tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56961084531316326842024-03-21T23:34:03.671-04:00Shoveling Down the GreensWhere do we go from here, my friends?yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-14982984405155142672022-04-17T22:34:00.019-04:002022-04-20T09:56:42.509-04:004.17.22 :: So Sammy Together<p><i>I can't see me lovin’ nobody but you<br /></i><i>for all my life.</i></p><p><i>When you’re with me baby the skies</i><i>’</i><i>ll be blue<br /></i><i>for all my life.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">--</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sammy came into my life as a tiny, timid thing, in a blue,
reusable shopping bag. It was a summer Tuesday at Tufts. I had just come home
from a sunburnt Memorial Weekend in Nantucket, my legs still stinging from
biking around the bogs. My colleague Mari Anne came through the side door next
to my desk and whispered, “Kristin, come here.” I walked around the cubicle
wall, peeked into the open bag, and there was the face that launched a thousand
ships. Round moon eyes that would reflect her glow in the darkness, that would
look up at me in hunger, curiosity, impatience, that would dare me to come
closer from behind the safety of a hot pink feather toy or doorframe, that would
eventually never close, even after her heart had stopped beating.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81ijnE1ugyC0SFZ3Png7Jqas0RWu7ZxG0SN5cuXTlsiUQZEoG-K5xRTo0NztW1iLF-vT0FG5QQ0K3c-ttJX2QXiZNy-hdO23xk4HD2IvyraLnhWmu42QcIxOckVjUEI1ANhiyTtqR7_6Qp1wiQdW3rkZzmwpYgPCotXdllHttkD94D_PwF1RPaCOB7Q/s1500/Sammy%20baby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81ijnE1ugyC0SFZ3Png7Jqas0RWu7ZxG0SN5cuXTlsiUQZEoG-K5xRTo0NztW1iLF-vT0FG5QQ0K3c-ttJX2QXiZNy-hdO23xk4HD2IvyraLnhWmu42QcIxOckVjUEI1ANhiyTtqR7_6Qp1wiQdW3rkZzmwpYgPCotXdllHttkD94D_PwF1RPaCOB7Q/s320/Sammy%20baby.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our baby girl was most likely born in a Somerville bush or backyard
in mid-April of 2011. Mari Anne said her neighbor had seen a cat crossing
Powderhouse Boulevard carrying one kitten after another in her mouth. How she
made it safely with such precious cargo over the wide, busy street, I’ll never
know. But, that night, Mari Anne came home to see two eyes staring at her from
the porch steps. A black bundle of fur, the size of a clementine, was huddled
tightly. Its body faced the step; its eyes gazed at Mari Anne from over its
shoulder. It was a look I would come to crave and melt for. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mari Anne waited a while to see if Sammy’s mom was coming
back. She didn’t. Inside the apartment, Mari Anne fed her tuna from a fingertip
and watched her sleep in the laundry basket.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-- <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That first morning, I thought “she” was a “he”. When I
called the Cummings School to schedule a free checkup, I called her Sam, picked
up the box she had been living in under Mari Anne’s desk, took the rest of the
day off, and hit the road. “Sam” didn’t stay put at first, crawling all over me
as I hurdled down 90. Eventually, she nestled into the v between my back and
the seat. I was terrified of crashing, of pancaking her in a Camry, but we made
it through the toll booth to Grafton.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When we arrived, I didn’t know there were separate dog and
cat sides to the waiting room. Only that she was making everyone’s day. I sat
with the pups and cuddled her close, using the shopping bag as a blanket. She
slept on my chest, instantly safe and loved. In the exam room, he was confirmed
to be a she, I got a crash course in owning a pet, and, suddenly. . . <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.696269877792&type=3" target="_blank">I was a mom.</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My bedroom was a labyrinth of new corners and smells and textures
for Sammy to explore. She hid under the IKEA bathroom storage-turned-nightstand
while I went out to stock up on supplies. But as soon as I settled in for a
little bit she came out to play, scaling the mattress sides and attacking the
yarn skeins. She used the small, round litter box from day one, pawing at the
wooden floor to cover her business, my perfect MENSA girl.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYDDQ3Rgct60bHCoSQ_m8YN5q1h5hXMY-d0ie-VlGJFDnacqybcv0apf0AxjhVz8oVyLuoj5ChNjJAiGnELMuOL6vgUKkWccLUjB7muYZsbaxJmNjF8MvFklAHKN25V_THaKQT9VbuiGY8vj7a66xgLN0TvzcNkcSvhjCqDjCRuZPdFoFZ7jxPTXQUw/s720/Sammy%20baby%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYDDQ3Rgct60bHCoSQ_m8YN5q1h5hXMY-d0ie-VlGJFDnacqybcv0apf0AxjhVz8oVyLuoj5ChNjJAiGnELMuOL6vgUKkWccLUjB7muYZsbaxJmNjF8MvFklAHKN25V_THaKQT9VbuiGY8vj7a66xgLN0TvzcNkcSvhjCqDjCRuZPdFoFZ7jxPTXQUw/s320/Sammy%20baby%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKyRjCq9NYNEWbRlRN40Tnl4eWQNJDdSFqZty-3NX9LT77CtMrxK4WnBppkGyzeXiyqrNt4byJzVNiN65hRoHANikJSTX1iiKsE9iCdMIrPBdq0s6aH_nuZufxSJ1yUTrJ-Oi56Y7t6tXPQ-Cv0_5S_udCyeJH4-JaQCrmpnHusvJ07GTvtQTitRZLg/s720/Sammy%20camera.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKyRjCq9NYNEWbRlRN40Tnl4eWQNJDdSFqZty-3NX9LT77CtMrxK4WnBppkGyzeXiyqrNt4byJzVNiN65hRoHANikJSTX1iiKsE9iCdMIrPBdq0s6aH_nuZufxSJ1yUTrJ-Oi56Y7t6tXPQ-Cv0_5S_udCyeJH4-JaQCrmpnHusvJ07GTvtQTitRZLg/s320/Sammy%20camera.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal">I remember our early sleeps so clearly, because I didn’t get
any. I lay on my side, the slats in the shade filtering the streetlight,
listening for steps sticky with claws on the sheet, waiting for two cub paws to
appear over the side of the bed—a prelude to the sweetest kitten face. She
cuddled into my free arm, as she would for the decade to come, and should I
deign to move or adjust my stiff limbs, she meowed—the shortest, laser-gun shot
in the dark—licked my chin or nose, and went back to sleep. They were some of
the best nights of my life.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">--<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whistling became our thing. She hated when I sang or played
my French horn. Would try to climb into my hair and bite my face. But when I
whistled, she came running—and kneading and purring and suckling my shirt. That
first teal v-neck from NY&Co. was soaked on the shoulder every night, so I
weaned her onto my childhood companion: Blankie. Once cream and pastel
rainbow-colored, now drab and gray as though she’d gone through a Dickensian rinse
cycle, Blankie was my first best friend. She came with me to college, study
abroad, even grad school. There’s nothing like a perfectly worn, familiar
sidekick, and she was Sammy’s almost instantly.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJQhyg1AW8ZtzyyIjdd4TiTgblGEF_WuSmMm3FdK9q5E_tY9RledklYOXXel-YezirohqscQ6ZStgF1rM9cYBQMTsyiD0-0CwwWnVU6rlsgzaopNuncOQ4VFhWakns2EeBSqKPpn54fhuLC0WZk3f8MW2CK1qtUrgVLKh5U3GKaXOoi_MUtQxYZa_9A/s3500/Kristin-Ginger-Sammy-2022-30.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3500" data-original-width="2333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJQhyg1AW8ZtzyyIjdd4TiTgblGEF_WuSmMm3FdK9q5E_tY9RledklYOXXel-YezirohqscQ6ZStgF1rM9cYBQMTsyiD0-0CwwWnVU6rlsgzaopNuncOQ4VFhWakns2EeBSqKPpn54fhuLC0WZk3f8MW2CK1qtUrgVLKh5U3GKaXOoi_MUtQxYZa_9A/s320/Kristin-Ginger-Sammy-2022-30.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Climbing over rocky
mountain<br /></i><i>Skipping rivulet and fountain<br /></i><i>Passing where the willows quiiiiiiver…</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://youtube.com/shorts/6LSTNwMyKH4?feature=share" target="_blank">My girl loved Gilbert and Sullivan.</a> As soon as the first
calls of that silly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pirates</i> ditty
rang out, she would hop onto the bed, pad along my limbs and torso, and settle
onto my chest for quality biscuit-making time. Over the years, as Blankie’s
stamina unraveled, more crochet nubs appeared ripe for midnight snacking and
making her all the more delicious. In the end, she was an octopus of a knot,
held and felled by her many holes and tentacles. But Sammy loved her all the
more. Blankie was the smell of my cheek, Sammy’s kisses, thousands of our warm,
sleepy hours. She was us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">--<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our nighttime routine was as predictable as the British rail
system. Whistling for biscuits. Kitten kisses straying back and forth from fur
to skin. Netflix on our side, with Sammy draped over the left arm; the right
absently stroking her length. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lights out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hours later, a paw taps the face, threatening claws should
the sleeper fail to wake and roll into position. Eyes closed, a dead arm lifts
the comforter so the terrorist can crawl into her spot, circle, and settle—head
on the forearm, legs akimbo around the hand, front paws in the armpit. Kisses ensured
until sleep resumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0DvK40HsAU8VcH7oaCtxyTSGV0hOacyr7XzRdOFAuWegIHDISXY9xt_XGKGcoodX_8bHDzgyOoF2eBGWu5flgSCRHC0IrQuzsIs1zZ3OQZ7zeHwVEjcXKOWjW_67FniKsNEjUyyitVtrtDvL71WHgREEPxspozL84qe1XYaByOXaudPku_fcnuqRgQ/s750/Sammy%20and%20Phil.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0DvK40HsAU8VcH7oaCtxyTSGV0hOacyr7XzRdOFAuWegIHDISXY9xt_XGKGcoodX_8bHDzgyOoF2eBGWu5flgSCRHC0IrQuzsIs1zZ3OQZ7zeHwVEjcXKOWjW_67FniKsNEjUyyitVtrtDvL71WHgREEPxspozL84qe1XYaByOXaudPku_fcnuqRgQ/s320/Sammy%20and%20Phil.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">--<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Dr. Simonelli called with the cancer diagnosis, I knew:
Blankie and Sammy would be cremated together. If I couldn’t go with her, and oh
how I wanted to, she couldn’t be alone.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5nipx-NxdAmejJtg6ILcO7wUeWHiqAucKz4Yj0s5ScJD-kZ4Q7e9PWcNnf6vSVY_nvAbnv92Ofx9Ap8UO9M80jMKhhxSNNnbV0wNrquHM-MoGcOXg9hAhEWyCQYlo933ac8xJIoXM-BhQkR-KxV8Tpw6AnHIn3KFmqyi2UIBFXBfCQhFSWaoIU5-Yw/s640/Sammy%20sleeping.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5nipx-NxdAmejJtg6ILcO7wUeWHiqAucKz4Yj0s5ScJD-kZ4Q7e9PWcNnf6vSVY_nvAbnv92Ofx9Ap8UO9M80jMKhhxSNNnbV0wNrquHM-MoGcOXg9hAhEWyCQYlo933ac8xJIoXM-BhQkR-KxV8Tpw6AnHIn3KFmqyi2UIBFXBfCQhFSWaoIU5-Yw/s320/Sammy%20sleeping.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">-- <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If I have any regrets about my baby girl, it’s the time that I did leave her alone. She had two brothers that first year: ginger Bailey and tabby
Tucker. How she loved her Tucker. So many of her traits she inherited from him
and his cinnamon swirl spirit. My favorite: her chatter.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAgBb0hG8EUAXUYqSzB1K-MUcZJ_M4ayzhlAF-R_x5iyXMyamYIIMbdatjEbEvzLNBfK4pqHzEBQRHSeTGIH25fj9j-9RtqRzRvkp7dKdB0iH7fdIDDRmhPZih1fvCDKccxW3SoBlzS0w8O6MWY91EBzMtJ9GUPWn6UefJP51Znthf9vaJ8qo__6d0A/s800/Sammy%20drape.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAgBb0hG8EUAXUYqSzB1K-MUcZJ_M4ayzhlAF-R_x5iyXMyamYIIMbdatjEbEvzLNBfK4pqHzEBQRHSeTGIH25fj9j-9RtqRzRvkp7dKdB0iH7fdIDDRmhPZih1fvCDKccxW3SoBlzS0w8O6MWY91EBzMtJ9GUPWn6UefJP51Znthf9vaJ8qo__6d0A/s320/Sammy%20drape.jpg" width="256" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLHMGMN380c6UifcDgZJzT_5-W9wUPsqR1sB2P8Q5Q2NJSsktCMawwtERv_QFjXf83Efy5GGsv36nsJOsqky2bwvrlWIrzU8nUg7GEOYVdUDunmDUbwSCxQrY8s8sqIpFn428_QDu3GFwotn0lvz4zTKALUWmsSKj4EEDFK8utel5VcGQf5FjZ-tFug/s800/Sammy%20behind%20drape.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLHMGMN380c6UifcDgZJzT_5-W9wUPsqR1sB2P8Q5Q2NJSsktCMawwtERv_QFjXf83Efy5GGsv36nsJOsqky2bwvrlWIrzU8nUg7GEOYVdUDunmDUbwSCxQrY8s8sqIpFn428_QDu3GFwotn0lvz4zTKALUWmsSKj4EEDFK8utel5VcGQf5FjZ-tFug/s320/Sammy%20behind%20drape.jpg" width="256" /></a><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">When we moved to the apartment on Church Street, the living
room window overlooked the big driveway and tall trees that eventually came
down after a freak hurricane a couple of years ago. A brazen squirrel
entertained us last summer, camping out on top of the air conditioner. But
birds were always the favorite. Trying to imitate their calls, but sounding
absolutely nothing like any species you’ve heard, Sammy would crouch down, stalk them with laser focus, and
release a series of high ticks from the back of her teeth. If I could wrap that up in a ring tone . . .</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On warm days I would leave the window open. When I came home
from work, my very own Juliet was waiting for me, framed in ivy and brick, and
I eagerly called up to see how her day was. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hi, baby girl!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Meow.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Did you have a good day?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Meow.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Did you miss Mumma?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Meow.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A pause. A head nod to the front door. And like lightning
she was there. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujYqRBa6f0mPyREm07qL7QEf1lObS0LrGDnat_Sot4RNVI7saDtv3xGxmxhXEdqDixTBOn-ohS3dGg9LYu48BnYvHSBfZS1VpAgPGbtSiALxDnobzuvqsRRs4dQwJ4448-lHnKRNXrQUs_nCBWuGgq_rQmeLkVxTU_svRtwu5OugzBZsPo-6yq0u8JA/s1440/Sammy%20in%20window.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujYqRBa6f0mPyREm07qL7QEf1lObS0LrGDnat_Sot4RNVI7saDtv3xGxmxhXEdqDixTBOn-ohS3dGg9LYu48BnYvHSBfZS1VpAgPGbtSiALxDnobzuvqsRRs4dQwJ4448-lHnKRNXrQUs_nCBWuGgq_rQmeLkVxTU_svRtwu5OugzBZsPo-6yq0u8JA/s320/Sammy%20in%20window.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t get the key in fast enough. She often cried until the
door opened, a hair from hitting her in the face. She always pulled back just
in time, before raising her head for thumb-nose scratches and head-to-tail
caresses. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The top of the stairs was our customs exit, where I massaged
her with both hands, one over the other so she felt an endless rub along her
back. She leaned into the fingers I strummed along her cheeks. I kissed her
proud rump while on my hands and knees and she paced around before coming back
for more. At the end of it all, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/klivvy/videos/10101667120169982" target="_blank">she would fall to her side on the carpet and arch her neck</a>, waiting for me to stroke the perfectly soft underside of her
chin, the full length of her silky body. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, if she would tolerate it, the tops of her feet.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSleuz8b8BznogSpRys_dnRwM2nLG2B3_BMh90hKeLOZW5n7r13lLv31ti1B_C0v6bvc2bQCr-1bNceFIsFuK9z9ov2_nWu4UH3c50IXkpm25FQZUdv7gB-Zr7_CEPUqJ3cmBmfW7vjMZY6kshjByWkcJIPQ9pi0rlTLj2HPa4MY8F4-xWgPveUp68ew/s1440/Sammy%20feet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSleuz8b8BznogSpRys_dnRwM2nLG2B3_BMh90hKeLOZW5n7r13lLv31ti1B_C0v6bvc2bQCr-1bNceFIsFuK9z9ov2_nWu4UH3c50IXkpm25FQZUdv7gB-Zr7_CEPUqJ3cmBmfW7vjMZY6kshjByWkcJIPQ9pi0rlTLj2HPa4MY8F4-xWgPveUp68ew/w280-h280/Sammy%20feet.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHO-8mkNrf4CfnWjGpVAfios75D4NFLPFVvRnZIXGCzrxeozKjxSRC-pNYq6xPn14lRIt1ljK-j5aKBVVh_i-Iua6RaKRZy8qlwd60NsHVIWW3boDr1QbtPiSszK0so6PdR1n33654NS0gFJRcQycLm3mW8f-kZyZAEQDCeuALMtaz-RS3RmwTEb0rPw/s798/Sammy%20feet%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="640" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHO-8mkNrf4CfnWjGpVAfios75D4NFLPFVvRnZIXGCzrxeozKjxSRC-pNYq6xPn14lRIt1ljK-j5aKBVVh_i-Iua6RaKRZy8qlwd60NsHVIWW3boDr1QbtPiSszK0so6PdR1n33654NS0gFJRcQycLm3mW8f-kZyZAEQDCeuALMtaz-RS3RmwTEb0rPw/w282-h351/Sammy%20feet%202.jpg" width="282" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal">Feet were our favorite. After a shower, I would step
onto the bathmat and wait for my little miss to have a soapy snack, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/klivvy/videos/10101618871999702" target="_blank">licking all of the water off my shins and feet</a>. I could only stand it for a minute or two
before I would dry off. She’d hop on the toilet and watch me apply whatever
lotion or potion came next, her black paws at attention on the lid.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WtbffwteJnsF4RKiwwVp8efRdinx8mfg1zwijo4RMHL9X3KfJb8qX541YoMSYu6QOfSs0WwwDTUYDcvfNEHPOnfUWgvDQYgbUSyn6uqHa8zIYORT29KVXFJv4py0OhkpmmpLaChH40PT7hjy5nKYkRSg-cc6Rwome3QFKO1fny-O5DBEBpEwvWVK5A/s4032/Sammy%20Portrait.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WtbffwteJnsF4RKiwwVp8efRdinx8mfg1zwijo4RMHL9X3KfJb8qX541YoMSYu6QOfSs0WwwDTUYDcvfNEHPOnfUWgvDQYgbUSyn6uqHa8zIYORT29KVXFJv4py0OhkpmmpLaChH40PT7hjy5nKYkRSg-cc6Rwome3QFKO1fny-O5DBEBpEwvWVK5A/w279-h371/Sammy%20Portrait.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">the photo that inspired a tattoo 💓</span></i></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_F0lhXLO79j9K1jmZULkltXxX_2H88A9a9pVqcnuY8Btb8KMigV17y9OHsVJJBIrPjhsX6L1OQ-OySG2kUmGgMbUKrYlsjBD4sLk_wkrYKaRJWs25QxIPcde7nDcqddPZ4puACdNx0WNVgzwnM2fchs0VX5PpP8lTz4xy-alypcwU3j3qu3TkKwt3TA/s727/Sammy%20shower.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_F0lhXLO79j9K1jmZULkltXxX_2H88A9a9pVqcnuY8Btb8KMigV17y9OHsVJJBIrPjhsX6L1OQ-OySG2kUmGgMbUKrYlsjBD4sLk_wkrYKaRJWs25QxIPcde7nDcqddPZ4puACdNx0WNVgzwnM2fchs0VX5PpP8lTz4xy-alypcwU3j3qu3TkKwt3TA/s320/Sammy%20shower.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">In a certain light, her toes came to a rounded point, like a jester’s slippers. I
loved how prettily, how perfectly, she would place each foot as she scaled the peaks and valleys of our apartment every day. In the mornings, it was always the dresser. What paw could
destroy which breakable to wake Mumma up. </p><p class="MsoNormal">At night, it was the fridge. Floor to
butcher block to fridge top to inspect which can—fish or fish?—was headed to
the bowl. </p><p class="MsoNormal">During the day, it was the desk or the couch to make sure I was clocking in. Her nose would tip up first to decide . . . hop from the floor, or take the tree?
Sitting on the closed laptop, she would follow the mouse arrow across the
monitor; from the couch arm, she would follow me. Staring for hours. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/klivvy/videos/10101103003604102" target="_blank">The end of her tailed draped across her ankles.</a> Her head at a tilt that said: Really?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">--</p><p class="MsoNormal">That the cancer was so aggressive doesn't surprise me when I look back. My girl did nothing in half measures. When she played, she played hard. And having grown up with me instead of other kittens, she didn't know her strength or sharpness. My shoulder is like an old baseboard, scuffed and scraped by hundreds of forced bear hugs and scared vet visits and eager launches to a safer perch. My hands are a map of playtime, from the top step she would crouch behind, eyes in full moon for maximum guitar pick hunting, to the landing where she would scurry and watch as I did laser pointer and raccoon puppetry gymnastics, mostly to no avail, to the fresh sheets she would slide into while I made the bed and teased her with tickling fingers, to the tree in the bedroom where she would hide behind the scratching post or ramp for a neon feather or string to poke its head where it shouldn't. (Or should.)</p><p class="MsoNormal">Her tail was a traffic light I often ignored or tempted, and my skin happily wears the fines. I would pay triple for her to be back in the cardboard box, unblinking, waiting patiently for Mumma to come play. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifn_jgDJW_h5DgIPnQ0vr9vuP7hZxkCWLPwOUT7nHQii9teUONTW69iBvOVAZN63rZI0OLfrPUFSDWPcrGtR-JBSHlLxh43pMfyE4pInSmxtYlxF5XeVfYn1QpdDcdAHkfPNf6tGKQscW1YOmgUY50v7vRV0LBOuzTvtVq5R_tr9MBMTMyeGUpXHG1aQ/s1440/Sammy%20cuddle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifn_jgDJW_h5DgIPnQ0vr9vuP7hZxkCWLPwOUT7nHQii9teUONTW69iBvOVAZN63rZI0OLfrPUFSDWPcrGtR-JBSHlLxh43pMfyE4pInSmxtYlxF5XeVfYn1QpdDcdAHkfPNf6tGKQscW1YOmgUY50v7vRV0LBOuzTvtVq5R_tr9MBMTMyeGUpXHG1aQ/s320/Sammy%20cuddle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wllMZHkIVHJOAsUME7GC7W1Lnz-9JDArahqYR8_WpVGwc67-yL5oQ08obB4Pbjz1RZDP6hHxVT9--NvplRjV36yZdeHz402li5yxEhVhebyK0voLMIsLkkW8pV2g7GYKiBW3qBP4JWDVGhUemhbYF1FqjtkzpjdTAHjAaC-XJq8UwjKi4v0ITfyJIg/s750/Sammy%20sheets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wllMZHkIVHJOAsUME7GC7W1Lnz-9JDArahqYR8_WpVGwc67-yL5oQ08obB4Pbjz1RZDP6hHxVT9--NvplRjV36yZdeHz402li5yxEhVhebyK0voLMIsLkkW8pV2g7GYKiBW3qBP4JWDVGhUemhbYF1FqjtkzpjdTAHjAaC-XJq8UwjKi4v0ITfyJIg/s320/Sammy%20sheets.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><br /><div>--<br /><br />You know how parents are biased about their perfectly normal children being the most brilliant, the most beautiful, the most special beings on the planet? Sammy was <i>the most beautiful </i>thing in the world, and I will sumo wrestle anyone who fights this.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>I could easily win a duel with Mr. Darcy over the most intense gaze cast across a room. That Muppet face would pop up from behind a step, around a corner, and my inevitable Care Bear stares of love could have blown apart the space-time continuum. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the morning light, her black coat shone like diamonds, an endless rainbow of colors glinting brightly in what is often mistaken for a monochrome palette. With my glasses off, I have expert X-ray vision, ideal for digging into blackheads. Also an asset when admiring the millions of microscopic nodules on a cold, wet kitten nose. Each blemish on the pink pads of her paws. The organically manicured lawn of her soft ears.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhk3pFtHUnnLlIsieTTsKxvQIY_NFZmIQpBok6N93zyhLfmSTT2Gcqg13lm69SPuFaQjbHQNfdA36pvMGbg-SndLawAwGAEwGu6yb0tTqTiRbeACRwfPDFb2C-ywdgaksVMWeoyjERJaD-JSYEDiWG7oM_D9k5Op3tJfSXUOireOUMfIKTpUsQa45f6A/s750/275762424_106653571906991_6911182162762700741_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhk3pFtHUnnLlIsieTTsKxvQIY_NFZmIQpBok6N93zyhLfmSTT2Gcqg13lm69SPuFaQjbHQNfdA36pvMGbg-SndLawAwGAEwGu6yb0tTqTiRbeACRwfPDFb2C-ywdgaksVMWeoyjERJaD-JSYEDiWG7oM_D9k5Op3tJfSXUOireOUMfIKTpUsQa45f6A/s320/275762424_106653571906991_6911182162762700741_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0MrHLUmFjoYDrVj17x16kXxmNW0iJg4aW37OSY20C_Woi5EktaFs3tB4fnr40xUbyjyBlWygcPcuPLXWmqgOJ-yB8Q_lgNnuST-cH-A47T5rciyntfZD8fFXq7BHkKQ_wAPDR2-cu4LcqMvfPcZqg315eOZEa4UBY70oIsXXLgSNiwEKeWxv5xEV7Q/s750/274930365_166322702407485_6827343489532533838_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0MrHLUmFjoYDrVj17x16kXxmNW0iJg4aW37OSY20C_Woi5EktaFs3tB4fnr40xUbyjyBlWygcPcuPLXWmqgOJ-yB8Q_lgNnuST-cH-A47T5rciyntfZD8fFXq7BHkKQ_wAPDR2-cu4LcqMvfPcZqg315eOZEa4UBY70oIsXXLgSNiwEKeWxv5xEV7Q/s320/274930365_166322702407485_6827343489532533838_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZXWgFR7BpCGgJGeeJ3d4bR3gm-y0aTnnpxKArZpMtTmaPJGeXTNtBqNd_Rp9-Jf-t5SujZ2YlKkK4QVV6BhiLjbRlB11SKe9yhdwgLVq8zFaBnY_ovqTmYGf8K6pY5-yLdVsvKL_Zj7tNWnoj2rw_A1x0VYeHdJNZFG4_dj_GyViw0mlNPLwX8KJYg/s750/274686095_2103317269835793_2501075532697237451_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZXWgFR7BpCGgJGeeJ3d4bR3gm-y0aTnnpxKArZpMtTmaPJGeXTNtBqNd_Rp9-Jf-t5SujZ2YlKkK4QVV6BhiLjbRlB11SKe9yhdwgLVq8zFaBnY_ovqTmYGf8K6pY5-yLdVsvKL_Zj7tNWnoj2rw_A1x0VYeHdJNZFG4_dj_GyViw0mlNPLwX8KJYg/s320/274686095_2103317269835793_2501075532697237451_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>My inspections almost always earned some rueful side-eye, especially if she was compressed into her comfiest donut curl. An eye would crack open, dilate as I moved in for a string of fat kisses, and, once I had faded into the background of Netflix and iPhone, gratefully close with the slight contempt and resignation all smothered children bear.</div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div><br /></div><div>The toilet isn’t the most communal spot, for most. But I
haven’t gone to the bathroom alone at home for over a decade. When friends come
over, I’m always surprised when I’m locked in by damp hands and the sticky door.
You have to turn the knob and pull down to escape. I forget. </div><div><p class="MsoNormal">With Sammy, when
doors were closed in our apartment, carpet was furiously ripped up, paint was
scratched, and desperate cries ripped the air—and my heart—in half. Sometimes
you want to pee in peace. But I got so used to having a little warm body
huddled against my shins, once to the left, once to the right, then parked at
the bathroom entrance lest invaders enter our home. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A shoddy screen door from Home Depot was erected for a week
in the fall of 2016 when an unexpected guest arrived.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ginger was supposed to be a two-week babysitting job, but
became, as I had always suspected she would, the old lady of the house.
Interlopers had come before her, namely a very affectionate Siberian blue I had
rescued from a few streets down and naively thought my firstborn would embrace
(as one should every refugee). But, alas, Sammy’s protests were relentless, my will
was weak, and Stoli was adopted by a mother and son who declared my apartment
to be “very dark” as I gave them the ten-cent tour—and a cat for life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Poppa and Grammie Hansel and Gretel’d Ginger into their home
with food and treats ten or so years ago, and I knew, almost from the moment I
met her, this girl is going to be mine someday. The sixth cat lady sense. Sammy
was not pleased. Slightly larger in size and monstrously dominant in
personality and territory, she needed no excuse to bap Ginger on the head. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mumma is kissing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> back. Scoot over.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mumma is feeding <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>
wet food. Get lost.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> window.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> spot on
the floor.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">This is <i>my</i> lap.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What. Are you doing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">under
the comforter . . . ?</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, yet, when the two took a trip to the vet together and
began traveling to Ohio much to Sammy’s fright, whom did she press herself
against when Mumma’s belly wasn’t free to turtle shell into? Whose crate did she
crawl into? Whose side was she sure to stick to for hours at a time?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgteWBkiQQpJ-x60N4cOka0LWpgxrwVvSIa_7tsXLJrsit-PygT04qCOIv93e27oxbDQ5gxKcQtEFVEaJ-aXK5goYiYxLFpLnmNE-fou1PV1b6sYem1kmwFDa0ib8UiEwka7esncBU9oja8o6DI4I_jkyqyvDS6zjovz-j0rPyJ8AlQaAfuy1dqbTTtBA/s1440/Sammy%20and%20Ginger.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgteWBkiQQpJ-x60N4cOka0LWpgxrwVvSIa_7tsXLJrsit-PygT04qCOIv93e27oxbDQ5gxKcQtEFVEaJ-aXK5goYiYxLFpLnmNE-fou1PV1b6sYem1kmwFDa0ib8UiEwka7esncBU9oja8o6DI4I_jkyqyvDS6zjovz-j0rPyJ8AlQaAfuy1dqbTTtBA/s320/Sammy%20and%20Ginger.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I like to imagine a treaty was signed by two wary, weary opponents while I was at work. Sammy’s demands: I get what I want, when I want.
Ginger’s: OK. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">--<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s been a month since she left us, and a day doesn’t go by
where I don’t feel like an entrance to a cold cave has opened in my chest with
no way of damming up. I cry a lot. I look at objects that only hold importance
because she touched them. I long for all the grievances she once caused: litter pebbles in the bed, full water glasses smashed on the hardwood floor, pock marks in favorite shirts, a stubborn anchor on my restless legs at bedtime, a stubborn alarm in my ears at dawn. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, I see movement out of the corner of my eye,
a balled-up black sweatshirt on the bed, and think she’s there. She’s not.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She died.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s the first thought I have every morning and the last
before I fall asleep. She always needed to have some part of her touching me
when she dozed off. At least a paw. And I never realized I needed the
same until she wasn’t there.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWwTv0eSMiuiSkndXvd_OMHpqgBIkUW7gPcACY7GzyHU4P0KPVsdyDVmGiDR-OQ6ds6FWMXczXNZHQMIi5qXmpMg7yd7Ie0TKB8Be51nupSanv2-qtMdUVwn0dNL6PLkih0r4-k8dWjBrxsngT0-EGJRsi9ho6JosGQ5PdaD_RMQiOLaf1LnpjttDJ6g/s750/Sammy%20fur%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWwTv0eSMiuiSkndXvd_OMHpqgBIkUW7gPcACY7GzyHU4P0KPVsdyDVmGiDR-OQ6ds6FWMXczXNZHQMIi5qXmpMg7yd7Ie0TKB8Be51nupSanv2-qtMdUVwn0dNL6PLkih0r4-k8dWjBrxsngT0-EGJRsi9ho6JosGQ5PdaD_RMQiOLaf1LnpjttDJ6g/s320/Sammy%20fur%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKW-JIAM8hUPT2OOOvURFmES9aVVhP55fdk8T7B7d2ALth8uaXSjGKlgrNwx4C6GK1o4OP8gSxoCQFBoAuZcZp7zzCQAR98WhuAHAiDhXIaedGGmvYtj6d2z8Le0GdZgPJxYdK47ys186YfPmixX66q-rrS3chbTu2QmL6TBRvC1-D2bCypct55swkRQ/s750/Sammy%20fur.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKW-JIAM8hUPT2OOOvURFmES9aVVhP55fdk8T7B7d2ALth8uaXSjGKlgrNwx4C6GK1o4OP8gSxoCQFBoAuZcZp7zzCQAR98WhuAHAiDhXIaedGGmvYtj6d2z8Le0GdZgPJxYdK47ys186YfPmixX66q-rrS3chbTu2QmL6TBRvC1-D2bCypct55swkRQ/s320/Sammy%20fur.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">To say I miss her is to say there are stars in the sky. I’m at over
2,000 words and I could go on forever. But before I let a year go by, I want to
savor and share at least a few of the good memories for everyone—and, of
course, myself. I’ll never forget her, but time is a thief and we often don’t
know what it’s stealing until it’s gone.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ll keep posting. And I hope you’ll keep reading. With each photo I've added here, I think: There are so many better ones. With each memory I've shared, the trail goes on until I'm lost in eleven years of details I want to trap in this type to hold onto forever, but can't possible convey with only words.</p><p class="MsoNormal">So, for now, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4fCSBEJl5zayZCLwGw3cy5?si=f874c9a5995a4608" target="_blank">here are some songs</a> for Sammy that speak so
eloquently to the love I have for her, all I would give to hold her again. The rocky mountains that will always have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> running for nighttime kisses.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Once a Sandwich. Always Mumma’s Best Girl. Sammy, you have my whole heart for my whole life.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyqqy-uvrRMpcBIVgOyZSj8KgvAhFvy2TEop9i0wwBJjJzg0j0cVL7_md7iyeK3I5skdD-K3vPUy7s9SbTg7I58-4RXn4nJ5h8UTxDdYoSYJj_IsS2jA0QGjdWToH-fvttmdq1U9Bi-iBX6d9eezUZB_RlSXYNhhVfQ_aeBPTqVoTyVWXYgjlJtj9uXw/s3500/Kristin-Ginger-Sammy-2022-45.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3500" data-original-width="2333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyqqy-uvrRMpcBIVgOyZSj8KgvAhFvy2TEop9i0wwBJjJzg0j0cVL7_md7iyeK3I5skdD-K3vPUy7s9SbTg7I58-4RXn4nJ5h8UTxDdYoSYJj_IsS2jA0QGjdWToH-fvttmdq1U9Bi-iBX6d9eezUZB_RlSXYNhhVfQ_aeBPTqVoTyVWXYgjlJtj9uXw/s320/Kristin-Ginger-Sammy-2022-45.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In the night I lie and look up at you</i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>when the morning comes </i><i>I watch you rise</i></div></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>There's a paradise that couldn't capture</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>that bright </i><i>infinity </i><i>inside your eyes</i></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p></div></div>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-1380001510020585872021-03-05T23:46:00.015-05:002021-03-16T14:46:54.197-04:003.5.21 :: Feels You Didn’t Know You Needed<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Almost a year ago, I met a girl. My mom set us
up. (They work together at the library.) One night in the kitchen, Mom gave me
her phone number and said, “Abby is just the nicest.” Thus began one of the
sweetest friendships I’ve formed in my 30s.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You know how they say you can count your true friends on one
hand? I’m the lucky bitch who needs two—plus a foot. I’ve got an incredible,
widespread quilt of girlfriends, and Abby has seamlessly stitched her way into
my heart. Usually the first person to greet me when I wake up. Often the last
person I chat with before bed. Definitely someone who would notice if I choked
on a Beyond Burger and died in the apartment. We’ve celebrated her pregnancy
and, soon, the birth of her second child. She’s directed me to some of the
yummiest vegan food in Boston. She makes me scream laugh and spit out my dinner,
think twice about politics and social “norms”, and blink <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> hard at certain shirtless social media posts. With her, I can
be my silliest, most perverted, random self.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And we’ve never met in real life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t think I’m the only person to have made a close
virtual friend in the pandemic, and I feel so lucky to have fallen into this
special club of texting, Instagramming pen pals. Like modern day Julia Childs
and Avis DeVotos, we joke that "someday" we’ll meet IRL. And with vaccines and warmer
weather and our budding podcast on the horizon, I know we will. I can just see
us now…racing toward one another from across a crowd of food truck stalls. She
pushing a stroller. Me stumbling forward, overloaded with French breads and Mr.
Buckwheat stuffies…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Who’s Mr. Buckwheat? Why, just the goblin who introduced us,
bonded us, and brings great comfort on dark quarantine days. For Abby and I,
you see, are two white girls (well, 1 ½ white girls) who are obsessed with
Korean drama. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Talk about feels you didn’t know you needed in the pandemic.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you like Jane Austen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">even
a thimble-full</i>…if you burn for romantic tension, smoldering gazes, physical
glances that could shake the trees, plus nerve-wracking mysteries, hilarious
virgin ghosts, eye-crossing time travel, and characters that feel like childhood
friends, you need to set your Netflix search to Korean drama. A swell of
choices will appear, and I urge you to dive in. But if the tide’s too rough,
dip your toe into one of the beauties below to get started. I’m no expert by a long shot, but I've got about a
thousand hours, Duo Lingo lessons, and 4 a.m. messages to Abby to back me up!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOvgg2we-hmqrN24hz66k4aXXqBx-OWHoo1USJvmJ5-ku9XMjPT3qFMVOcF4DJb2OiFOQem3aoeJfU0PZABHWeVwlvyAjQyprDGL7FdT4lc6nwyi0cWiuki3EDPQvz0VRfQuPMpGVZ2S2/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1200" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOvgg2we-hmqrN24hz66k4aXXqBx-OWHoo1USJvmJ5-ku9XMjPT3qFMVOcF4DJb2OiFOQem3aoeJfU0PZABHWeVwlvyAjQyprDGL7FdT4lc6nwyi0cWiuki3EDPQvz0VRfQuPMpGVZ2S2/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Crash Landing on You</b><br /><i>
Netflix</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A South Korean heiress is literally swept up in a freak
tornado that drops her—and a cow?—into North Korea, where she meets her future
real-life boyfriend (<a href="https://www.scmp.com/magazines/style/celebrity/article/3122011/will-hyun-bin-and-son-ye-jin-get-married-year-and-what" target="_blank">#BinJin</a>): a North Korean soldier. You’ll gasp
at the unfairness of it all, cry at the push and pull, belly laugh at the men and women on
either side of the DMZ, and crave fried chicken and beer. (Sigh.) This was the
show that popped my K-drama cherry and changed my idea of television forever.
Mom gives it two thumbs up, too!<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOVlzMyvBvguqmgp8NET2f-HIEul7ZxDESY2a0IZuO2QlSEbnPOmz0Yg8FrfEIzeBTJlz442v-m5b5OVQsvrnuMZcCJH4GQLZuQNUiAD3DewiuHiNwNTsuAbtz4ewVpBvORNMTK4IyxcP/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="1200" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOVlzMyvBvguqmgp8NET2f-HIEul7ZxDESY2a0IZuO2QlSEbnPOmz0Yg8FrfEIzeBTJlz442v-m5b5OVQsvrnuMZcCJH4GQLZuQNUiAD3DewiuHiNwNTsuAbtz4ewVpBvORNMTK4IyxcP/" width="320" /></a></p><b>Guardian: The Lonely and Great God</b><br /><i>
Viki</i><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Home of Mr. Buckwheat, this drama is unlike almost anything
else I’ve seen on television in its concept and execution. Gong Yoo, aka torso and
oversized sweater goals, is a cursed goblin out of time. Things
come to a head when a beautiful student reenters his life and he reluctantly befriends
a grim reaper. Enjoy the notes of John Williams’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Harry Potter</i> in the score, watching time travelers use FaceTime,
and a bromance for the ages. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkKDM1kCt3xS1Txx5K5Ugf6XKX7e7FDWypGDQnwKOB1HMtyTO-_ecmu6wEmi4fc7BwG7kvTy0wtEh3-drmw8klZdaIegkLVZUEOVVCFOciFl00J6ejEKXhmNajIs9qgAT_UmdSep4SOI8/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="872" data-original-width="1560" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkKDM1kCt3xS1Txx5K5Ugf6XKX7e7FDWypGDQnwKOB1HMtyTO-_ecmu6wEmi4fc7BwG7kvTy0wtEh3-drmw8klZdaIegkLVZUEOVVCFOciFl00J6ejEKXhmNajIs9qgAT_UmdSep4SOI8/" width="320" /></a></p><b>Reply 1988</b><br /><i>Netflix</i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A strong theme in the Reply series is family—chosen and blood.
Following five families over a decade from their small corner of Seoul, this
drama had me so emotional by the end that I immediately restarted it, just so I
could continue living in their sweet, playful, tightly bonded world. If you
know nothing of Korean history (which I didn’t when watching), the plot revolves around cultural touchstones that defined a generation; be sure to
have Wikipedia on hand! Above all, you’ll swoon for an almost unmatched love
triangle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you like Reply 1998, check out Go Ara’s
enchanting troll cheeks, Yoo Yeon Seok’s gratuitous shirtless scenes in the
name of baseball, and the second-best love triangle on record in <a href="https://www.netflix.com/title/80165487" target="_blank">Reply 1994 (Netflix)</a>. I also really enjoyed the NSYNC fashion realness of <a href="https://www.netflix.com/title/70297144" target="_blank">Reply 1997 (Netflix)</a> and the <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/2PuUZINyaWsma5rAyGZM75?si=INLE23v-TIWu99eYct-HQw" target="_blank">theme song</a>, which I sing in the shower.<br /><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oeSzBeHs6YYJ2ZYPj51yjYeUYZjwfC1lwRs1YMJyWXKZiGZvxH3-3x3WNQV9KERQqyYG9rymh6Gi62jgZ7YfgZkg_h0JBAEvBBGptoEqp7UWgzftN3JEkwLU2CbXkBEZMhiMVh5X1RHC/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1280" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oeSzBeHs6YYJ2ZYPj51yjYeUYZjwfC1lwRs1YMJyWXKZiGZvxH3-3x3WNQV9KERQqyYG9rymh6Gi62jgZ7YfgZkg_h0JBAEvBBGptoEqp7UWgzftN3JEkwLU2CbXkBEZMhiMVh5X1RHC/" width="320" /></a></p><b>True Beauty<br /></b><i>
Viki</i><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh. My. God. Do I love a high school drama. And a makeover.
And a love triangle. And a revenge fight with hot dogs on a stick. Did I fall
head over heels for our leading lady? Did I want to put our leading man in my
pocket like a baby turtle and carry him around all day? Did I cry for our beautiful,
sensitive second lead? You bet your bottom dollar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2neTCSnCIHII7CgCcuBakXCg5y7_pcFetzFnEV9h5Ln3og6G-Ztkl3bdtMrCCX2OebyAJqVzA1d7Eye2GN7qxJXu1ywiPxi-_DkrmBtgY_dsVD2W7RL8QMJi6TaSPMS-eTHVZnGLP0eUa/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2neTCSnCIHII7CgCcuBakXCg5y7_pcFetzFnEV9h5Ln3og6G-Ztkl3bdtMrCCX2OebyAJqVzA1d7Eye2GN7qxJXu1ywiPxi-_DkrmBtgY_dsVD2W7RL8QMJi6TaSPMS-eTHVZnGLP0eUa/" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Mr. Queen<br /></b><i>
Viki</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t even with a smart and funny score—let alone when it
supports a great drama. Can you say 70s funk in historic Korea? That’s just the
icing on the cake of Mr. Queen which puts a modern-day male chef in the body of
a Joseon-era queen who is martial arts fighting to keep her king alive. It
sounds insane, but, man, this was such a fun ride—if only for the cooking
scenes and our leading lady doing double duty as a man in a woman…and sometimes
just a woman. Kim Jung-Hyun of Crash Landing on You does it again!<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3JGhyZPyegGXHRJrPxh-0x1g4knj8nQdMUPMef4hBOn2oCrjPGAkAw-EzkA4PjVsjLH2bvKdQofVxKDkRL3mZKZf2vGRGb2BZQWMf9A_YqeeqNZKTUPuQpQx8t4Isjl2HNnLLHda_SFm7/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3JGhyZPyegGXHRJrPxh-0x1g4knj8nQdMUPMef4hBOn2oCrjPGAkAw-EzkA4PjVsjLH2bvKdQofVxKDkRL3mZKZf2vGRGb2BZQWMf9A_YqeeqNZKTUPuQpQx8t4Isjl2HNnLLHda_SFm7/" width="320" /></a></p><b>What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim?<br /></b><i>
Viki<o:p></o:p></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I will just say it here: Park Seo Joon is my original oppa
and it’s all because of Secretary Kim. He plays an incredibly un-self-aware CEO, who, like every demi-god, doesn’t realize how good he has it with an
admin/slave like Park Min Young. When she gives her notice,
he sets out on a comically misguided path to woo her, and, like all K-dramas,
their relationship and past come full circle. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you love PSJ like I
do, check out <a href="https://www.viki.com/tv/34479c-fight-for-my-way" target="_blank">Fight For My Way (Viki)</a>: he is absolutely ripped in the ring, his
romance with Kim Ji Won is adorable, and the second couple will steal your
heart.<br /><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVN9kAlgLUPOsLfD3rfkCRpOs3H9Eug8uL4vXi6aVARHyroeyzN4BSWOQireWwpIEku2KWgWYyfnx1-O7SCqGFotmeQaOG4_YcqQATthOwRh3lAGJHtgFTvlLuujCXJXplqjgzknIAbry/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="660" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVN9kAlgLUPOsLfD3rfkCRpOs3H9Eug8uL4vXi6aVARHyroeyzN4BSWOQireWwpIEku2KWgWYyfnx1-O7SCqGFotmeQaOG4_YcqQATthOwRh3lAGJHtgFTvlLuujCXJXplqjgzknIAbry/" width="320" /></a></b></div><b>Do Do Sol Sol La La Sol</b><br /><i>Netflix</i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For every oblivious moment our heroine sails through, there is a very caring, calculated move by our hero. I'll just say, this one destroyed me to the point that I made a video reaction of the end and sent it to Abby late one night because I just couldn't handle the feels. Plus: Mimi the dog in a red apple hoodie!<br /><br /><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfW3wymde7MLMjFqZoDKmkjb5LxxMb3gs1YikTbYn0fj3ckRgJ8E2gUxw1SzhLJkIUc_JBMkp5mcJlZbnt2hsCpAq_qnByL5LP_bqLwtsKVwPtQCK_qfsB-jIN-7pTeff71MgxLb0fmY6o/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfW3wymde7MLMjFqZoDKmkjb5LxxMb3gs1YikTbYn0fj3ckRgJ8E2gUxw1SzhLJkIUc_JBMkp5mcJlZbnt2hsCpAq_qnByL5LP_bqLwtsKVwPtQCK_qfsB-jIN-7pTeff71MgxLb0fmY6o/" width="320" /></a></p><b>Hospital Playlist<br /></b><i>
Netflix</i><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Created by the makers of the Reply series, HP also centers
around a family, this time of college friends. You like Grey’s Anatomy?
Awesome. You like eternal bonds and antics and garage bands and little boys
with pumpkin-head haircuts? Even better. This one really stole my heart, and
the theme song <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beat</i> BTS in the Korean
charts! Bonus: Season two is <i>almost upon us!!<br /><br /></i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5X4yKU_Httwm8H6eVG5eWD-UFi-f8dPnQP6gOoMqW8vv15vOkzbO_QvUqa0Y6y4lO9JvLRt_ioGa9Nanu688jxQSJgP0j5YrwlI34bCY3kFsFGU-wXyT5Isgo53Qj6prnZiVOpEc2bsr8/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="622" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5X4yKU_Httwm8H6eVG5eWD-UFi-f8dPnQP6gOoMqW8vv15vOkzbO_QvUqa0Y6y4lO9JvLRt_ioGa9Nanu688jxQSJgP0j5YrwlI34bCY3kFsFGU-wXyT5Isgo53Qj6prnZiVOpEc2bsr8/" width="320" /></a></p><b>Strong Girl Bong Soon</b><br /><i>
Viki</i><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tiny but mighty Park Bo Young has been gifted with a
magical, generational strength (think lifting a truck with one hand) that snags
her a job as a personal bodyguard to Hyungsik, a young tech CEO. She
single-handedly takes down a warehouse full of thugs and an arch nemesis she
didn’t know she had, while also tracking down a sexual predator in her
neighborhood. How could her new boss <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
fall hard and fast? (Note: Don't feel too bad for our second lead, as <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/joanmacdonald/2021/03/05/key-east-and-kbs-respond-to-ji-soo-bullying-allegations/?sh=40d5ed7e1e8d" target="_blank">he was recently dropped from his latest drama</a> after a history of school bullying was revealed. #wompwomp)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you love PBY like I
do, you’ll want to check out <a href="https://www.netflix.com/title/80178404" target="_blank">Oh My Ghost! (Netflix)</a> in which she and Jo Jung Suk of Hospital Playlist spark romance in the kitchen after PBY is possessed
by a wily virgin ghost.<br /><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLr10pvvxcEEjTVAuGQFh-5WzETysMtv2IIkVFnQd0omk9mLNd5wSJzMu0Bj0noDbtGezt1wgiR0YlLBCbEjekFfNGtPHsbZBc0dVJeBBp4H7rzeWBna7MK0CjabaHhy1PL2AyexpyvFxy/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1145" data-original-width="2048" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLr10pvvxcEEjTVAuGQFh-5WzETysMtv2IIkVFnQd0omk9mLNd5wSJzMu0Bj0noDbtGezt1wgiR0YlLBCbEjekFfNGtPHsbZBc0dVJeBBp4H7rzeWBna7MK0CjabaHhy1PL2AyexpyvFxy/" width="320" /></a></p><b>Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok Joo</b><br /><i>
Viki</i><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The wooing of college weight lifter Kim Bok Joo by divine
being on earth Nam Joo Hyuk is absolutely priceless. (Bonus points for watching
him do tricep curls in a swimsuit.) That they then dated in real life after
filming makes watching them fall in love on set and pal around with their silly
sidekicks even better. #swaaaaag<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you’re like Abby and
NJH is your new oppa, check out <a href="https://www.netflix.com/title/81290293" target="_blank">Start-Up (Netflix)</a> in which he and Suzy get
their hopes, grand ideas, and love off the ground. Featuring one of my anthems
for 2020: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oiNkumxPVzU" target="_blank">Future by Red Velvet</a>.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal">Above all, please note this is, often, family-friendly television: Most don't go beyond an American PG rating, so don't expect much skin (save Secretary Kim which made me ah-oooooh-ga!). Destiny brings everything full circle. And there's always a happy ending.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Enjoy! And let me know how you get on. xo</p><p></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-41785664205082529812021-02-15T22:02:00.007-05:002021-02-15T22:09:28.823-05:002.15.21 :: Crack!<p>Welp, friends. Florida is a bust, because...my tooth is busted! Another crack on another molar, meaning another visit to the dentist and doling out cash money for a deluxe crown that, unfortunately, is not as ostentatious as, say, <i>a grill</i>, but just as expensive. </p><p>Another sign from the universe to slow down and, as one soul sister said, stop running away. </p><p>I didn't think I was running away from my problems when I last posted. And I truly apologize to anyone I worried over my crisis. I try to speak candidly about mental health, because for so many years I didn't speak up and it snowballed into the inevitable solitude that anchors you to the bottom of the well. When I say I've had depression before, I'm talking about years ago. College. My parents' divorce. Very low times when I was drowning. This year has had moments of fighting against the current, but nothing in comparison. Especially when I can see the tide coming and know exactly how to swim back to safety--even if it's an ice cream- and pizza-laden slog.</p><p>Coming out of quarantine obviously made a world of difference. I spent the new year (gung hay fat choy!) in a new pod with an old friend, cackling over BTS reaction videos and chasing toddlers and taking an in-depth tour of a four-year-old's train- and candy-filled bedroom and it was glorious. It reminded me of my <i>last </i>visit to the dentist, actually, in December, when I was so excited to meet a new human I was a non-stop chatterbox and left the office on a first name basis with the staff, having exchanged hairstylist info.</p><p>Just typing that is making what I'm about to say come full circle.</p><p>On Saturday, I peered into my past lives. Aka, I met with an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akashic_records" target="_blank">Akashic Record</a> reader.</p><p>It was nothing as profound or intense or overwhelming as my hour with the medium, and I'm still not 100% sold on the experience, however, she said things that, even if they're a pile of baloney, can't just be tossed away:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I thrive when connected to the earth and, when feeling unbalanced, should seek the outdoors.</li><li>My past lives have mostly revolved around artistic expression--but never creating art for myself. This life is about breaking free to create for me.</li><li>I will thrive in this life if I surround myself with women (hello, higher ed) and choose a path that will uplift them.</li><li>My soul purpose for this life is to finally, unconditionally love myself.</li></ul><p></p><p>That last one, even if she'd been wearing a hat that said SWINDLER, I could not ignore. And it perfectly aligned with another journey I've been on for a long time: shedding diet culture and fat phobia. </p><p>There's an incredible podcast called <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/youre-wrong-about/id1380008439" target="_blank">You're Wrong About</a> that unfolds the facts surrounding cultural touchstones we think we know, but probably got wrong. My favorites: upending the personas of saintly Princess Diana, dumb Jessica Simpson, and trailer trash Tonya Harding. Just the concept of this podcast has had me sighing at my own misconceptions of famous women throughout my life, ideas that were molded by the media and society, and have framed my own self-perception. One of the hosts also created a podcast <a href="http://maintenancephase.com/" target="_blank">Maintenance Phase</a>--where, as they say, wellness and weight loss are debunked and decoded--with Aubrey Gordon, <a href="https://www.yourfatfriend.com/" target="_blank">Your Fat Friend</a>, and author of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/What-Dont-Talk-About-When/dp/0807041300" target="_blank">What We Don't Talk About When We Talk About Fat</a>. </p><p>Now, I don't know about you, but I've never had a flat tummy. My thighs have always kissed (or been in a constant makeout session) while walking. I learned to count points and replace meals with shakes in middle school. I have always told myself "I'll do/wear/be/become/seize that when I'm thin." On the frontlines of a war with my willpower and DNA for almost four decades, I never truly realized that I will never win with the armor I've been given.</p><p>Until today.</p><p>Listening to Aubrey break down the science behind diet culture--studies that prove diets not only don't work they stall most people in the long run, shame campaigns that are built with good intentions but inevitably scar children and burden their self-image for a lifetime, the racist beginnings of the BMI, and so on--I was stunned.</p><p>I shouldn't have been. I'm not a sheep. At least, I don't think I am in a reasonable scenario. (Toss me into the Hunger Games and time will tell.) But scurrying along the icy sidewalk today, I finally realized I need to break the dam. I need to stop trying to shoehorn myself into a mold created by a society that upholds the thin as morally virtuous--when, as we all know, the majority of U.S. adults are not thin by BMI standards, thin people can be just as unhealthy as fat people, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kellyanne_Conway" target="_blank">the Thinnest of Them All</a> is Skeletor reincarnated. </p><p>It's hard to flip a switch overnight. To overturn millions of imprinted television, magazine, and movie images; conversations with friends and family and doctors; thoughts of self-doubt.</p><p>But, here are my Chinese New Year resolutions:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Delete that goddamn Weight Watchers app.</li><li>Get rid of the "aspirational" clothes in the house that are sucking up heat and air conditioning and would be better served at the Salvation Army. And change those aspirations from weight-based goals to life-, happiness-, and love-based goals. Like climbing the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trolltunga" target="_blank">Trolltunga</a> in Norway, eating <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tteokbokki" target="_blank">tteokbokki</a> in Seoul, or finishing that <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/is-that-it/id1500674543" target="_blank">Sanditon podcast</a>. </li><li>Stop talking about my weight. Full stop. Because it's no longer a focus. Health, yes. Endurance, yes. Strength, hell yes. Weight, no more.</li><li>And most importantly: <b>Unconditional love. Just do it. Just love yourself.</b> </li></ul><p></p><p>Some of you probably think I'm nuts. <i>Of course </i>you should love yourself. But everyone's strengths are different, and I haven't always been the kindest, most understanding friend to myself. I hope you are--and making it through what looks to be another hurdle of a year. And if anyone wants some size 8, 10, and 12 LOFT pants, slide into my DMs.</p><p>Thanks for being you. xx</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXeVXraRr0k-3SN9uTVhHpUc4I7vCj6Z9TFr2iHuwus5gRAZUQdcVusss2LCrAPPURN_HDrC-N2k7OOEzYNVm2OEvTR3hgWr8e1LXopUS0mwZpj_m9YUoMfmiq3Y-F6PAMfo4czr6w7Sv/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1400" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXeVXraRr0k-3SN9uTVhHpUc4I7vCj6Z9TFr2iHuwus5gRAZUQdcVusss2LCrAPPURN_HDrC-N2k7OOEzYNVm2OEvTR3hgWr8e1LXopUS0mwZpj_m9YUoMfmiq3Y-F6PAMfo4czr6w7Sv/w640-h480/image.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-1877561783324480082021-02-07T17:56:00.015-05:002021-02-07T18:21:49.706-05:002.7.21 :: Beat Sugar and Snow until Smooth. Repeat.<p>What's the thing that gets you up every day? For a lot of my friends it's kids. The joy and terror and daily mission of keeping the family alive. Most of my mom pals are ready to <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/02/04/parenting/working-moms-mental-health-coronavirus.html" target="_blank">primal scream into a pillow</a> after the past year. I don't blame or envy them. And I would never deny them that. </p><p>And, yet, the grass is always a little bit greener. Isn't it. Because I can't find a thing to get up for these days.</p><p>While I'm single and child-free and, mostly, happily so, the pandemic has shone a spotlight--often in the very early hours of the morning when I should be asleep but am on my seventh hour of Netflix--on the utter lack of purpose in my life. (Stop here if you're a parent or person in crisis or happily child-free human who doesn't want to listen to a healthy woman armed with choices and opportunity battle a mental blizzard. I don't blame you.) </p><p>Ironically, I'm not alone in my isolation. There have never been more single adults living in the United States--<a href="https://observer.com/2018/01/more-americans-are-single-than-ever-before-and-theyre-healthier-too/#:~:text=There%20are%20more%20single%20adults,new%20set%20of%20societal%20norms." target="_blank">42.5% of the country</a>, according to a 2017 census. Where I was often put on a pedestal or derided for my freedom and a life lacking baggage (note: no one is free from baggage), the mental baggage I've accumulated just over the past week of quarantine has been enough to have me rolling out the suitcase again.</p><p>I can't sleep--<i>well</i>, that is. I can't sleep well, because I'm sleeping all the time. Where I stepped on the scale the day after I flew home from Hawaii and found I'd left seven pounds on the island, today I woke up to find the jerks had made their way back home via takeout containers. Where I once spent hours gazing at sunsets and sand and endless ocean, I am now back to the regularly scheduled program of screen sickness, logging up to 15 hours of television/computer/phone time a day. As much as I try to stick to my daily to-do list--Work out! Write! Cook!--the biggest task has been keeping my eyes open.</p><p>Like a lot of people, I've been deep down in the valley of depression before. I know the markers well, and have been doing my best to leave the trail, but the conditions, as we all know, are harder than ever. I often think of my grandmothers. The start of every call: How are you? What have you been up to? And the standard answer:</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>I was always really good at blocking the "nothing" from my life. And as a strategic person had planned well for what I knew was going to be a hard winter. Hence, the original plan to travel to California. And now I'm home, I've done as much as I can. The apps are installed: Weight Watchers, Calm. The intentions are always there, repetitive bass notes of a late-30s funeral dirge. But my most ardent nemeses--depression, anxiety, addiction--have resumed the War of 2020. Especially, like I said, in those quiet hours when alarming numerical facts are hurled at my consciousness like rogue bludgers. For example: </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>You have been living in your "transition" apartment for seven years.</li><li>You have gained 55 pounds since moving in. </li><li>Your kitten is going to be ten. </li><li>Your period is now old enough to rent a car she will never drive. </li><li>You have willingly given $100,000 in monthly installments to a man who lives in Maine and once destroyed all of your belongings in the basement because he didn't fix a water leak. </li></ul><p></p><p>In the waking hours, the beating continues. Snow. Sugar. Lies. Oh, the social media lies that belie all that hides beyond the frame. Cozy family portraits. New puppies. Selfies with fancy cocktails. And the lies I tell myself every night. Promises that I'll start again tomorrow (the definition of insanity in a pandemic). Vows that when winter is over, things will be different (a long way away, according to Phil). </p><p>In a home I built when my life wasn't <i>all about home</i>, I am going mad. I know I'm not the only one. And, so, using my singledom to full advantage, I've decided to head for warmer waters. A base with sunshine and isolation that's not just physically safe, but mentally sound. A new chapter of the slow migration to whatever is next on that path called purpose. </p><p>Any tips or tricks you have about traveling with two felines, I'm all ears. </p><p>Stay tuned and stay sane. Truly. xx</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzJBzY5i4FSdANTeXi2nhYigWosCU9MajgFtNvCKboFWUeUf4QHfT0adNYBX95ULWXOxfRlLAsB9TLslv1EeGW8_8fKU9nCoH863w3XO-Z1iYUJmCnnBr7ObGdsArGzfDKApZw_5-H8W_/s1512/unnamed+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1266" data-original-width="1512" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzJBzY5i4FSdANTeXi2nhYigWosCU9MajgFtNvCKboFWUeUf4QHfT0adNYBX95ULWXOxfRlLAsB9TLslv1EeGW8_8fKU9nCoH863w3XO-Z1iYUJmCnnBr7ObGdsArGzfDKApZw_5-H8W_/w640-h536/unnamed+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-24786585724763301862021-02-01T00:53:00.002-05:002021-02-01T11:33:55.633-05:002.1.21 :: Intuitive Intentions<p>After living out of two fat suitcases for three weeks, I came home only to immediately begin the cull. Tiny toiletries. Beat-up sneakers you can fold in half. Scarfs and blankets the cats have burrowed into beyond repair because, in this home, we can't have nice things. (See: All glassware.)</p><p>There's a Nor'easter on the horizon. Buckets of snow about to be dumped on us. And I'm trying my darndest to maintain my island momentum--in mind, in heart, in fantastically soft skin that is crying out for the Pacific to come back! To rescue me from the dry heat of this Boston apartment. </p><p>But, alas. 3,000 miles from my mint green sea we are.</p><p>It feels so strange to be home. To look in the my pink bathroom mirror and see tanned me. Changed me. The me who crept to the edge of the Grand Canyon and devoured Din Tai Fung and star gazed from a Honolulu highway with the top down.</p><p>To begin scheduling affairs and cooking and...life. How?</p><p>In the valley, it was get up, eat something wholesome, drive off for hours on end without a clear destination. Test the limits of fear from the top of the mountain to its deep belly. In Hawaii, it was get up, eat something decadent, drop your crap on the beach, and toss yourself into the arms of the waves for however long you like. There is no pruning in the ocean. She doesn't allow it. So you're safe from any timer telling you it's time to go. At night, shower off the sandy bits, but keep the sunshine on your skin. Wring the water from your suit, but keep the promise to her that we'll do it all again tomorrow.</p><p>Tomorrow in Boston means work. A 10:00 meeting on Monday morning. How to inject flexibility and dream making and screen-less bliss into my Outlook...I'm figuring it out.</p><p>Because just as I don't want to forget all I embraced on the West Coast, I also don't want to take this life for granted while reluctantly gliding to the end of my vacation crest. </p><p>Yes, the kittens' adoring attention is everything. Yes, quarantine will end soon and I won't have to palm kiss Liz through the screen door. Yes, winter is half over! Hooray! And spring will be here before we know it.</p><p>But before I flip the calendar to February, I want to make a bigger plan. Unscheduled, but meaningful. Letting my intuition guide me. Letting each destination fill my cup like a long drive on the lush Pali Highway. </p><p>Stay tuned. Stay safe. And share your intentions for 2021 (or 2022 or 2023!) if you've got 'em. <br />xx</p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-5915646515647071172021-01-28T13:37:00.001-05:002021-02-01T11:35:22.815-05:001.28.21 :: Aloha, My Hawaii<p class="MsoNormal">I have been dipped in Hawaii like a Dairy Queen cone and I never
want to crack the sugar shell. From my sea-green toenails, to my skin that’s
been baked to a sand-colored crisp, to my darkening hair that’s been waved and salt-cured
like a piece of driftwood...I feel like Wednesday Adams, painted into the
wallpaper; if I close my eyes I could blend into my surroundings and never come
home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, to home I must go. To save and reflect and continue
onward.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been playing around with the idea of staying here. As
Joy says, it’s not expensive—it’s expansive. I agree, but I also paid my bills
today and vacation Hawaii has sapped my non-expansive savings. Also, I don’t
think vacation Hawaii and remote work Hawaii will be one in the same. However, this was
a beautiful reset. The much-needed better half of my first solo trek. And, as
Liz says, a step in my ongoing migration.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I realized the other day that what I love so much about
Hawaii beyond the ocean are the mountains she’s built on. They’re lush and large
and full of life—and they echo photos I’ve seen of China, a place I have never been,
but has always been a forgone destination. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My Asian homecoming has taken half my lifetime. Until I was
in college, I was, frankly, ashamed to be Chinese. The word itself was embarrassing
to hear, like your name being called over the school loudspeaker. I was one of the
minorities growing up, the chink and dumpling who could never find my way out of
the unwanted spotlight of other. But at Tufts, there were hundreds of me. Proud
and loud and speaking languages I’d never bothered to investigate before beyond
Chinatown. Many of my best friends I met there are first-generation Asian-
or Haitian- or Mexican-American women I’m in awe of for their strength of
spirit and seemingly seamless duality—though I know they, too, have gone
through their own assimilation and self-discovery journeys.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All that to say, over the past few years—especially after
traveling to Japan and Taiwan last summer—I have had yellow fever <i>for myself</i>. (And I’m reclaiming that shitty
term from online dating app messages sent to me over the years.) I want to know more about where we come
from. If any of the assumptions I’ve made about why I am the way I am—giant calves
and an insatiable wanderlust, for instance—harbor any ounce of genetic truth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because, like the peaks of this island, the luckiest sun-soaked
layers of long-dormant volcanoes, we, too, are standing upon the generations
that built us. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know so much about the white side of myself, down to a 15th-century
Swiss lord, a Greek sculptor, and a War of 1812 survivor who had 17 children (5
of whom were named after himself!). It’s time to explore the other half, the
one I’ve slowly been honoring and celebrating and taking to the mountain top. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s time to go home and begin plotting the next chapter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because, as Moana sings (and I in the car!):<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm a girl who loves my island<br />
And the girl who loves the sea<br />
It calls me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am the daughter of the village chief<br />
We are descended from voyagers<br />
Who found their way across the world<br />
They call me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I've delivered us to where we are<br />
I have journeyed farther<br />
I am everything I've learned and more<br />
Still, it calls me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And the call isn't out there at all, it's
inside me<br />
It's like the tide<br />
Always falling and rising<br />
I will carry you here in my heart, you'll remind me<br />
That come what may<br />
I know the way<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">P.S. Also of note: The other day I saw a black
piglet being walked along Kailua Beach, and met the Kaliua Birdman who, when he
outstretched his arms, was quickly covered in about 50 pigeons, gray, white,
speckled, you name it. And I not only listened to the Moana soundtrack in the
car, but in the ocean, because, my life is amazing like that. Aloha xo</span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhuZeztLOa2tX4jowXTTk8TkX6COro1sgjx-JIPCDlMvq4rLNASfdCIdJuJWT4n8ZcqE5UuIY78UDmaQwkoE0SJB8J6gnCGy5euGYNSXSs3T0AxHIrXJ1KiA7DBujaFPDiEE7naFh_Vsi/s1544/unnamed+%25284%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1158" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhuZeztLOa2tX4jowXTTk8TkX6COro1sgjx-JIPCDlMvq4rLNASfdCIdJuJWT4n8ZcqE5UuIY78UDmaQwkoE0SJB8J6gnCGy5euGYNSXSs3T0AxHIrXJ1KiA7DBujaFPDiEE7naFh_Vsi/w480-h640/unnamed+%25284%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-16785726854523817372021-01-25T04:24:00.003-05:002021-01-27T04:32:33.687-05:001.25.21 :: Oahu<p>Liz and I once stood in line next to Joshua Jackson at LAX
and his naked feet next to my naked feet was the celebrity highlight of my life—until
this morning.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That peak Pacey moment was nothing compared to the starlet I met today. For there, poking his beautiful yellow face out of the water,
mouth open in what I like to think was a smile, not once, not twice, but three times
for some big gulps of air before going back on his merry way, was a sea turtle.
His black eyes were looking up—while I was looking at him, not five feet away. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My heart exploded. I mean, how much can a girl take?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Waking up to rainbows not only on the horizon, but reflected
in the water. Walking into bath-warm water for an hour-long wade in a jade
green sea that matches my toes. Floating next to a Pomeranian on a boogie
board, for crying out loud.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I didn’t think the day could get any better, but as I drove
to Haleiwa, IZ on the radio, top down, my resting heart rate just above coma, I
felt the peace that often only comes with a head full of gratitude. How did I win this lottery? I wondered. After lunch and a watermelon mojito I made my way to the
Banzai Pipeline, only to pass the sign for Waimea Valley and take a quick detour.
A bonus of traveling solo: You can do whatever you want, whenever you want,
never second guessing yourself or the other person. (And this Gemini can be a professional second guesser.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hadn’t researched the valley—didn’t know what to expect.
Signs said a waterfall was ¾ of a mile in and that sounded much more feasible
and fun than the Kouliouou Ridge Trail I attempted last week. Despite my spirit
team—monarch butterflies and birds and violet flowers sprinkling magic along
the trail—guiding my hiking boots onward, I only made it about a mile and a
half in before giving up the good fight. I was exhausted (it’s pretty steep),
hadn’t brought enough water, and hadn’t trained enough to drag 200 pounds of
body and bones up the mountain. The path worked in a zig zag, so you could see
exactly how far you’d come: from the damp, jungle base to the iron-dense midsection that had reddened the dirt and was covered in what appeared to be white straw. I liked to
think I was clambering up a giant porcupine—or Shakespeare’s thatch roof. I had
made it pretty far, but the last mile would destroy me, I knew. So, I high
fived myself, because that’s what you do when you’re alone and talking to the
trees, and headed back down.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, it was an easy stroll to the waterfall, and the
walk was gentle on the soul. Not only were the mountains on either side enclosing me in their
dense embrace, a canopy of trees shielded the valley from the midday
sun. So many exquisite and foreign flowers were hidden along the way, some so
high up I could only look with an open mouth; others so low to the ground, I hunched down
to take a closer look and tease the petals with my fingertips to get a sense of
their existence. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Birds, wind, and rustling leaves were my playlist. And the water. Rushing around rocks and roots in the opposite direction, until you get to
the spot its rushing from and you wonder who first came upon this special pool. I threw on a
life vest and crept toward the edge. It’s 30-feet deep with a strong current from the falls that must be...100 feet high? (I'm short and have no concept of height!) I
had battled the bay across the street the other day and lost my Gucci sunglasses
and my 30-laps-a-day-pre-covid pride. This waterfall was cold and fresh; everything I wanted after my walk. Plus, in vacation Hawaii, it feels like you’re in a constant state of dampness, moving from one bathing suit to the next. It was nice to plunge into crisp, unsalted water for a change. I
followed a sweet man and his two daughters, about 7 or 8, into the churn and we
laughed and kept each other from being swept downstream.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The dip was truly a dip—maybe five minutes. You want to move
along so others can have turn. But I made sure to slowly gaze at the mountain
beauty around me, and, again, thought: What a wonderful world. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I walked barefoot to a dry area, where I shook myself like a dog and threw on my clothes. I've never been so free with my body as in Hawaii; not only letting it all hang out, but simply not caring if anyone sees. Perhaps it's because everyone else here is the same. There are all kinds of bodies in all shapes and sizes and colors in varying stages of undress. Too buttoned up or coiffed and you stick out like a winter hat—pink pom pom shouting, <i>I'm not comfortable here yet!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal">My favorite ritual is now washing and wringing out my Target bikini every night.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Down the road, at the Banzai Pipeline, I planted myself near
the top of the shore, laid out my shirt and shorts on the rocks to dry off, and
didn’t even pretend I could swim in these waters. Banzai is home to the “World’s Most Deadliest
Wave” due to the reefs (basically big rocks) right at the shoreline. The waves,
crazy high and intense, take no prisoners. I went in about knee-deep and got a
good leg workout from just trying to stay upright. The water is temptingly
warm, but in the same breath absolutely terrifying. Better to sit and stare at
the many surfers who know what they’re doing—fearlessly waiting their turn to
ride the next crest. I was lucky enough to spot
one guy seamlessly glide straight through a huge wave. It was like seeing him come
through a curl of chocolate. He then coasted to shore, turned around, and paddled right back out
again, powering headfirst through every crash that tried to push him back.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was and am in awe.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Photographers, fellow tourists, a surfer who broke his board in half while battling the sea (we exchanged a very nice smile (him) and a sad grimace at his board (me)), and even a guy with a
small dog and metal detector all joined me as we watched these artists for
hours. At BookEnds, a used bookstore in Kailua, I had almost picked up an autobiography
of a surfer but had gone for a YA rom-com instead. However, I remember flipping
through and finding a spot where he said surfing was a part of him—a unique yet
shared slice of his soul that I’m sure only comes with the feeling of
anticipating the ride and meeting the moment with an ease I, for one, will
never know.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sunset was a clean white. When I looked left down the
long stretch of beach, I saw dark silhouettes on a blinding canvas: a trio of surfers,
boards under their arms; a girl crouched at the shore, hair to her waist,
hugging her knees and staring into the horizon; a woman helping her elderly
mother navigate the sand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A perfect day, if I say so.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I hope you all are keeping warm and well. Sending aloha and rainbows your way. xx</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqJmfDzxtFKvs8pMq8obRY7xZg_d7kYiq05GcH7mZmPv8isuugmY3HzLPKAS1M49guGCJNWdtvRD9XPMG41TmLo75ZWcIa5EcPGjF2dDD4HE3nauCRSMnhMPqyyXWtD55EnCrdOYrV8U_/s1795/unnamed+%25283%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1795" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqJmfDzxtFKvs8pMq8obRY7xZg_d7kYiq05GcH7mZmPv8isuugmY3HzLPKAS1M49guGCJNWdtvRD9XPMG41TmLo75ZWcIa5EcPGjF2dDD4HE3nauCRSMnhMPqyyXWtD55EnCrdOYrV8U_/w514-h640/unnamed+%25283%2529.jpg" width="514" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-45610935062262855572021-01-18T00:22:00.005-05:002021-01-19T00:28:28.320-05:001.18.21 :: Hoover, Damn<p>Everyone seems to be coming up with a word for the new year. Intention. Forgiveness. Listening.</p><p>I'm no good with following through on things long-term (hence, the six year gap in posts on this blog) unless I really take them to heart--or they feed and clothe me. But one word has kept popping up throughout the past week--from the moment the valley first revealed herself to me coming around that rugged pass, to the basketball I played in honor of the kids who grew up in Manzanar on their deserted white dust court, to the many, many truckers I passed or gave way to as I shared the road with them over 1,000+ miles. Respect. </p><p>Sometimes, I think, being a Northeasterner makes me too anxious to give a situation the respect it deserves. We're always in such a hurry. We're competitive. We've been hardened by blizzards and a New York Napoleon complex and navigating old cow paths that make no sense to anyone but us (but, god forbid, should an outsider make a mistake and need to change lanes, they are doomed and shall be publicly shamed with a slam on the horn).</p><p>Today, I had to pee. (No surprise there.) A couple of times. And, man, but the pickings are slim on 93 North--a very different version than the one that leads into New Hampshire. First, I stopped at a very all-American gas station where the men were polite, but mask-less, and all wearing camo. After Wednesday's insurrection, I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could, but it's a one-way, one-lane route back to the highway, which forced me to take stock of this tiny town. People had clearly lived here for years. Well into the 19th century. I wondered how they'd survived in a hamlet of maybe 25 houses and more beat-up cars than working front doors. I don't think I could have made it. </p><p>Farther down the road, I pulled off the highway and into Chloride. (Yup!) </p><p>Jeeps with fishing rods everywhere. Two battered SUVs on patrol--one at the highway turnoff into town, the other a few miles in. Chloride is a literal time capsule of an old Arizonian mining town, population roughly 350. In one glance, you'll get a gas station that pumped the brakes about 60 years ago, a classic 70s race car, five RVs ranging in age and dementia, and the original tiny house in bright purple and yellow. The visitor center's been boarded up but the one restaurant is hopping. Everyone and their wife had pulled up by the time I arrived, and a big birthday party had taken over the one long table. While waiting for the bathroom, I warily read the Christian cross-stitches in the foyer and tried not to stare at the cowboy mannequin in the rocking chair.</p><p>"He's got his hands over his, you know, because he's got to go!" said a lady who was dancing on her toes because <i>she</i> had to go so badly.</p><p>"Just go in the men's room--it's a single!" I said. She did. It was nice.</p><p>I can be a judgmental brat. <i>I'm busy. I'm tired. I don't have time.</i> (If I have time to watch 30 Korean dramas in 10 months, I have time.) And more often than not I'm incredibly wrong. Look at Death Valley. I got two steps in and was convinced she was going to eat me alive. But a week later, after a reckoning of "it's not you, it's me," I'm here to tell the tale and even fell a little bit in love.</p><p>I may have been to Europe more times than I can remember, to Asia, to so many imaginary worlds thanks to the countless books I've read. But I'd never been to this corner of America. I had preconceived ideas. In some ways, I was proven right: the Grand Canyon is majestic. In others, I was sorely wrong. And so today I've come away with the idea of trying to be more respectful.</p><p>With all the remembrances of Dr. King, it only seems fitting.</p><p>With that in mind, I tried to take a closer look at my surroundings on the drive back to Vegas. I turned down the music and noted how the colors mirrored Van Gogh's cypresses, and took a mental picture for safekeeping when the snow holds me captive next month. I took a second look at every truck I passed--Amazon, Libby's, Walmart--and silently thanked the drivers for the sugary snack cakes, the latest novel, the fuzziest socks they were hauling from coast to coast. And I noted all of the Native American tribes listed on markers and signs to research when I get home.</p><p>It's been a trip. And while this chapter is closing, it's far from over.</p><p>Aloha, my loves. xx</p><p>P.S. I also visited the Hoover Dam in all it's art deco glory and <i>damn</i>. Doesn't it remind you of Dr. Evil? Like, <i>is this where he's building his submarine army?</i> Is Mr. Bigglesworth going to meow right out of an underground elevator?? What HYDRA holdout is hiding down there???</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbKUB0bJFPbsfudqmshDeZKkIGI0AW3vVL-DfkcRVxYr5yDdNMkLAFpTWP571NNt7nTn19LhZKttuYgciXq-rRq6ujy5NpJ3RXUhAKEJQnlIC5Ek5KtuHEydMV4tZgLzUphJ6B7rFreOJ/s2016/IMG_7702.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbKUB0bJFPbsfudqmshDeZKkIGI0AW3vVL-DfkcRVxYr5yDdNMkLAFpTWP571NNt7nTn19LhZKttuYgciXq-rRq6ujy5NpJ3RXUhAKEJQnlIC5Ek5KtuHEydMV4tZgLzUphJ6B7rFreOJ/w480-h640/IMG_7702.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-18778162789933382502021-01-17T22:01:00.009-05:002021-01-17T23:01:36.264-05:001.17.21 :: HRH, the Grand Canyon<p>My eyes really didn't know what to do with themselves today. I don't know about you, but 2020 hasn't been a year to turn off. It's rare to just sit and look at something without a task at hand: texting, typing, watching, plotting, reading subtitles. To just sit and stare at this canyon...I had to mentally whack myself to keep from reaching for my phone, a snack, thinking about where I wanted to visit next, how long I wanted to stay in the park, if my mask was in place, etc.</p><p>It wasn't the canyon's fault. My god. She's such a thing of beauty, I almost hesitated to walk up to the first fence. My heart was so full of wonder not just at the size, but the years--the centuries and epochs and massive weather extremes--it took to carve her land.</p><p>And it's not like I hadn't seen beauty all the live-long day. The drive from Vegas to the Grand Canyon is just plain fun, especially on a sunny day. (Do they even have non-sunny days out this way?) The journey starts in the city, but quickly climbs and cuts through thick packs of sand-colored mountains. As you Richard Scary your way along the lanes that zip around each peak like tiers on a wedding cake, in the distance, for the first time in forever, appreciate that there is <i>water</i>: Lake Mead. Oh, how she shines--like the sole summer rose who managed to bloom in the thicket.</p><p>Keep going and the vast empire of flatlands consumes the vista again, but you'll come across acres of windmills, perfectly planted in rows as neat as the Ohio State marching band. Watch them slowly turn, almost as one, all reverently facing north--and you'll feel as though you've interrupted their morning service, but just crank the BlackPink and soon enough you'll be on Route 66. Be sure to stop for a pee and a photo with Lightning McQueen (not at the same time) and ignore the Roadkill Cafe sign. A couple hours and mountain ranges later (plus one town with a yellow house that has two big windows in the back and a hose that wraps from one end to the other in a big smile) and there you are: summer camp. Trees as far as the eye can see. You don't realize how much you miss a good ponderosa pine until you've spent a week with Joshua and Palm making sporadic cameos. Make like the Hailey Millses and whistle down the road, until you see the signs for jerky.</p><p>JERKY AHEAD.</p><p>REAL BUFFALO JERKY.</p><p>DON'T BE SCARED.</p><p>TURN MEOW. --></p><p>(I really wanted to high-five that guy, but jerky. And covid.) Be sure to play the license plate game while in line at the park gates. (Hello, Mainer!) Park that puppy (and be sure to turn off the lights--so many stretches here that require lights in daytime), wander to the nearest lookout, and just marvel.</p><p>Marvel all you like.</p><p>You can try to take pictures, but an iPhone will never capture the glory. It's almost ridiculous to even try. The colors that only get redder and richer as the canyon drops into the Colorado River. The sunset that sets her roof on fire and then, almost out of nowhere, blankets her body in blue. </p><p>The horizon of ridges reminded me of an old closed book, as though if you opened one up you could read all about how this peak came to be. And the way the canyon sits, as though a dozen saris were caught mid-twirl and gently landed with their skirts outstretched. This is where they sleep. </p><p>And aren't you lucky to spend an hour in their presence?</p><p>One Muslim man shared his appreciation by praying, chanting, and bowing his head on the canyon's solid ground. Me? I did the stupid thing and tried to get a bit closer, taking a very precarious path to a non-fenced overlook and how I did not fall in from sheer hubris is beyond me. My insides churned as I practically army crawled back the way I came, and when a nice young woman asked me to take her picture I laughed and said no, because if there is one boundary I must take seriously it's listening to my shaky legs when they buck at being so close to certain death.</p><p>The moon eventually winked to let us all know that nighttime was imminent and our canyon had had a long day. I blew her a kiss and headed to the parking lot with the rest of the looky-loos. Where my car shone like a beacon.</p><p>Because I had left the lights on.</p><p>Hope you all had a chance to stop and look at something beautiful today, too. And your batteries are fully charged. xx</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkEEU4JxiOptad5sgOb74kp9faMxoKOOgJTywuXwqfkaOZlgjmzWVWcmcM2LvDUDmqPfApAP6nHGhZ1OIfS_VAZyCcun6zfOT-zFfh3Qm9mSZdeRnXG6_Eom-Qn5pS5PLe56X_qKWDs-72/s2016/unnamed+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkEEU4JxiOptad5sgOb74kp9faMxoKOOgJTywuXwqfkaOZlgjmzWVWcmcM2LvDUDmqPfApAP6nHGhZ1OIfS_VAZyCcun6zfOT-zFfh3Qm9mSZdeRnXG6_Eom-Qn5pS5PLe56X_qKWDs-72/w480-h640/unnamed+%25282%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-87376703302736987682021-01-16T12:06:00.006-05:002021-01-16T12:10:08.644-05:00Interlude<p>Last night, I fought sleep. Endlessly mulling: what is this trip? Is it a vacation? Is it an existential journey? A combination of both--or neither? My number one trait on Strengthsfinder is strategic; I'm a natural born plotter, constantly crafting workarounds to get to the finish line. But, for some reason, with this trip, I'm having a hard time even seeing the tape.</p><p>It was all so clear in the summertime: meet friends in the National Parks. Then covid stripped the friends from the equation. Now, winter weather and lost permit lotteries have stolen half of said parks. Fear and some self-recognition have helped me make it to the weekend. I may as well have tossed my famous color-coded itinerary into the fire.</p><p>Where do we go from here? </p><p>Christmas five years ago was a similar panic. The first after my parents split. I remember trying to drag the tree up the basement steps, but the box was too big for my freakishly child-sized hands. Dry cardboard on small palms. I couldn't get a grip. But I needed to normalize and motor and make spirits bright for at least a moment. Have you ever tried to fill your arms with piles of 80s plastic branches? They know you hate getting too close just as much as they do--they're meant for dangling delicate memories and shoving into angel butts that light up. When you try to cling to them all at once, they scratch back. But, eventually, I dumped every last piece onto the hardwood floor upstairs. I imagined the artificial tree communing with the murdered ones it lay on. Look what they've reduced us to, she said.</p><p>I thought I had everything I needed to hoist this holiday into a standing position, but--of course--a couple of screws were loose from the base. A couple missing. I'm not handy (Gorilla Glue, anyone?). The damn thing fell onto the piano. I heard the crash from the basement, where I was cleaning up the box. After disassembling the whole thing, I called my dad, sighing into the phone. Pissed and sad and spent. But I was ready to start over.</p><p>How did you do this? I asked. Why did you do this? Why didn't you just buy a new tree after 45 years?</p><p>Well, in essence, he did. But that's a whole other story. </p><p>So, today, faced with a million choices--every travel-advisory-free state at my fingertips--do I lean into the knee-jerk and head to Florida and friendship and comfort? Do I tempt my heart with Hawaii and a new investment of solitude? Or do I give this corner of the world another shot and take Bao Bao to see the canyons?</p><p>Just because I've met the mountain, it doesn't mean I need to climb. I know that. I also know a missing ingredient of this past week has been laughter--the helix I've realized rarely finds it partner when I'm alone. But damn it I don't want to regret giving up too quickly, just because I was too paralyzed to make a plan. </p><p>Either way, tomorrow, I'm bound for the south rim. Blindly driving forward. At least, I have Bao Bao tucked in with me--and you.</p><p>xx</p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-51565282203272832192021-01-16T01:52:00.002-05:002021-01-17T23:06:45.285-05:001.16.21 :: Vegas<p>I wish I had some life-altering revelation to share with you today, but, really, I just took a bath. Bubble, of course. It was hot and deep and glorious. (Don't get any ideas.) I started <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lovestruck_in_the_City">Lovestruck in the City</a> and am hoping the surf scenes are a sign of things to come. Taking my covid test in the morning and if the results go my way...I'll be Honolulu-bound on Tuesday!</p><p>Disney will always be there, but for some reason the flights to Orlando were not. I don't know if JetBlue has pulled back--it's suffering for sure. But that, paired with the cost of the hotels on property, quickly set my heart a Googling, and Hawaii has been a spiritual home for me for years. Remember how hard it was for me to connect to the land in Lone Pine? Complete opposite. Imagine a lush playground you can stroll and tumble along until you feel like taking a long float in a clear green sea. That's my Hawaii. </p><p>If anyone else has huge travel banks waving their little hands, shouting, I'm still here! I can safely say that right now you will get a big bang for your buck, if you're willing to put some money back into the tourism industry and have a plan for safe flying. (Double masks, glasses, no eating in-flight, trusting your fellow man who--let's face it--hasn't been the most trustworthy since 2016 let everyone just say and do whatever the hell they want, etc.)</p><p>I've got enough points and credits to fly business there, first class home. As my Aunt Pat told me in November, it's time to throw all my money in the pot. And I don't think she was talking about SkipBo.</p><p>The fact that my Aunt Pat passed away in 2019 yet spoke to me in the fall will probably alarm some people and send skeptics rolling their eyes, but my friend Joy thinks she's guiding me even in this decision, and I agree. And oh how I love her so for always being on my spirit team in life, and death. </p><p>Aunt Pat was my grandma's little sister. Full of spice, her heart and mind on her sleeve, she once ran away from home in a squirrel fur coat with money her dad had given her--only to come right back after a train ride. She was a mom of three, a bus driver, and gave the biggest kisses whenever I saw her--and I saw her a lot over the past decade. Especially when my grandparents moved into the same assisted living home. It was common to be sleeping on the sofa in their apartment (anyone who's ever sat on that paisley marshmallow knows the barest rest of the head causes instant narcolepsy) and hear a big knock and a "yoo-hoo!" There she was, in her blinged-out hat, full lipstick, rolling in on an electric wheelchair. One time, she had me paint KEEP BACK in white out on the seat, so fellow rollers wouldn't ram into her, I guess. Or vice versa.</p><p>She would sit in the kitchen area and update all of us on her side of the family--20+ great-grandchildren I've only met once or twice at an informal Ohio family reunion at which I was a slight interloper, being from the still and silent Livingston branch of the tree--quietly hiding near the top. But she would have none of my silence on visits. </p><p>Where are you off to next? (Insert foreign destination or Orlando.) Good girl. </p><p>How's the job? (Great!) That's a girl.</p><p>Do you have a boyfriend? (Not yet.) Keep looking.</p><p>And, always, <i>always</i>: I love you. </p><p>She didn't hide a thing and had a voice that could shake the room if she chose to raise it up. Made sure to brag and boast to her floormates whenever I sat at the card table. Was so generous with her heart and anything she could give. And I miss her incredibly. </p><p>After my grandfather died (her birthday buddy) in July, I was--and still am--devastated. Covid deaths, I imagine, are like military deaths. You can't be there with the one you love. You can't even see them be buried. I was fortunately able to FaceTime the funeral, but what I wouldn't have given to have held my grandma that day. </p><p>Well, according to the medium I Zoomed in November: Grandpa knew I was there. Over the phone. And he's watching over me, too. The zillion hawks I've seen and have been pointed out and sent to me over the past couple of months affirm his support in the most magical way. Though he only got a few minutes to share his thoughts, because Aunt Pat went <i>straight </i>to the front of the line for my reading and stole the damn show! In essence: she knew I would be traveling this winter (exact dates, even). She's predicted incredible happenings for me on the West Coast (which is why the change of plans this week was doubly disappointing). And she's got my back. </p><p>Because, as the medium said, you're such a good girl.</p><p>If she's sending me to Hawaii, I won't complain. We'll see how the chips--or covid results--fall. I'm definitely in the market for a nice local, preferably one who will feed me vegan loco moco and is indulgently brawny. In the meantime, I spent today lounging in bed with Bao, watching <a href="https://www.usatoday.com/story/entertainment/tv/2021/01/15/bling-empire-how-netflix-reality-show-spotlights-asian-americans/6624973002/">mindless people with lips they could tuck into their pants argue over imaginary riffs</a>, the sky dimming as the strip flipped the light switch. Tomorrow, it's off to the Grand Canyon.</p><p>Please pray that I don't fall in. Sweet dreams, my friends. xx</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KU4eZ9XlZIF3YAzfBWIarzA8ruSai4Mz3dVcq0ydiay4hXUJKT69Rmzgax0STI1rE8lLe6619FuwWj0xLNEsCZzLnzuGPB-zvgfKWmwtmQyAhAtv4rXMC5VSqo3WqJM2ZNpXhnzXAPBF/s604/1930346_534264472922_2154_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KU4eZ9XlZIF3YAzfBWIarzA8ruSai4Mz3dVcq0ydiay4hXUJKT69Rmzgax0STI1rE8lLe6619FuwWj0xLNEsCZzLnzuGPB-zvgfKWmwtmQyAhAtv4rXMC5VSqo3WqJM2ZNpXhnzXAPBF/w640-h480/1930346_534264472922_2154_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A hapa in Honolulu, 2008</i></div><p><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-58059579149741158772021-01-15T01:13:00.000-05:002021-01-16T01:13:46.949-05:001.15.21 :: Vegas <p>Going from the valley to the strip is like a personal ice bucket challenge. In four days, I interacted with a handful of people. In one hour, I've walked among hundreds. Inside, outside, inside <i>fake</i> outside... </p><p>This place is surreal--and so bright. Last night, from the tranquility of my room high above the gambling fray, the frenzy of lights was romantic. Like watching a winter storm from the safety of a warm house. Stepping into the ruckus today, it wasn't long before I got caught in the feathers of a flamingo dancer (I thought I could limbo that situation but I'm not as limber as I'd hoped), stupidly turned circles to exit a swarm of bachelor parties, and made evil eyes at an evil couple who just couldn't keep six feet away while waiting in line at the Bellagio. (Yes, I realize my attraction is potent, but if you could just hang tight, we'll all see the Chinese garden in due time.) </p><p>I hesitantly tapped my foot to the water show (Billy Jean), took pics of the Paris balloon and Eiffel Tower lit up in red, white, and blue, got lost in the Venetian, and ogled the latest Dior sneaker release...and I think I'm done. Normally, I love a fabricated life (and I did marvel at the ten foot-high jade charms). I mean, I'm a devout Disney parishioner. The difference here, I think, is the pandemic. But also the nostalgia. </p><p>I've been hitting the pavement of Main Street USA since I could crawl out of the stroller, my blankie like a bridal train, gathering stray pieces of popcorn on the way to Peter Pan's Flight. In Vegas, I don't want to touch anything without a vaccine or a silkwood shower on standby--and I have no memories of this place. </p><p>Suddenly, I'm longing to lace my boots and tromp through an endless field of dry brush and baby Joshua trees. To fill my cup with the Big Dipper. To strike a long match and set the fire pit ablaze. </p><p>However, I made my fancy hotel bed and <i>I must lie in it.</i> (Such a hardship, I know.) And I do love a good food hunt. I wrapped up work in EST, napped to Bakeoff, and hit the town at six, early enough to avoid the sloppy bros. The Bellagio garden is themed to the lunar new year, which really filled my heart. I don't know if you'd ever see such a celebration of Asia in downtown Boston outside of Chinatown. Despite the Vegas crowds, I've so appreciated being around Black and Brown and Asian people all day. Back home, we're so divided and gentrified and scared to mix in. I remember a good friend from Kentucky asking me, "Where are all the Black people?" when she moved to town for college. You have to make a concerted effort to make your day diverse in the Boston burbs. Vegas clearly attracts everyone--and I'm into it--even if it appears as though I'm avoiding everyone like the plague.</p><p>This is covid times, after all.</p><p>After miles of walking and tense moments trying to tear myself away from the Chanel display while the security guy eyed my frizzy blue hair, I made what has become my daily pilgrimage: Din Tai Fung. And not only did I reward myself for doing nothing with another bounty of bao and dumplings, I bought a friend for me and V. A soft, plushy, big-headed fool of a buddy to hug <i>so hard</i> while I finish watching my K-drama tonight. </p><p>Man, does anyone else miss giving hugs? This poor guy, named Bao Bao (On the box! Purely kismet that this has always been the name I want to give to my next cat!), suffered my suffocating arms as soon as I unwrapped him. And he shall suffer an even worse fate tonight whenever I sleepily roll over and squash him with whatever body part needs support.</p><p>Yes, Bao Bao, you've been adopted by a desperate woman at a traveling crossroads. Whether you journey to Disney, the Grand Canyon, or simply back to a Boston apartment where two cats will attempt to chew off your bamboo steamer hat, it's too soon to tell. More on the morrow. Sweet dreams from sin city, my friends.</p><p>xx</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjZAFfCrLMG7CzP7Zh3ToitZTRpYn5-99nqwMl6H97h-xK0SFpIaoTWiOZo1_p4hW1Sqzze9XrFOnCcIGzCNQH8bbPyqZD7s2V7JK3HUlA8A98SQaRbE9tklLqy6JfILbRm4seJugg1C7/s1544/unnamed+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1158" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjZAFfCrLMG7CzP7Zh3ToitZTRpYn5-99nqwMl6H97h-xK0SFpIaoTWiOZo1_p4hW1Sqzze9XrFOnCcIGzCNQH8bbPyqZD7s2V7JK3HUlA8A98SQaRbE9tklLqy6JfILbRm4seJugg1C7/w480-h640/unnamed+%25281%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> </p><p> </p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-58189262296358118532021-01-14T23:00:00.000-05:002021-01-15T01:06:51.381-05:001.14.21 :: Death Valley to Vegas, Baby<p>Nine years ago I made one of the worst decisions of my life. To run a 10-mile race at 10:00 p.m. in 80-degree weather and 100% humidity after eating...a quiche. (You can guess where this is going.) It was Disney World's first (and last?) Tower of Terror Ten Miler. Running for my favorite ride in my favorite pink tutu with my favorite person cheering me on from the sidelines. Three miles deep and I was good. I got this. I hadn't trained very much, but fresh from the half marathon, I thought, cool cool cool. Keep going. </p><p>And then. The quiche.</p><p>Tears and sweat were indistinguishable in the port-a-potty. All I knew was I had paid $200+ and I was <i>not </i>going to quit. Three hours later, I straggled over the finish line, drained and dehydrated. Everyone around me was throwing up. My brother even got sick--and he made great time. And, yet, there was my Liz. Shining and smiling and having the night of her life while waiting for me. She rode rides, ate snacks, even witnessed a proposal--while I raced to barely edge out the pick-up bus as if a giant mower was at my heels. I was determined to <i>earn my medal</i>.</p><p>Well, I earned it, but looking back I could not care less. And I would trade all that dignity and gladly eat that registration fee to get back those three hours of Disney bliss. The life takeaway: ever since, when I've gotten myself into a pride bind, I've been a lot quicker to say screw it. I know you said you'd do it this way, but let's just be kind to ourselves today. Hence, yesterday's decision to fly the Southwest coop and head to my Floridian happy place.</p><p>But.</p><p>Today.</p><p>I woke up, packed my stuff, and revved up McQueen, thinking: Vegas, here I come. I can't get little V back to civilization soon enough. <i>He doesn't even have hiking boots--or a proper shirt! </i></p><p>Back when I was playing god with Google maps, I had always planned to stop at Zabriskie Point, one of the valley's countless highlights. Unlike the dunes or the many stray stops I made off the side of the road whenever my mouth was gaping like a trout, Zabriskie has a clean, clear path to the very top. And, when you get there, it's a thing of wonder.</p><p>I wasn't feeling the mountains on the west side of the park. Their mammoth size and endless ranges frightened me, made everything around them seem desolate. Zabriskie felt like coming home. Perhaps it was hitting the point on the cusp of the golden hours. Or how soft and low the slopes were, like a pack of brontosauruses corralled and tucked themselves in for the night and put up a sign that said: come have a wander! Wander I did. (You know how much I dig a dino.) I hopped over the wall and baby stepped along the beaten path, knowing if I landed on my butt I wasn't going to get pricked and sliced up by the harsh rocks of the west, but would floof onto a pillow of dust. It was devine--and it felt like I had stepped into the Land Before Time (I am, of course, Spike in this scenario, devouring every luscious plant in sight.) or Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, the Cheerios edition--minus the milk. </p><p>It helped that there were other hikers there--two Mumford and Sons with requisite suspenders and flowing hair and a pittie named Bailey; a couple in their twilight years who'd clearly knocked many a park off the bucket list; a couple like me, in Nikes and gaiters, who took my picture and I theirs. It was everything I had been longing for since Sunday: I was safe and cozy in the bronzed bosom of a beautiful, bite-sized range. </p><p>Leaving just before sunset, I happened upon Ash Meadow--another huge expanse of brush, not unlike so many I had passed before. But this time, as dusk settled in, with lavender mountains ahead and the dimming green fields at my side, it felt as though the sun was gently closing a shade on my window into the valley. And I thanked her for allowing me to have a look. </p><p>Now I know, next time: stay on the Nevada side of the park. There's a town, cheap gas, and the largest Panda Express you'll ever see in your life. A literal blazing sign: <i>Kristin, you belong here. Eat my power greens! </i></p><p>The rest of the ride to Vegas was just...peace. I continued to listen to <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6TJhaTk8TSvsWnhW1RROfp?si=-TNY9EkpSd6vkyCwvHl-bg">the playlist</a> that had helped me set sail this morning. So many of the lyrics and melodies seemed one with my breath, affirming that today was a good day. At 1:11 <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNNYtm2XJGc">My Silver Lining by First Aid Kit</a> came on and, woof, did that pack an emotional wallop. Have you ever listened to a song for years, memorized it note for note, only to realize you didn't even really get it all along? Until now? Gotta keep on keepin' on, folks.</p><p>Just another reminder that this life never ceases to teach us.</p><p>On the strip, I spent about a half hour at the Luxor, mostly in and out of line with the front desk to cancel my reservation because the mojo was off, the room was dirty, the floor smelled like weed, and I saw about 20 people guzzling drinks as tall as my torso and I knew: this isn't me. So this brat took herself off to Vdara where the view of said pyramid is the perfect picture of Vegas from my 32nd-story room, the bathtub is deep and clean and just waiting to be bombed by cherry blossoms, and Din Tai Fung is five minutes away--meaning chocolate peanut butter soup dumplings were in my mouth in under an hour. </p><p>Man, what a difference a day makes. And what a difference <i>you guys</i> make. Thank you, thank you, thank you for always being behind me. It means the world--and it's given me second thoughts about leaving this neck of it. Sweet dreams. xx</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEc4K2CJtnjL2ezFTUldgbpqeGYRhEMS5re7ZgTVsTAUG3LnD6duLehj6PQMnOWrsYZT0i-Qiw2JFXwWlIjOFLr2wew-ZDkQe63cFS9zydKgszvS4vw11dKiVtiKDqOeZDetmlC8S4eTy/s2016/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEc4K2CJtnjL2ezFTUldgbpqeGYRhEMS5re7ZgTVsTAUG3LnD6duLehj6PQMnOWrsYZT0i-Qiw2JFXwWlIjOFLr2wew-ZDkQe63cFS9zydKgszvS4vw11dKiVtiKDqOeZDetmlC8S4eTy/w640-h480/unnamed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-66838209746605117042021-01-13T23:57:00.007-05:002021-01-16T01:34:41.863-05:001.13.21 :: Death Valley<p>The mountains are calling and I must go...home.</p><p>I've felt unsettled from the moment I hit the valley, and have been chasing my tail all week. (Yes, I know it's only been four days, but solitude magnifies everything.) What am I doing here? Why does this place make me feel so small and terrified between the moments when I'm tucked safely in the car, the silence pummeled into submission by my Spotify? Did I make the right choice? Why is this <i>so hard?</i> </p><p>Can I go the distance?</p><p>I think, technically, I can. I'm able-bodied, have read <i>Eat, Pray, Love</i>, have taken the month off from work. But, rationally, I don't think I want to. Not alone. And, as Niamh said today, I need to give myself the permission to create that boundary for myself.</p><p>This land is too vast for a Calico Critter like me. Of the three bedrooms in the AirBnB, this Goldilocks chose the coziest, with just enough room for a bed and two nightstands. In my apartment back home, there isn't a wall free from photos and paintings and letters and, hell, even antlers--save the stairwell, and that has handrails on both sides. I'm a nester. A hugger. I like to feel surrounded. In the desert, you can walk for miles without beating up against anything higher than a footstool. And when you do meet a friend, she's course or prickly. Aggressively planted or proudly stalwart, with no easy way to welcome you in, or so massive and ancient you don't even dare look her in the eye.</p><p>When I plunge into a pool of water--any pool or ocean or lake or even a slip-n-slide--I feel weightlessly embraced. <i>This</i> is home, I think. Every damn time. It takes polar temperatures to keep me at bay, and I've never slept so soundly as after a good swim.</p><p>Yes, I want to float above Sedona in a hot air balloon, the roar of the Soarin' soundtrack in my head. Yes, I want to count the rings of every rock in the canyonlands and Copic my way through the arches and monuments. Yes, I want to lace up my boots and feel breathless and fist pump the sky at the summit of some random easy-to-moderate climb in Zion.</p><p>But not today. And not alone. I want to experience this world with my chosen few. I want my mother to scream as that balloon takes its first inhale and lifts us up. I want Liz to poke her head through a hole in the red rocks and laugh so loudly at Chuck that it echoes through the tunnel. I want the bravest of my friends' kiddos to hang on tight as they sled down the sand dunes, making tracks and memories miles from home. </p><p>So, I'm taking this solo trip southeast for the next two weeks. To...you guessed it...Florida! Who still has an annual pass burning a hole in her MyDisneyExperience app? And who's been too intimidated to get actual exercise in the wilderness and just can't wait to run circles around the World Showcase? I'll be in Nevada for a few more adventures, and then it's off to St. Pete sunshine and yoga and vegan paradise, before a few days in the parks. </p><p>You've all been so kind and supportive. You--and Mother Nature. You've inspired me to be brave, and today that means a big gut check. It doesn't mean the end of solo travel for me--not by a long shot. I'll never regret my time here. This just wasn't the right destination. (Upon closer reflection, I went too far on the nature end of the spectrum. Perhaps, Tokyo? Seoul? Epic shopping and manufactured cutie animal-themed objects I can buy in bulk are clearly key.) </p><p>On another note, today I explored the tiny Main Street of Lone Pine and it was a true time capsule. The freeway-stealing-small-town-America montage from <i>Cars</i> come to life. A Wild West museum, with a dress-up photo booth, of course. A stucco-faced hotel born at the turn of the last century. A phone booth offering 20-cent local calls. A merry-go-round restaurant with a red and white striped tent of a roof. All peeling and faded, like they'd been hustled through an Instagram filter. It was sweet and endearing and its endurance impressed me beyond measure.</p><p>I also made my way to <a href="https://www.nps.gov/manz/index.htm" target="_blank">Manzanar</a>, an internment camp that once imprisoned 10,000 Japanese Americans. One would think a home at the base of snow-capped mountain would be picturesque, but the watch towers still stand. The barbed wire refuses to untangle itself from the brush. A few of the bunk houses have been rebuilt to show just how far down these citizens were pushed. The life and commerce and community they built is astounding considering the conditions. It's something every American needs to see, because we keep making the same mistakes. </p><p>I will be back to the valley, if only to share that story with those who will hear it. That's a promise. </p><p>Meanwhile, thanks for sticking with me on this journey and stay tuned for me chasing the manatees. There's always more nonsense to come. xx </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJR44bYUzKd4cwzKGnKORPsRSUHuhUBjw8Rmu5XOof7BXQFZAojJJO50XQJSdQLxsHJE7gOLdRrT4b_IM9XJYytjXMwENc0G26BkPrXuUQkGmHdbU9r4iu8t2g3FNmwQR-mYjlAuTsZKzH/s1800/138611335_10101773523781292_3183712732188502391_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJR44bYUzKd4cwzKGnKORPsRSUHuhUBjw8Rmu5XOof7BXQFZAojJJO50XQJSdQLxsHJE7gOLdRrT4b_IM9XJYytjXMwENc0G26BkPrXuUQkGmHdbU9r4iu8t2g3FNmwQR-mYjlAuTsZKzH/w512-h640/138611335_10101773523781292_3183712732188502391_o.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-5477027219008697982021-01-12T00:17:00.001-05:002021-01-16T01:34:13.375-05:001.12.21 :: Death Valley<p>Today I saw a sky I’d only dreamed of as a child wandering
the aisles of the Hilltop grocery store and steak house. There used to be a little
Mexican man on a donkey—I presumed he was Mexican due to his sombrero and
growing up in a blindly white privileged corner of the East Coast. He was a
comic-like mannequin who presided on a shelf above the meat refrigerators. He
was all I ever wanted to see when dragged on a trip to the store; I couldn’t
wait to bypass the produce and look up. To my little eyes he wasn’t just at our
market; he was on a grassy plain with cowboys on the lookout and a cactus I could
never touch. I imagined him sitting around a fire (after store hours, of
course), cooking up a can of beans, the mountains in shadow behind him and a
midnight sky swallowing up the rest of the tableau. Stars would wink with abandon,
just as Mrs. Bennett did to poor, confused Kitty. And a chorus of Home on the
Range would lull the troop to sleep.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What I’m saying is, my imagination is nothing compared to
the real wonder of this place. A bazillion stars gazing down on you, reminding
you that hi, hello. They’ve always been here. Have been here for eons and will
be long after you’re gone. Just remember to get yourself somewhere dark—really dark—and
look up sometimes. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve seen the Milky Way, from a rural Welsh farm to the peak
of Cadillac Mountain, and it never ceases to amaze me. But tonight was
different.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was 2:00. My new boots were on. My toenails as yet unharmed.
I was going for a walk. I hopped down the hill and crossed the street into a
patchwork of thicket bushels and tromped up and down, up and down a narrow
sandy path—feeling, I must say, quite pleased with myself. I always feel a bit overly
triumphant at every tiny effort I make to sweat. With Mount Whitney at my back,
I wondered what on earth could eclipse her at my front until the trail narrowed
even further and took me down. Down into the valley of a giant’s board game.
Rocks of all size, shape, and color strewn about as though someone had been a
sore loser and hurled the pieces to the ground. Some were ancient and
crumbling, others had nooks and dimples so big a Great Dane could curl up inside.
Among them were gnarled, blackened plants and dried up Bob Ross wigs in green,
white, gold. Moira Rose would have had her pick. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My triumph snuffed itself out with each successive valley.
It was all fun and games at the top of the hill, with the view cheering you on.
Down in the ditches, there were Whoopi Goldbergs and Cheech Marins silently
stalking you, and new boots strangling your aching feet. You left your mace at
the house, ding dong, so get a move on. After what seemed two hours but was
just over 45 minutes, I made it back to the house, collapsed on a rock, and
applauded myself for a 1.66-mile day’s work. Hopped in the tub with a Lush bomb
and the latest Lee Min Ho drama and let my heart dance and clench and exhale for
an hour.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After I lit a fire and chatted with friends, I looked up and
the sky was that midnight blue my little Hilltop friend used to enjoy and I
wondered: How did I even get here? Not just this house, this valley, but 37. By
all odds I should have died a bunch of times: at the Cliffs of Mohor when
ignoring the “danger zone” sign, driving downhill in a blizzard with shitty
tires into oncoming traffic, attempting to install a curtain rod over the
kitchen sink, only to lose a chunk of hair and my balance and fall
spectacularly off the counter onto my back. And, yet, I’m one of the lucky
ones. Despite myself, I’m here.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">A good reminder to embrace. To absorb. To create. And to recognize all that's come before.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1evkiffoYjDj_OqWolrOEr_3IBIrnPOsZsXcKrSngvugxYKcRw1GFu-6U-v_OdAjAaC_YuX4rpPBEaFIOv9F5mWk-NhgomF22xXtEhqAAkwFuUoS0S8xBzXka3znnKQBqaPF0UsblWEH/s960/138694320_10101773234201612_30458267691736763_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1evkiffoYjDj_OqWolrOEr_3IBIrnPOsZsXcKrSngvugxYKcRw1GFu-6U-v_OdAjAaC_YuX4rpPBEaFIOv9F5mWk-NhgomF22xXtEhqAAkwFuUoS0S8xBzXka3znnKQBqaPF0UsblWEH/w640-h480/138694320_10101773234201612_30458267691736763_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-56572071236666162312021-01-11T23:58:00.003-05:002021-01-16T01:33:59.957-05:001.11.21 :: Death Valley<p>Why did I come to a place called Death Valley—of all things—during
the time of covid? As I drove from Vegas to Lone Pine, the aptly named location
of my remote AirBnB, I asked this question a lot. I looked back on naïve
Kristin, neatly planning a national parks tour, treating online maps how I
imagine my mom friends treat Animal Crossing. A canyon here. A turnip there. It’s
all so tempting when the directions show it can be done in two hours—or less,
if you’re an aggressive Masshole!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’d had knots in my stomach the night before when my best friend
came over to wish me well. I still wasn’t sure if the journey I was about to
embark on would be the full California culmination of months of planning and a
medium’s validation or…a galaxy of blue lines I’d plucked from Google. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Technically, I was fine. Fit and covid-free so far, in a
brand new Volvo fancier than the Golf I’d left behind. K-pop knocking out my ear
drums. A hundred dollars of “ooh that looks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yum</i>”
snacks and groceries in the backseat. (I hate myself in Whole Foods, too.) Two
boxes of Duraflames in the trunk. My to-do list of fun was already starting to
get ticked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, I was jolting from insane joy and near tears at
the sight of indescribable mountain-valley-big sky beauty—unlike anything I’d
ever seen in real life—to panic attacks at living alone for weeks on end in the
middle of nowhere. It didn’t help when I turned the dial over to Bill Bryson’s
America and the narrator began detailing the harrowing journey our Mayflower
friends undertook without so much as a builder on the ship in a dangerously
uncharted new world. I looked at my iPhone, saw zero bars, not even a peep of a
Sprint sign as the sun set behind the mountain range I was plunging into
V8-first, and thought, yup. Me, too. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Suddenly, it wasn’t just the valley causing my mind to
spiral. It was my life. My late-30s. My single-until-California hand of hope
that had been hacked off by a deadly surge. My brand new hiking boots in my
luggage that would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wild</i>-ly wear off
my toenails.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the house, which is unequivocally fabulous, I fell into a
puddle of tears at the text of said best friend knowing me all too well and
reminding me that I could call or message at any hour. I immediately took her
up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hi. I’m crying.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But she and everyone else I love rallied and coddled and
reminded me I could always come home. Here I had been dreaming of a big change.
A move that would move my life forward, and I was instead pining for all I had
curated and cultivated and left behind in Boston. Ten months of living in
semi-isolation in 450 square feet of suburbia will do that to a cat lady.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bravery can be as big as leading the protest, raising the
first hand, taking the leap into the unknown. It can also be as small as
curling up in bed, turning on the latest K-drama, and telling yourself tomorrow
you will create something new. (I’m very sheltered. I know this.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Onto tomorrow—well, now, today. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I got up and in daylight the house is even more fabulous
than previously thought the night before as I’d shut every shade, checked every
lock, and assumed every zombie from Cabin in the Woods was lurking behind the
nearest rock. I made avocado toast like a freakin’ pioneer, using the broiler
as a toaster, and took myself off to Mesquite Dune. Along the way I tempted
fate by holding a GoPro in one hand while pushing the car up and down thousands
of feet of elevation, coasting along winds that, at the wrong touch, would send
you sailing into oblivion. At the dunes, I chugged my way to the top, my huffs
the only sound save for a bird I thought I heard in the distance. But, no. It
was merely my thighs, protesting their spandex sausage casing with each step. Scaling dune after dune was like clambering along the humps of
an endless Loch Ness monster. My body howled at me: Why have you mistreated me
for so long with sugar and salt and fat only to bring me here? I can kill you,
you know. I made you. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I told her to shut up. This is the ritual of extremes we
have taken for 37 years and you like it. We slowly puttered on, while watching
a family to the right. The mother was doggedly dragging a toddler on a sled
behind her, stopping every few moments to breathe and glare at her husband. I,
too, looked at him in disgust and thought, of course. Women always carry the
load, even on dune day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After a photo shoot with V, the BTS doll I brought with me
as a sidekick-mascot for the trip (just the one, folks—not all seven, or even
the six other heads that could be fitted on the one body at any moment of decapitation),
wherein I tried to remove his jacket (it was hot) only to find he was wearing a
sort of dicky-type shirt sewn into said jacket and so ended up taking the whole
thing off and letting him sunbathe topless, I headed back to the car, emptied
my shoes of a pound of sand, and headed home. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The curves and dips (oh, the many dips that make driving
around here like an aeronaut expedition) were starting to become familiar. The
lookouts I’d stopped at earlier in the day when the sun was baking and bright
had been bronzed. The long road home, a straight shot of five miles (I counted)
from one range to the next, called me on, blue mountains in the distance, pink
at their peaks by the sunset. I stopped briefly to fawn over a patch of Joshua
Trees, before continuing on to follow the many crosses in the sky—electric poles
that took god knows how many years to construct and connect every community here,
like Keeler, population 50. And I fast forwarded Bryson to how the West was one
(wrongly, misremembered, and through complete decimation) and thought about the
term “death”. It’s been a year for it, for all of us. But I also thought of my
friend in Queens, who read my tarot cards a couple of years ago. The death card
was dominant in my reading, meaning change and new things to come. That trip
alone was sort of a death card: It was my first solo road trip—10 hours, nothing
like this—to visit my grandparents. I’d stopped along the way to see this
friend. We had the best pho across the street from her house. Although, the
place burned down the next week. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know exactly where I’m going with this, but that
seems to be the theme of this trip. The type A planner who only has a place to
stay until Thursday. But, stick with me here. We’ll find our way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAx5Fy8eAB2_yxvMz7JTaBrnU_WDysmRNLT6UqfyHMsMklbxxG86-1yrXalJbG8pyNckVRRaFL0hiaV1NaaqFcT4j8p_3G6GP-iRMdrpv904N4o5dKjTp_cu9rIOkNys24qMMH8_AHfqjw/s1763/138376234_10101772891413562_4504293305935265296_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1763" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAx5Fy8eAB2_yxvMz7JTaBrnU_WDysmRNLT6UqfyHMsMklbxxG86-1yrXalJbG8pyNckVRRaFL0hiaV1NaaqFcT4j8p_3G6GP-iRMdrpv904N4o5dKjTp_cu9rIOkNys24qMMH8_AHfqjw/w523-h640/138376234_10101772891413562_4504293305935265296_o.jpg" width="523" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5696108453131632684.post-49585379546705952482012-08-23T23:07:00.004-04:002021-02-01T00:30:03.948-05:00Retro Post :: Ivory Slipper SatinShe sits on an armless desk chair padded with five or six thin blankets. It rolls, hence she rolls in small semi-circles in the small corner of what was once a kitchen and is now the anchor of the house, a room that holds the necessities, that leads everywhere. Fitting, as she's the core. Without her, he wouldn't make it, he's so skinny these days--although lately I've noticed that without him, she might not make it either. <br />
<br />
And she might not be quite as happy as we've all always believed she would be.<br />
<br />
My grandmother's face is transformed when she starts to speak, to tell me about her childhood. The subject sort of bloomed from how are you today to why does he insist on watching crime television shows over and over is something I will never understand to please take these tomatoes home and enjoy them to let me tell you about my mother and Chelsea. And I couldn't be more delighted--neither could she, but then she's always excelled at looking delighted in even the most awkward and humiliating situations in her life.<br />
<br />
She's a natural, they'd say, at so many things, but in this I am always in awe.<br />
<br />
She grew up in Chelsea, nine of eleven children and, as I found out this evening, one of twenty-four in a two-floor apartment above the laundry they owned on Broad Street. "There were always people around," she can't help but laugh. And she precisely draws a line on the table with her finger--she's always precise, by the way, from the way she grasps a mug by the tips of her straightened fingers to the way she folds napkins to keep in her faithful tote--she guides me through the layout: the school that had a Chin every year, thanks to her family and her cousins; the playground the little ones toddled to every day to keep them out of the way; the T she hopped on and off for her job downtown at Filene's Basement. She's always loved to travel, to learn. Was in the first class of women, by the way, to enter Northeastern University as a chemistry major, she tells me, if you can believe it.<br />
<br />
I can.<br />
<br />
When we were little, her red satin coin purse was always filled with dimes, dimes and pins for just in case, because all it took was a dime to get a grandchild on the commuter rail to Boston, to sailing for a dollar a summer, to shopping the bargains in the tourist strips. And when she was little, barely out of high school the little smiling wisp of a thing, but then she did skip the third grade, she took the trolley everywhere: to the lab, to work, to school, to visit cousins and go to the cinema and come back to Chelsea to listen to the Red Sox on the radio and keep score for her older brothers who were off to work themselves. But it was a stolen season, I think.<br />
<br />
At twenty, she married my grandfather. "Not sure why I made that decision," she says to me, and it's at that point that I realize the room has taken on a very police-like outfit: the desk lamp poking out of piles of papers on the kitchen table is casting a stark, sharp light on us, just the two of us. Probably doesn't help that he continuously keeps the police radio on, a habit from decades as a Lynn Item photographer. It caws and snaps at us from the corner. Dead bodies are ubiquitous white noise as he does his exchange upstairs, filling one bag while another fills him, the cycle interminable.<br />
<br />
But she is, as always, happy. Even after the aneurism that almost stole her, even after sixty-three years of always being underfoot, yet mandatory, in her own house. After losing her mother because of a disappointing marriage, after losing all those languages she learned because of a disappointing marriage, after every day of just making the best of it because of a disappointing marriage--and rising up to take each day as it comes, as she so often says. And I can't help but want to tell her how much I love her, and not just her, all she's crafted and cared for: the famous blankets, the beach and Boston summers, the five children, the hand-made wedding dress of "ivory slipper satin" because "we didn't have the big bucks back then", the instilled ethics of saving and suffering and getting by with a genuine grin.<br />
<br />
It's all from her, I'm realizing. Yes, there is so much of my mother and father and other grandmother and grandfather, and even Poppa, in me. But the Chin resilience--I'm hoping at her age I also have it in spades.<br />
<br />
I want to tell her I love her.<br />
<br />
But we've never said I love you, because she doesn't say that. And it's all right, so long as she knows that I do. And so I do say it, and she thanks me and looks down like she always does. And I remember once more that all this, this every day, it isn't about weekends in the city and brand new must-have's. It's about family and gratitude and peace. <br />
<br />
And so we make an exchange: I leave them fresh vegetables from the co-op; they give me tupperware full of his homemade Chinese soup. They wave me off on this humid night as ambulances park across their street in Lynn to revive some victim surrounded by a hollering crowd that scares the cat. He sits on the porch rail and yells at her to turn up the radio. She scurries inside to do as she's told. And I back out of the driveway, as always, worried for them, but so grateful that for once I skipped the gym for something truly important.<br />
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<br />yeeoldecatladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04273798365475650051noreply@blogger.com0