Los Angeles for the Lonely Hearts

Hmmm...how to write this without sounding like a total loser...how, how, how...

Nope. No way around it. Last night I went to a concert by myself. I can't be sure, but it certainly looked like I was the only one who traveled solo. (Especially judging by the number of people who made out with each other's faces the whole night long--they either came together, or they're very, very friendly.) I got myself a nice comfy seat in the balcony, and tried to act like I was completely okay with being alone.

(This is Josh Ritter. He played last night. I'd travel to the ends of the earth (alone) to watch him. He's that good.)

Actually, I got very busy with my phone--sending profound emails to my mom ("Hi Mom. I'm at a concert!"), rereading old text messages, reaching out to people I haven't spoken to in years. Just pushing, pushing, pushing the little keyboard letters, to let the other concert-goers, and most importantly myself, know that: I KNOW PEOPLE, people! I've got FRIENDS! Plenty of people would've LOVED to come to this concert WITH ME, but they all live in OTHER STATES.

Then, I got tired of looking at that tiny screen. I put my phone away. I decided to give up the ghost, and own the fact that a) I traveled alone and b) I'm totally new to this town. I also decided a beer would really help my efforts at self-acceptance. So, I began to avail myself of the various venue employees, who were conveniently dressed all in black. (Luckily, this is LA, so all black stands out. In New York, I would've been lost, lost, lost.)

I said to one, "How do I get a drink?" He said, "Go down and get a bracelet." I went downstairs.

I said to another, "I'd like a bracelet so I can drink," and he said, "Ask that woman." I asked that woman, who said, "No, you don't need a bracelet."

I went back inside, and the woman taking tickets said, "No coming and going," and I said, "I just thought I had to get a bracelet." She said, "You do have to get a bracelet, because you look about nineteen." I said, "Thank you. So can I come and go back for my bracelet?" She said, "Okay."

I procured the bracelet! I tried to order a drink downstairs, but the man in black said I had to order upstairs. I went upstairs, but saw no bar. I asked the woman taking balcony tickets, "Is there an invisible bar on this floor?" She said, "No, there's a bar upstairs. Up these stairs." She pointed.

I said, "Can you tell I've never been here before?" She nodded and said, "That's alright."

I was relieved. I ordered my beer. I found my seat. I pretended the open seat on either side of me was just part of my massive throne, and that I, Kendall, did in fact RULE THIS WHOLE TOWN.

Solitarily,

Kendall

Yeah, That's Right. I Built Something.

Hello Slog,

What's that? You want to see pictures of sunny, vibrant Los Angeles? Pictures of me hiking in Topanga Canyon, or eating lunch at a patio table at Urth Cafe? Self-portraits that I've taken with all the super-hot, friendly celebrities I've run into while I've been down here?

I don't have any of those. What I can offer is this series. I call it Target Mission: Buy Kendall a Cheap Desk, Some Assembly Required, The Building Of Which Will Stress Her Out.

(In the first two pictures, I'm waiting for the desk, which took one million years.)

As you can see, LA is all about glitz, glamour, and something that Target invented called the "Cam Lock System," which basically means that you build furniture by sticking a bunch of stuff into little holes, and then pushing the pieces together and hitting them with the meaty part of your hand. It's pretty fine architecture if you ask me.

I wouldn't have these pictures if it weren't for my mother, who, while we built, coached me. She adopted a tone of voice I hadn't heard since I was much younger and had put off building my Pioneer Day Covered Wagon Diorama until the very last minute. Or, in high school, when I had to go to Kinko's at three am to bind my Junior Paper. (Before I had a driver's license, my mother had to drive her panicky, procrastinatory daughter to Kinko's at all hours--All Hours--of the night). She has this voice she can use that makes it physically impossible, impossible, to blow a fuse--which I was more than ready to do when I first learned of the intricacies of the Cam Lock System, and what "some assembly required" actually means.

It is a voice suffused with honey and maternal love, and it is the voice she used while we built this crummy desk. I had almost forgotten about that voice! I'm glad I remembered.

And lo: a desk was built.

Can you see on the laptop screen that I interrupted this very blog to take the photo? That's what slogging looks like, right there! I'm letting you peek behind the emerald curtain, Slog. Again, glitz and glamour up the wazoo.

Listen, I'm sure my fabulous life is about to start any second, but in the meantime, there is furniture to build, hangers to buy, toilets to clean, and an entire busy city to get to know. Thankfully, I've got my mother--and her "Don't fly off the handle" voice--to talk me through it.

And Pretzel M&Ms, which make all things possible.

Yours in carpentry,

Kendall

PS: Dan and I had a big debate about whether I should bring my My First Toolbox with me to California. I said, Nah. Dan said, You're being an idiot. The record should probably show that Dan was right. Tools are good.

Why our eyes are in the front.

Exposure therapy is therapy in which a patient is exposed to that which frightens them most. I'm no licensed therapist, but it certainly makes sense to me. Once you confront your greatest fear head-on, and walk away unharmed, it no longer has any power over you.

In this spirit, I present:

Eighth Grade Kendall. Here I am, about to catch the bus to lead me into the lion's den that was Whitford Middle School. It was the first day of eighth grade, and I had picked this outfit carefully.

It consists of:

• Carefully curled bangs.
• Braces with colored bands that were some tastefully subtle combination of green and pink; purple and blue; or teal and black.
• Over-sized sweater from the Gap. Tucked in (against all reason) and belted with a braided leather belt--also Gap.
• Worst. Jeans. Ever. From the Limited Too. Worst. Ever.
• Brand-new white shoes (more than just a little orthopedic).
  
• Exceedingly fragile self-esteem.

I have tried to explain to people why I am sometimes the victim of doubt, shyness, or extreme sensitivity. The secret lies with those terrible pants, that tucked sweater, the awkward pose.

But, by showing this to the world (or, to my twelve followers, which, by the way, 12!! Now we're cooking with gas!), I am taking the sting out of such an awkward, uncomfortable past.

It used to hurt, a little, to come to Portland. I used to hit the city-limits, and morph into the anxious, uncertain, brace-face above. It seemed like a past I wanted to ignore, and couldn't avoid when I was home. Now, I think I've been looking at it all wrong.

First, she's pretty endearing, right? Isn't she someone you want to put your arm around, and explain to her about the value of plain-colored braces, the optional nature of tucking and belting, and the importance, with jeans especially, of a well-suited rise? I hope she's endearing, because in a lot of important ways, I am totally still her.

Second, Portland is home to some people who knew this thirteen year old, and still want to hang out with her: my parents, obviously, who probably ought to have stepped in with some fashion advice, but I forgive them; good friends from the old days, who also could've stepped in, but no matter; and my brothers--though, I admit it has taken a while to convince them I can, in fleeting but dazzling instances, be cool.

Third, our eyes are conveniently located in the front of our heads, which I take to mean that probably, more of my energy needs to be spent on looking forward, and not worrying overly much about the past. Even though coming home usually requires you to consider your past (ie, I've had to drive past my old high school maybe twenty-five times since I got here), loosening up on such retrospection has allowed me to have a brilliantly good time while I've been home.

Tomorrow, I'll be back in Moscow, writing from my little spider-house on the Palouse. I'm packing up my plants, my blog, and all my clean laundry, and I'm headed home. But I'll be leaving home tomorrow too.

Profoundly yours,
Kendall

2010: the year of KENDALL!!!

Because this is my blog (and a "slow-going" blog at that, as one friend has vocalised...ahem...), and because a New Year arrives tomorrow (and what better time to reflect on where you came from, and think about where you are going), I thought I would totally indulge myself by showing you some excerpts from a journal I kept exactly ten years ago. I just encountered this journal in my tiny old nightstand. In every instance, I have done the bare minimum to edit into stand-alone excerpts.

(Anyone allergic to melodrama, or to teenagers who take themselves too seriously, should NOT read on. Even those of you not allergic, I bet I can make you cringe.)

Kendall Sand in 1999-2000. This journal houses the dreams and prayers of Kendall Sand (That is actual title of journal, as written by author on title page).

• "I want to write. I don't know when or where, or for what. But I want to write and I see this as a chance to practice a little every day and become more aware of my voice. Who knows what the future of this journal, or my writing, may hold."

• "If I ever write about being seventeen, I had better remember how much of my life revolved around the enigma of love. What the hell is it?"

• "The comfort I find in solitude does not signify that there is something fundamentally malignant in the core of my being. I am okay!"
  

• "I fear that I will be the kind of person who spends her youth dreaming about what will be, her adulthood dreaming of what was, and fails completely to ever feel content".

• "Every so often, I think it is very valuable to sit down and think hard about who you are. It is late, and I am not up to the task of delving into the complex mystery of me, but this is a brief review:"

• "My identity mantra: I know who I am, what it means to be me. I'll be okay."

• (At this point, I had a terrible crush. Be especially gentle with 17 year old Kendall.)
  "He was polite, I was a kid he was polite to. But...did he have to be so nice, or so genuine, or so hot? Of course. That is what makes unrequited love the bitter pill that it is, the sheer beauty of its target. And he is beautiful, in a radical way that denies beauty, or transcends it. Alas, I am swept away by my much overheated, underused heartstrings."
  

• "Do you know what I see when I picture myself in the future? Nothing. I have absolutely no idea where I want to go or what I want to do."

• "Tonight marks the closing of a door. A door that, if it were up to me, should have stayed open. I crossed my fingers, said short prayers, and stuck a foot in the door just to delay its closing. But shut it is, and I bid a let-down goodbye to the high school football game."

• "Wow, my first journal entry of the new millenium! I am pleased to report no cases of mass destruction or rioting. We're all still okay."

• "When I go back through this journal, I just might barf at its shallow and superficial content. Rest assured, Kendall of the future, you worry about animals and pollution, you volunteer your time, and value the achievement of a deep and personal consciousness. "

Then the journal breaks down into several pages of song lyrics. That's right. Song lyrics. If I'm feeling really strapped for topics in 2010, I might just screw the pooch and reproduce them here. But they are very, very bad.

To recap:

At seventeen, I used words like "alas," and "enigma" and "underused hearstrings." I had an identity mantra. I valued "the achievement of a deep and personal consciousness."

At twenty-seven, I use words like "shit," "blam-o," and "wack-a-doo." I have an identity crisis. I value women who have long hair.

Oh good god, where is the coffee ice cream.

In the words of Andy Rooney, "Happy New Year, almost everyone."

See you back here in 2010!

Kendall of the future

Well, if a cat can do it...

It hasn't been easy, that's for sure, but twice now I've successfully put in--and taken out--my brand new contact lenses.

All thanks are due to Rosa, the woman who sat with me for what felt like hours in the "training room" of the eye center. Really, it was only thirty minutes, but poor Rosa kept telling me, "Don't blink," which has the same effect as someone telling you not to move. I blinked. And blinked and blinked. By the time I left, my eyes were exhausted, my nerves were shot, and my ego was shaken to the core.
Oh, but to see makes the whole project worth it.
I'm sure the cat would agree.