Things I Plan to Do In New York City This Fall That May Lead to My Arrest

1. Show up at the Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince premiere and, per Claire's suggestion, yell to Daniel Radcliffe: "Show me your Harry Potter."

2. Pull a Chuck Bass on Chuck Bass.

Things I Have Accomplished In the Last 48 Hours; Or, Get Me Off This Crazy Train Called Moving Across the Country

The following things happened between yesterday morning and right this second, giving me official cause to tell this move to "bring it, sucka" because I am knocking shit out of the proverbial park.

1. I have a place to live in New York City. Repeat: I have a place to live in New York City. I had to somewhat let go of my ideal Upper West Side quaint studio scenario in a move that is, in the end, totally, mind-blowingly convenient. I'll be four blocks from school, a ten minute walk from the Fairway, and a few blocks from the 1 line which runs from the top to the bottom of Manhattan. Fully furnished. Sigh. And Olive will have a playmate! Deposit sent. Lease in the mail.

2. I have initiated email introductions with two of my new roommates. A teacher, a poly sci grad student and me. Quite the serendipitous combo?

3. Student loans are finalized. Repeat: student loans are finalized!!! Yes!!! And in an odd turn of events, I think I'll actually be acquiring less debt than I would had I stayed in Seattle and done the full-time MPA program at UW. I mean, there are many reasons why that would have been a disastrous choice regardless, but whatever, conscience cleared.

4. "Cat Business" ... I'm lumping this into one because holy hell moving across the country with a cat is an ordeal. But, Olive officially has a vet visit in which I will pay a doctor $80 to look at my cat for five minutes and give me some sort of State-approved certificate that says she's healthy and can travel on a plane. I also managed to track down the Jet Blue-approved pet carrier at Mud Bay and am picking it up after work today. Also, there will be cat valium. Which hopefully doubles as people valium.

5. Discovering that my Columbia ID gets me into most every museum in the city for free. While one R. Matthews pointed out that the museums are all mostly "by donation" anyway, what jerk actually has ever demanded a ticket without paying? I don't have the balls. And now, I don't have to!

6. I have a plane ticket. I have a plane ticket. I have a plane ticket. On August 22nd, 2008 at 11:59 p.m. I will leave the Pacific Northwest from whence* I entered: Portland, Oregon. What? Your mind is blown in the fluidity of that Circle of Life connection I just made there? I think I just gagged.

7. Lost most, if not all, humility. I'M GOING TO NEW YORK CITY IN 23 DAYS! YEAAAAAAAYYYYYYY! Humility be damned!

Siiiigh.

*I know this is technically redundant, but "I will leave the Pacific Northwest whence I entered it" just doesn't sound right so bite me.

Sucka punch!

So, I'm starting to believe that yesterday, instead of having my two grossly impacted wisdom teeth removed, I actually paid the oral surgeon $500 to sock me in the grill for an hour. Do my teeth and gums hurt? Not a bit. Does my jaw feel like it has been broken into a million pieces? Yes. Case closed.

Of course, I don't actually know what happened during that hour, under the influence of some amazing amnesic drugs. What I can tell you, however, is that I know I sat down in that chair listening to the latest "This American Life" and later found my ipod halfway through the Frightened Rabbit album. Obviously conscious sedation is no match for impeccable musical taste, suckas!

Other than being absolutely bored out of my brain and asymmetrically swollen-faced, I have no complaints. I just realized I CAN eat my favorite Ginger Cat cookies if I left them turn to mush in my mouth first. My day is made! Small victories!

In which my old/dead British boyfriends write songs that make me sad for the ladies...

So, I have this longstanding fear that I tend to gravitate toward tortured, brooding writers and artists who, you know, have um, issues with the ladies. I'm afraid this reflects badly on me as a "modern woman." Hemingway? Fitzgerald? Graham Greene? Full disclosure? I'd risk the psychological trauma to be a Zelda or a Hadley.

To further this embarrassing theory, I present my two '60s rock and roll boyfriends, Mick Jagger (oh god please see above) and John Lennon.

I had a date with Rubber Soul on the bus the other day ("I'm Looking Through You" is one of my favorite songs ever) and I stumbled again on "Run for Your Life." Every time I hear this song, I really, really want to blame it on Paul. Because, frankly, Paul is still alive and the 16 year old girl inside of me who used to make a point to wear her John Lennon shirt every year on December 8th is still kind of bitter about that. Also, I think he's a cad. But mostly, he's still breathing, and I'm going to go ahead and hold it against him.

Try as I might, though, I can't blame this nasty song on Paul. It's John. It's all John. And I quote:

Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl/Than to be with another man/You better keep your head, little girl/Or I won't know where I am

You better run for your life if you can, little girl/Hide your head in the sand little girl/Catch you with another man/That's the end'a little girl

Let this be a sermon/I mean everything I've said Baby, I'm determined/And I'd rather see you dead

If ever there was a DV theme song, here it is. Granted, apparently John did say some years later that this song was the one he regretted writing the most, but um, yeah. It's still there. It still ruins my Rubber Soul high every time.

And then there's Mick. Okay, so Mick has always been an asshole and I'll admit that "Under My Thumb" is also on my list of all-time favorite songs, but well, then there's "Stray Cat Blues." And well, lines are crossed.

I hear the click-clack of your feet on the stairs/I know you're no scare-eyed honey/There'll be a feast if you just come upstairs/But it's no hanging matter/It's no capital crime

I can see that you're fifteen years old/No I don't want your I.D./I can see you're so far from home/But it's no hanging matter/It's no capital crime

Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat/Oh yeah, don'tcha scratch like that/Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat/Bet your mama don't know you scream like that/I bet your mother don't know you can spit like that.

And in an even more endearing twist of events, according to Wikipedia, on Get Yer Ya-Yas Out the Stones went ahead and changed the girl's age to 13. Nice touch, Mick.

I'd love someone to Freud this out for me and explain why I gravitate toward hyper-males. And by "I'd love someone to Freud this out for me..." I mean don't actually bother, because I think the combined power of Mick and John and Ernest and Graham and Scott may be a force I'm too weak to resist. Even if that makes me a shitty woman of the 21st century.

the queen anne scene

With four more days in my apartment, though I'd share some pics I took this week on the hill .... world's smallest graffiti?

Skeeze!

Maybe my favorite craigslist apartment listing yet ... $100 Great offer for open minded woman (East Village)

I'm a white late 20's guy that works in finance. I work A LOT and therefore my social life has become nonexistent. So, I want to add a little bit of excitement to my life. I would like to rent the room to a woman between the age of 18-27.

You should be a free spirited, liberal minded person who is very open minded. I would like you to be a slim attractive girl who is OK with occasionally walking around or hanging out in her underwear <---yes...that would be the slightly crazy part.

I would never ask you to strip or do anything at all. You must be someone who occasionally walks around like that and is ok with me being around when you do. I know this is a strange arrangement, but like I said earlier, I am trying to add some exitement to my life:) I am not looking for anything to develop into a relationship, or to have you start acting like a girlfriend. If you are interested, send me an email so I can discuss it further with you. There is no sexual contact or anything involved. I WOULD NEED THE ARRANGEMENT TO BE 100% CONFIDENTIAL.

PLEASE do NOT respond by saying "WHY WOULD A GUY AS GOOD LOOKING AS YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS". We all have our reasons.....Thanks

Oh man am I excited to interact with this level of self-absorbed douchebaggery in NYC ...

In which Katie spends her Tuesday getting screwed over by a dental professional, Vol. 2

For about eight hours today, I was having one of those days, unique to your mid-twenties, when you feel a rush of excitement that you're finally in control of your financial life, finally independent, able to fully support yourself. It feels good! It feels amazing to realize that I'm moving to New York City, and I'm paying for the whole damn thing! I can actually do this and it's weird and it's awesome.

What I've lost this past week in terms of appetite and dignity, I've certainly made up for in productivity. By noon, I had hashed out a budget with a loan counselor at school and discovered I need to borrow $10k less than I thought; finalized my move-out with my landlord; emailed 6 potential roommates; and rented a 14' U-Haul for next week's move. That shit? I was knocking it out of the park.

By the time 2:00 rolled around, I was walking into the Medical/Dental Building downtown with an extra spring in the old step, nearly no longer terrified of meeting the oral surgeon to talk about my wisdom teeth (RIP). I actually thought to myself "It feels kind of good to pay for my own dental bills."

I'll just put my pansy self right out there: the thought of having my wisdom teeth out terrifies me, for totally irrational reasons. I don't want to be put to sleep. I don't take pain medication. I have major anxiety about not having control of my faculties and having people all up in my grill freaks me out. I'm a wimp. Case closed. That's where I'm coming from.

So when this surgeon comes into the room, throws my xray up on the computer screen and starts barking to her assistant about sinus cavities and bones and nerves and "complications" and then molesting my mouth with her finger, I start to lose it.

Of course, because I'm already effing terrified, I'm told I have a "very complicated case" and she will "absolutely not do this without general anesthesia" and something about bacteria rotting my face and my lower lip tingling for life. I cry. This encourages her to go soft on her Pro-Anethesia stance and agree to do some sort of heavy sedation shit. Fine. Whatever. Get it over with. I hate you.

And then comes the bill. I had talked to friends about this and everyone said "Eh, couple hundred bucks, don't worry about it." So I was, naturally, expecting to pay $500 max. Fine. Whatever. Get it over with. I hate you. I'm handed the bill and .... $3,100. That's right, $3,100. I burst into tears.

Granted, my insurance will pay for some, but I'm still left with a big, whopping $1,700 to cover, out of pocket. Oh, the fucking irony.

So I'm trying to weigh my options at the front desk when I say something to the effect of "I just, today, signed $40k in student loans. I'm not putting this on credit. I'm moving to New York in one month, this is ridiculous." And the office manager says, apparently trying to console me (?), "Oh, where are you going to school? ... Columbia! Don't worry honey, you'll have plenty of money later." What the fuck? Who says that? I'm not going to med school, or law school, honey. I'm going into debt so that I can work at a non-profit. It's awesome and I can't wait and I wouldn't have it any other way, but don't tell me to buck up and take it, don't give me that "Oh please, stop overreacting" look, because you assume I'm going to have loads of expendable income in the future. Was I just reverse-discriminated against? It was weird.

My solution is, I'm just pulling two teeth. The easy ones. The one with a cavity and it's sister. The others can wait.

And of course, because I'm a worrier, this immediately made me think of the millions of people who don't have dental insurance. How the hell do they pay for this stuff? And of course, those who don't have insurance, probably aren't those who can suck up a $3,100 bill, and probably aren't the ones who can take a week off of work to recoup. And those health problems just get worse, and lead to other things that can't be treated. Ugh. It makes my gut hurt just thinking about it. It's all cyclical.

Though I'm finding some solace in the fact that this Tuesday I can say, it's just business. Not personal.

*I saw this poster next to Animals on 12th this morning as I was walking to work ... I thought it fitting.

Bus Notes: Scratch these ...

So I was reading this amazing article in last week's New Yorker this weekend about a woman with an insatiable itch on the right side of her scalp. She can't stop scratching.

One morning, after she was awakened by her bedside alarm, she sat up and, she recalled, “this fluid came down my face, this greenish liquid.” She pressed a square of gauze to her head and went to see her doctor again. M. showed the doctor the fluid on the dressing. The doctor looked closely at the wound. She shined a light on it and in M.’s eyes. Then she walked out of the room and called an ambulance. Only in the Emergency Department at Massachusetts General Hospital, after the doctors started swarming, and one told her she needed surgery now, did M. learn what had happened. She had scratched through her skull during the night—and all the way into her brain.

So interspersed within the story of this poor woman and her poor itchy head is the story of how the study of itching baffled doctors and scientist for a very long time. Apparently, they've now discovered that the itch reflex differs from more primal, survival type responses like pain, in that the itch sensation actually triggers more sophisticated areas of the brain, including the areas responsible for emotional response and for satisfying urges and impulses (the same area that tells me to eat ten more bites of ice cream when I've already had twenty, and that tells the wino that she needs another drink). Which explains why scratching feels soooo effing good.

So anyway, (I'm about to link this back to my bus ride, I swear) what I thought was especially interesting about this story is that itching isn't necessarily connected to the need to scratch, and the way that just the thought of something itchy or creepy triggers the desire to scratch (whereas the though of sticking your face on the stovetop doesn't necessarily make your cheek sear in pain). Needless to say, I devoured this article because gore + niche-y science knowledge = my cup of tea.

And then today, today, there was a woman sitting outside of Elliott Bay Books at the 15/18 bus stop, furiously scratching her white-with-chafe feet with a dull razor blade. I was waiting there for nearly ten minutes and she didn't let up for a second; the sound of sandpaper against a cast iron pot. It was excruciating to listen to and watch, and I'm sure doubly so to actually feel. Now, an hour later, at home, I cannot kick the urge to scratch my feet and could swear (though I've not actually touched them) that they are dry and screaming out for the sweet, sweet relief my fingernails can offer. And yet there's nothing even remotely near them, save for some air.

Oi. Brains.

Oh, and the picture? I saw that keychain on top of a trash can at the 3/4 bus stop up on 12th and Jefferson. Poor Danny Sandhu ...

Old photos of people I've never met

My favorite spot at the Fremont Market is a booth in the covered area full of old things I always promise myself I'm going to buy and do cool, artsy things with (haven't once yet, c'est la vie): old watch faces, typewriter keys, Victorian-era French postcards, oversized Dick and Jane books. What really draws me back to this spot, Sunday after Sunday, though, are the boxes full of old black and white photographs. Hodgepodge boxes of other people's photos with lovingly written descriptors on their backs: "Sue and Davy at Nana's House, Christmas 1947" or "Joe: Wish you were here! Fried chicken better than aunty's. Love, Chug and Zipper, Tennessee 1962"

I've a bit of a thing for old photographs.

So, when my mom sent me home this weekend with a CD full of old photos of people I'm related to, yet have never met, I popped that thing into my mac with the same perverted curiosity I impart on the boxes of other people's memories every Sunday afternoon. She was mostly right; I don't have a clue who most of these people are. What I did find, though, are some incredible shots of my grandpa (one of them is up above).

My mom's dad died a few years before I was born, so my knowledge of him is pretty scattered, and before these pictures, I'd maybe, MAYBE encountered five pictures of him total in my entire life. What strikes me though, is how much we look alike. It's actually little bit freaky, staring at a picture of someone you don't know and seeing yourself. Actually, my mom looks exactly like him, but I also happen to look exactly like my mother, so, two and two, well ... Anyways, I made Claire confirm this last night, and though there was wine involved, we concluded that the resemblance is actually pretty weird, and I think we're totally right. Case in point:

I mean, look at those profiles! Now I know who to thank for this nose, this square face and this pouty chin.

I also love this picture of more people I don't know, plus my grandma and grandpa there on the far left.

I think this one sums up why I'm drawn to old photographs, and I realize, I'm totally projecting here, but whatever. Something about this smacks of a time when people weren't so fucking distracted and self-involved and were okay working hard and being happy and in love. I love it. I want it.

And here are a few more, thrown in for good measure. My grandpa was kind of a handsome devil.

Bibliononsense

So I've been grappling with the idea of writing a book. My hesitation lies in the fact that I feel that just by saying "I'm thinking of writing a book," I've catapulted myself into a very special circle of hell reserved for self-indulgent know-it-all assholes. But I do really want to write one. At some point.

What, at nearly 25, do I have to contribute to the world, save for a knapsack full of crude jokes and some optimism and a subpar vocabulary (according to the GRE)? Well, that's very much TBD, but I'm going to use the next year to start recording some blah blah blahs and whathaveyous. I'm envisioning something about education (shocking!) ... maybe some sort of memoir about going from a three year old who sat in my bedroom teaching my Teddy Ruxpin how to read; through an iffy public school system in which Mr. Stamp laughed at my 16 year old self when I told him I wanted to go to Harvard; to a Jesuit University; to, finally an Ivy League school where I'm going to study ways in which I can make education more accessible and equal and just plan exciting for kids back in the communities in which I grew up.

People seem to think it's funny that I'm a bleeding hearted liberal athiest borne from a conservative Christian family (my family doesn't know what to think of it) ... I wouldn't have it any other way, but in large part, I have my education and the incredible folks I've met along my academic way to thank for Katie ver. 2008. I'm a nerd to the core, always have been, and I love it and I want to write about it.

So, anyways, here's to spouting off some big words that I hope to live up to this year ...

Home and Heartbreak: 120 Hours in Cowlitz County

Hopes were high for this week.

I had five days away from work and plans to spend the 4th of July in my hometown, where I've spent nearly every 4th in my 25 years. I've been hard on my hometown in the past. There are drugs, abandoned industries, poverty, the persistently declining graduation rate of my high school ... all cyclical. The truth is, though, having been away for some seven years, I can now say that the 18 years I spent there, nestled in the sort of idyllic middle-class, blue-collar neighborhood where everyone knows everyone in every well-kept Dutch Colonial on every tree-lined block, well, they're the kind of 18 years I plan to give to my future herd of little nerds.

And the 4th of July, well, the 4th of July is when my hometown gets all gussied up. The population swells as all of the Cowlitz Countians flock to Lake Sacajawea in the center of town to wait an hour in line for elephant ears and buy tatty kitsch at the flea market and watch burly loggers run with chainsaws at the lumberjack competition. People stake out their spots on the lake bank early in the morning for the night's fireworks show ... which every other year seems to suffer from some sort of technical malfunction (which we all willingly forget every year). As a kid, you went to the lake to catch up with friends during summer break. You convinced your 6th grade boyfriend to buy you a glow stick and an ice cream cone and let you hold his hand during the fireworks' Grand Finale. In college, it became the event for which everyone gathered back in town from their respective college campuses, to see the people they haven't seen in months, years. Even at 24, the nostalgia far outweighs my angst at the preponderance of "Speak English or Get Out of My Country" bumper stickers.

So in some sort of ironic twist of whatever, on Day One of my annual Go 4th Nostalgia Fest, I managed to get myself dumped by my high school boyfriend. Thud.

As I get ready for my year in the nation's biggest metropolis, I've been grappling with these ideas of home and belonging and such as, like. Do I really want to be on the East Coast? Am I crazy to abandon my Pacific Northwest, which I will argue with anyone is one of the most stunning places on Earth? Am I a big BIG city girl? I like to think the answers to those questions are no, yes, no, but that's another story altogether. Back to my broken heart.

As I was sitting on my parents' couch ruminating over the fact that I was just text dumped by the long-time apple of my eye, I realized that the place no longer felt like home. I wanted nothing more than to be back in Seattle. I wanted my kitchen, I wanted my market, I wanted to walk up to Kerry Park and watch the ferries cross the bay or sit on the patio at Linda's and bullshit with friends, new and old. Yeah I've been hard on Seattle at times too (too corporate, too fratty, not Portland, etc. etc.) but those are only on my bad days.

Seattle is the place where, over the past seven years, I've grown into my own. I like my Seattle life, my Seattle self, immensely. And I'm just coming to realize, as I box up my apartment, that I'm going to miss both, immensely, this year.

My hometown is my hometown, but Seattle, well, Seattle is now home. I'm going to miss her. Talk about heartbreak.