50

i've recently been in--i don't want to call it a rut, since that's one step away from self-help, so i'll just refer to it as a--lull.  too much internetting, netflix on demanding and cereal for dinnering, too little anything else.  and while i always like to think of myself as a lazybones, the truth is, it gets old pretty fast and then i find myself trying to unlazy myself while still looking up things online, which means that the google searches just get more and more random. 

but i digress.  so anyways, this lull = pretty lame.  and because my love of resolutions is already well-documented, i decided that a new month was a perfect time to shake things up/turn over a new leaf/name your own change cliche.  so i have to do one new thing a day.  it doesn't have to be big, but it has to be all new.  

yesterday, i cooked black beans from scratch for the first time.  from the dry bag, i mean.  this actually started the night before with the whole sorting and soaking.  sorting through a bag of dry beans looking for outliers was weirdly engrossing.  maybe too engrossing.  toward the end i even left in one or two slightly-shriveled beans on purpose because i felt a little creepy, like i was playing my very own mini game of natural selection and couldn't handle the responsibility of choosing which dry beans would get to evolve.  margaret cho had an absolutely terrible sitcom in the 90s that i of course watched, and one scene has stuck with me the 15/16 years since:  the nutty (wikipedia describes her as zany but wise) grandmother gets a nielsen box, and at first she loves the power, but then the pressure of being at least a little responsible for the survival of television shows gets to her and she goes nuts, flipping through every channel, unable to stop on a single show lest the others suffer.  i feel like i've written about this story before, but i still think about it every few weeks.  so yeah, i felt that way about sifting through the beans.

they turned out pretty good but not great, but that didn't really matter, since figuring it out was the real point.  when i said that the new thing could be small, i really wasn't exaggerating.

for the first two-thirds of today, it looked like my new thing was going to be learning how to put freon in my car.  well, the learning part is still hypothetical, but i watched the guy at auto zone do it and asked him about a dozen dumb questions and now proudly own my very own hose so that next time i can fly solo.  it's embarrassing how little i know about auto maintenance and repair.  six months ago, when my battery died at sonic while i was sitting in my car playing solitaire on my phone and i had to be bailed out by a sixteen year old girl, the entire rescue operation was nearly derailed when i couldn't find the lever that pops the hood.  and sure, it is hidden, but come on, cotes, come on.  so when i learned what kind of refrigerant my car took and where the valve was and how the heck the contents of the can get in the valve, i was pretty darn proud and basically ready to call it a day, newness-wise.

but then!  oh ho!  i got home and opened the mail and what was inside but a homemade gnome mask, courtesy of bruns but probably not the brosephs.  sometimes i wonder if i long ago affected my love of gnomes, just to have a "thing."  but then i think back to second grade, when i used to look anxiously outside on cloudy days, desperately willing it to rain so that we could stay inside and watch david, the gnome (hmm, i wonder if gnomes being vegetarian influenced me at all.  i do often find myself longing to ride foxes around a forest . . .), and i realize that no, i just really love gnomes.  and now i get to BE one!

so my new new thing of  today = wearing a gnome mask around the house and trying to see if it freaks out habie.  did you know that dishes are more fun when done wearing a gnome mask?  true fact.  there was also a gnome mask photoshoot, where i tried valiantly to be the gnome.  it turns out to be much much harder than one might think.

however, angry non-botoxed gnome?  i got that one DOWN.

49

there are serial monogamists.  serial killers.  serial ports.  i think i may be a serial topicist.  instead of relationships, victims, or computer data, my stock in trade is some finite subject, something that i can tumble headfirst into for a day, a week, maaybe a fortnight before finding a new area to explore.

i don't think i started out wanting to go from thing to thing.  there was a kid in middle school who only ate tuna fish sandwiches and mac and cheese.  that's it.  all the time.  and yes, he was a little pasty, but i couldn't help but envy him a little.  not for what he ate, but that he had committed to these two foods and managed to persist through the tedium.  like the postal service, only instead of rain or sleet, it was neither strawberry season nor christmas cookies . . .

looking back, i realize that he probably didn't think of it that way, or that much.  but i did.  and later on i tried to figure out my own tuna fish and mac and cheese.  there was the semester of peanut butter and jelly and diet cokes in high school; when i first discovered hummus, i ate it with broccoli and a bagel every day for lunch for months.  but there'd always come a moment when i'd open up the brown sack or set the plate down and realize that i couldn't bear it anymore.  my fixation always had an expiration point; it was a matter of when, not if.

it's not just with food, either.  i jumped from afterschool activity to extracurricular with hardly a glance back.  when i got to college, there were people who had started dancing at the age of three, or who had picked up a tennis racket at six and fallen in love.  they had been doing whatever for so long that it had left an imprint.  even when they were away from the studio/court/potter's wheel, you could tell--by the way they moved, by the way they argued a point in class--what they did was who they were.  and while i'm glad i've been involved with (in roughly chronological order): dance; soccer; karate; art; choir; poetry; flute (ha!  that was very very shortlived); theater; tennis; journalism; debate; and local politics, nothing really ever stuck.

recently, it's been like hobbies on meth (oh kentucky and your influence on me.  number of things i've described as "X on meth" since moving here:  innumerable).  the timeline between first glance and final look is even more compressed, so that between breakfast and dinner i can discover something, become entranced, and completely lose interest.  short, sweet, and leaving me with a metallic taste in my mouth. 

two weekends ago, i was really nervous about something upcoming.  and my mom called and asked what i had been doing that sunday to prepare.  "um, reading flight attendant blogs," i said, and there was silence "hello" i asked.  "you still there?"  another long pause, and then a sigh.  "i was hoping i had heard you wrong," she said.  but she hadn't.  did you know flight attendant blogs were a thing?  i'm not sure it's organized enough to rate as a subculture, but there's certainly lingo to learn.  nonrevs are airline employees or family/friends of who are flying for free.  this is opposed to deadheading, which is where a flight attendant or pilot is flying for free and not working because the airline needs them to go somewhere else to pick up their next shift.  only you don't work a shift, you work a line, if you're lucky enough to have enough seniority to bid for one.  otherwise you're on reserve.

oh good grief.  and that's just a couple (okay, three . . . plus) hours of reading's worth. 

it's not like i've ever had a deep-seated desire to be a flight attendant, and many of the blogs aren't even very interesting.  but once i stumble upon one, i can't just let it be.  i have to dig deeper and deeper and make connections and decipher references.  i have to be able to put everything into context so that it's not completely unknown anymore. and then i move on. 

this weekend, the newest object of overly intense (yet shortlived) affection was the tv show, "bones."  one minute it's a lazy rainy saturday afternoon and i'm idly looking for something to watch on netflix on demand and don't have the attention span for a whole movie.  and then before i know it, it's sunday night and i'm almost done with the first season.  and it's not like i even really love the show.   i mean, i don't hate it, but it's way too heavy on the gore and super biased toward law enforcement.  but yet i can't keep from clicking "next episode."  and the show's has five seasons and counting!  only who knows if i'll make it that far, because partway through the third season the switch could flip and all of a sudden i'll lose all interest.


i keep a list of things i want to try someday.  everything from automotive repair to quilting to making my own yogurt and it only gets more random from there.  maybe i need to pick something off the list and just commit to sticking to it for a while.  not pick anything so easy to master.  say, two to three hours a week for the next six months.  well, maybe three months is more realistic.  and then, at the end of the three months, i can see if i'm still interested, if there's still more to go.  because as briefly-but-intensely satisfying as total consumption of a tiny thing is, steady progress at something bigger tests different muscles.  time to embrace the slow burn.



i'm still going to keep watching "bones" in the meantime though.

48 (your moment of zen)

it's been a long week which was preceded by another long week which followed a whirlwind vacation (and flying back into nashville during the flood) and even though it's only wednesday night, i'm so ready for the weekend i can hardly bear it.

but then, i catch a glimpse of habie.  tongue out, grin stretching from huntington beach to hudson bay.  and even though she's absolutely bonkers (dear habes, do you really need to wake me up at 5:30 am crying because i won't play with you at that very moment? and could we maybe stop hurdling the neighbor's fence?), she reminds me that for some, nothing is better than the drive home on a wednesday afternoon. 

47

of course i love libraries.  the hometown one played a large part in my childhood; when i was four or so, i remember always making a beeline to one shelf to see if there were any new books in a series about swedish triplets that liked to walk up hills (they had amazing names too, and i just spent five minutes on google trying to find them, but unfortunately computerized search results don't respond well to this sort of search query).  i had a little problem with returning books on time, and once was so desperate that i opened a new card with a fake name (my two middle names--i was eleven and no one asked me for ID).  public libraries are miraculous, and i thank andrew carnegie all the time (and try not to dwell on the whole strike busting/pinkerton/unsafe working conditions thing).

but oh, how i love used bookstores too, especially ones chockful of broken-spine paperbacks from the seventies.  libraries allow you to try out books without risk; used bookstores put some money on the wager.  growing up, just blocks from the virtuous library was volume one, which smelled of yellowed cheap paper and featured a cranky cat who took over the carpeted counter.  the children's section was so-so, the psychology section was full of self-help castoffs, the military history area was frighteningly complete, but where volume one shined was in pulp.  you didn't go to volume one looking for a particular book, unless that book happened to be a dean koontz that you hadn't gotten around to. 

volume one's exchange policy was one book for every five you turned in, with records of credit carefully marked on index cards.  for a long time, my mom tried to control the input/output, not letting me get a book unless i turned some in.  but then there was the sweet valley twins incident, where i bought back a book that already had my name in pencil on the title page "because i missed it so much" and after then she threw up her hands and stopped forcing trades. 

and really, that's the point of used bookstores:  you throw some back, but you also stock up.  you don't have to keep a book on your shelves that you're done with, but you also don't have a looming due date.  and because the books are yours, not on loan, you don't have to be quite as careful.  you can dogear the pages.  you can read in the bath.

(there are a lot of people who are horrified by anything less than a white-gloved handling of books.  they never lose book jackets and always use a bookmark.  i don't mind these people, but i know they mind me.  because when i read, i devour.  pages are turned down, notes are scrawled in the margins, spines are cracked so as to hold open with one hand.  it is a full-contact sport and sometimes there are fouls.  pretty much the only lines i draw are:  1) no burning and 2) no boring holes or hollowing out to turn into cutesy art project.)

there aren't a lot of bookstores in hoptown, although the kroger has a decent selection of bestsellers and walmart has an amish fiction area.  there is, however, a used bookstore (smell is just right; cat is named gatsby, although he's more gargantuan than disgruntled).  about two-thirds of the inventory is romance novels, while most of the other third is trashy mysteries, which is where i hang.  i've been doing a pretty impressive job of keeping a trade cycle going, but every now and then i refuse to return one.  on my last visit this saturday, i bought the poisonwood bible even though i've read it twice and know that my mom has a copy because i wanted one for my own shelves.  although it'll take a while to get there, since the reusable grocery bagful of books sits next to my coffee table for at least a week.  i pull one out, start it, decide i'm not in the mood, and toss (yes, literally.  calm thyself collectors) it back to marinate for a couple more days. 

it's been just a day and a half since i brought the last bag home, and i've already read two cover to cover and parts of three more.  the first couple of days with the bag are like thanksgiving--eat long past the point of hunger.  but now that the workweek's starting again, my pace'll slow.  everything will get chewed more in smaller bites.  i'll fall asleep on the couch with dog at my feet and book split upside down on the arm.  sooner or later, i'll realize that i'm on the last one in the bag, and then i'll decide which ones are staying and which are going.  and then i'll wait for the next payday and start all over.


volume one closed a while back.  for a while, another bookstore took its place, but it wasn't a used bookstore and everything seemed too clean and curated.  that store closed too, and now the space is something else entirely.  and every time i return and pass by second street, i mourn the loss.  because the library taught me to read, but volume one made me a book owner, torn covers and all.

46

habes and i (okay, fine, me, but she was definitely amenable) decided to start our own easter tradition and went down to an off-leash dog park in nashville today.  yes, i drove over an hour each way for a large fenced-in area (there were plans to get chipotle too, but apparently the burritos were observing the holiday.  chipotle!  you're killing me!)

within thirty seconds of unleashing, habie had gotten into it with an airedale who was not a fan of the HCMM lick assault.  and then she jumped up on a guy who made the mistake of sitting on a bench with a free lap.  at this point, it feels like the whole park is looking at us.  looking and judging.  because before we showed up everyone was getting along so nicely.  i was thisclose to leaving. 

but we didn't leave, because dammit i drove to another state to get to this park and we were going to get our gas's worth.  and so i calmed down and habie calmed down and this basset hound toddled over and all of a sudden habie was surrounded by about three or four dogs who apparently liked nothing more than to have my dog lick their bellies clean.  hey, whatever works.  the airedale's owner told me that her dog was a bully and i apologized to the guy on the bench and then a new puppy showed up and everyone headed over to sniff and i realized that this was not going to be a repeat of the first obedience class.  we were not going to fail the dog park.


because it's just the two of us, so often, and because i am neurotic, i worry all the time about habie, worry that i've messed up somehow, that she's horribly behaved, that i can't do this.  and yes, she's totally spoiled.  and yes, she refuses to learn the "off!" command, which can be mortifying.  but today was a revelation:  my dog is just fine.  we are okay.  and that's definitely a tradition i'd like to keep.

45

sure, you could read about a girl and a dog in kentucky.  orrrr, you could read about my mom, who trekked sixteen miles in snow and sleet and hail and fell twice today and is still going to get up and do it again tomorrow (hopefully with fewer falls and better weather) in northern spain.  

keep on truckin', moms!

44

next week my mom leaves to walk 180 miles of the camino de santiago de compostela pilgrimage, across spain.  when she first told me that she was going to be walking a dozen miles a day and sleeping in monasteries at night, all the while carrying everything she needed on her back, i thought she was crazy.  i mean, sure, i've read a walk in the woods, but as much as i want to like bill bryson, i've never ever dreamed of trekking the appalachian trail. 

but oh, today, the sun came out for the first time in a long while and warmed everything, and i rolled down the three windows that work, and it was sublime.  there was a man walking on the side of the road, and for a second i thought about pulling over and doing the same.  only there were clients to see and paperwork to get through and so i kept driving, alas.  and if the streets of hoptown are good for walking, then oh those backroads in northern spain . . .

beside envying her for the scenery she'll get to see, i am jealous of the time my mom gets.  time to walk, time to watch, time after time.  i am lucky enough to have getaways planned:  baltimore next weekend(!!!) and home and southern california in late april.  but both are whirlwind: countable in hours for one and a single hand of days for the other.  everything is jampacked, and though i come back from these trips with a full heart, sometimes emptiness is what i crave. 

i haven't been out of the country for over four years, haven't crossed an ocean for five.  and though i've been incredibly lucky to get to see beautiful places, what i am most grateful is how long i got to spend in some of them.  a month in paris, another month in greece,  over four in hyderabad: sure, it's not the same as packing up and moving there, but by the end, i stopped feeling like such a tourist and more of a person spending some time there.  i had my favorite cafe/ beach/tailor, and i also had afternoons where i stayed in and took a nap and didn't have to feel guilty that i was missing out.  i really am a creature of habit.  newness is okay, so long as i can cobble a routine together.  when i was in frankfort, i had the same thing for breakfast each day in the hotel dining room, and rather than tire of it, i clung to my strawberry yogurt and rice krispies at 8 am pattern.  like a little anchor thrown off the side of the ship to remind you that the sea is not as bottomless as it might feel.

there are so many places i want to see in this lifetime, but it's okay if i don't get to them all, so long as the ones i do reach leave a mark.  because the vignettes that stick are never from the museums or ruins or starred guidebook attractions.  they're from the spaces between.  the way the rain smelled on the cobblestones as i walked through the latin quartier to french class.  how the sunbathers on the beach looked like shrinking neon ants as i drifted in the aegean, farther and farther from shore.  the washing machine in the dorm in hyderbad, which was in a bathroom and shook so violently during the spin cycle that i would have sit on top of it and flex my legs against the sink to prevent the machine from traveling across the tile floor. 

i don't know if i'll ever make it to the camino, but i hope my days of going and staying, or at least going and traveling at footspeed, aren't too far off.  iceland, i can hear you calling . . .