

***

"THIS IS MY JAM!" I grab Maggie's hand and drag her to the dance floor. 

I don't leave, except to get a glass of water, for the next three hours. 

Somewhere between playing air-guitar to Don't Stop Believing and rapping all of California Love a friend from college I haven't seen in years bursts out laughing. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with our friend, Kelly?"

I just smile and shake it for him.

***

Recently, while attempting to convince me to do karaoke, a friend described me as "a self-serious, attention-adverse introvert." 

It is, I'll admit (grudgingly) an apt description. 

I despise being the center of attention in large groups of people (or small groups of people where I don't know anyone.) I am deeply, painfully shy and have a hard time thinking about what to say to people I don't know. 

It's not a character flaw, it's just the way I am.

As a result, I've cultivated interests and hobbies that don't require, you know, anything remotely close to being the center of attention (distance running, reading, snarky muttered observations) or help me create a little psychic distance between myself and other people (first-person memoir, the occasional cosplaying (OMFGOD, I need an excuse to do Amaterasu from The Wicked + The Divine, like, now)). 

Karaoke does not fall into either of those categories. 

***

"Kelly Prosen! Dance Floor Rock Star!"

The bride has an open chair next to hear and the band has taken a break so I take the opportunity to catch up. I shrug.

"They played my jam."

"Which one?"

"Billie Jean." 

"Yeah, that's a great song."

"When I was living in China, whenever a group of three or more Americans walked into a bar they would play one of two songs. The Jay-Z song that was popular at that point in time or Billie Jean." I smile. "While we were dancing Kristin told me that she can't hear that song without thinking about me, in China, dancing every time I heard it, and that it always makes her happy."

Jessie laughs. "I can see where imagining you dancing would make someone pretty happy." 

***

My phone starts buzzing in my pocket. It's one of my dinner guests, asking me to bring them up. I pull it out, assure them I will be down momentarily, and realize I have a text message from about forty minutes earlier. 

"Most. Epic. Pocket. Dial. Ever. I can only assume that was your American Idol audition. Don't listen to the critics, kid. Go with your heart." 

I check my recent call log, think for a moment, get a full body blush going, and start looking for a piece of furniture to hide under. The only people I will sing in front of are people who knew me at the tail end of my emo/punk stage (or earlier), people who are, at this point, pretty much required to love me. 

Aside from that, I sing exclusively when no when else can hear me: in the shower, in my car, in the kitchen. 

When I tell Michelle (two weeks later, still blushing) about the pocket dial she laughs so hard she ends up with milkshake up her nose. 

"Oh, c'mon." I beg. "I mean, maybe it's possible I didn't sound that bad."

"Honey, have you heard yourself? And with someone who doesn't know you that well? This falls under the category of 'Change your name and move to Saigon.'" 

I put my head in my hands. 

***

"This music blows." 

"Yeah. I agree." 

My older brother and I are sitting around a campfire at a family reunion. We're listening to something neither of us likes. Most of the family is around the corner playing Jarts or putting their kids to bed. My younger brother comes and flops down on the grass next to us. 

"Man, someone needs to change the radio." He grouses. 

My mother comes by and inquires what we're up to, why we're not playing games or swimming or whatever. After a moment's pause she asks, "Do you guys want to have a dance party?" 

My brother bolts out of his chair and runs for his ipod. "What should we listen to?" 

"MJ!"

"Michael!"

"Michael Jackson!"

The four of us have an impromptu Michael Jackson dance party. In the middle of the Northern Wisconsin woods. 

I love my family.

***

I feel hands on my hips and hear a voice in my ear. 

"I like the groove of your walk, your talk, your dress." 

I spin around, stand up on tiptoes, and wrap my arms around his neck, and give him a big kiss out of sheer exuberance. 

"Careful, honey. You're going to make my boyfriend jealous." 

"THIS IS MY JAM!"

"Didn't you say that about Billie Jean? And You Shook Me All Night Long? And Only Girl in the World? And . . ."

I stick my tongue out at him. "Are you going to stand there talking, or are you going to dance with me?"

He laughs. "I'm going to go get a drink and watch you dance, girl. I don't get a chance to see you like this very often." 

I smile. "I'm like this exclusively when I can dance." 

"I like it." He gives me a twirl and pulls me in to whisper one last thing in my ear.

"You knock me off of my feet." 

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Shot at the Night

"So, you know, just don't get clingy. You aren't the only egg in my basket."

I sit up, mouth hanging open.

It takes a special kind of arrogance to tell the woman lying next to you, after having performance related issues all night but before telling her "Yeah I don't care. That sounds like a personal problem," not to be clingy.

He continues. "Well, I mean, right now you're the only egg in my basket. I'm having trouble meeting people."

"I'm pretty shocked to hear that."

He doesn't hear the sarcasm.

"I know, it's really hard, isn't it? But I'm just trying to to be honest with you."

I'm no longer in the mood to pull any punches.

"Well. While we're being honest. My parents' thirty-third wedding anniversary is coming up, two of my best friends are marrying one another tomorrow, I just had my heart stomped on about two months ago, and I'm coming off a five year intimacy hiatus, so . . ."

"You're using me?"

"Merely assuring you that I have no intention of becoming clingy."

***
"Give me my fucking cell phone back." 

I am pretty clearly displeased with what's been happening.

I seem to have finally made myself clear.

Someone has installed Tinder on my phone. Not only installed Tinder on my phone, but has also set up a profile and started looking for hookups for me. Against my express "Haha, funny. Knock it off. I don't want you to do that." 

It takes about a second and a half for me to uninstall Tinder. Once it's off, I slam out of the party I'm at, sit down in a lawn chair out back, and start crying.

I don't know how many different ways I can say "I'm not interested in this."

I never thought it would have to be more than one.

***

We're in a bar off Bourbon St. when Michelle checks her phone, smirks, and tells me:

"Your friends are trying to convince me to get you laid while you're here."

I give her a nuclear eye roll. "Yeah, I can guess which one wants you to set me up with a one night stand." I take a drink of my beer. "I'm an emotional trainwreck right now. This trip is a gift and I fucking hate one night stands under the best circumstances. So, really, I appreciate the thought, I really wish people would be actually helpful instead of stupid helpful right now."

She snickers. "I would have been shocked if you would have taken me up on it." She finishes her own beer. "And it would have made sharing our bed complicated." 

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm really not interested."

"Why are you apologizing for not being a whore?" 

We get the giggles so badly we momentarily drown out the band.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Raw

"You are out of your goddamn head."

"No, you're too close to it to read it as a final product."

About twenty minutes into the argument, I realize the absurdity of what we're disagreeing about, and acknowledge (to myself) that I am complete shit at taking compliments. Truthfully?

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize that I'm not being teased.

He continues, despite my protests.

"Specifically, you should be writing plays."

"You're sweet, but I'm never going to do that."

"Why not? What you're writing is essentially the same as opening up the fridge and thinking 'Huh. I have all the ingredients to make an excellent Pate de Carnard en Croute.' Not doing something with it is the same as not making the damn duck."

"Yes, well, the difference is that when making a Pate de Carnard en Croute, you're serving up the duck, not your own heart."

***


This was my weekend.



The good part of it anyway.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved comic books. When I was young, I would read X-Men and Captain America when I could get my hands on them. As an adult, it's been Sandman, Watchmen, pretty much anything Brian K. Vaughn has ever written.

I love comics.

I find them soothing, even when they're horrifying.

I have a lot of grown-up reasons for loving comics. I think that because of the interplay between the drawings and the dialogue the storytelling both requires more skill and manages to take you deeper. Comics are allowed to explore darkness in a way that is compelling and evocative. Sometimes (as, in Saga, which every single one of you should read at least the first issue of) they can be, quite simply, stunning.

Frankly, though, the escapism also appeals to me. I like the idea that ordinary people can do extraordinary things, that your life can change dramatically in a flat second, and that you can be different without being wrong. 

So when I came home on Saturday night with my feathers ruffled and pretty close to tears, I pulled a stack of Preacher trade paperbacks out of my backpack, made a pot of tea (despite the humidity), curled up in my red armchair, and read myself to sleep.

***

"Can we hit the reset button on this whole conversation?"

"Um, okay."

"What I should have said was: 'Thank you, I'm flattered.' So if we could just erase my little tirade about Writing and Writers from both of our minds I'd be obliged." 

"Consider it said and unsaid."

"Thanks."

"I still think you need to do it."

"I'm going away now."

***

I am not at all completely embarrassed to admit that The Avengers is one of my favorite movies.

I watch it when I'm home with the flu. I watch it when I'm sad. I watch it and squee. I watch it when I'm at the cabin and it's raining and I want to talk with my younger brother about how much we love Captain America. I watch it the night before major work presentations while I'm painting my nails, and when I can't sleep. 

It may, in fact, be on in the background while I'm writing this entry.  

I love The Avengers

The Hulk has never been one of my favorite superheros, and isn't within a stone's throw of my favorite Avenger (Jean Grey and Captain America, for those of you wondering), but I gotta admit that Bruce Banner has my favorite line in the whole movie. In response to Tony Stark's prediction that Banner would be joining the rest of the Avengers, he responds

"Ah, see. I don't get a suit of armor. I'm exposed, like a nerve. It's a nightmare."

Oh, Dr. Banner. You speak to my heart. 

***

"Your writing utterly smacks of a one woman show. Insight, humor, intimacy, titillation, shock. It'd be great." 

"Not happening." 

"Your definition of a play, as I well know, includes one and maybe two intermissions, multiple acts, even more scenes, and likely includes iambic pentameter. Writing doesn't have to be Shakespeare to be good." 

"It's. Not. Happening."

"It's okay to be scared."

***

I hate feeling exposed. 

It's a strange confession, I suppose, for someone who spends her free time as a memoirist, but it's the truth. It's also the reason that I keep my writing almost exclusively to trivia and write for the same thirty people (all of whom are related to me by blood or might as well be) every week. 

Put another way, I feel the same way about writing as Bruce Banner feels about transforming into the Hulk. 

The people who read my writing, the people with whom I share it, regularly, are ones who have slipped in under my guard. They're the ones who understand that when I'm crawling between the covers of a comic, it's not because I'm trying to avoid them, but because my social tank is already overflowing, and I need to justohmygodbealone.

Extroversion, being outgoing, having a drink with a stranger at a bar, just being able to put myself out there, these things I've never been good at. For goodness sake, I have to actively make a decision whether or not a friend is ragging on me when he suggests that I become a playwright, I'm not going to be the person who writes a one-woman show about her life. The ability to be that exposed an vulnerable, it's just not on my utility belt. 

Except. Well, that's the damndest thing about eating and breathing comics. 


You find something in your utility belt that wasn't there before. 


Sunday, August 10, 2014

Conversations with Women

"Hey, what are you reading?"

I've kicked off my high heels and have snuggled deep into the corner of the couch. There is, I suppose, technically a party going on around me but I haven't been listening. I stretch the kinks out of neck and reach for the beer that's been rapidly warming next to me. I lift the book out of my lap and show her the cover.

"A comic?"

"Yeah. It's called Preacher.  It's about . . . theology. I guess. An absent god. It's incredibly violent and extremely well written and I just finished issue one and I can't stop reading it."

She gives me an odd look.

"What?"

"You're sitting here in high heels and a minidress, at a party, reading a comic book?"

"Would it be better if was an actual book? And it's not actually a party. We see one another three times a week. And besides," I say, gesturing to the shoes next to the couch, "I had the good manners to take my heels off."

She shakes her head and asks the question again, for emphasis. "You're here, at a party and you're reading comics?"

"It was a tough week."

"Between the comics and the dress and the heels, you are some nerdy guy's fantasy girl, you know that, right?"

"Yes."

***

"If they don't treat you well while you're dating them, they're sure as shit not going to treat you well when you're married."

We're sitting out among her flowers, sharing a bottle of wine, having a conversation we should have had ten years ago.

"My big thing is that I want them to get along with Daddy."

She shakes her head. "Kelly Marie, as long as they're good to you, your father will learn to love them, I don't care if they're a card-carrying NRA member who hunts every weekend after opening day." She sees the look on my face and laughs. "Or if they're a skinny nerd who couldn't shoot or fix a car to save his life. They just can't treat you badly."

"I know, Momma. I know."

I don't know she hears the catch in my voice but she gives me a hard look and pours us both more wine. "You've dated some actual honest to goodness assholes, haven't you?"

"I have."

"Men aren't supposed to treat you like that. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

***

"Why would anyone recommend that book to you?" 

"In her defense, she didn't know I get anxious about serial killers."

"Well, what did you do then?" 

"So then all I could think was "What if she's only being nice to me so she can lure me there to murder me in some horrific way?"" 

She groans.

"Then I realized it was probably the combination of sleeping pills and anxiety making me a little crazy and decided it might be best to just close my eyes and fall asleep. And besides, statistically she's way less likely to be a serial killer than if she was a guy." 

"At least you're getting a lot better at recognizing when you're being crazy. You know that, right?"

"Yes." 

***

"Am I crazy for being pissed about this?"

"Absolutely not. Huge invasion of privacy aside, it's as bitchy and judgmental as the female relatives you were dealing with last weekend."

"Everyone here seems to think that I'm being crazy and that it isn't a big deal."

"It's an extremely big deal." I can hear the invisible italics. "It's hard when people don't extend the courtesy to you that you extend to them. To wit: that you see their lives, decide "that's not for me" and still manage not to be an asshole about it." She pauses. "Are you still out in the rain?"

"I am."

"There is nothing wrong with the choices you've made, you know that, right?"

"Yes."

***

We're sitting, quietly, on opposite sides of the porch reading separate books. Mine, a stack of X-Men comics from the library. Hers, a thick biography of Madeleine Albright. 

My feathers are ruffled from a series of rotten interactions over the past week. We're hanging out today because we've both been traveling and haven't seen much of one another lately, but I'm not in the mood to open my mouth. So here we are, sitting on opposite sides of the porch, reading. She occasionally tells me some fact she finds interesting from her biography, I sometimes read a joke from my comic, but we say fewer than fifteen sentences over the course of six hours. 

Eventually she closes her book and I reach over for a hug. 

"You are the only person the world I wanted to see today. I love you very much, you know that, right?"

She smiles back. 

"Yes." 

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Conversations with Men

"Oh my God!"

I have the breath crushed out of me by an intense hug. Right when I think I may pass out from oxygen deprivation I get pushed back to arm's length and examined. He's giving me the kind of once over that automatically makes me straighten my spine, push my shoulders back, and lift my chin.

"You. Look. Amazing." 

I smile and blush a little.  

"You're awfully sweet." 

"I'm serious, Kels. That dress, your breasts, that cute little blush you've got going on?  Delicious. And how much are you running? Your legs have gotten so skinny! And just between us, with however many miles you're logging, that short skirt, and those high heels, You. Are. Killing. It."

At this point I can't stop laughing. Despite the high heels, I still have to stand up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. 

"It's starting to worry me that the only men who ever tell me how nice I look are gay." 

"The straight ones are all so thunderstruck by your beauty, wit, and charm, that's why." 

"Oh, hush."

***

"The version of me you write about in your blog is a complete fiction."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a complete fiction! You make me act like I'm really nice and that I care about you and that I'm looking out for you." 

I start laughing so hard I choke on my lemonade.

"Hasn't it ever occurred to you that that's how I see you?"

"No! Because in real life, I'm just an asshole who likes to be the center of attention."

"Oh, honey." 

"I am!"

"Oh, hush." 

***

"Can you play darts?" 

I slid into the passenger seat approximately a second earlier. "Nope."

"Excellent. We're going to drink cheap beer and throw darts." 

"Is it even any fun winning against me?"

"Yes, because you get so competitive despite being so bad." 

When I realize the bar we're going to I reach across the car and punch him in the arm. "Is this a bros night?"

"Well." He's equivocating. "It's just you and me."

I groan.

"Kels, you're the closest thing I have to a bro!" 

"I'm wearing a pink sundress." 

"Bro." 

"Oh, hush." 

***

"Let me be very clear about this."

I have my finger in his face and I'm pissed

"I'm not saying that Marvel's doing shitty work. I'm not saying that DC is better. What I am saying is that Image, Dark Horse, and Titan have all announced/are currently printing titles that sound or are an excellent departure from capes and spandex. And I think it's stupid to get wrapped up in things like Lady Thor and ignore all the spectacular work that's being done by smaller presses." I pause and take a drink of my beer. "I also think that's why conversations about Who has the better superheroes between DC and Marvel  are kind of idiotic." 

The fellow I'm with rolls his eyes so hard I suspect it may have changed my DNA. 

"The issue" he pontificates "is that superhero comics define the genre. They are comics. What you're talking about" here, he actually waves his hand dismissively at me, "are graphic novels." 

I concentrate on draining my beer. "A graphic novel is a one-off story told and illustrated in a single volume. Comics are serialized and need not include tights and a cape. And narrow-minded jerkoffs like you are what keep comics from going mainstream." 

"You're in quite the mood tonight."

"Oh, hush." 

***

"Kelly?"

If I were in my right mind, I'd notice the edge to his voice. 

I'm not entirely in my right mind. 

"Kelly." 

"Hmm?" 

"Just let it go. Now. For me."

I say something rather inappropriate, rather loudly, and then am quiet for what feels like a very long time. Eventually, I'm just flustered. "Did I? I mean . . .um. Did . . . Shit." 

It's the kind of smile you can hear in someone's voice. 

"Oh, hush." 

Monday, August 4, 2014

Gimme Sympathy

"And the lyrics go: "So whiskey won't you come and take my troubles, 'cause I can't seem to do it anymore.""

I stop singing and look expectantly at Jessie, who's holding the guitar. We're with the gang, on our annual Labor Day cabin weekend. There are people playing Hammerschlagen across the way, a few people have wandered off to bed, and a few of us are sitting around the the fire, singing.

Jess look at me, amused. "I haven't heard of it, but Kel, I want you to know that almost the entire time, you were singing the same note there." She pauses and smiles the sweetest smile I can imagine. "I don't know if it was the right note, but it was the same one."

We pause for a moment and then burst out laughing.

***

"Kel?"

"Hang on, I need to leave the room for a second." My satin party dress makes a slight whispering noise as I slip out.

"Hey, what's up?"

"We have your birthday present!" 

I start laughing. "From half a country away?" 

"Yeah, are you ready?" 

"Of course!"

After a few moments, someone notices that that I'm no longer at my own party. When they find me, I've kicked off my high heels and am sitting cross-legged on the bed, in my party dress, crying softly and listening while my friends sing me I'll Fly Away, a song I love, and a song they learned specifically for my birthday. 

The guy who's walked into the room gently rubs my back, hands me a tissue, and quietly leaves. 

***

"How much have you guys had to drink?"

Mom and I look at one another and burst out laughing. We're in the kitchen, listening to Motown, drinking wine, and singing along to my Motown playlist when my father walks in.

I love hearing my mother sing. 

My mother's childhood was full of Sunday dinners that ended in complex harmonies. Her mother possessed perfect pitch, a trait that missed both of us, but when Mom and I are together (especially if we're in the kitchen) we're usually singing. It's been this way for my whole life. When I think about my childhood, any memory is almost inevitably accompanied by the opening chords of Springsteen's Rosalita or Aretha Franklin hitting the high note on Share Your Love with Me.

I grew up in a house full of music, even if we weren't the ones making it. 

***

There's a nine second video on my phone that makes me so happy I could spit. 

I took it last week. I went to my running partner's house for a mid-week party. He was at the piano, taking requests, and I asked for my song of the moment, Metric's Gimme Sympathy.  It's one of those songs, like Skinny Love or Wagon Wheel that just, gets me, right in that spot behind your sternum where music hits you sometimes. It's a song I have to hear to the end, that I will belt out with abandon while I'm cooking or driving or in the shower, it makes me smile so hard my cheeks hurt when I hear it unexpectedly. 

The video is of my running partner, whose voice I love, singing a bit of the chorus. Right after I filmed it (specifically so that I could watch it when I was having a rotten day) he paused and said: "Kel, come here and help me out. I don't really remember the lyrics." 

I pulled a chair up to the piano and we sang it together. 

***

I love to sing. 

How could I not, after growing up in the house I did? Of course I turned out this way.

If I am alone, I'm singing to myself. I sing while I'm cooking, while I'm cleaning the house, while I'm walking to and from my bus stop, while I'm texting with friends, I sing at my desk while I'm working. 

I sing constantly. 

The problem, of course, is that I can't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it. My sense of rhythm is so bad that I don't clap along at concerts because I am invariably half a beat behind. I sound awful and I know it. I've known it for most of my life and I've just adapted. I only sing when I'm alone. The second I see another person walking down the street toward me I clam up. When there are other people over helping me cook, I play instrumental jazz so I won't be tempted. I would rather set myself on fire than do karaoke. 

***

Some years ago, a couple friends of mine started learning songs for my birthday.

It's the birthday tradition I look forward to most every year. They kept it up even when they moved across country and it means the world to me. Most of my friends are musicians, either vocalists, music teachers, or simply gifted with the innate ability to pick up an instrument and follow along on a song, so I've started to ask more of them to learn something for my birthday.

The reason I love this, particularly, as a birthday gift is because the songs they learn are my favorites, and they learn them with the intention of singing together. The friends who started this tradition, the friends who I impose on every year are people who have known me for most of my adult life. They've either managed to get enough wine into me to convince me to sing along, caught me in the kitchen, or been the recipients of enough inadvertent pocket dials that they know how rotten I sound and that I'll usually be dragging the beat.

They don't care.

That's not quite right. They're talented musicians and they take a great deal of pleasure in sounding, you know, good. It's more that they love me and the know how happy it makes me to do something I love without a shred of self-consciousness. Or, as my running partner frequently tells me:

"I love singing with you. You've gotten to the point where you stopped giving a damn how you sound and it's refreshing."

I don't know that the friends who do this for me understand the enormity of the gift they give me every year. It's the sort of gift that requires a tremendous "thank you" but I've never been able to find the words to describe what it means to me.

Instead I just sent along my song requests for this year.

I can't wait.