(Girl We Got a) Good Thing

Today, you are four.

Four, and a force to be reckoned with.

You're all legs and arms and firmly set jawline, barreling into life with what I would almost call abandon. Almost, and yet your every move is measured. How are you only four, and already weighing risk and reward? How are you testing each boundary—physical, intellectual, and (heaven help me) parent-set—with wisdom and grace? It doesn't matter if it's a ladder at a playground, a lengthy book, or the safety measures I just told you. You will toe the line, perhaps even conquer it, and then look up at me with nonchalant triumph. Your approach to life is a cocked eyebrow and an attitude of, "Oh, really? We'll see." 

You remember everything. Books, melodies, promises, the past. I desperately wish I could fudge the words of some of your longer favorites (like the cursed Cyrus the Unsinkable Sea Serpent, which I've hidden multiple times to avoid a twenty minute bedtime read)(you always find it). But alas, after one read text is locked and loaded in your brain for eternity. If I skip a single word, you raise an imperious hand and say "no, no, no, say the right word." You still talk about Seattle every week. You remember conversations with your sitter April. You recall walks we took, sights we saw. Seeing sea-stars and collecting shells isn't a quarter of your life ago to you, it's immediate and real. I wonder how long it will stick.

Particularly since I find myself grasping at memories. I cling to moments, holding them because you're growing so fast. I blink and they're gone. And my dear, you are so enchanting, I truly don't want to miss a thing.

I want to remember the joy of checking on you after bedtime and finding you sitting upright, clutching an ill-gotten flashlight and surrounded by books. I don't think I've even been so happy, as I gave you a conspiratorial kiss and whispered "don't stay up too late." You didn't, by the way. A half hour later I peeked in. The flashlight was off and you were curled under your blankets.

You are too good.

I want to remember the way you beg for Weezer and the Beatles whenever we drive. The scowl and headbang during track five of Weezer's White Album. The way you always tell me that you don't like "Dear Prudence," but won't skip it because you know I like it.

You are considerate.

I want to remember your many laughs. The high, hysterical giggles when you have tickle fights with

daddy. The shrieks of joy when you see your neighborhood friend in the street. The triumphant "ha, HA" when you beat a level in Rayman, a video game you've mastered so well you don't bother asking me for any help. You know you're by far the better player. And my favorite, the deep and ominous chuckle you emit when you're doing something questionable, but immensely enjoyable. I never want to forget visiting Grandma and Grandpa McCarrey and going to Deception Pass. You spent your time racing down the beach and scuttling over rocky clefts, pursued by me, gurgling the throaty chortle of an evil clown all the while.

You are delightful.

Alex, you've grown immensely every year. This year, you advanced. You started school, made your very own friends, found interests we didn't force upon you (and loved some that we did). I tell you this often, but I'm so glad you are my daughter. 

You're my favorite Alex. Forever.

I love you to Jupiter and back. Happy Birthday.

1. 2. 3. 4.

Show Yourself

This is me, being 31.

This is also me wearing some makeup for the first time in... three weeks? Maybe longer? Even that was only for a doctors appointment. Before that, who even knows.

Welp. I'm older. What a time to be alive, amiright?

Last year, I referenced my "plans for shattering life the tiniest bit."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahahahahaha *wipes hysterical tears*

via GIPHY

Tiniest bit may be the greatest understatement I've ever made in a semi-understated life.

Things I did while 30:

• Left Seattle
• Moved to Texas (without housing)
• Found a temporary apartment
• Signed Alex up for preschool/daycare
• Started a teaching gig
• Bought a house
• Left my teaching gig
• Spent six months (and counting!) unemployed
• Hosted more visitors in the past six months than I did during seven years in Seattle
• Watched my dad die
• Spoke at my dad's funeral
• The world underwent quarantine for a global pandemic

And here we are.

It seems like every time I took a breath this year—every time I cleared a hurdle, squared my shoulders, and thought now, this is it, this is where I find a routine and things get back to normal—there would be an email, a phone call, a new urgent need sending me scrambling to find some sense of equilibrium.

And yet, despite that cursed list above, despite my constant anxiety and yearning for the world to just settle on down a skosh, there's been deep satisfaction this year.

Alex turned three and became my movie buddy. We've watched endless loops of Totoro, Rango, and Frozen. We've cuddled watching Avatar: the Last Airbender, crunched popcorn while giggling at School of Rock. Afterwards, her rush to act out scenes or continue the story with whatever doll or toy or simply her fingers and thumbs together like a puppet, electrifies me. She's not a baby. I have a goofy, stubborn, sensitive, creative kid in my house. It's a blast. 88% of the time, anyway.

Taylor, forever my partner, has cared for me and my family this year. He's talked to people, handled endless paperwork, held my hand, and comforted me through heartbreak. He's done all that while experiencing these strange events in lockstep, and been a rock through it all. I'm so grateful for all those choices that brought us together.

Texas. So. I love Texas? Believe me, I'm more surprised than anyone. We moved to a suburb, and I so love being part of a cozy neighborhood, one with a grocery and furniture stores and every fast food restaurant I would ever want within a two-mile radius. I love Austin itself, the warm night atmosphere, the patio lights and outdoor seating and omnipresent guitar strums. I love that the sky lives up to each and every giant testament, a limitless scope set off by perfectly scruffy treescapes. I love the wildflowers, the cactus, the river shores surrounded by dimpled rocks. I love seeing lightning again.  

Right now, everyone seems to be baking.* This year I am dough. I've been folded, twisted and turned and stretched. I've had to be elastic, to easily stretch to accommodate and mold into each new situation. I really hope something tasty happens now.

When Alex watches Frozen 2, there's a song that pulls my heartstrings and yes, brings me to suppress sobs. At this point I've heard it so much you'd think I'd be immune, but nope. It feels intensely personal. Almost written for me in this moment.** There's a part where Elsa sings "show yourself, step into your power," and I break into the chin-quivers. That is what I've always wanted. That is what I hope for.

31, let's get some power.

30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*I'm no exception. I've got the mason jar full of freshly established sourdough starter to prove it.
**Does it feel weird that this type of self-recognition comes from a Disney property? Yes. Yes it does. Now let's move past it and never speak of this moment again.

Awake My Soul

I just sat on a dark deck, drinking in a thunderstorm. Lightning, thunder, warm torrents of water. The whole shebang.

I don't recognize how much I miss something until it directly confronts me. I knew I missed deserts and mountains, but it wasn't until the dusky scent of petrichor that I realized how long it's been since I had a summer storm, how majestic warm rain can be, how soul-electrifying it feels to witness light crack the sky.

These magical re-awakenings are gifts. Sometimes they are instances gifted after years, like tonight's storm. Sometimes, they are more systemic but no less surprising—like every July and August, when I meet myself again. The school year has a way of wearing me down to my barest elements. Out of survival, I retreat. I become an automaton: wake up, drive, plan, present, grade, drive, Alex, eat, sleep, repeat.

In the summer, I meet Cat. I usually only emerge after a solid week of sleep, sleep sudden and deep and always disorienting. Twelve hour nights. Naps, grabbed in cars and couches and movies. Quick descents moments after putting Alex in her crib, unconscious before she stops burbling to herself.

After that vicious game of catch-up, my brain awakes for the first time in months. I ADORE having a brain again. Knowing I am capable of thought and innovation and creativity blindsides me every time, since I've usually spent the past six months or so mourning its death and resigning myself to a life of boring mediocrity.*

So begins a whirlwind two months of discovery. Desperately, I try to stockpile experiences and explorations and epiphanies, hoping that some will sustain me through the next ten months. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the year I carry it with me all year long.

Here are a few things that bolster that hope, things I will try to jealous-guard against the school-year-soul-strip:

-Morning yoga in Maine

-Coastal scramblings
-Engaged veterans, those people who feed their brains so they, in turn, feed others
-Meeting a brain twin, a synced spirit long after I'd abandoned hope in such a person
-Water and rocks
-Reading, both for myself in for Alex
-Alex, all games, letters, numbers, bikes, penguins, happysaddramaticponderous
-Conversations with friends from a decade ago
-Interest in building new friendships
-Finding people interesting
-Story ideas

-Mountains: dust, deer, floral against sheer rock, still lakes and whispering aspens
-Family history, from blood to chosen bonds
-City walks and talks with my love. Encountering each other in daytime. Spending more than an hour together
-Brick houses, porch columns, hot cement
-An internal running commentary that makes me laugh, shake my head, and drives me to record snippets
-Writing, writing, writing, writing, writing...

*And no amount of pep talks convince me otherwise, Taylor. Although I do appreciate the effort.

2017: On the Screen

Total Movies Watched: 68. Yep. Lowest amount in years. Well. Then.

Honestly, I'm OK with the reduced number this year. Because I saw less, I truly valued and was discerning with the movies I did watch. I think I viewed some beautiful films this year.

With the exception of The Accountant. That movie was AWFUL. But everything else was at least on a scale from exceptional to slightly disappointing.

Favorite Movies Released in 2017:
-Logan. This might be the very top of my list. A beautiful, sad, thoughtful movie.
-LEGO Batman
-Baby Driver. I didn't think I'd be able to even watch Ansel Elgort, let alone be charmed by him. Yet there I was! I credit the musicality of the film with 87% of that.
-The Big Sick
-Wonder Woman. I cried.
-Lady Bird
-The Shape of Water. Brought up all those floaty, lovely feelings. Slightly reminiscent of the sweet nostalgia of Amelie, but with that monster movie twist. Loved it.

Movies I Watched By Myself in Theaters: 
-Lion
-The Big Sick
-Blade Runner 2049
-Lady Bird
-The Shape of Water

Animated Movies that are Gorgeous and Beautiful and Everyone Should See:
-Kubo and the Two Strings. Stunning modeling. I want to frame so many stills.
-Moana. I cried. Yep.
-Song of the Sea

Movies I Watched for Halloween:
-The Cell. I'd never seen it before, and it was visually remarkable and incredibly disturbing. Also, aren't we glad that Hollywood didn't stay on the Vince Vaughn as a marketable serious star?
-Okja. Further proof that I always enjoy Paul Dano.
-Dracula (1931). I'd never seen it before, and it's gorgeous.
-The Witches of Eastwick. Meh. Although, Cher is magnetic. I think I may be a fan of her as a movie star, based on the two movies I've seen.

Movies Sticking With Me:
-Hidden Figures. Strong women doing amazing things? Sign me up.
-10 Cloverfield Lane. I don't know why Abrams and Co. are tenuously connecting these movies together with the events of Cloverfield, and I don't know if I support it. But I do believe that this is one of the more intense kidnap thrillers I've seen.
-Get Out. I'm standing behind everything said and written about it. You go, Jordan Peele.
-Captain Fantastic. I didn't love the movie, but it was thought-provoking. Shows how misguided some otherwise admirable qualities can be.
-Split. James McAvoy is a wonder (obligatory remember when I met him mention). I'm also surprisingly OK with the story continuation hinted at towards the end.

Clint Eastwood Movies:
-Play Misty for Me. Sneaking it in right before the end of the year.

THE COMPLETE LIST:

• Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
• Labyrinth
• Hidden Figures
• Burn After Reading
• Dope
• Lion
• LEGO Batman (x2)
• Singing in the Rain
• John Wick: Chapter Two
• 10 Cloverfield Lane
• Logan (x3)
• What We Do in the Shadows
• Magic Mike
• Captain Fantastic
• Deconstructing the Beatles Revolver
• Up in the Air
• Kubo and the Two Strings
• A History of Violence
• The Aquatic Life of Steve Zissou
• Alien: Covenant
• LEGO Batman
• Midnight in Paris
• Atlantis: the Lost Empire
• Shaun of the Dead
• The Godfather, pt. 1
• Wonder Woman
• Moana
• Baby Driver
• Moonlight
• Tropic Thunder
• The African Queen
• Bronson
• Song of the Sea
• The Big Sick
• An American Werewolf in London
• The Beatles Eight Days a Week
• The Road to El Dorado
• The Maltese Falcon
• Dunkirk
• Tour de Pharmacy
• Speed
• The Incredible Jessica James
• The Nice Guys
• St. Elmo's Fire
• Finding Dory
• The Cell
• La La Land
• Trolls
• Blade Runner 2049
• Okja
• Dracula (1931)
• The Witches of Eastwick
• Get Out
• Lady Bird
• Eagles of Death Metal: Nos Amis
• Queen of Versailles
• Split
• Thor: Ragnarok
• Kong: Skull Island
• Star Wars: The Last Jedi
• The Accountant
• A Muppet Christmas Carol
• Guardians of the Galaxy vol. 2
• Play Misty For Me
• The Shape of Water
• The Raid: Redemption

Rooted on the Brink

This is me, being 28.

Oh hi, wee hours of the morning. 

It is with great aplomb that I say—look at that! I've finally conquered the fear of selfies! So many selfies.

I'd like to thank Snapchat and the discovery of working my angles for this momentous achievement.
Also no, you can't follow me on Snapchat.

I let myself wake up at 5:20 this morning, a strange rush of sleeping-in rebellion that tasted so sweet. Here's the first song of my 28th year, listened to while I savored the rebellion aftertaste (as rebellious as a responsible working adult/mother can get):



Chased by this, and this, and this. And then a little taste of this and this in the evening. It's been a good music day.

Keeping with the tradition of eating delicious breads for breakfast on my birthday, I sauntered in to work with a warmed croissant from Starbucks. There, I enjoyed a full day of endless Diet Coke, courtesy of the best co-workers I could ask for.

After a day of caffeinated tribute from my colleagues/students, I returned home to a thoughtful, inspiring gift from my husband. I walked in the sunshine with my daughter. I ate steak and ice cream and chatted with those dearest to me. Did I have a great birthday?

It was the best.

It was the best, and yet nothing too out of the ordinary happened. I hope this is a sign of that age, how perfectly content I am with the small beauties in life.

Like my obsession with the sky. Sky in the morning of my birthday (left), sky in the evening (right).

Oh man. 28. Can you believe I'm that young? Didn't 28 happen, oh, five years ago or so?

No. Not for me. Five years ago is when my husband turned 28, a thought that fascinates me. For him, 28 marked the cusp of life. He was on the edge—the edge of marriage, the edge of leaving Utah, the edge of further education and career. For me, 28 is old and stodgy and pretty well progressed in the world.

I love it. Here, at the end of my 27th year, I treasure my capability. It's amazing to feel like I actually can do anything. And I'm not talking about "I'm a starry-eyed college student and the world is the limit I'm going to revolutionize the whole country!" sort of anything. I mean that I know how to work, how to talk to people, how I can realistically achieve goals. It's an eerie sense that anything I want to do, I can do. Yes, there's prioritizing, and working, but everything is feasible, plannable, possible. What strange and heady power.

In my career, I'm perfectly capable. Sure, there are things that I want to improve at, but I've mostly moved past the desperate fumblings of a total beginner. In my marriage, I'm totally capable. Taylor and I have figured out how to communicate, serve, and work together. In my writing, as much as I wish I did more, I feel like I can draft and edit and revise and have a firm, strictly "Cat" voice. I'm so capable, I managed to create a human life.

Which is the most awe-inspiring part of this year. Childbirth and motherhood terrified me, seemed like the most arduous task one could ever undertake. And I did it. I know how lucky I was. How lucky I was that pregnancy did not bother me at the time, and quickly became a new standard of normal. How lucky I was in delivery, so lucky my doctor told me not to speak of it for fear of giving unrealistic expectations. But the luckiest of all is Alex herself. I pictured motherhood as pain and sacrifice, late nights and ear infections. gritting as my soul was stretched tight by endless screaming.

How could I have know the joy? And it's very influenced by the fact that Alex has been so lovely, so patient, so endlessly full of happiness and smiles. There is sacrifice, but it's the kind of sacrifice Taylor and myself needed and are able to handle, the kind that has made us perfectly grow as people. Our family and home are exponentially sweeter. Alex has brought a completion I couldn't have understood.*

Probably my favorite picture of me ever.

Through motherhood, and each minute choice that comes within that minefield, I know I can. I can accomplish anything. I can trust my instincts. I can make choices, and those choices are correct.

And now, as I face down 28, I hope to channel that capability. I've become as settled and established as I wished to be. Now, it's time to push for more. In 28, I'm going to search. I'm going to reach. I will take this newfound capability and create something spectacular.

After all, I'm standing on the brink of sabotage. There's bound to be some explosions.

It's going to be a great year.

27. 26. 25.

*Which is the most cliched thing I've ever heard, but for us it is true. Note: for us. Not everyone needs an Alex to get to that point. She is what I needed to become softer and more compassionate. She is what Taylor needed to become more service-oriented. Alex forced us to grow in ways we didn't know were necessary before, and which I'm glad we experienced, but I don't think that parenthood is the only way to develop in that manner.

2015: On the Screen

This year's movie scene started out promising. I averaged around two movies a week, helped in part by a lack of steady employment and by a volunteering gig at Scarecrow Video. Honestly, it was a creative haven for me. I was watching movies outside my comfort zone, studying directors, becoming more of an auteur completist. Taylor and I barreled through 70s war movie and Kurosawa phases, dipped our toes into classic works we'd never seen. For my sadly short-lived Most Worlds blog (short-lived due completely to my own personal failings), I immersed myself in glam and vampire films, forced myself through horror flicks. With so many opportunities for new and great films, it was a golden age for the expansion of world views and massive explosions of personal creativity.

And then in July, I embarked upon the Grand X-Files Rewatch of 2015.

Watching one episode a day of any TV show is unexpectedly taxing. It's a lot of screen time, especially when you fall behind and have to catch up on six hours over the weekend. Compound that with rejoining the teaching force and my treasured film time seriously deteriorated. I was lucky to get one a week, if that. It left a surprising hole in my heart. To those who argue movies are a waste of time and brain, I say PHOOEY. It's a necessary boost for my mental acuity. Without movies, my brain is sludge. With movies, my brain ticks and whirs. Go figure.

So, without further ado, my 2015 movie round-up:

Total Movies Watched: 112. A serious dip from last year (133). Again, I blame the X-Files rewatch.

Movies I Saw By Myself in Theatres: The Imitation Game. Selma. Cuidad Delirio. Amy. Ricki and the Flash. Crimson Peak. Steve Jobs. The Big Short.

Movies I FINALLY Watched, Under Much Duress: The Hunt for Red October. It was not as boring as I thought it would be. However, it was also not as great as I'd been led to believe. It was a solid "a'ight."

Movies I Watched for Halloween: Monster Squad. Shaun of the Dead. MST3K: Manos. Corpse Bride. The Worst Witch. The Witches. Young Frankenstein. Something Wicked This Way Comes. 28 Days Later.

Martial Arts Movies: Police Story 3: Supercop. Armour of God 2: Operation Condor. Legend of Drunken Master 2. Fist of Legend. Rifftrax: Miami Connection.*

*I'm counting it. I mean, martial arts IS the co-main focus of the movie (next to neutered 80's pop songs).

Classic Movies I'd Never Seen: Heat. Zodiac. His Girl Friday. Ran. A Streetcar Named Desire. THe Shining. The Deer Hunter. Fight Club. The Silence of the Lambs. Jaws. The Seven Samurai.**

**Flawless Film

Movies Whose Awfulness Angered Me: The Hobbit: the Battle of Five Armies. Avengers: Age of Ultron.***

***Sweet mercy, I hated this movie. I'll be the first to admit I suffer from superhero film fatigue, and the whole building-smash-quick-cut style in this film didn't help. And then there's what they did to Hawkeye. Clint is not a family man. It does not make sense. And the love story was dumb, and they barely gave Quicksilver any lines so WHO CARES. You can tell that Whedon was exhausted with the film, because every frame resonates with a lack of caring. OK, do an explosion, fine. That's your delivery, Ruffalo? Cool, whatever. "Let's just finish the thing and go home" must have been Whedon's mantra as a director, and it was definitely my perspective as a viewer.

Movies That Filled Me With Righteous Anger: The Big Short.

Favorite Movies Released in 2015: The Big Short. Ex Machina. Star Wars VII. Crimson Peak. **** Straight Outta Compton. What We Do in the Shadows.

****Pure Gothic giddiness throughout. A typical del Toro visual feast, but with enough story to keep me interested.

Clint Eastwood Movies: Gran Torino. A Fistful of Dollars.

THE COMPLETE LIST:

• Almost Famous
• The Return of the King
• Pee Wee's Big Adventure
• Election
• Jimi Hendrix: Hear My Train A Comin'
• Heat
• Velvet Goldmine
• Mud
• Punk-Drunk Love
• The Fifth Element
• Wayne's World 2
• Zodiac
• The Imitation Game
• Moulin Rouge
• Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion
• Snowpiercer
• The Hobbit: the Battle of Five Armies
• Can't Hardly Wait
• Patton Oswalt: Tragedy Plus Comedy...
• Donald Glover: Weirdo
• Police Story 3: Supercop
• Gran Torino
• A Fistful of Dollars
• John Wick
• Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
• American Sniper
• Selma
• His Girl Friday
• The Amazing Spiderman 2
• Remember the Titans
• Fantasia
• Fantasia 2000
• Armour of God 2: Operation Condor
• Gremlins
• Trading Places
• What We Do in the Shadows
• 20 Feet From Stardom
• Horns
• The Big Lebowski
• She's All That
• The Crow
• Legend of Drunken Master 2
• Spirited Away
• Ran
• A Streetcar Named Desire
• Life Itself
• Cuidad Delirio
• The Shining
• The Deer Hunter
• Mad Max: Fury Road
• West of Redemption
• Fist of Legend
• The Spy Who Loved
• Fight Club
• Hot Fuzz
• The Man with the Golden Gun
• Inside Out
• The Lost Boys
• We Are the Best!
• Ray
• Django Unchained
• Inglourious Basterds
• Rifftrax: Independence Day
• Pulp Fiction
• Jurassic World 
• Attack the Block
• The Silence of the Lambs
• Sharknado 3
• True Grit
• Mr. Holmes
• Amy
• Ricki and the Flash
• Bridget Jones's Diary
• Shakespeare in Love
• From Dusk Till Dawn
• Benny and Joon
• The Hunt for Red October
• Straight Outta Compton
• Throne of Blood
• Jaws
• The Seven Samurai
• Monster Squad
• Casino
• Hercules (2014)
• MST3K: Manos
• Rifftrax: Miami Connection
• Black Mass
• Shaun of the Dead
• Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves
• Corpse Bride
• The Worst Witch
• The Witches
• Young Frankenstein
• Something Wicked This Way Comes
• 28 Days Later
• The X-Files (Fight the Future)
• Crimson Peak
• The World's End
• Spectre
• Steve Jobs
• Coco Before Chanel
• The Godfather
• Laggies
• Kill Bill vol. 1
• Kill Bill vol. 2
• Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens
• Sisters
• The Dark Knight Returns
• Ex Machina
• Avengers: Age of Ultron
• The Big Short
• Leon: The Professional

QuickWrite

The night begs for writing. Pleads with me, using every little bit of angst and atmosphere to wrench words from my wrists.

What's the magic formula? One part dim lighting, a dash of intentionally obtuse and heart-wrenching literature, accompanied by vinyl warmth of that album I never connected with but now finally understand.

Every time I am responsible for moving the needle to the beginning of an album, rather than relying on the automatic start feature, I cut off several seconds of the song. I'm starting to appreciate the sudden nature of that facet/ Each time I play songs it's a different experience, depending on where I start.

I am afraid to use "is" when I write. Thanks, grad school! I am also afraid to use "I," but clearly that fear does not control my life.

Life rolls along. I'm listening to more music again. It reminds me of myself, the person I was, connected with who I am now. Each new CD (yes, CD) is a reclamation of sorts, building me back up and stronger than ever, one puzzle piece at a time. The pieces are forged from security, from the ideal melding of dreams, and from the grapplings of adult sorrow. Somehow, those piece are even stronger, the forge heat forcing resilience.

I love Seattle. This deep satisfaction terrifies me. I'm waiting for the next big tragedy. It's not hard to guess what it will probably be, but even that seems manageable. What unknown horrors lurk? Things can't actually be this good.

Or maybe they can. Maybe life can be all sunsets out the window.

2014: A Terrible Year! Thanks for being a part of it!

At approximately 8:30 p.m. on Dec. 31, 2014, I came down with a head cold.

The next week various shades of radioactive yellow oozed from my face.  I like to think it was the last remaining toxins of 2014 eliminating themselves from my body, shedding the curse of that godforsaken year in an incredibly visceral sense.

Oh 2014, Auld Lang Syne and good riddance.

New Year's Eve 2014 was clear and bright.  Taylor and I drove around the capitol building in Salt Lake City, taking in the passage of time with the high point and spectacular views.  I might have been foggy thanks to the new head cold, but it was nice to welcome a new year from a high point, looking out over possibilities.

New Year's Eve 2013 was spent in a basement in DC.  It was a fun time, but I started 2014 from a dark hole in the ground and I don't think I ever left.

2014 is the year that broke me into pieces.  The difficulties started in fall of 2013, when I moved to Boston and started grad school and everything in life was thrown into question.  What was I doing?  Why was I here?  What am I doing to my family?  Those worries eventually abated, replaced with a comfort in my surroundings and a sense of purpose in my studies. But they still gave way to a deep, dark depression.

I wrote about my sadness before, but it lasted so much longer.  It marked the year with a pall, a listlessness and sorrow I could not shake.  This year, my depression caused me to:

• Wake up every morning dreading the day.  This was partially because I was an idiot at one point and had three jobs along with full-time school schedule.  Constant heart palpitations at the thought of my "to do" list, I swear.
• Meddle with my hair, just so I could control something in my life.  This year, I went from long red hair, to short red hair, to short blue-green hair (that promptly faded to gray), back to red, culminating in an undercut mohawk—shaved sides and back, long on top.  Reverse mullet, if you will.  

• Come home from days of doing the bare minimum for survival and sit on the couch, staring straight ahead.  I couldn't even watch TV or movies.  The thought of any action made me want to cry.  Speaking of which...
• Sit by the T station and cry.  I so wish this was a one time thing, but no.  This happened multiple times.  Sometimes it was because I was coming back from a defeating day of school/work.  Sometimes it was because I felt lost and lonely.  Sometimes it was because I was on my way to interact with others socially, something I knew I needed but which terrified me.  Definite moments of huge anxiety and self-loathing there.  And sometimes it was just because it was cold.  Sweet mercy, it got so cold in Boston.
• Curl up in my closet and cry.  Because it was a dark, cramped space.  Just like my psyche.  Just like my soul.
• Dramatically take long walks outside, crying.  Sometimes I'd get too overwhelmed while walking, and I'd sit on the nearest curb and sob.  Those poor, rich suburbanites in my neighborhood, forced to endure the sight of a 25-year-old urchin weeping outside their houses.  I'm sure I totally ruined the view.
• There was a lot of crying, OK? 

Despite the oppressive cloud that marked my 2014, this year was full of beauty.  There was good adventure, good food, and good company.  My goal in moving to Boston, in participating in this crazy grad program, was to suck the marrow out of life.  To completely drain everything I could from school and East Coast living.  I think I succeeded in that goal, because in 2014, I:

• Traveled.  January I drove home from D.C., stopping to visit Baltimore (Poe's grave!) and Philadelphia (Independence Hall!).  In March I spent a blissful week in D.C. with my favoritest Ashley.  Taylor and I celebrated our second anniversary with lobster rolls in Portland, ME.  We went to the Hill Cumorah pageant in upstate New York, an event I fell asleep ten minutes into, and woke up right as people were taking their bows.* My brother got married in October, so I was able to return to the Utah mountains for a bit.  I watched two friends get married in New Jersey.  I witnessed the opulence of titans in Newport, Rhode Island. I spent a ton of time in New York City: a May getaway with the Cowan women, a July move-in with newly-minted East Coaster Mary, BFFF weekend in October, Thanksgiving and assorted visits with the NYC McCarreys. I went from hating New York City to appreciating it, and I actually will miss being so close.  The street art, the constant clash of culture, those tasty Prosperity Dumplings.  I couldn't live there, but I'm back to loving a visit now and then. And there was that whole cross country drive back to Seattle, where I hit Virgina, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Utah, etc., etc.

The cutting table at Coolidge.

• Got to hang out in the projection booth at Coolidge Corner Theatre, and even climbed on the outside of the building to reach the upper booth.  This was all done for a piece on film projection versus digital.  It was the first story I actually enjoyed working on, and inspiration from that experience fueled me through another nine months of school.
• Won my Oscars pool, beating Taylor by one category.
• Spent a party sitting on a piano bench with Amy O'Leary, plucking out Beatles tunes and singing to those basic chords.
• Ate falafel.  And cannoli.  And bagels.  And a cronut.  And ramen.  And nachos.  And far too much McDonalds (their baby cheeseburger are delicious, and everyone knows that nothing beats a McFlurry).  And tacos in a vampire dungeon that offered pop rock cotton candy with the check.
• Made challah.
• Communed with my spirit sister, Isabella Stewart Gardner, at her wonderful museum.  
• Said goodbye to my first car, and to my treasured Seve vs. Evan sticker on it's back window.
• Watched fireworks over the Charles River and listened to Keith Lockhart conduct the Boston Pops. Subsequently got caught in a wall of water while masses fled from the rainstorm that directly followed the firework display.
• Hiked the "mountains" in New Hampshire.  I mean, they were cute and all, but mountains?  Kind of a stretch.
• Taught journalism to a bunch of high schoolers, and remembered how much I enjoy teaching.  Even when the kids are little turds, as they always are.  This also helped me find an ideal schedule of morning teaching, afternoon writing/adventure.  
• Kayaked down the Charles River.
• Went to two killer concerts. Kishi Bashi, who put on a high energy show full of dancing and awesomeness.  And Queens of the Stone Age, where I was about ten feet away from Josh Homme and I died and fainted and head-banged to my little heart's content.
• Wrote film reviews for the Daily Free Press.  This was the best job I've ever had, and the only one that never bored me.
• Spent a week as a beach bum.  I didn't really understand the appeal of New England until I sat in the softest sand near warm blue water.

Wingaersheek Beach

• Had some lovely visitors (Lauren! Leo! Shannon and Lori!) and spent time with lovely locals.  The friend scene in Boston was a slow boil.  My first few months were lonely.  By the end I had a whole slew of people that I cherish, and who I severely miss.  You can say a lot of things about Boston, but you can't say that there's a dearth of interesting people.  Those I were lucky enough to associate with differed in age, vocation, interests, but they were all absolutely scintillating.  I was constantly learning new things, and I'm grateful for the tribe I found.

2014 was a year of growth.  And with all growing pains, it stretched me in uncomfortable ways, ways that made me weep at the sudden spurts of advancement forced on me.  I was dragged into a sense of self, and came out the other side sadder, wiser, and a whole lot more sure of myself.  This is the year I decided I don't care what other people think.  It's the year I learned what I want.  It's the year I pushed myself to my limits, striving for the best writing and work I could offer.

I hope that 2015 is the year of settling.  

Settling has such negative connotation.  You settled for a significant other that didn't challenge you.  You settle for the job that sounds easier.  To be settled is to be set in ways, to be boring.  To be settled is to lose momentum and sink into the earth.

But for this moment in life, nothing sounds more appealing than being settled.  Taylor and I just moved to Seattle, a place and community that's comfortable and familiar and full of potential longevity.  I want to find a job that lasts more than a year, where I can join a united force working towards a greater goal.  I want unpack my books and scatter them around an apartment, somewhere they can nestle into, where dust has time to gather on their spines.  I want furniture that sits long enough to leave divots in the carpet.  I want to befriend others without a ticking clock on our association.  I want to plant my feet into the ground and sprout roots, to start building something that can last.

I want to wriggle around in 2015, to become entrenched in the life of Cat McCarrey.  I'm OK with settling in for a while.  It's time for me to breath.  To stand straighter.  To see what life looks like beyond the grad school blinders, and what those new skills will create.

* I highly recommend that viewing experience—it's really the only way to see something as cringeworthy as the Hill Cumorah pageant.  

Laying Down Track

A few days ago I finished This Is A Call, the unauthorized biography of Dave Grohl, written by Paul Brannigan.

It didn't offer much by way of new or enlightening information about Sir Davy Grolton—most of the best bits came from previous interviews and the documentary Back and Forth, filmed during the recording of 2011's Wasting Light—but it did offer a clear musical road map.  It's obvious that Brannigan is a music critic.  One who loves and admires Grohl, but who views Grohl's life through the increasingly analytical lens of the soundtrack.  Childhood is told by dissecting the set lists of Bad Brains and Teen Idle concerts.  Rise to stardom is told in the recording studio.  Emotions are interpreted through chord progressions.

This hyper-observation of Grohl's musical landscape extends to discussion of Foo Fighters albums.  Each album is treated to pages-long reviews of the track list, the critical reception, and most interestingly, the recording process.*  Lined up one right up against the other, it's clear to see the evolution of all Foo Fighters albums, the way that the band, and Grohl, forces change and growth.  Grohl himself stated in an interview with Brannigan, "It seems like every album we've made is a result of the one that came before it, or in response to it."  There's no complacency.

I couldn't help but think about that as I watched the trailer for the new HBO mini-series following the Foos, Sonic Highways.



In This Is A Call, Brannigan intensely spotlights each Foo Fighters album.  One was completely recorded by Grohl himself.  Another was in a major studio, while the next was in Grohl's basement.  This one was acoustic.  That one was laid down on tape.  For the new record, the Foo Fighters visited eight cities and eight studios, recording songs with guest artists to try to capture the beating musical heart of America, filtered through the amplification of a unique Foo Fighters sound.  Which is a beautiful idea, and a beautiful method for a band continuing to push against boundaries.

I find that remarkably admirable.  It's easy to excuse laziness, especially after experiencing success.  With his fame and wealth, it would be simple for Grohl to merely churn out some the same grunge-inspired rock album, mix it by the best producer the studio can buy, and call it good.  But Grohl pushes for more.  He isn't resting on creative laurels, he's using his good fortune to continue to challenge himself.  I don't know if I would do the same in that position.

It reminds me of a favorite quote from writer John McPhee: "Your last piece is never going to write your next one for you."

On the one hand, that can be an exhausting viewpoint.  It could be interpreted that nothing is ever going to be good enough, so why try, life is pain and struggle.

But on the other hand, how inspiring!  That even those at the top of their field are constantly striving to improve.  It means that there's some recourse for the rest of us.  No one is ever perfect, so KEEP TRYING.  Keep working, keep pushing, and keep improving.  There is no capstone.  There is no limit.  And there is nothing to hold you back.

*It's actually pretty telling that discussion of the 2002 album One by One covers over twenty pages, while Grohl's divorce from Jennifer Youngblood is introduced and concluded in one sentence.

Spiritus Animalia

"What's your spirit animal?"  This has become the latest iteration of a bonding question, something asked at parties or on OKCupid profiles.  It's the new "Hey baby, what's your sign?"  And strangely enough, the aesthetic of these question-askers has remained the same.  The same waifish physiques, mustaches, neckbeards, yellow-orange plaid shirts and medallions of the seventies.  I blame the hep hipsters desperate to be original and yet homage their super underground interests.  This is why we can't have nice things.

This question has popped up at more get-togethers (and even concerts) than I care to number (methodically, and requiring both hands and feet).  Inevitably someone brings up wolves.  Because naturally, they share a pack-like mentality and appetite for raw meat with these kindred spirits.  Otters are also really big right now.  I want to say something snarky about that, but serious talk.  Otters are just too cute.  I can't.  Here's the closest I can get: Um, yeah, you totally eat food off your stomach, don't you?*  Just like those otters, huh?

I'm usually hard-pressed for an answer when the spirit animal question comes up.  Quite frankly, I don't share commonalities with any animal.  Is there an animal that likes to burrow deep into a cocoon of warmth and watch others industriously working, while it eats bread and cheese and watches the latest season of Mad Men?  No?  I mean, a queen bee doesn't quite fit that bill (no Mad Men, plus royal jelly is no bread and cheese).  But thankfully, I've found some answers to throw out when asked this inane question.  They might not fit into the spirit of the thing, but I can think of no better examples of kinship than these, my top three Spirit Animals.

And we share an affinity for skulls!

3. Daria Morgendorffer

A quintessential product of the nineties, Daria's flat affect and killer apathy are everything I want to be in this world.  My theory about the nineties, and why I pine after them, are that everyone cared so much.  Feelings and angst were worn on tattered flannel sleeves, so when someone disconnected with the world it meant something.  It wasn't the childish irony of today, when everything is oh-so-amusing because nothing matters.  It was an actual stand against capitalism, or declining standards, or the machine.  If Daria existed in today's television landscape, she'd probably be Zooey Deschanel, the odd girl out thanks to floral prints, ukeleles, and quirky cartoon animal pictures.**  Airiness would be the unique factor.  But thankfully it is not a product of today, and Daria remains aloof through slightly twisted channels, through padded walls and Sick, Sad World.

This is a mere artistic representation.
Seemed less creepy than a glamour shot.

2. Glen Weldon

I'm slightly cheating with this one.  See, Glen Weldon—one of the hosts of Pop Culture Happy Hour, my favorite podcast—is not quite my spirit animal.  He's more the yin to my yang.  He represents the perfect complement to my own disposition, the ideal inversion of my own tastes and predilections.  But it's in such a perfect way that I have to pay him due.  Glen Weldon writes about books and comic books for the NPR website, and is the surly, distinctly unfeeling member of the PCHH crew.  We both like comics.  We both have a distaste for schmaltz.  But it translates in slightly different ways.

1. Glen is more likely, in his personal opinions, to have a pessimistic outlook on situations.  Definitely that glass half empty type.  I, on the other hand, harbor deep disdain for everyone and everything, but in my own secret soul I'm optimistic.  A little gentler.  Life is a terrible thing, but I think it's that way because we're capable of more.

2.  When it comes to comic fandom, Glen thrives on FUN.  Give him madcappery, wildness, abandon that can only come through the wacky world of  comics.  My comic leanings go towards grit. Somber.  Dark.  Those suck me in.

These are just a few examples of the yin-yang effect, but essentially when it comes to being the group member to embrace blanket hatred, sir Weldon and I could not be more similar.  Hate on, dude.

You can practically hear the evil laughter.

1. Louise Belcher

Yes, Tina Belcher is the popular break-out star of Fox's animated Bob's Burgers.  Which I cannot understand, because there's this character called Louise, and she's perfect. She's my everything.  I think that words might fail me at this moment, since I love her too much to adequately express it.  I am not exaggerating when I say she is the ultimate.  I don't even have to specify the ultimate what, because she's that good.  Louise knows who she is, she knows what she wants, and she demands control with immediate and exacting vengeance.  Yes, vengeance.  Making the best use of Kristen Schaal since ever, including her role as Flight of the Conchords fan Mel (the less said about her 30 Rock stint the better), Louise blends bravado and sheer capacity for terror in a cocktail of complete assurance.  Everyone knows that she's the real one in charge of the Belcher family.  She's sarcastic, she's savvy (no one can manipulate folks out of their money during an art crawl like Louise), and she doesn't buy into the idea that just because she is a little girl, she has to be one.  A sharp-as-nails child with the soul of a miserly old man, Louise rocks.  She's maniacal.  She's commanding.  She's my spirit animal.

*I do, though.  I really, really do.  There just comes an optimal slouch when watching TV, and the stomach becomes the ideal platform for that dish of nachos.

**Is it obvious I quit watching the New Girl after one season?

Bird Watching

Hi.

My name's Cat, and I've been pretty depressed lately.

I know.  SHOCKER!  It's not like it's been pretty easy to decipher that fact if you've been following my blog, or are friends with me on Facebook, or if you're one of those near-mythical "real life friends" (seriously, do such things exist anymore, or are they just relegated to icons between ads on Facebook?) (I kid, I kid, you know I love you, people I have actually interacted with in the physical world).

But I've been alluding to it as if it's over, or close to over.  You know, I'm "coming out of a funk."  Or, "the last few months have been hard, but it's getting better," or even the more cynical but no less silver lining-ed "it's tough now, but I still have so much good in my life."

Well, I lied.

I'm not coming out of it.  It's not getting better.  And yeah, there's good in my life, but that just makes this pervasive darkness even more oppressive.  Of course there's good in my life, so where do I get off feeling so crummy?  Seriously.  What an ungrateful little turd I am.  Man, I suck.

My life, as depicted by http://thankyoucorndog.tumblr.com/.

This comic describes my feelings.  When I talk to people about my sorrow, it turns into a laundry list of why I shouldn't be so sad.

"But Cat, you're so smart!"

"But Cat, look at all you're doing!  You're owning grad school!"

"But Cat, look at the opportunities you're getting!"

"But Cat, you have a loving husband and a really good life!"

"But Cat, there are so many people that love you!"

"But Cat, you are really so blessed!  Look at all you have!"

But, dear friends and family. But, while that is all true and well and good, but.  But that doesn't automatically make me happier.

If anything, it makes me worse.

Because those reminders and encouragements only add to the mental tally, and yes it is a constant tally, of things I'm doing wrong.  It becomes another failure.  That Cat, having all these lovely things and yet somehow, selfishly, brokenly, remaining depressed.

I'm trying to pull myself out of this mire.  I'm chasing that freaking bluebird of happiness with a titanium butterfly net, tricked out with rocket launchers and an army of drones in the handle.  And there are times when that lovely little creature will circle around my head, nearly landing on my shoulder but not quite there yet.  It's there on a sunny afternoon when I sit by the Charles and feel my skin tingle under the sun.  It's there when I dance to The Ballad of Mr. Steak with wild abandon during a Kishi Bashi concert, arms flailing underneath colored lights and layered sounds.  It's there while watching Veronica Mars and having good conversation with fine folk that give me hope in humanity and my place therein.

But for each time the bluebird almost lands, there are tenfold moments where it flies into a thorny hedge and refuses to budge.  These are the times where I stare into the void of a growing inbox of requests and freeze.  When my hands linger over a chapter to be edited, or a writer to be researched, or a TV show that I've watched and taken notes on and elucidated my thoughts in outline format, or even just the thought of moving that dang ol' dishrag off the counter and hanging it on the rack, and yet the next step halts.  

It's times like today, where I lie on the couch watching Party of Five* and eating Cheetos Puffs.  The cheese-spun cylinders make me feel marginally better, right before making me feel exponentially and inevitably worse.  You know how it is.  Curse you, sweet sweet snacks!

Today is extreme.  Usually it's just this heart-squeezing, gut-tearing feeling of misery and loneliness and failure that never really goes away.  

I keep telling myself that fessing up to it is better than gulping it down and pretending it's not there.  You know, saying outright that yep, I'm basically a champ at the whole self-loathing thing.  I recognize this and want to change, and like any good addict admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.

And blast it all, I'm trying to recover.  I'm doing the exercises, eating the healthy foods**, seeing the therapist, making the happy lists.  Pushing myself to get out and socialize.  Forcing myself out of the solitary comfort zone my jerkbrain prescribes.  Doing all the maddening suggestions that well-meaning people give me when they try to help.  I mean, I still find myself crumpling on the ground almost every day, but I'm giving it the college try!  Happy face!  Attempts!

I'm still chasing the bird, but I'm running through quicksand, and for all the leverage I get I still am sliding down, sucked into the depths.

So what, right?  What now?  Why write this?  Why talk about this?

Because somehow, it's making me feel better.  Writing is a great way to figure things out.  It's why English teachers assign essays.  Well that, and the feeling of enjoyment we get from hearing the groans.  Sweet music to the ears! 

"The shortest distance between a human being and the truth is a story."  Anthony de Mello.

Right now, my story is sadness.  And anxiety.  And defeat.  And by writing about it, I hope to see the truth in this experience.  I want to be able to figure out what this means, to see patterns in my malaise.  If all goes well, these words will form a ladder to tug me out of the sand.  They will shape into wings where I can catch that damn bluebird in his own turf.

*What a truly terrible TV show, by the by.  Full House on steroids and with an over-inflated sense of importance.  And yet, there's something about Matthew Fox's hair on this show.  I can't look away.  I want to, believe me I want to, but every time I try stupid Jack is there with his stupid 90's mane waving in the non-existent breeze and whispering Caaaat.....loooook at meeee.....Caaaaat....

**Most of the time, all Cheetos cheats aside.

Quarter of a Century Man*

I am, I am.

This is me, being 25.

At 25, I woke up early.  At 6:30 AM, when I was technically still 24, with only a few precious minutes before entering the 25th anniversary of my time here on earth.  Sun squirmed its way between a gap in the window and the Batman blanket I've been using as a heavy duty curtain, touching my face with the illusion of a warm day.  For a moment I was still, nestled in bed and squinting at a mix of sky and branches and houses.

At 25, I decided to treat myself to a bagel for breakfast.  Apparently, food is just as important to me as when I was 24, or 16, or 5.  Indeed, the desire and appreciation for food runs much of my daily life.  At 25, there is rarely a moment when I don't have a niggling yen for one (or both) of two things: guacamole, with the rich avocado punctuated with sharp garlic and juicy ripe tomatoes; or the Lucknow Special from Pronti Bistro.  Chunks of lamb with mushroom and feta, slathered in tamarind and mint yogurt sauce, gently couched in warm flatbread.  It's the type of meal that makes the entire world OK, opening windows of peace and harmony and happiness (only to prompt feelings of crushing loss when it is eaten and gone).

At 25, I carefully selected the first song of my new year.  I was torn between old favorites, songs that dominated this past year, or something peppy and delightful.  I ended up with "The Wind" by Cat Stevens.  A perfect choice.



At 25, I'm coming out of a season of penetrating sadness.  But the weather is slowly warming, and is nursing my heart along with it.  One thing people don't tell you when you finally chase your dreams is that the chasing action does not instantaneously eradicate all the fears and insecurities that kept you from the dream in the first place.  Oh, it can assuage them for a bit.  For a time, your confidence will be boosted by the pure adrenaline rush of finally doing it.  And then the novelty wears off and you are left with a dream that has become mundane reality, but with an added pressure layer of hopes and expectations crusting the top of it.  And wrestling with a dream made actual can leave you staring at the void, feet dangling off the edge of the cliff as you grasp for a trail.  For somewhere safe and sure to place your footfalls.  And sometimes, you'll have to off-road it for a while, forging your own path until a trail is made.  And it's difficult.  But somehow it can be done.  Or so I repeat to myself in the malaise-worthy mornings and headache-inducing nights.

At 25, I'm hopeful.  Hopeful that the best is still ahead.  That there's a bright, comfortable future in front of me, full of books and armchairs and sunlight.  The meals will be catered and the television will always be set to the best channels (what CBS? No such thing).  There will be rooms and people and a home full of light.  There will be deeply satisfying work, and even more deeply satisfying love.  This is the richness I see for myself, and as for 25?  It's just the beginning.

*That phrase always makes me think of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.  Specifically, the scene before this song.  I tried to find the actual point where Mr. Twimble discusses his 25-year status in the company, but alas it is not to be.  Yes, we have a grand overarching technological network that spies on us and has billions of cat videos, but it can't be bothered to include a thirty second clip of a Pulitzer prize-winning production.  This is the world we live in.

The Choice

You know, I think that apathy was the only thing that kept me sane.  Through high school.  Through college.  And now the apathy is replaced with actual hard work, and sanity?  Not so much.

So what would you rather have?

Achievement, or happiness?

Conceived by Mommybloggers

This is a quick check-in, to make sure that this still works.  And also because I'm having thoughts, and it's either a really long Facebook statues (UGH) or a blog, and this setting works much better.

I have a ton of big projects and articles coming up and, as I always do in times of stress, I've been procrastinating by obsessively reading blogs that I would normally never read.  Like, Stay At Home Mommy blogs.  Blogs of women who have nothing in common with me, and whose opinions and views I do not always agree with.  I mean, I cherish motherhood.  The thought of having a child of my own is slowly becoming a reality to me, and it's a notion that does not fill my soul with dread.  In fact, it's generally a quite nice notion, as babies have suddenly started looking soft and squishy and good-smelling.  (Sidenote- IknowIknow, that's not all the time, but don't burst my bubble now!  I worked so hard for that illusion).

But.  Back to the point.

Which is--I have an awfully good life.  I'm living the relatively low-stakes life of a student.  I'm doing that and making (a very, very little) money, working at jobs that I love and which are opening all kinds of avenues for me.  Seriously.  Check out the people I'm working for and things I'm working on.  And on top of all that, I get to write non-stop, I get to interview people on things I'm passionate about, I get to manipulate words and come to comfortable terms with my writing voice, and I get to come home to a small suburban apartment and a husband who's kicking trash and taking names as a family therapist.  That in itself is pretty dang cool.

So even though my heart still yearns for West Coast life, I've managed to find some good people, and more importantly, some good food. I consider myself awfully lucky that I get to stretch my writing muscles, and that I have this blessedly uninterrupted time to develop my talents and make them work for me.  I've only been here for roughly six months, and my Seattle self is already a distant memory.  Let's not even discuss my Provo self ( who? what? selfish/insecure/lazy-much?).  I'm proud of the person this place has made me.  I'm proud of the family Taylor and I have created.   I'm proud of my university, and how ridiculously supportive and wonderful it is. And I'm proud that I can say that we did it, that we are here and living in the city of our dreams.

This is all to say--I'm doing just fine.  I realized my good fortune.  And sometimes, that's a needed realization.

Now back to writing.  I have two articles due in the next sixteen hours.  It's all just part of the adventure.

Right.  Write.  I'm on it.

Golden Years

If this isn't in your head right now, you are fired.

My birthday is coming up.  Not just any birthday.  My GOLDEN birthday.  The one where I turn 24 on the 24th.  And maybe it's the youngest child in me, but I'm excited for it.  I love occasion.  I completely relish feeling special.  Maybe that's childish, and maybe it shows a lack of humility, but dang-it-all, it's my birthday! If not now, when?  When else is there an excuse for circumstance and pomp?  Especially on this, the one and only Golden Birthday!

So, just in case you feel inclined to celebrate in the joy with me, here are some things to spark gift-giving inspiration.  I'll just leave this here:

This took me a while, and I'm inordinately proud of it.  I should take a class to be artsy and design-y.

1- Relish: My Life in the Kitchen, by Lucy Knisley

2- The City of Owls and Night of the Owls, by Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo

3- The Revolution was Televised, by Alan Sepinwall

4- RKives, by Rilo Kiley

5- Hands of Glory, by Andrew Bird

6- YOU.  I don't care if it's letters, cards, Facebook messages, carrier pigeons, whatever-it-is, I want to hear from you.  Since moving to Seattle I've learned to value friendships on a deeper level.  And I'm trying to be a better friend, and to show those people that I care.  Because guess what?  I know a ton of incredible people.  And often, I miss them (by the way, those people? It's you. It's definitely you).  I've carved out a great little niche here in Seattle, and I'm optimistic for Boston, but that doesn't mean I sometimes ache with all the missing of my gangs, roomies, crews and pals.  My homies, if you will.  With everything going on right now, and today in particular, I just want to hold you close, hold those magical connections near and dear.  And while these books and musics have been bouncing around in my head for a while, what would really make my Golden Birthday super golden is hearing from the people I love. 

So. 7101 Roosevelt Way NE, #206.  Seattle, WA 98115.

Nine days and counting.