Exit Strategies

When I was younger, I used to like throwing a blanket over my dog. Anyone else? Once the blanket was over the dog, she lowered her front legs, kept her butt in the air, and started walking backwards in an attempt to escape. Apparently, a dog's DNA tells it this is the way to respond to being covered in a blanket. It didn't work; usually she'd walk into something. The blanket stayed where it was. The whole performance was awkward, ungainly, and highly entertaining. Then, my anemic little conscience would assert itself, and I'd take the blanket off.

When I thought about leaving Moscow, I decided I didn't want it to be like that. I didn't want to do the equivalent of an awkward, backwards dog-walk out of Moscow. I wanted to leave forwardly, with my butt not in the air but rather right where it should be, behind me. I wanted to say goodbye to everyone and everything with grace and finesse.

It worked. Mostly. (There were some unnecessary tequila shots; I witnessed a strange, awful experiment in gastro-intestinal control, as well as an ill-fated tree-climbing attempt; I played a never-ending game of Buck Hunter at the Alley, where I would've done better if I'd understood sooner that killing "cows" is, in fact, how you lose the game. In each of these instances: little grace and even less finesse.) But there was also low-key, high-quality time spent with friends; a final, reflective run through the arboretum; last glances at a little downtown I've come to love; all my favorite food--because for the rest of my life, when I hear the word "Moscow," I'll salivate--I have never eaten so well; a festive backyard party; a chocolate cake; some stellar mixed tapes; and a sunny drive home on the interstate.

My car is packed beyond all reason, which reduces my visibility to nonexistent, and every time I have to lane change to the right, I have to do it mostly blindly. It is frightening! But each time, I take a deep breath and tell myself I'll be just fine: after all, so far, I've been so lucky.

Oh Irony.

Question: What is the appropriate punishment for a slacker-blogger who has simply abandoned her blog for no good reason?

Answer: Send her to a Blogging Conference where she will have to explain to everyone that she used to have a blog once, but that she is monumentally lazy and preoccupied and her blog fell into radio silence.

This is how my life works: three weeks before I am given the chance to attend a conference about blogging--I stop blogging. When I think of the fact that I'll spend two days being the only person at the conference who doesn't actually have an active blog, I get a little twisty, anxious feeling in my stomach that can only be quelled by wine, or bowls of sugar cereal, or bowls of sugar cereal doused in wine (not really that last bit--or not yet, anyway).

But today I am biting the bullet, re-entering the fray, grabbing the bull by the proverbial horns (can you tell I've been reading Lonesome Dove and having cowboy dreams?). I'm going to SLOG ALL OVER THIS THING. Watch your shoes. You might get slog on them...

Last night, some friends and I played Life, the board game. It had been at least fifteen years since any of us had played, but oh, did we remember it. Libby used to cheat to ensure she got to live in the Tudor house. I used to stare at the board, wishing hard that I might land on every "Baby Girl" or "Baby Boy" square, thus filling my little minivan with adorable babies. Times change. Now, Libby wants the Modern Victorian house and I am happy with my one quiet, well-behaved child.

For the first twenty minutes, we mostly lamented the new, cartoony images on the much-busier game board. Why, we wondered, does everything have to change? Why? Then, we got down to playing. It was way more complicated than any of us remembered. Clearly, as children, we'd only adhered to the rules that interested us. Now there are "Share the Wealth" and "Long Term Investment" opportunities. Now there is the "Spin to Win" gambling feature. And, because we are older, and understand the extended rules, we feel compelled to follow them.

See how much Life is actually like life?

As we played, we tried to understand what Life is meant to teach the young children who play it. There are obvious lessons: you will buy a house; you will have a family; you will have a career; you'll make money and you'll pay money. In the end, you'll retire to a big mansion and count your money, and if you made enough of it, you are the winner. Twisted.

But there are other lessons, too. Lessons that resonated especially powerfully to people in their late twenties. Namely, that Life is Random and Absurd. For instance, of the six of us, only Andrew ever had to pay taxes. Two people found buried treasure and collected 500,000 dollars. Kelsey landed on every tile that said she'd won a television dance/singing/game show contest, and raked in the dough. Jacob lost his job as a veterinarian and became a hair stylist. He made the least money but lived in a mansion. He also had to do the only real work of the game, as our banker, which is--of course--a job he didn't get paid for at all. Libby made the most money but lived in a double-wide. Poor Paul, just because he had the highest salary, got sued by anyone and everyone who landed on a Lawsuit square.

And with each spin of the wheel, we waited helplessly to see what sort of hand fate would deal us next. Half way through, Kelsey suggested we double whatever number we spun, just to move across the board faster. So we did, and soon we were tearing along, jumping all sorts of milestones without looking twice. Babies, car accidents, Nobel prizes. We spun and spun again. We raced one another to retirement. And when we got there, we had piles of money and we were all exhausted.

Life seems to reduce the whole experience of a person in the world to a series of purchases, payments, and required milestones. The game offers a few choices, but eliminates most. It forces your hand. Across the board there are stop signs that demand you to stop, to marry, to pick a house or a career out of a pile of limited options. So, the lesson is that life is random, and absurd, and it is sometimes about choice but it is mostly about chance. But if you think too much about that stuff, it will leave you feeling tired, tired, tired.

Luckily, there are good friends, and there is champagne, and there is plenty to laugh about when--in make believe--your friends discover buried treasure, win Nobel prizes, buy homes they can't afford, become veterinarian-hairstylists, get sued again and again, win game shows, or fall way, way behind because they are physically incapable of spinning anything other than a two.

I've missed you,

Kendall

I suck because...

Should I count the ways?

1. I haven't blogged in eons.
2. I got a haircut that, when I wear my hair in a ponytail, looks like a sad, bad bowl cut.
3. For dinner, I ate crackers and mayonnaise.
4. I cannot do math.
5. My garbage stinks but I don't have the energy to take it outside.
6. My Dexter DVDs are insanely overdue.
7. I haven't blogged in eons.

I do have some good news: I fell in love with a new city. The Ham. Or, Bellingham, to you laypersons. Here are some photos, with brief explanations of what I saw when I took the blog out for a walk.

1. Here I am in Fairhaven (charming neighborhood of Bellingham) with Anne, and a minivan that looks exactly (and I mean exactly) like the car I was driven around in as a child. The sentence I think I heard most when I was young was, "We need to run errands." And errands, friends, were always run in a white minivan with wood paneling. When I was five and I stole a candy bar, the white minivan with wood paneling was my getaway car (though neither the van, nor my mother, had any idea).

2. Have you ever seen anything happier, or more enticing, than a used bookstore so full of books that they're stacked knee-high into every possible corner? I cannot begin to describe how this place suited me. I want to live there, and never leave it, and have someone bring me fish and chips every day. Some people might think it looks like an inky, musty death-trap. I say: Heaven. In Fairhaven!

3. This, here, is a double-decker bus out of which are sold fish & chips, and ice cream. Upstairs, on the deck, are some mannequins, and doll heads, and cut-outs of human faces. No big deal. The bus smells very enticing, unlike most busses, with nice looking people sitting outside, and I really wanted to go in. But we'd just eaten a huge breakfast, so I could only look longingly from the sidewalk. At one point, Robert said, "You must really like that bus. You keep looking at it." I did really like that bus.

4. On several of the nights in Bellingham, we ended up at the Ranch Room, which features a jukebox, a Sopranos pinball game, and a 24-hour diner. At one point, I slid the camera across the table to Robert, so he could take a picture of dear Anne and me. We smiled, he snapped the photo, and said, "Turned out good." Then he handed the camera back, and I saw that this was the photo he'd taken. Thanks.

5. Look, I'm no photographer (as this blog frequently proves). I'm just a standard, pose-and-smile picture-taker. So, I feel enormously proud for capturing this moment. We were on our way to the antique mall (Bellingham is full of antique malls, used book stores, vintage boutiques, and other stores that specialize in cool stuff that is old and cheap), and the entrance features this curious banner: "Fantastic! Congress of Oddities." Which is just a striking statement, and one that is often an appropriate description of my life, and certainly seems appropriate to the photo above, featuring Matt and Robert.

In conclusion, Bellingham is my kind of town. And the friends that live there are my kind of people. And the friend that got stuck road-tripping with me out there--well, he doesn't believe in sharing drinks, which I find odd. But he does believe in loaning out treasured CDs, and not guilt-tripping people when they need to make yet another pit stop, so he's okay too.

Sloggishly, sluggishly, sheepishly yours,

Kendall

Where I'm Blogging From.

(This is the moss on my roof. I think it's lovely, and appropriate for St. Paddy's Day!)

Dear Readers (are you still there? are you? I wouldn't blame you if you went away--I did. Sorry! It's been Spring Break over here in the Spider House*),

Question: Have you ever done the wrong thing for all the right reasons? Have you? Take last night, for example. I did the wrong thing: I stayed out until 6 am. Six! I mean, we're not in Spain, amigos! And I'm not twenty-one! 6 am is for younger people--people whose to-do lists don't read like mine: "Snow tires; ceiling mold; taxes."

But, I did it for all the right reasons! See, I'm blowing this town in a few short months, which means that everything that happens here has the added sweetness of not lasting forever. One thing I'll absolutely miss, and mourn, and grieve for, is nights like last night, when Nikiforos made an out-and-out feast--at 5 o'clock in the morning.

At 3 am, we went to Winco. Winco at 3 am is weird. Even weirder? Our shopping list: 1 whole chicken; 1 onion; chicken broth; jasmine rice; fresh thyme (also, stewed tomatoes, but Nem just had those in the back of his car. I still don't know why. Who drives around with stewed tomatoes?)

Me (at the checkout): "Are you sure we don't just want a frozen pizza?"

Oh, no, we did not just want a frozen pizza. Because the chicken and rice and tomato sauce that Nick made was so good (if slow to cook)! And then Nem brought over his homemade, still hot-from-the-oven, challah bread. Because, well, apparently people bake bread in the middle of the night and then bring it over to their friends' houses. Think of all we've been missing by sleeping! I don't ever want to sleep again. (Except today. Today I really want to sleep. I'm exhausted.)

Even though I had to walk home this morning, still in high heels, past my gym which had already opened for the day and had people inside it, working out; and even though I haven't accomplished any of the exciting projects on my to-do list--sorry ceiling mold!, it was worth it. I mean, these things do not happen every day. What are the chances that in the next place I go, people will make middle-of-the-night feasts and fresh bread? And even if they do make delicious chicken-and-rice dishes, what are the odds that they'll be as generous, warm, culinary and nocturnal, as the friends I've made here?

Slim to none, I'm afraid. I'm sure that new friends in new places will have their own blessings and behaviors that I'll embrace, but their food won't taste as good. Which means that while I'm here, I've got to stay awake and eat up. And nap in the afternoon.

Sacked out,

Kendall

PS: The asterisk above* refers to the fact that I was going to blog yesterday, but then a spider crawled out of my laptop and across my keyboard. Right under my finger tips! And it ruined my blogging mojo. But now I'm back, and risking life, limb and spider bites to bring you my slog. You're welcome.

Just like a Chinese food casserole.

Here's something I remember from childhood. We were a Take-Out Family. Sure, some meals were cooked at home, but the meals my brothers and I most looked forward to came in paper boxes and plastic bags from restaurants in the neighborhood (sorry, Mom, Dad, thanks for everything you did for us, etc.). I'll tell you one of our very favorites: Golden Crown. Chinese Food! The greasiest, saltiest, not much at all like actual Chinese food I'm guessing, bloat-you-so-you-can't-wear-shoes-for-a-week kind of take-out.

Never a family for moderation, we'd order: pork fried rice, chicken chow mein, mu shu pork, broccoli beef, eighteen servings of lemon chicken (seemed like), and pot stickers. It was enough to feed an army, but we were only a family of five. SO,

On the weekend, after the leftover Chinese food had spent a few days congealing and stinking up our fridge, my dad would take a break from paying a mountain of bills (how clearly I remember him sitting at the head of the table and working through such a daunting stack of bills! and always in a blue sweatshirt. my mind, it's like a steel trap, I tell you.), and he'd make--Chinese food casserole.

Everything, everything from Golden Crown, in a single pyrex casserole dish. It...wasn't pretty. But, oh my god, it was so delicious. The mashed up, congealed, four-day-old takeout was actually better than when it had been fresh and organized into its appropriate boxes. And, not only is that a metaphor, on some level, for my beautiful leftover-casserole of a family, it is, conveniently, a metaphor for this blog post, which will now consist of some stinky, leftover thoughts that have been congealing in my mind for the past four days.

CASSEROLE:

1. Spring is here! I have a very scientific way of determining when, exactly, spring happens. Here's what I do: I look at my car. If it is covered, covered, in bird shit--I KNOW it's spring. Every window, in at least two distinct locations, must feature a uniquely shaped and colored bird "deposit." When that is the case--as it is now--spring has arrived! If you saw my car, you'd see it's a virtual constellation of bird excrement. So, Happy Spring, everybody.

2. Maybe it's Spring Fever, but lately, I've been really entertained by what I like to call the "Hall of Cyrus." Who is Cyrus? He is apparently the offspring of an instructor here at the college, who is extremely proud of EVERY piece of school work young Cyrus does. So, it gets posted to the wall right outside the women's restroom. And because I'm always going to, or coming from, the restroom, I feel very invested in Cyrus's ongoing academic achievements. Today, may I just offer you Cyrus's spelling test, on which he appears to have done exceptionally well:

I saw a big crater.
A comet is a huge mass of gas.
My brother is lazy.
There is a place called Rapid City in South Dakota.
Bacon is yummy!!!!
I like music.
I am a human.
When it's cold, I shiver.
There is a river near the school.
I am very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very clever.


3. I ate borscht for the first time. Something I really believe, truly, is that when someone asks you, "Do you want to try this food I made?" You SAY YES. So yesterday, when Jeff said, "Hey, I made some borscht today. Do you want some?" I didn't say, "What's borscht, again?" Or, "Do you think I'll like it?" Or even, "I'm not all that hungry because I just loaded up on free food at a reception." I said, "YES." And, as is always the case here where I live, it was really, really good. It was also hot pink (thank you, beets!). Like, exactly the color of a lipstick I have that is called, "Pomposity."

Are you on the Beet Train? People, are you? Get on the beet train! It makes for the best colored food, plus they've got such a satisfyingly soft texture, and they are so pompous. If you're not on board, get on board. Take a ride on the Beet Express. You won't regret it.

4. Here is the best thing that has happened to me this week: KW came to town! She's only one of my oldest friends, who has seen me through my bad perm, my bad braces, those awful tapered jeans with the zippers on the ankle, my crush on Matt Damon, et al. And she was a keynote speaker at a conference. Keynote! AKA, Very Important Person.

What I found out is: there is no better feeling, for me (I don't know how you feel, but you're free to tell me in the comment section of the slog), than watching someone I love do the very thing that they love to do. The thing that they're the very best at. I mean, KW, she had a room full of strangers eating out of her hand. I was eating out of her hand, too. I was so proud, I swelled up with pride the same way I swell up after eating a mountain of sodium in the form of chow mein.

Want to know what she talked about? Check back tomorrow, because it was so interesting I'm going to blog about it after I finish making this casserole!

So, there you have it. My slog casserole. Was it as good for you as it was for me?

Kendall

Big Old Jet Airliner, Don't Carry Me Too Far From Home

Friends, do you like flying? Let me be clearer: do you like flying in airplanes? And most specifically, do you like flying in commercial airplanes that require going through security screenings at airports, listening to safety announcements you've heard millions of times before, and getting your elbows slammed by steely flight attendants wielding beverage carts?

Do you like taking your shoes off in front of strangers, walking around in socks that TSA agents may comment on ("I have those same argyle socks at home!"), and showing the world what travel-sized liquids you deem vital to your existence? Do you like waiting not-so-patiently in your seat for the flight attendant to fling a paltry bag of pretzels at you and ask, "What would you like to drink?" so you can say, meekly, so meekly you might even be whispering, as though you're five all over again and scared to talk to grown-ups, "Um, ginger ale?"

Do you like all that? Because I do! I know everything there is to hate about flying: the way rings (or shoes, for that matter) that fit on the ground suddenly become so frighteningly tight they may never come off your bloated, pressurized body again; the smells of so many strangers sharing tight, tight spaces; those same strangers who sometimes commit the crime of wanting to get to know you; the indignity of ritualized snack time, the anticipation of which overwhelms you and the actuality of which only makes you hungrier than before. I know all of that.

I like flying because of what you see. Today, I had to take two different planes, that made three different stops, and I was about to decide I hate flying (see all the reasons listed above). But then, during a layover in Seattle, I started watching people. Specifically, I started watching one little girl getting walked by her mother on a leash. Have you seen this? Kids on leashes? They make the leash fuzzy, and attach it to a cute animal shaped backpack to say, "Hey, I know we leashed our kid, but we leashed out of love." And this little girl was proud of her leash. She sort of swung it around with her hands, and smiled at passersby as if to say, "Jealous?" As if to say, "Don't you wish you had someone so desperate not to lose you that they attached themselves to you with a furry polyester rope?" As if to say, "Lady, I'm that important."

I'm pretty nostalgic when it comes to kids on leashes, because it reminds me of my childhood. I never had a leash, but my brother spent, oh, years on one. I still remember trips through the supermarket with Taylor straining at the end of his rope. I never needed a leash, for me such a safety measure would've been superfluous, because I was always more terrified of losing my parents than they were of losing me. Taylor, on the other hand, wanted to run free. Very free. And fast and loud. And if that's not a metaphor for our two personalities, well, no--it is most definitely a metaphor for our two personalities.

But thinking of leashes leads to thinking of family (positively, of course), and my very favorite thing about flying: the call. I like that moment when you land at your destination, and the ding! signals that you may remove your seat belt, and the entire plane reaches into backpacks or briefcases or purses and pulls out their phones in order to make the call that announces their safe arrival to the person who is picking them up at the airport, or expecting them home for dinner, or is back in the place they just flew from and needs to know that they're still safe. Isn't it the greatest feeling when you make that phone call? Isn't that the grown-up version of a furry, friendly leash designed to keep you connected to the people who love you?

Do you like flying?

Back on solid ground,

Kendall

Like a car, but so much better.

Sometimes, in life, a girl has just got to pack a suitcase and hightail it to the desert with three of her very best friends. Sometimes, it is just necessary. So, this past weekend, I went to the desert. Not the Mojave desert. Not the Gobi desert. It was Palm Desert. California. Home to eight million golf courses, tasty Mexican restaurants, terrible radio stations, and outdoor swimming pools in which you can swim in January. We had a ladies' weekend for grown-up women where we did grown-up things that reflected our maturity and wisdom.

Like golf cart photo shoots!!!

You would not believe the golf carts in Palm Springs. These golf carts are tricked out. And what I find really remarkable is that when I told my friends I wanted photos of them (for the blog, I said, for the blog!), they didn't bat a collective eyelash. Katie identified the most photogenic carts for the photo shoot: she's familiar with this 'taking the blog for a walk' situation, as I've made her do it before, while KW and I just got next to the golf carts of our choosing (I liked the tangerine one--so cheery! Kelsey went with the Royal Ride, the Rolls Royce of golf carts, she's always been drawn to bling), and Lib clicked away with her camera phone. Before I'd even made it back to Idaho, she'd sent the pictures to me in an email that just said, "Blog It Up." Friends, do you know what that is? That is friendship.

We had a golf cart of our own, that came with the condo we rented, but it was a standard issue golf cart. Still, I drove it like I stole it. I'd never driven one before! Even though the condo was about six houses away from the pool, I'd zip up and down the street for any excuse I could think up. I loved driving that zippy little cart. I had to leave a day earlier than the others, and on my last day in the desert, as the sun started to set and we found ourselves more and more in the shade by the side of the pool, Katie handed me the keys to the cart, even though I'd had way more than my fair share of turns behind the wheel, and said, "Here, you better drive us back. You have to leave tomorrow, and this might be your last chance." So I zipped us the hundred yards back to our house, and as I drove I thought, "It doesn't take all that much to make me happy after all. Happiness is just being with my favorite people...in a golf cart."

Tune in tomorrow, when I take you even further into the desert...Blog, we're going to Joshua Tree!

Aridly,

Kendall

"Is this going to end up in your blog?"

(I just love this drawing, and felt like the entry needed a graphic)

Sometimes, I think I should change the name of the blog.

It has proven a little bit hard to remember:
Thoughtful friend: "I can't find your blog online. What is it called? There's lots that I can do? I do lots of things? I can do a lot?" Wait. Let me write that down. It's so many letters!"

It exposes me for the sham that I am:
Everyone: "Your blog is called, I can do lots of things? Like what? What can you do?"
Me: "I don't know. I just thought it sounded catchy. I can't actually do all that much."
(Ciara springs loyally to my defense: "She can make coffee. She can tie her shoes. She can breathe in. And she can breathe out.")

In group settings, my witty friends have a field day:
"Kendall, can you grab me a soda?"
"Of course, she can. She can do lots of things."
"Kendall, can you drop me off at my house?"
"Of course, she can. She can do lots of things."
"Kendall, can you..." Aaah. You get the gist.

It goads me unwillingly into healthfulness. While weight-lifting with Ollie (technically, at this point, Ollie was lifting weights and I was more, like, "supervising"):
"Come on, Kendall! Come on, Miss 'I can do lots of things.'"

But the thing is, I've already picked this name. For better of worse, I picked it. And I'm kind of attached to it. It has grown on me. It is very open ended, which is super convenient for me, and probably really frustrating for my friends. Because my blog is about anything, and also about nothing, they NEVER KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO BLOG ABOUT.

Which leads me to one of my very favorite things about this blog. It leads me to my favorite question from my dear friends who agree to read it:

"Is this going to end up in your blog?"

In December, Katie got yelled at by a crazy, crazy woman at the train station. "Is this going to end up in your blog?" she asked, after it was clear that the woman wasn't going to kill us, that I would live to blog another day. "I don't know," I said. And now, a month later, here it is. (We were parked, at a very great distance, from the woman who jumped out of her car, pointed at Katie, and screamed, "I wouldn't hit my car if I was you!!! Scary. Portland.)

Last week, Ollie watched as I bent shakily into the ninth and possibly final squat of my life forever. "Is this going to end up in your blog?" she asked. "I don't know," I said. Of course, now it is in the blog. So I should just start saying, "Eventually."

We're all kind of confused, because the major events of my life unfold in 3D--like everyone, I enjoy satisfying time spent with friends (usually while eating), have problems at work, see my loved ones through difficulties and triumphs, make important decisions about my future (also usually while eating), etc.,--but then, at the end of the day when it comes time to blog, I end up writing about the impossibly slow drain in my shower.

(The drain is impossibly slow. To make matters worse, if anyone in one of the other apartments takes a shower at the same time, my water pressure slows to the saddest little trickle. I end up with buckets of water hanging out by my feet and slow thimblefuls of water coming out of the shower head, and I sing to myself, "You can't always get what you want. But if you stand for a very, very, very, very, very long time, you get what you need. Eventually. But you will have prune feet.")

My mother says short posts are key, and she is very wise. So, my point, at last: This blog has an inaccurate name, and weird content, and I would apologize for it, except that I enjoy writing it so, so much.

Shampoo residue forever,
Kendall

Alien Face.

Ehhhhhhh. Tonight, I'm feeling just a little bit like life is fragile. So, I posted this up-close, out-of-focus (because I can't figure out how to focus my camera when the flash is off, but the flash has to be off for the colors to be normal, etc.) picture of an orchid. Or, an orchid flower. Is the whole plant an orchid? Or is each individual bloom an orchid? Regardless, I've got SEVEN blooms on this plant and one more on its way. Which is hopeful. Which is good. But, yikes, they seem fragile. If I sneezed, the whole damn plant might just disappear.

But also, if I could get a little ruminitive (and rheumatic--it's so rainy here!), this particular bloom is frowny, and it even looks a little bitey. It looks like I feel. And up close, the inside of the flower--which is poetically called the "the column"--has an alien face. I keep moping about my apartment, then coming up close to inspect the alien face in the orchid. Spooky. I like it.

I'm a little bit confused about how to blog about the utter minutiae of my life (I found a vending machine at LCSC that distributes Diet Coke, in a can!), when the earthquake in Haiti sucks so, so bad. Plus, some other stuff is happening to very important people around me, and that makes my heart hurt, "which I hate." (yes! I do have to be this cryptic. Sorry if it's annoying. This is a BLOG.) And I know no one needs another reason to feel down, but I try to blog honestly, and I'm honestly down. So...

I'm going to go stare into the orchid's alien face. Hang on a sec--

(It totally helps!) So, I'm a bit mopey, and needing to find some more snacks. Luckily, I've got these new glasses, that make glowering even easier. (Also, very sorry for the proverbial "blog self-portrait" (read: photo of myself I took in the mirror). It made the glasses look the best. Vanity persists, even through bad moods).

Gloweringly,
KS

Highway to the Danger Zone; or, Cleaning Out My Closet

Do you know why blogging is So Dangerous?

I'll tell you. It's dangerous because as a blogger, you tell yourself "no big deal," you're just writing a public diary. But that is an oxymoron. Already, your brain is confused. Then, it gets more complicated because as a blogger, you've decided that your blog is NOT going to be a blog that reads like "My life is so perfect and stylish, here is a sweater I knitted out of hair from the mane of unicorns--look at these cute buttons I fashioned out of bullets! Well, off to do more yoga." So, you make a point of emphasizing moments of awkwardness and failure. You put up excerpts of your old diary entries, and pictures from the ugliest phase of your life, and stories about how you're a little messed up in the head.

All of that sharing may very well be therapeutic. But what must be remembered is that you've got friends who read your blog, and also some kind-hearted "future-friends" (strangers), and every once in awhile they're going to comment. They're going to tell you that you're not as uncool as you think you are, or that you weren't as ugly as you thought you were, or, worst of all, that you're a funny blogger. And this, to a blogger, is crack cocaine. It is deadly.

Because now I just want to push even harder for more positive reinforcement, like a dog who wants just one more Beggin' Strip (it's baaacon!). I want to tell even grosser secrets about myself (I like Justin Beiber--see below; I've decided leggings ARE pants (sorry Fuggirls); I was on the futon watching movies until 3pm today, in pajamas I've had since I was twenty-one, lying on two days worth of pretzel crumbs); and be told that it's okay! It's funny! I'm still a good person! A great person.

And I'm thinking that this phenomenon--getting some sort of good pay-off for sharing the various ways that you are bad news--is exactly what gets lots of bloggers blogging badly in order to feel good.

Dangerous.

Also dangerous: blogging under the influence. It is one of the legs of my platform: no blogging when you've been drinking like you have a hollow leg. That's a weird expression, but you know, several glasses of wine have been swishing around in my hollow leg since Monday evening (at the beginning of a semester, students and educators drink like fish--fish with hollow legs? I've bungled this one terribly--) so for the past few days, I've had to forego blogging on account of fuzzy-mindedness. This blog may be inane, and it is probably boring, but the very least I can promise you who read it is that you aren't reading the inarticulate ramblings of a drunk person. Just the inarticulate ramblings of a sober one.

I can also promise you that you will smile when you watch the music video below. Unless you don't have a soul. Also: yes, he's fifteen. So, watch it, then go ahead and tell me it is totally acceptable for me to be obsessed with this little bugger.

Peace out,
Kendall

Honey, will you take the blog out for a walk?

Seattle in pictures:

After a terrifying (terrifying!) trip through Eastern Washington and over the profoundly tall Snoqualmie Pass, I arrived in Seattle. On Wednesday, Katie took a "personal day" from work, and we ventured out into the neighborhood of Queen Anne. I did something I had never done before: I brought my camera along to document the fascinating items we encountered (so I could "blogument" my trip here, obviously).

1. We started out with a latte at Cafe Fiore. It was a quintessentially "Seattle" coffee shop (read: it was rainy, and we came inside where they made us coffee, which we paid for--so Seattle.) I told Katie I would take a picture of my latte for the blog. She said, "Don't they make leaves in the foam in Idaho?" (they do, if you go to the right place...a little corner shop called the OWC.) I said, "I think it's pretty. It will look pretty on my blog." I took a picture. Then, I picked the lid up off the table to put it on the to-go cup. Katie asked, "So, it doesn't bother you that your lid was face down on the table and now you're going to put your mouth on it?" I considered. I hadn't thought about it before, but it totally did bother me. Still, to save face, I pretended it didn't. I said something about the strength of my antibodies.

2. Katie said, "Look at that cool advertisement for Queen Anne Fresh Eggs." I was all, "Blog." Then, "Will you hold my coffee so I can take a picture?" (See #4.)

3. Weird. One white chair just sitting between two white birch trees. The only white items on the block, like some sort of display (only one white tree fit in the photo.) I wanted to sit on the chair, but I was pretty sure I would've ended up at Hogwarts, and, although I've fallen way behind in my reading, from what I hear, Hogwarts has become a pretty scary place.

4. Katie holding my coffee again, so I could take a picture of her holding my coffee so I could take a picture.

5. Orange vespa! Have you ever seen a cheerier color? But isn't the vespa missing a wheel? And doesn't it remind you, just a little, of a three legged dog? The dog's got no idea that it's missing something, so it's a happy dog, but you feel sad for it because a dog should have four legs! A tangerine vespa should have two wheels!

6. Manicure and pedicure. I don't get these very often, on account of I'm uncomfortable with the lingo (mani-pedi), and also being touched. I did very nearly kick the woman painting my toenails when she tickled a tender spot in my arch, but was able to retract my foot right before making contact. Then, she gave a little tug and popped every single one of my toes. pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. All ten. Glorious! I didn't even know they needed it.

7. Chambord. Hello. I met Chambord. It is the reddest of red liqeurs, with an outrageously ornate bottle with gold. And a crown on top. It looks like something a witch would use to make a potion (at Hogwarts, perchance), or like something Katie would use to make French martinis for a really lovely holiday party with lots of lovely women, and baby Henry.

8. Finally, in conclusion, to wrap up all the ground-breaking lessons I learned on this trip, I took a photograph of white blossoms just because they reminded me of those Hostess Sno-balls (round twinkies covered with shredded coconut) you get at 7-11, and then I wanted a Sno-ball really bad.

All in all: A+(+).

Oh snap!

I think I'm about to go public with this thing. I've drafted the email to send to my friends, revealing the name of the blog and asking you to take a look at it. The whole prospect makes me feel like this:

And even more like this:

Telling my friends about the blog makes me feel like I've gone out on the town wearing nothing but a raincoat. On my head.

But, no guts, no glory, as they say, so, welcome to my naked blog! Take a look around! Settle in! Leave a comment, if you're so inclined.

If you know how to upload video or music to a blog, go ahead and let me know because I cannot figure it out!

We'll make a little blogging community centered around my favorite topic, my area of expertise, moi! (Also, pop culture, current events, cute boys, and your opinions on all of the above).

Now, I just have to wait and see if anyone actually comes. Are you coming? Hello?

It's just like every party I threw in high school.

Love,
Kendall