talk talk talk

there's a picture of me as a little kid, probably no more than 4 years old. i'm sitting in my room alone, at my piano, with my headphones on. i'm looking over my shoulder, scowling: the most genuinely indignant face you've ever seen on a 4-year-old. the problem? my mother. who was (i'm told) behind the camera, interrupting my private time. how dare she.

this picture is often the gateway to a family dissertation on my lone-wolfishness. the lead-in to stories of all of those times i could have been playing outside with friends, but was instead sitting in my closet fort, recording radio shows with my imaginary students. all of the times i would rather read a book or play an instrument than interact with human beings.

it's a notoriety i'd like to abandon.

it's a hard habit to break after 26 years of assuming you are what you always were.

lately, i've never wanted to talk more than i do now. insularity is no longer cute and fun. i want feedback. i want dialogue. i want the comfort of another person's voice to hash out the kinks with.

especially if that person knows me as well as i do. and doesn't buy into the notion of childhood photos as portents.

as determined by their viewer

i just came across my last blog post. nine months ago. my first thought was, "oh, things change quickly." but because i'm trying very hard to qualify my thoughts these days, my second thought was "wait, have they really?"

nine months ago i had just finished my first year of graduate school. i'd secured my first two legitimate jobs in education. i moved to a real apartment. the sun was shining. i met a boy.

today, i just finished grad school. i have two more legitimate jobs in education. my apartment remains real. the sun is shining. i lost that boy.

then, transition felt like progress. today, it sometimes feel like treading water. the difference is, i know wholeheartedly, a matter of perspective.

perspective, my constant, constant foe.

breaking into the habit of maintaining perspective is akin to training for a marathon. commitment. persistence. commitment. persistence.

so, now i do both. i run and i think. my stamina for running pales in comparison, at this point, to my stamina for thinking. but one of these days, after three miles of running and thinking, it'll be programmed. because it has to be.

nine months ago i welcomed perspective. right now, i'm afraid of it. because choosing to find perspective means taking control.

and that is a frightening ... and liberating ... thing.

two wheels, one borough, and a little time.

i tend to believe you are what you choose.

i was walking down 7th ave today after work, somewhere between 26th and 23rd and found myself looking around and thinking "this is good."

if you've ever walked down 7th ave between 26th and 23rd, you'll know it takes a special sort of determination to choose to have a moment of clarity in this certain stretch of the city (unless FITers and Chipotle = enlightenment for you; not so for me). so, yeah, it's not a particularly lovely part of the city. no, scratch that: it's overwhelmingly unspectacular.

nevertheless, here i am ... 4pm ... unshowered ... overclothed ... stickyhumidfacesweathot ... thinking "this is good."

i've found my life has taken a drastic change for the better since i decided to start choosing to feel good about it. and there's something weirdly empowering and awesome about that.

a month ago i left the Apartment of Doom and relocated to an old italian neighborhood in brooklyn. i bought a bike last weekend. i have a kitchen again. i have a farmers market. and a coffee shop.

yesterday i was buying a subway card and the guy next to me asked "are you visiting the city?"** and i think i looked up at him incredulously, frowning, and said "psht no i LIVE here." it was a weird moment of pride and camaraderie that six months ago i would have told you i'd never, EVER give this city the satisfaction of coaxing out of me.

but now, after a few months and a whole lot of brooklyn, i am perfectly content.

**dude, let's not assume this reflects poorly on my metrocard-buying skills. i do that shit like a pro, son. i think he was just taken aback by my offer to give him the buck he needed to buy a card. take the girl outta washington but ....

too busy to write

capable only of 50 word bursts and pictures. tumbl-ing instead. someday i'll quit slacking.

at last ...

... and so begins the sexiest administration in history. suck it, nic and carla! your combined hotness has been one-upped! L'Amerique est la plus sexy!

... and here are some pics from inauguration day in harlem.

dirty grout and all

i'm sure at one point the grout on my kitchen floor was white. there is some, scant, evidence that this was once the case: if you get down on your knees near the garbage can (though oh god please don't) and dust away the scum of a thousand years you might catch a glimpse of white. everywhere else, though, is jet black.

since moving here in august, this kitchen has been my particular bane. i adore a kitchen. my old kitchen was (i now realize) a special kind of amazing. i lived in it. i cooked, every day, in it. it always smelled good. it was shiny.

so you're thinking, katie, yeah your new kitchen sounds gross; clean it up. well, herein lies the problem: the scum is now beyond me. bigger than me. i've surrendered.

on my flight back to nyc after christmas, i think in an attempt to not cry into the seatback in front of me, i hatched an elaborate scheme to scrub, clean, sanitize the apartment. i come from a particularly obsessive tribe of cleaners: dirt and grime our mortal enemies. we vacuum often, we sanitize things, we don't like piles, we attack bad smells, we bleach, we organize.

when i landed, sleep deprived and homesick, my first move was to go to the drugstore and stock my artillery: rubber gloves, bleach, three sizes of scrub brushes. this is how i deal with stress.

so i started in the kitchen, scrubbing the stovetop, cleaning the inside of the microwave, wiping down the cabinets. then came the floor. i have a very narrow kitchen, so i didn't have the chance, nor a reason, to see under the cabinets prior to this moment.

let me tell you, friends, there is a special breed of scum that grows in new york city that our dear, dear pacific northwest, even with all of its moss and mold and wet, will never, ever, EVER compete with. i think it's probably a given that after 250 years on a tiny island with 8 million people, some shit is bound to accumulate.

i get down on my knees on my kitchen floor and find that there is no longer a 90 degree angle between floor and wall, but rather a gentle slope of grime and grit from floor to cupboard bottom. i breathe, i grab brush, i go to work. after about two hours of scrubbing, it remains. it is impenetrable. i scrub, i douse with god awful chemicals, i mop, i repeat. and still, the scum.

disheartened, i have retreated. i have no further plan of attack. it is a mess i cannot conquer. and so, i continue to avoid my kitchen. heartbreak.

this is one battle in several that have seemed insurmountable since arriving in this city five months ago. it's impossible to conquer everyone else's dirt and bad habits and crappy attitudes, so you just retreat. i think this passivity is something that most people here praise: you give up the comforts and the little things to just LIVE in the GREATEST city in the WORLD. or something to that effect. i have yet to discover the rewards of this sacrifice. instead i've found it to be mostly numbing and claustrophobic.

I would post something original about Sarah Palin

if I didn't feel like everything I have to say is summed up in this article:

The Sarah Palin pity party

"She boldly tries to pass off incuriosity and lassitude as regular-people qualities, thereby doing a disservice to all those Americans who also work two jobs and do not come from families that hand out passports and backpacking trips, yet still manage to pick up a paper and read about their government and seek out experience and knowledge. When you stage a train wreck of this magnitude -- trying to pass one underqualified chick off as another highly qualified chick with the lame hope that no one will notice -- well, then, I don't feel bad for you." Aaaaa-freakin-men.

My backpack

No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I have, however, grossly underestimated the amount of time and energy necessary to be a productive graduate student in a school full of insanely smart people. I looked back yesterday on the past week and calculated that I probably spent at least 35 hours studying/writing/pulling my hair out over spss code. I had three papers due and about 400 pages of reading.

Today I bought a backpack. This purchase was long overdue. When I got here I was convinced a purse would do (I have a tendency to carry very large purses). Again, I was mistaken in thinking that graduate school was cute and fun. I mean, it is FUN, but cute? Oh god, very far from it. So today I bought a real backpack. A real backpack that would actually allow me to transport multiple 2" binders, books, lunch, sanity, etc. So if you think I'm overreacting here, I invite you to take a look inside. These are the supplies for my Saturday study session. And this only covers two classes.

This is water

This morning I woke up at 10 a.m. to a soundtrack of Top 40 R&B slow jams, courtesy of a guy sitting outside my window in his car, drinking a 40 ... windows rolled down, no regard for those of us trying to enjoy a slow Sunday morning. After two hours (I'm not kidding), he walked across the street and peed on the apartment building across from mine. When I left my apartment at 1:00, he was still there; though the soundtrack had changed from Rhianna to some sort of Mexican polka.

Sometime during this whole debacle, I collected myself enough to sit down and read the NYT online ... only to discover that David Foster Wallace committed suicide on Friday.

I think this is as good a time as any to break this out: 2005 Kenyon University Commencement Speech. My mantra for the past several years. Ringing especially true these days of new and rude and dirty and uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

This is water. This is water. This is water.

R.I.P. D.F.W.

Obama does Columbia

So, the 24,900 of us who weren't awarded tickets to Thursday's sit-down with Obama and McCain scrambled for a piece of concrete outside.

But I will share this

An email from the CU President this morning ...

Dear fellow member of the Columbia community,

I am delighted to welcome you back for the new academic year with some exciting news. Columbia University has been selected to host "ServiceNation Presidential Candidates Forum" next Thursday evening as a partner in the ServiceNation Summit that will take place in New York on September 11-12.

On September 11, a day of remembrance that ServiceNation organizers intend for nonpartisan reflection on our obligations as citizens, we look forward to welcoming both Senator John McCain and Senator Barack Obama back to our campus for a nationally broadcast conversation in Alfred Lerner Hall about the future of national service moderated by TIME Magazine editor Richard Stengel and PBS NewsHour anchor Judy Woodruff. Governor David Paterson is scheduled to provide a welcome to the event.

It is entirely fitting for us to become part of this two-day conclave that will bring together so many admired leaders in our country to consider ways to expand the scope and scale of successful service programs throughout the nation. Public service and active involvement in the issues facing our society have always been an essential part of Columbia's identity and academic mission. As a leading research university in our nation's greatest urban center, ours is a campus of robust engagement in the life of our neighborhood and City, our nation and our world.

Each year, thousands of Columbia students across all our schools, colleges and affiliates participate in hundreds of service learning, volunteer action and social entrepreneurship programs here in New York and across the globe. We look forward to having this very public event spark an ongoing conversation within our own University community about strategies to further enhance the role of service and citizenship in Columbia's academic mission.

Given our limited space, we will ensure that all seating available goes to students in our University community. Students will receive a follow-up email tomorrow with details regarding how to register for the ticket lottery.

While it will not be a presidential debate, but rather two individual conversations, this nonpartisan Forum is one of only a few times that John McCain and Barack Obama are scheduled to appear on the same stage during the general election campaign. We are delighted to be part of an event on a theme so important to all citizens and to Columbians.

Sincerely,

Lee C. Bollinger

President

And on October 21st, the education advisors for both campaigns will debate at Teachers College ... Linda Darling-Hammond, in the flesh. My brain might explode.

I love my school.

Fact

I'll write soon. Hold yer horses.

In the meantime, I HAVE been sending things to my tumblr ...

Never too early to talk about yule logs.

Those who know me well know the fervor with which I celebrate Christmas. It is the apex of my year. In fact, just the other day, I was thinking "Wow, summer is almost over. It's almost Christmastime!" That's right, in my mental calendar fall is not fall, but rather the prelude to "Christmastime."

I'm not too proud to admit that one of the main reasons I'm excited about living in New York this next year is being there for the month of December. The Christmas decorations, the Rockefeller Christmas pomp and circumstance, the department store windows, the lights on the Empire State Building, the Rockettes, the general feel of the holiday hustle on a scale larger than I've ever seen before. This is a town that does Christmas.

So, imagine my surprise, nay goddamned falling-out-of-chair-with-excitement-ness , when I read this:

The campus Tree-Lighting Ceremony is a relatively new tradition at Columbia, inaugurated in 1998. It celebrates the illumination of the medium-sized trees lining College Walk in front of Kent and Hamilton Halls on the east end and Dodge and Journalism Halls on the west, just before finals week in early December. The lights remain on until February 28. Students meet at the sun-dial for free hot chocolate, performances by various a cappella groups, and speeches by the university president and a guest.

Immediately following the College Walk festivities is one of Columbia's older holiday traditions, the lighting of the Yule Log. The ceremony dates to a period prior to the Revolutionary War, but lapsed before being revived by University President Nicholas Murray Butler in the early 20th century. A troop of students dressed in Continental Army soldiers carry the eponymous log from the sun-dial to the lounge of John Jay Hall, where it is lit amid the singing of seasonal carols.[7] The ceremony includes readings of A Visit From St. Nicholas' by Clement Clarke Moore (Columbia College class of 1798) and Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus by Francis Pharcellus Church (Class of 1859).

The more I learn about Columbia, the deeper in love I fall.

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.