To wit:

Bon Iver is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his brow furrowed. It seems he and the jigsaw puzzle have come to an impasse. We’d bought it secondhand, and the box had been lost, so we were left to guess what shape the pieces would take. We weren’t even sure they were all there. I suggest he take a break for a bit and clear his head. ‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘I need to make something whole today.’

Sidebar 1: Last summer, I was at a barbecue with this horrible trainwreck of a woman who ruined every social interaction she ever tried to be a part of.  At one point she brayingly interrupted something someone else was saying to drawl. Oh, that is so SWPL. Blank stares all around. Then she just kept talking, taking up air other perfectly nice people could have been using, until I said, What’s SWPL? 

She replied disdainfully, as if I were the stupid person that everyone hated so much they could barely concentrate even though they had just met me 30 minute ago, Umm, Stuff White People Like? As though “SWPL” is as common an acronym as ASAP.

Then I duct-taped her mouth shut, and everyone cheered. The end.

Sidebar 2: Do you, by chance, share my love of both snarky Tumblrs and PBS cooking shows, especially America’s Test Kitchen? Would you like to make something pretty with me? Email me or comment. I think I have a good idea but I need a co-conspirator for help brainstorming how to get it right.

Talk derby to me
I went to a Kentucky Derby party yesterday.  For your sake, I have heroically decided NOT to make this blog post about how fucking tired I am of going to parties by myself, and how everywhere I go in DC there are gobs of smart, accomplished, attractive single women and no single men at all. You can thank me later for my heroic self-restraint. (I’m lonely.)

The point of this vignette about the party is to tell you that the hit of the food table was something called Tiramisu Dip, served with a fancy version of Nilla Wafers from Trader Joe’s. I personally cannot abide sweetened, fluffy cheese, but everyone else raved. You should make it.

Also, guys playing guitar + firepit = most winning combination of all, every single time.

For the record
Not replying to the people who comment on my Thought Catalog articles is so, so difficult. It also makes me love you guys so much, because so many internet commenters are so fucking stupid it’s a miracle they can ever get past a CAPTCHA in the first place. But! For my own sake, I must say: I am too a feminist, and you are a self-righteous asshat. Not that I am dwelling on anything! Jerk.

Wow. What I just learned from writing this post is that I am carrying around a lot of anger.  I think I will go to bed now.

Friday, March 16, 2012 (end of second week at crazy hard new job)

5:30 p.m., leaving work
I need to go to the grocery store. Isn’t there a Whole Foods near here? I feel like I remember seeing one…

No. No. I’ve been so good for so long. I can’t go back there. It’s a complete rip-off, and I know myself:  I have no self-control. Remember how that $23 worth of cod spoiled last time, not to mention the crisper drawer full of vegetables? No.

I bet they have fresh artichokes, and I could make a kind of spring pasta with leeks and bacon and…..NO.

5:40 p.m.
Oh my god! It’s the day before St. Patrick’s Day–they totally have Irish soda bread. I need to eat some to honor my ancestors. I deserve it anyway after these last two weeks. Ooh, plus some European butter. It’s cultured, just like me.

5:44 p.m. The car is parked.
In and out. Soda bread, food for tonight, and healthy snacks for tomorrow’s paper-writing session, and THAT’S IT.

And some fromage d’Affinois. I can’t find it ripe enough anywhere else.

And some rosemary-and-sea-salt crostini and grapes, but THAT’S IT.

5:46 p.m. I enter the store.
Wow…they have totally expanded this place. Is that an olive bar over there? I wonder if they have those good Castlevetrano olives. I love those things.

I should get a cart, just so I don’t have to carry my purse.

Leeks! Sooo pretty. I’ll get some and make melted leeks to go with…something. I’ll figure it out.

Walk away from the baby artichokes. Walk away. Keep walking, you’re almost through produce, good, good…you made it!

Shit, I forgot the grapes–what the hell? Six bucks for a pound of grapes? Oh well, I’m already here.

Two artichokes. I’ll put them in the yellow bowl on my kitchen table.

5:48 p.m.
I should get some shrimp and make shrimp cocktail. That will be a good treat after this week. And cocktail sauce, plus horseradish and lemon because the jarred cocktail sauce kind of sucks.

Damn, really, $16 for some shrimp? They’re deveined though. It’s worth it. And wrapped with ice!

5:52 p.m.
There they are. My love, my nemesis, my rubicon, Rick’s Pick’s Mean Beans.. These mouthwatering yuppie treasures represent my life’s trajectory; in Ohio, people can things unironically and give them to you. Dilly beans are available at every Amish farmstand for two bucks. In DC, I hold this jar in my hands and note that the price has been increased to–wait for it–$8.99. I pretend to weigh this decision, but we all know the truth: I lost the battle with these pretentious pickles and my own douchetasticness years ago, probably the first time I paid $4 for a mocha my freshman year of college and felt thrilled by the opportunity to do it. There is no doubt that when the proletariat rise up, and rise they shall, if the first people in line for the guillotine will be those with cheese histories at cleverly named specialty cheese shops, but the next group will be people with $9 jars of pickles in their refrigerators.

Well, as long as the revolution doesn’t happen tonight, I’m okay; this jar usually only lasts me a day.

5:53 p.m.
OK, C, you’re losing focus. Grab a roasted chicken and some cheese and crostini and get out. Oh, and soda bread. Apple cake. A mini-baguette, for the cheese. Oh! San Pellegrino Aranciata! A bargain at any price; I love that stuff.

5:54 p.m.
Check-out line. Moment of truth. Do you…need a bag? The cashier is judging me. Listen, lady, I tell her coldly. It was a spur-of-the-moment trip, and at these prices, surely Whole Foods can spare me both a bag and your condescension.

Of course I don’t say that. Rule #1 of being a good member of society: Fuck not with members of the service industry. You will go straight to hell, where you will wait eternally to be served while the people who would otherwise be serving you smoke cigarettes and fornicate in heaven (That’s all people do in heaven, FYI. That and play with puppies.)

In reality I nod, because I do need a bag. I practice my Jedi mind trick of not looking at the total until she’s rung the last item and…fail. Epic fail. $126 bucks and everything I bought fits in one judgmental bag.

5:55 p.m.
Wait. They valet your groceries to you here? You set them down and go to the garage and someone just appears with them? This makes me very uncomfortable.

And also kind of…aroused?

I wonder if they are judging me for driving an SUV. It’s compact, I want to tell the valet guy. I bought it used.

5:56 p.m.
I admit that I am powerless over my addiction to Whole Foods, and that my relationship with the produce section is unmanageable.

One day at a time. It’s almost Mt. Rainier cherry season, and they’re really hard to find.

2. An email from my mother. I must preface this by saying that my mother and I have an awesome relationship, we never ever talk about sex, she doesn’t read my blog, and I do not have issues with excess body hair. And yet, yesterday I received this.

Subject: I don’t know what Kindle singles are but you could write this stuff!

Writer Mara Altman is known for fearlessly tackling taboo topics, such as her quest for an orgasm (with Thanks for Coming) and her complicated feelings toward her engagement ring (with Sparkle). Now, she’s divulging her relationship with her body hair (and the removal thereof)—a topic that many of us can relate to—in her latest Kindle Single. Altman’s knack for saying what’s on our minds with both humor and humility has us anxiously awaiting what she’ll write next. (Thanks, Facebook fans, for voting on today’s pick!)

SHOP NOW: Bearded Lady, $2

3. Wild by Cheryl Strayed. I am a HUGE fan of Strayed (the idol also known as Dear Sugar.) There are passages in her new book that made me despair of ever writing again, because why would I bother when I know I will never be a fraction as good as she is? I mean, I LOVE her. But holy shit this book did a number on me. I called my sister at midnight, mid-read, and made her swear not to ever read it because I value her mental health. The way Strayed talks about the death of her mother when she was 22 and the ensuing dissolution of her family…I just cried and cried. Proceed at your own risk.

4. Contrast MRI rhymes with “cry”. Last week a sadist stuck needles into my shoulder joint TWENTY TIMES because he could not find the right spot, or get the lidocaine dose right. It’s not that it was so incredibly painful, but it’s a very disconcerting sensation, always uncomfortable, at times painful and at times VERY painful. I started out joking and chatting, and then lapsed into silent and stoic, but by jab 15 or so I started crying and the doc and tech never even acknowledged it. Since they were trying to inject the dye in a specific place, I had to stay perfectly, exquisitely still, and since it took over an hour to hit the mark my muscles started shaking, and plus it’s hard to cry without moving, and then they reprimanded me for not being still. They wouldn’t even let me move my other arm to swipe at the tears running into my ears.

Now, I have four doctors in my family, and I love them all. They are wonderful people. But in general, doctors are often dicks.

5. Bacon cinnamon rolls via Not Martha. I am in awe of the genius who thought of that. And look at the pie crust on that NM link!!! I hope I love someone enough to make that for them someday. And I hope they share.

6. My new job  continues to afford me many opportunities for personal growth. I think that I’m going to start trying to get pregnant in January 2013, try for six months, and if it doesn’t work I will move to New York and live in some kind of squat and write all day and go to open mics every night and waitress sporadically to pay my bills. Because I am clearly the kind of low-maintenance, stable person who would thrive in that situation (and who doesn’t need health insurance.) Good plan.

7. Longreads. Everyone checks this site, right? This is my latest awesome find there–An American Working in Paris. And this made me cry in the cafeteria today (warning, though–it’s describes sexual assault very vividly.) (Why yes, I have been crying a lot lately. Thank you for noticing. I also break out in all-over goosebumps every time anything remotely emotional is mentioned. I’m probably dying, so enjoy Hilarity in Shoes while you still can.)

8. Glamama and other older woman types is a search query that landed someone here. Listen, son, older is a relative term, okay? And “glamama” is not a real thing. Hopefully.

9. Speaking of the young I don’t think I ever told you about the time I almost throttled Doin’ the Grownup‘s brother. It was Thanksgiving, and we were all full of turkey and eight kinds of booze. We were standing around the firepit sipping extraordinarily flammable hot cider. Little Bro said something funny–he’s a very nice boy–and I said, That’s what’s up. Because I say that. Because I’m cool.  Little Bro smiled, the fire casting flattering shadows on his poreless face. What’s funny, I asked, full of warmth and holiday verve. We were all so connected, you know, having this moment together, a family by choice. Oh nothing, he said. I just think it’s interesting that people your age say the same things that we do.

Get out of my yard, you goddamn kids.

10. Help me. I need someone who can manipulate WordPress templates to make two tiny little tweaks for me that I cannot figure out no matter how I try. Pretty please.

11. Bonus! I posted this to my Tumblr today at the exact same moment that Life of a Doctor’s Wife emailed it to me because she thought I might like it. Because great minds think alike, y’all. Or so the kids say. I’d never heard of Jack Gilbert before, but this totally knocked me out.

Horses at Midnight Without a Moon * Jack Gilbert

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.

]]> http://www.hilarity-in-shoes.com/2012/04/26/11-thing-thursday-an-occasional-feature/feed/ 8 http://www.hilarity-in-shoes.com/2012/04/16/how-to-effectively-communicate-with-me/ http://www.hilarity-in-shoes.com/2012/04/16/how-to-effectively-communicate-with-me/#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 02:53:02 +0000 Ciara http://www.hilarity-in-shoes.com/?p=1628 1. Start your sentence with “Look.” Make sure I can really hear the period at the end.  It makes the muscles in my neck clench, so I can hold my head up and make meaningful eye contact with you, and eye contact creates trust and intimacy.

2. “Listen” or “Now you listen” are also good openers. I mean, duh…you’re telling me to listen! Of course I’m going to listen! Everyone needs to be heard, and I want to meet your needs. I feel like that’s something we can do for each other, you know?  You tell me what you need from me (“now you listen”) and I can listen. This is how we learn to work together.

3. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Ha ha, I totally wasn’t. I was serious, which is why I presented my argument using a somber font, bullet points, and no emoticons or exclamation points. But I appreciate how you always look for the humor in our interactions. Being able to laugh together is really important to me.

4. If I try to leave before you’re done talking, grasp my upper arm. This will get my attention so I don’t inadvertently storm out of the room too early. Plus, it’s kind of a fatherly gesture, and therefore comforting. Most women agree that it makes us feel loved to be paternally restrained.

5. Take a deep, slow, loud breath before you reply to me. Some people think this sounds like a sigh, which is totally rude, but I know you, you cutie–you are practicing your yoga breathing. Namaste! Shalom! Ayurveda! I support your quest for health and inner peace, fellow traveler. It warms my heart that we have so much in common. My yoga teacher never included the “rolling eyes” part of deep breathing though–does that help?

6. Help a girl out. If you think I’m not saying exactly what you might say, or not saying it quickly enough, jump in! Don’t leave me out there floundering, finishing my own sentences and whatever, if you can do it better. This is a partnership, right?  I was probably tired of making my own points with my own mouth anyway. I ain’t heavy, I’m your sister.

7. Smile indulgently at me when I start to tell a story. And when I ask what’s so funny, just shake your head and say “No, no, I know you love this story.” I love that you know me so well, and that you’ve been listening to what I have to say. Because this relationship is so strong and open, I feel like I can tell you that sometimes your loving, indulgent smile looks kind of…grimace-y? Condescending? To other people, I mean; I know what’s in your beautiful heart.

8. Don’t stand on formality. I know how busy you are, and how tired. Let’s just cut the please and thank yous; I can just hear them in my head so you don’t have to bother. It will be easier for both of us, and also save bandwidth and reduce noise pollution. Win-win-win.

9. Tsk my face. You don’t have to turn your back to me when you click your tongue/suck your teeth in response to something I say. I don’t mind if you gleek a little bit; I find all of your funny strangling noises and emissions charming as all hell.

10. Timing. If you’re going to send me an email that a) dumps me, or b) enumerates my many shortcomings in list format, please do it first thing in the morning. It helps me start my day in a state of alertness, so that I can more readily be there for you, amigo.

1. Where you come from shapes where you end up, one way or another.
2. Better living through chemistry is not only possible, but transformational.
3. Living the unexamined life sounds kind of restful sometimes, but who are we kidding.
4. Heartbreak is not fatal.
5. I am lucky that I escaped my bar years without becoming a drunk–or becoming dead.
6. We should all read more poetry.
7. I have the best mother and sister in the world.
8. In my head, I feel as young at 37 as I did at 17 ( except in some of my joints.) It is shocking to realize I’m not, and I mean truly, deeply shocking.
9. My anti-authoritarian streak might prevent me from ever being happy working for someone else.
10. I’m still sure I’m supposed to have kids, but I’m no longer sure I’ll be able to make it happen.
11. The sticky toffee pudding at Queen Vic on H Street is the best thing there is to eat in DC.
12. My idea of what a successful life looks like for me is much simpler than I ever imagined it would be…but simple doesn’t mean easy to attain.
13. I’m not an atheist.
14. Well- groomed eyebrows magically improve everything.
15. I should have pursued a truly, boldly creative life.
16. Never skimp on Ziplocs, trash bags, Kleenex, or toilet paper. The cheap versions suck.
17. Caring about how much other people like me has been the single most limiting factor in my life. I wish I knew how to stop.
18. Writers write. Me too.
19. Things are connected in irrational and inexplicable ways.  There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
20. Emotional intelligence is the best kind of intelligence.
21. Finding someone to fall in love with is only one tiny part of the battle.
22. Prescription sunglasses are the bomb.
23. I should have taken much better care of my skin when I was younger. Now, putting my makeup on in direct sunlight ruins my day.
24. I need to increase my tolerance for discomfort from its current level, which is zero.
25. I really, really, really want to live abroad at some point.
26. Friendships last for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Believing this lessens the pain of the ones that can’t go the distance.
27. Sex should often be funny.
28. Err on the side of kindness. You never know what’s going on in people’s lives.
29. I need to become, simultaneously, much more open and much more armored if things are going to go the way I need them to.
30. Hating my younger self for her poor choices is a waste of energy, but hard to stop because OMFG what a weak-willed, short-sighted idiot.
31. Always, always, always go to the funeral. There is no busy/awkward/they won’t notice excuse that is acceptable. Learning how to deal with grief is an essential part of being a grownup.
32. Grating nutmeg freshly each time really does make a huge difference.
33. Orgasms can cure headaches, insomnia, boredom, and sadness, especially if someone else is in the room with you.
34. Class warfare is a real thing and if you don’t think so, your staff definitely does.
35. Just sing if it makes you happy. Fuck the haters.
36. Actually, fuck the haters in general. But not with your loins.
37. This is a marathon, not a sprint, so set a pace you can keep.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Em asked me yesterday, as I held her drowsing baby boy and we talked about her sister’s divorce, if I really missed him or just being in a relationship. Em hosted Lieu and me for seder for the last two years; baby boy pre-empted it this year, and I’m glad, because the empty chair at this year’s table would not have been for Elijah.

I liked the relationship itself, though I should not have put up with much of it, but it’s him that I miss, still in very concrete, physical, immediate ways; how he smelled, his voice, the skin on the inside of his arms. I wish I could talk to him about work, because he would be able to help me make sense of it in a way that none of my other friends can.

I’m ready for that to go away; I’d like to be able to glimpse a bald man in a solid-colored tee without gagging on my heart because I think it’s him.

But then I also think sometimes, if someone who didn’t really care that much about me, or know about parts of me that are really important, could engender the kind of love and devotion I once felt for him, imagine what might happen if I could give that love to a man who would give it back.  We would be unstoppable.

It all happens for a reason. I have to believe that.

The dress I wore to waterfront dinner on my birthday last year has been untouched in my closet for months, first because it made me cry to look at it and then because of  the weather. I’m going to wear it this week and see if I can be happy in it again, even if it’s in a different way.

Cross your fingers for me?

I woke up early every day in Costa Rica.  Our bungalow (or “jungalow”, as I prefer) was an open structure, protected only by lattice and screens, and so when the birds woke up , I woke up.  I usually tried to go back to sleep, but on my actual 30th birthday, I was up before 6.  I waited until I heard my mom leave for her early beach walk, then slipped on my sandals and headed over to the water myself.  I dawdled a little bit, to let my mom get ahead of me so that I could have the beach to myself.

Even though it was slightly overcast, it was a beautiful morning.  Every morning on the southern Caribbean coast of Costa Rica is beautiful; it is like paradise there.  Anyway, the beach was empty in all directions and I kicked off my shoes and walked down to the water’s edge.  I’ve been at a crossroads lately, with the job thing and the school business and my inability to find someone with whom I’d like to procreate, or even have a drink.  So there I was, on a day I’d been dreading so much, on the edge of the continent and closer to the equator than I’d ever been before.  I thought it might be an opportune time for the universe to give me a sign of some sort.

I splashed along the water’s edge, letting the warm waters of the Caribbean wash over my feet and watching the sand crabs scuttle.  I was lost in thought: was I doing what I should be doing?  Was I living where I should be living?  Was what I had–friends, accomplishments, possessions–the right amount of stuff for a successful, modern 30-year- old woman to have?  Was I even supposed to know the answers to these questions?

A perfectly smooth, deeply black rock caught my eye.  It looked out of place in the soft white sand, more like a wormhole than a shell.  I picked it up; it was heavy for its size and egg-shaped.  No sand clung to it.  It was warm.  I hefted it for a moment, enjoying the feel of it in my palm, and turned to face the ocean, the biggest wishing well of them all.  Let me find love, I wished silently, squeezing the rock.  I threw it out into the surf as far as I could.

As soon as the rock left my hand, before it even hit the waves, a wet ball of brown fur–our friendly local beach dog–whizzed by me at top speed and my mom put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Are you making him fetch for you?  Tsunami will be so jealous!”

Two seconds earlier, they had been out of sight down the beach, I swear.

Mommy and Tsunami.  That’s the answer the universe gave me.  The lesson here, people, is to be very specific when you are making requests of the cosmos.  The cosmos are very busy and they do not have time to interpret your melodramatic wishes.  If hot monkey love and a house full of children who know their father is what you’re after, don’t downplay that.

1. Mark Wahlberg (Even sunlight loves him)

2. Colin Farrell (Have I ever told you that I have a full-on fetish for Irishmen?)

3. Robert Downey, Jr. (I would keep him together with my love. Also, that vein in his bicep is making me dizzy.)

4. Brad Pitt (Legends of the Fall era) (It hit me at a formative time)

5. Mark Ruffalo (I call him Mark Scruffalo when we are making out. Naked.)

o

6. Don Cheadle (His voice and his smile. Dreamy.)

7. Ed Norton (Talk smart to me. In bed.)

8.  Dominic West (The fuck did he do? Whatever he wanted to.)

9.  Jake Gyllenhaal (Let’s leave this to the imagination. Er, Spiderman.)

My real-life type, or What every man I have ever actually loved looks like

10. Dr. Mark Green (Except not actual doctors.) (God I love this guy. A bald-headed, boyish-faced man….sigh.)

10.

I want to go to Istanbul, or Morocco, or–if someone would be my guide–India. I would prefer to never, ever walk uphill or on uneven ground. I like to stare at pretty things and speak new languages and eat weird food.

My mom likes beaches and cruises and  comfort, but she is also agile and game. Except she hates being cold.

We all loved Paris, deeply. We also traveled together to very remote Costa Rica and had a great time.

We do not ski. Please don’t ask us.

My mom turns 60 in January, and we want to do something amazing. January is kind of limiting though…if not for weather I think we’d go back to Europe for sure, maybe see Prague or Spain…

A safari? How great would it be to turn 60 at Victoria Falls?

Spending a few days sailing the Greek Isles sounds perfect (and not terribly expensive, surprisingly) but I think I might be too unattractive to go to Greece. Ditto Brazil.

If it wasn’t winter, I’d say we would all like a few days on a riverboat in Europe.

What would you do? Off the beaten path, fun, but not too arduous. I wish we could go see the Pyramids.

New Zealand?

Inspire me.