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.

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.

Love Is Not a Pie.

I stole that title from someone else.

Amy Bloom named one of her short-stories "Love is Not a Pie," and while I don't remember the specifics of that story, I always, always remember the title. I think the title is beautiful. (Once, I could've told you what the story is about, but that was before I began "Operation Fit-Kendall's-Entire-Life-Into-One-Flipping-Car," and got rid of my copy of the story. An irony that may--or may not--become apparent by the end of this post. I don't know yet.)

Anyway. Love is not a pie. I keep saying this to myself, because I keep also saying, Love is not a desk. Love is not a dresser. Love is not three half-wilted house plants, though I think I could make a decent argument for how they're a solid metaphor for love. Love is not that sweater I've had for four years. Love is not a pair of shoes. So away they go. To live another life with another keeper. Or, to rot in some dump. Let's be honest.

Love is not a futon. Okay, but my futon is about as close to love as any inanimate object could be. And even if love is not a futon, I love my futon. So we're clear.

Friends, concerned friends, keep reminding me, "Uh, Kendall, there are these things called U-Hauls." Or, "Kendall, your Jeep could definitely pull a little trailer." Something I love, love, love about my friends: they seem less concerned about the fact that I'm moving to LA without a clear purpose or a job, than they are about the fact that I'll be moving with only one-eighth of the belongings I once had. To me, this is the most profound compliment. They trust that I'm going to be just fine! They're more worried--and correctly--that getting rid of most of what I own is a daunting, dangerous prospect.

And they're right. I'll probably (definitely) miss some of the stuff I'm giving up. But love is not a frying pan (though, I do have a nice frying pan and it might actually fit in the car). Love is not even the sweet, spider-filled apartment with a writer's nook that catches the very best morning light. I can part with it. I can part with all of it, when it comes right down to it.

Each morning, I wake up in an apartment that looks a little less like the place I used to live. The other day, I woke up in a room that will soon have someone else sleeping in it (creepy), and looked at the dresser (sold!) and the closet full of my dear, dear clothes and shoes (seriously down-sized). I already felt disconnected from them. Love is not a bedroom. (But love sometimes happens in the bedroom. Ba dump bump.)

Then I thought, "what is making that terrible, terrible scratching noise against one window of my beloved little bedroom," and I opened the blinds for the first time in several weeks. And I was surprised to see this tree fully, suddenly in bloom.

Love is not a tree, and I definitely can't take this tree with me to California. So I'll just have to enjoy it while I can, forgive it the terrifying scratchy noises it makes against my window, and remember it fondly after I'm gone.

Pants Off Dance Off (PODO).

Here in Moscow, there is a saying that started...oh, somewhere. Somebody once said "pants off dance off," and it stuck like, well, like my shower curtain if I may say so without getting too graphic. Now, whenever we're having a really good time, or proposing to have a really good time, someone describes it as "Hey, PODO!" But it's never an actual pants off dance-off, it's just become a bit of slang, meaning "to have a really good time."

Do people say this off the Palouse, too?

Through the magic of the internet, I have done some credible academic research (Wikipedia--putting that graduate degree to WORK), and it turns out that PODO is a strip tease show that airs on something called "Fuse." Here's the real nugget of info that you'll probably need in order to function: it was hosted in its first season by Tila Tequila; in its second season by Jodie Sweetin (Stephanie Tanner of Full House); and in its third season by Willa Ford. What a list! What ladies!

In case you don't remember:

(You'll notice the lack of PANTS, as if foreshadowing where her career would go.)

(She looks like a lovechild sprung from the loins of Whitney Port from The City and Quinn from Glee.)

(I apparently have a lot to say about this video.)

I bring all of this to your attention because, um, I wanted to. And also, because today I've had pants on the brain. It's Pants Day here at the Spider House--the day I wash all of my pants. Or, almost all (I save a pair to wear, of course). I'm curious as to other people's pants washing habits. See, I have plenty of clothes, but only so many pants. I operate under the assumption that pants don't need to be washed like other items. Especially jeans. I mean, right around day ten or eleven is just when they start feeling really perfect and lived in. So, then, once every six weeks or so, I have to do a mega round of laundry because every pair of pants I own is due for a washing.

Should I be washing my pants more? Am I normal??

Here's what's probably not so normal: because of my height, and the relative length of my legs, and also--if I'm being really honest--a potentially expanding hip/thigh/butt region that causes my pants to hit higher on the ankle, none of my pants go in the dryer (ever). (When I lived in Spain, my little senora refused to understand this, which is why I walked around like a huge American high-water wearing dork and now I don't have a hot Spanish husband.) It's imperative to maintain the precious length of the pants by hanging them to dry. So, on Pants Day, my apartment looks like this:

Pants,

Pants,

PANTS!!!

On every door, on the back of every chair, hangs a wet pair of pants, looking like so many bodies that somebody de-footed and then chopped in half. And today, as I went about hanging them all, I thought to myself, "I wonder if I should tell my soon-to-be-roommate about this, or just let her find out for herself next Pants Day?"

Kendall

Much Ado About Nothing...Redux

(Here are some friends and I, and our interpretation of a Shakespearean comedy of errors.)

You can't see it, friends, but I'm pouring out a little of my ice cold diet cola in honor of two very important people. My parents. Mom and Dad. Oops, careful, trying to keep it off the keyboard.

Why am I pouring some out for my homies (and did we all listen to enough bad rap to get why I would pour diet coke on my desk? I hope so)? Because they're wise. And when I was younger, and people told me that I'd someday realize they were wise, I was like, "What-ever." But today is someday and my parents are a couple of brainiacs. Why? Because (obviously predicting the limits of my adult attention span) they offered me parental advice in bite-size pieces I remember. They offered the Fun Size candy bar equivalent of parental insight. Some examples:

1. You're going to be fine.

2. If you can't sleep, just rest with your eyes closed.

3. Kill them with kindness.

4. They'll get their come-uppance. (This one went with number 3, filled me with an ominous/passive sense of vengeance and was usually in reference to whomever had most recently been mean to me.)

5. Hate is a strong word.

Even though my parents said, "Don't say shut up," or "Don't say butt," (bottom is more gentile), they never said "Don't say hate." Instead, they would say warningly, "Hate's a strong word," and the weird warning tone of it made me so nervous that I would rescind. "I don't hate my brother," I'd say. "I strongly dislike him." And we all seemed to be okay with that.

Then, yesterday, I dropped at least two (TWO) H-bombs in a single post! What came over me? Astute commenters were concerned. And rightfully so. Natalie said, "You HATED it? How is that POSSIBLE?" And Lynn said, "After all, it's Shakespeare." Right! I don't hate Shakespeare. I love Shakespeare.

Here's what I figured out today, in between getting quotes for shipping my mattress to California, canceling my audible.com account, and taking pictures of the furniture I'm trying to hawk (anyone interested??): I dropped the h-bomb, I used the strong word, not because I hated the movie, but because I strongly disliked how it had fallen in my estimation. My vehement reaction was not to the actual film, but rather to how my feelings about it had changed. (Although I still maintain that the Claudio-Hero story really bugs.)

I make my big move to LA in two weeks, and it is terrifying. I have no idea what I'll be doing in three weeks, or one month, or six months. And renting the movie was an attempt to cling to old, familiar memories. Then I was denied the pleasure of the cling! It had me all worked up. Still, I don't need to take my anxiety out on Shakespeare, or Claudio. (Grrrrr, Claudio.) I'd do better to remember Fun-Sized Parental Wisdom #1: You're going to be fine.

So, in conclusion, to end with a bad bit of word-play, my post yesterday was really much ado about nothing. But it was also much ado about something, just a different something than I thought yesterday when I wrote it. You dig?

Clingily,

Kendall

Much Ado About Nothing...No Really: Nothing.

(Those two in the middle are the ones I hate the most.)

Well, I've revisited my childhood, and I was not impressed. I was a little grossed out, actually.

This past weekend, at the Bloggers Conference to End All Bloggers Conferences, I spent about nine hundred hours talking with my friend Natalie. We are good at the business of talking. Very good. Mostly, we talked about how we were hungry (again) and where on earth should we eat (again), but when that thread of conversation wore thin, we talked about childhood. I said, "You know what movie I loved, loved, loved when I was younger? Much Ado About Nothing."

When I love a movie or television show, it is like that film becomes the wallpaper of my very heart (or, if we're working with DVDs, it becomes the very shiny, mirrored wallpaper of my heart). I fall deeply in love. So for several years of my tweendom I imagined I was a seriously sun-tanned Beatrice, exchanging witty barbs with Benedick--who I loved in spite of myself--and fighting valiantly to redeem my slandered cousin, Hero. In my real life I wandered around singing the theme from the film, which had me using words like "blithe," "bonny," and "hey nonny nonny." It made me pretty cool to the other seventh graders, let me tell you.

Today, in a fit of nostalgia, I watched Much Ado About Nothing again.

And I hated it. My brain started making all these complaints. For instance, Hero is accused of having sex before marriage, and so her betrothed, Claudio, is entitled to fly into a rage and assault her, while saying terrible, unforgivable things. Then, her father joins in on the verbal attack. Nobody cares to believe Hero's protestations of innocence (except Beatrice, I still love Beatrice). Then, nary a day later her name is cleared (oh! it was another woman with dark hair they saw in the window--tricky!), and Claudio feels like a douche, and she smiles beatifically and all is forgiven! That easily! Then they're married and it's all blithe and bonny, and it put me in a foul, foul mood. I caught myself saying, "Don't marry him, Hero. Put his balls in a vice."

Obviously, the movie is the same, and I have changed. This is probably good news, because I was kind of a wreck at twelve (although, I'm currently eating hot cocoa powder directly from the packet, so my act is not entirely together now--powder everywhere!). And I worry that maybe it's because I'm a hard-hearted shrew of a woman, but an explanation that better protects my ego is that now I like more interesting stories.

For instance, Keanu Reeves plays Don John, the bastard brother to Denzel Washington's Don Pedro. He's a total sourpuss, hell-bent on ruining everyone's lives just because he can. I'd completely forgotten he was even in the movie. When I watched this time, I thought to myself, "Now, he's interesting. How did he come to be this way? What does he think he'll accomplish? What was his childhood like? Has he ever loved anyone?" Because Don John is the character with real complexity, you know? (And the irony that he's being played, woodenly, by Keanu Reeves is not lost on me.) I like complexity. Now that I'm full-grown, I find myself rolling my eyes at the happy ending, and siding with the play's great villain.

So, the first hypothesis was correct after all: I'm a hard-hearted shrew. But you know who has it worse? The tweens who, in fifteen years time, will have to go back and watch Twilight. They're in for it.

Shrewdly,

Kendall

The One in Which I Attempt to Combine Two Seemingly Unlike Things

Hello Slog.

Will you indulge me?

Tonight, I am feeling the weight of the Memorial Day holiday. I've been thinking about men and women who have died in combat, and about soldiers who lived but were never the same, and about those who are currently serving, and hoping to get back home to their families. I want them to come home. Many of them won't, and I'm not sure what, exactly, makes it possible for us to acknowledge this reality and still continue about the business of our lives. But somehow we do. I do.

I also think about each one of those soldiers and the many, many love stories of their lives: mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, spouses, sons and daughters. Imagine Arlington, row after row of small white crosses, and that each cross has its own intricate web of love stories spreading out from it. Then it is possible, I guess, on Memorial Day, to honor not only the loss of life, and the sacrifice of so many, but also, to honor love, which absolutely surrounds each sacrifice made.

So, in honor of all the love stories this Memorial Day, and because I like it so, so much:

Josh Ritter, "The Curse."

Humbly,

Kendall

PS: If you think marionettes are creepy, don't watch the clip. Also, if you think marionettes are creepy, you're wrong. They're beautiful.