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.

Look what the Easter Bunny brought!

Slog,

I'd like you to meet Cerie. My new laptop. This is now where I am blogging from. As you can see, it is a new, very pretty laptop--young and gamine. Thin. Thus, Cerie, after the character on 30 Rock. We're still getting to know each other, but so far so good. I've promised not to break her, and she's promised not to break me. It seems fair.

But, we don't get anywhere by forgetting where we came from. Here, then, is a photo of the Toshiba Satellite, which I never bothered to name (that may have been where our problems began). It was a good, hard-working computer. I should've taken better care of it. When its internal temperature rose to, I don't know, eight million degrees, I should've looked into fixing the computer, instead of forcing us both to slog ahead, sweating. Honestly, I'm surprised I never got second degree burns from the heat of the keys. My bad, Toshiba. My bad.

This is the laptop on which I wrote my applications for MFA programs, and my master's thesis. (Hence all the food crumbs down in the keys--it's like I physically couldn't compose that thesis without some crumby snack in hand.) It's where I started my Facebook page, and my slog, and lost countless hours researching celebrities and other material for my fiction: favorite such searches include "ice mummies," "dirt-eating," and "marionette horror movies." Doesn't that make you want to read my stories? I know.

I don't know if you can see it, but the oil and dirt from my wrists actually imprinted themselves into the Toshiba, making two heart-shaped stains. Isn't that nice? And also a strong hint that I ought to wash my wrists more? Point taken.

Now I'm in this weird no-man's-land, where most of the work I need is still on the Toshiba, and it will let me turn it on for ten minutes, so I have to prioritize the items I most need to rescue, and then save them to a thumb drive and do it fast. It's daunting.

Also on the fritz: my iPod, my TV remote, and my shower. So, just another day in the endless, endless, battle between me and All The Technology in The World.

Yours,

Kendall

"Working hard? Or hardly working?"

In college, my friend Andrew gave me a framed copy of the image above. Can you read it? It says, "Procrastination: Hard work often pays off after time, but laziness always pays off now." For five years, it has been on my desk. Often, when I should be working on a short story, or a lesson plan, or--Heaven knows--a slog post, I look at the picture instead, and I puzzle over the following questions:

1. Is that man standing in a real place? One that actually exists? Where is it?
2. If it is a real place, and it's as high as it appears to be, how cold must it be where he is? Shouldn't it be snowy? He's above mountains! And clouds!
3. What does this picture have to do with procrastination? Or laziness? Is the message supposed to be that if you don't procrastinate, you can climb this mountain? And what if I've got no interest in climbing mountains? I'm terrified of where he is.
4. Why are his shorts SO SHORT??

Then, an hour has gone by, I've done no work, and I start to think I might feel a little bit hungry, and just like that: productivity gone. Truly, if there was a Procrastination Olympics, I could win. But I wouldn't, because I'd be too lazy to turn in the registration form.

Now, I've got this new TV plan. I've got celluloid dreams (not cellulite dreams--certainly not). With this new goal, you know what two personality traits will absolutely not help me on my way? Procrastination and Laziness. Which means I've got to act against my instincts, just like Dexter Morgan. I've been watching a lot of Dexter, lately. Have you seen it? It chills my bones, and also fascinates me. Dexter has to work against his instincts in order to not be a sociopath serial killer, so, we've got a lot in common, obviously.

The point is that I'm consciously trying to be a different, more industrious person. It's hard to change when I've got 27 years practicing one pattern of behavior, but wanting the job I really want is a very good reason to change. And lately, I've had a lot of work to do. Like, a lot. I've been scrambling. I've been stressed. It has not been graceful. But, I haven't totally hated it. Which is surprising! I'm changing.

For proof, look at these text messages from last night:

Mom: "Life going any better yet?"
Me: "Yes, thanks. Digging myself out of the hole. Is it weird that it's been kind of fun?"
Mom: "No, it's usually rewarding when you work hard at seeing difficult or challenging things through."

I think most adults wouldn't need this explained to them. But I did. Because, honestly, it's kind of new to me to enjoy working hard. I hope I can keep it up.

But, I'll keep the Procrastination picture on my desk--if only because I really like the man's shorty shorts.

(more) Productively,
Kendall

Yucca Brevifolia. Yeah, I said it.

(Well, hello, Joshua tree)

I admit it. I am not one for the out-of-doors. I want to be--it sounds so good on paper to be outdoorsy--but at twenty-seven it is time to give up the ghost. I prefer bathrooms, and constant access to snacks, and television. Still, when I found myself deep in the desert (Joshua Tree National Park), I was able to briefly embrace my inner-outdoorsiness for long enough to pat the trunks of some joshua trees and to scramble up some boulders.

It looked like this:



Jubilant, right? At the Visitor's Center, they said that we were free to "scramble up some boulders," so we made sure to take full advantage. As it turns out, usually you do most of your scrambling on the way down. Like this:

And, as is usually the case with nature, I learned some important things about myself while out in it.

1. Eat before hiking! It is hard to hike hungry. Three of us had only eaten a cookie for breakfast, and that did not sustain. Nor did the Luna bar that Katie generously split four ways. While walking, we encountered a spiky bush called, poetically, "Cheese Bush," and my first thought was, "Can we eat it?" But the bush only smelled like cheese.

2. Leggings are a) extremely comfortable for a hike and b) a little bit dangerous, as there is a lot of climbing, lunging, and occasional hoisting, and ones friends may be unable to resist some pinching or swatting.

3. Even though I don't get vertigo at the top of tall buildings, or while flying, or when climbing a flight of stairs, I definitely do get vertigo when balancing atop rocks and looking down at other, sharp-like rocks upon which I do not wish to dash myself. I learned that here, at the dam:

Vertigo, it turns out, feels like the ground is rushing up to meet you, and nothing is solid beneath your feet, and you can't stay balanced, and you're maybe--just maybe--about to throw up.

4. While we were out walking, boulder-scrambling, and posing for photos to prove that we'd done something so earthy while on vacation, I made a few jokes about getting all "spiritual" because we were out in nature. The truth is, I can see why people do go hyper-spiritual in places like Joshua Tree. For the two hours that we were walking around, I was constantly stunted by the size and scope of all we saw in a landscape that looked nothing like the Pacific Northwest. It is hard not to be reminded of your own stature (tiny, tiny) and permanence (non) in a world that keeps showing you things you've never seen before.

Vertiginously yours,

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

French Toast: 0; Kendall: 1

This is what humble pie looks like. In case you can't tell from the stunning photograph, it was supposed to be baked apple french toast. It became mush, with a fine layer of leather on top. Carly, bless her heart, described it as a sort of "souffle. George, or Ciara, called it "custard." They're very nice people.

If we coated it with enough sugar, or huckleberry syrup, we could pretend it was french toast. But it wasn't. And I grew pretty despondent, after the success with the Brown Cow a few days before. Apparently, that had been a fluke, and now I was back to being a flake in the kitchen. Oh well, I thought, defeated, back to the grocery store vegetable trays I usually bring to parties.

I found out how humble pie tastes. It tastes eggy and burny.

Then, this afternoon, something happened. I was watching Holiday Inn, which is a strange movie starring Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, a bunch of spineless and thin-ankled women, and a really strange song dedicated to Abraham Lincoln that the whole cast sings in black face, and , my mind wandered, since the movie was making me pretty uncomfortable. My mind wandered back to every task I've undertaken and quit. Piano lessons, dance classes, singing in the choir (though, really, I had no business in any singing based activity), soccer, sewing classes, even this stinking blog.

In an effort to be less of a quitter, to do the sort of hard, introspective work that I associate with being an adult, I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, and I tried again. It wasn't quite perfect, but let me provide visual evidence for the fact that I at least got myself within the ballpark (is that even a sports metaphor? it looks strange.).

Better, right? Someone, somewhere, would believe that this was baked apple french toast.

I promise this isn't going to be a cooking blog, because I really don't EVER cook anything, and this past weekend was a total anomaly with two cooking events in three days. But now I'm set until 2011. Seriously. It's just really snowy and cold here, and I don't have anything else to be doing, and trying to cook--and trying to blog about it--is better than trying heroin or gambling or murder, or any other trouble I could go getting myself into.

In the spirit of this newfound determination, I'm going to attempt the Snoqualmie pass tomorrow, for some quality time in Seattle with Katie before heading to P-town for the duration. Wish me godspeed and good defensive driving skills for tomorrow. I probably won't blog for a few days (tragedy!) (people sobbing and renting their clothes!) (I'm sorry Melissa--keeping you from doing your real work is the very best reason I have for keeping up with this thing), but I leave you with this very, very dear Christmas gift.

Enjoy!