write me well

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  • Big Things!

    Big Things have been happening! Big happy things! And a new URL and name for this oft-forgotten slice of the web is the least of them! 

    New writing initiatives are always one of my favorite things, even if it is not far from the truth to say I have yet to ever truly stick to a single one of them in this life. However, this one is in full swing, so I’m going to be an optimist, as I am wont to do, and say this time, my friends, I will stick to it. Every once and a while someone I haven’t talked to in the longest time will tell me that they enjoy reading my little piece of the internet whenever I take the time to sit down and write. So it is with that energy I sit down and write this, my first contribution (of many, I tell you!) to the internet of God’s year 2023. (That’s my attempt at channeling medieval chroniclers, whose taste for high drama, gossip, and shameless shade in the guise of “chronicling” I always aspire to. You will find no religious re-awakenings here).  

    So Big Thing One.  

    Has anyone here seen Robin Hood: Men in Tights? When Robin and Marian get married at the end, the ceremony is performed by Rabbi Tuckman (played by Mel Brooks), and it goes roughly like this:  

    “Robin, do you?”  

    “I do.” 

    “Marian, do you?” 

    “I do.”  

    This always used to seem like an insane way to get married to me. But now, I think it’s kind of great. Like, if all you care about is being married to the person you’re getting married to, it’s really all you need. I say all of this to share that, at some point in the next month or so, county clerk schedules depending, Aaron and I will be doing our own version of this scene. (Except that in the movie, they are interrupted by Patrick Stuart playing King Richard. I would not object to Patrick Stuart showing up but the prospect is doubtful.)

    So that is the wonderful and exciting and lovely Big Thing 1.  

    Big Thing 2?

    We will then promptly be moving to Seattle, Washington, where Aaron has snagged an amazing job working on rocket engines, as he is wont to do. This relocation will include buying our first home (Big Thing 3??), and me finding a new job (Big Thing 4??). It’s a lot of Big Things, I know. But I could not be more excited because I know that as stressful as it will be at times, all of these big things combine to make a pretty fantastic adventure that I get to go on with a pretty fantastic person.  

    When I was in between flat viewings in London in late March of 2018, I sat in a pub and re-discovered the Fratellis. I haven’t followed them very seriously over the years, but the summer of my senior year of high school is when their Costello Music album was charting, so it accompanied some of my best windows-down driving moments. And let’s be honest: in a suburban teenage existence, windows-down driving moments are really the only Big Things you’ve got.  

    The 2018 album In Your Own Sweet Time is no Costello Music. But it had two songs that I immediately added to the on-the-go playlist I had for that time in my life, and now they transport me as instantly to Portobello Road (because of course that’s where I was sitting in a pub in between flat viewings as an American that had just moved to London) as Flathead takes me to a one-hundred-degree Sacramento summer. And that will always be my favorite thing about music, that time-machine quality it has.  

    When I’m experiencing Big Things, like this one/dozen, I always wonder which songs will develop that bizarre power. A song called Feeling Ok by Best Coast was the soundtrack to several London lockdown walks while I was deciding to move back home. When I first moved in with Aaron, it was the song Hello Mary Lou (Goodbye Heart) by Ricky Nelson.  

    This moment’s song? The jury is still out. Based on my recent listening, there are a few different contenders. But there’s also a lot to come in the next few weeks and months, so I’m not making any guesses just yet. I can tell you though, that I am already excited to think about how they’ll make me feel for the rest of my life.  

    So stay tuned, dudes, for the next few contributions. Because this time around, for whatever reason (read: the song I’m listening to right now), I have a little extra faith.  

  • Home Things

    We’re not going to talk about how potentially far-distant home ownership is. Nope. This is, instead, a post about home things in the context of the house where we’re renting.

    Some background:

    I’m in Portland right now, writing this from the lobby of my hotel while on an evening break from attending my first ever APGA conference. (That’s APGA as in American Public Garden Association, not Advocates Professional Golf Association. There can be a lot of grass in both, but it’s an important distinction nonetheless.) Today is day two of conferencing, day three of Portlanding, and whoof, I am already exhausted.

    Traveling for work is one of those life tasks that seemed glamorous and fashionably professional when I was a kid. Thirteen year old Kathy, my favorite lens through which to measure my adult achievements in life, would not believe that I am seated on a creamy leather banquette, a fluted pint of beer next to my laptop, typing away with an array of brass lights and murals and cocktails for company. She’d probably think it was freaking sweet.

    Alas, thirteen year old Kathy is not thirty-three, and she doesn’t understand that your own bed is the best bed, and home is home. (And that conferences, educational and inspirational and well-meaning as they are, are by nature, conferences. And are thus deeply exhausting exercises in note-taking, coffee-consumption-regulating, and in 2022, N95 masking.)

    So last night, when one of the coolest people I work with (honestly, she is so cool) invited me to her local best friend’s birthday dinner at her home, I was quick to accept. Yesterday happened to be the first full day of summer weather that Portland has seen, so while I’m sure the evening would have been exceptional regardless, it was blessed with the extra magic that is a Summer Solstice full of golden, mid-seventies sunshine and sitting on the grass with olives and soft cheese and chilled white wine with a group of people that haven’t seen the sun for six months. In London this was always the best experience and I am happy to report that it was the same here in Portland.

    The entire evening gave me a really interesting combination of feelings that I haven’t fully processed yet. That’s part of why I’m sitting here, writing about it. First, I was surrounded by such clearly amazing people. One of the women I met had a very similar recent experience to me – she had been living in Brooklyn for 12 years, working in corporate retail, and got laid off in the pandemic. Between that, the sudden distance created by an inability to visit home and her nieces, and the realization that retail is some ruthless-hustle-based bullshit, she decided to move back home and change careers. She felt an even stronger version of the bittersweet longing for Brooklyn that I feel for London, given how long she had lived there. But she knew she made the right decision and she is in the right place now, and she was happy with her imperfect decision because really, all decisions are imperfect.

    The amazing woman whose home we visited, who has the fortune to call the longest day of the year her birthday, had not only the most impeccable taste in all things design, but shares with me some fairly random passions. A jeweller by trade, she specializes in English antique pieces, and has her own collection of enamel Victorian mourning rings (one of my favorite types of antique jewelry), which she pulled out and shared with me on the grass in the backyard while the sun set. She even, as one of her pieces of daily jewelry, wears a Tudor-era memento mori ring – something I have aspired to have of my own for years.

    And then there was her home. An early 1900’s craftsman, with its small porch, original hardwood floors, chartreuse kitchen cabinets, and Persian stairwell runner of salmons-and-oranges-and-browns, was an absolute dream. White brick fireplace. MCM built-ins but a lived in, cream linen sofa. Palette-knifed original artworks and lamps with stained glass shades handmade by her father. An oversized, oil pastel Picasso gallery print the sole work living above the fireplace. Cupboards full of vintage plates and hand-thrown ceramics. And above all, an open, easy grace reflected in her hosting and her own personal energy, that permeated every part of the place. As I told her when I thanked her for her hospitality before catching an Uber home, “Not to sound completely creepy, but I love everything about the home you’ve created. It is wonderful.”

    All of which is the background to the first sentence I wrote here. We’re not going to talk about home ownership and how distant that feels. We’re going to celebrate the progress in what my home is now, an imperfect place that I share with a human whose imperfections complement my own, which all works together to create a place that I would very much rather be than in a swank boutique hotel lobby. So while my intent with this post was actually to talk about the specific pieces of interior design progress I’ve made in our own (albeit rented) craftsman bungalow, it turns out the bit I really wanted to talk about was how it’s all come together to feel like a home worth missing.

  • Buzzcuts, Crusades, & Not Needing No Man

    It’s a rainy June afternoon in London, which is exactly the sort of thing everyone spent all of last summer warning me about. And yeah, it’d be a little bit more beautiful if there was blue sky on my day off instead of clouds and a more-than-light drizzle, but the atmosphere of a summer rainstorm has its own sort of magic. It’s warm, and damp, and grey, and green, and saturated. If you’ve got the option to spend that kind of afternoon inside with a view, there are worse June days to be had.

    I have done a markedly poor job of adventuring this spring/summer, and I’m determined to fix this. I may not have any current plans regarding how to do so, but I mean, this time last month I hadn’t even booked the last-minute trip to Malta that I went on two weeks ago. I doubt I’m going to jet off anywhere in the next two weeks, but for now the fact that I COULD is satiating enough. Besides, Malta was glorious, four days of lying in eighty-degree sunshine listening to Lizzo and re-applying sunscreen every hour on the hour and one day of solo-touring Valetta as I sweat my bodyweight trekking from Instagram post to Instagram post. The thrill of it will carry me through several rainy afternoons to come.

    I will also make do with the residual historical passion left from plowing through two Crusader-era novels about Richard I during said holiday, and a renewed focus on creating and committing to a social calendar. Last night was a bizarrely solid step forward in both regards, spent catching up with someone from my UEA days at an art showing at circa 1720 The Jerusalem Tavern. It was an excellent night of discussing cathedral pilgrimages, a shared love of old buildings, and the magical aura of places like Winchester and York.

    Yesterday marked the expiration of the last drop of patience I had in the growing-out-my-hair process. That sort of patience is always in short supply in my life, because once you have buzzed your hair, anything longer is considered high maintenance. I was having a moment, though, the record-setting kind where for almost a whole WEEK I thought I might have the strength of spirit to have a slightly long, curly-haired pixie cut. To give up my preferred silvery buzzed cousin of a pixie in favor of something a little more approachable, more akin to cute than “don’t fuck with me”. But yet again, it was not to be. I walked by a barber shop on my way to kill an hour before meeting up with said friend and walked out with significantly less hair. And let me tell you, that cycle is some well-known, battle-scarred territory for me.

    My close friends know that I struggle a lot with the concept of looking feminine. I don’t mind not looking feminine, and in fact actively revel in wearing my hair in a way that most people would call striking and/or androgynous. But when you’ve hit age thirty and five years of being single, even the most confident woman has a moment of self-reflection that involves examining how she looks and acts, wondering if that one thing is the reason a partner has eluded her all these years. And as a woman that wears her hair shorter than almost all others, my hair cut is an easy target whenever my self-criticism rears its rude head.

    The genuine truth is that 99% of the time, I love how I look and I don’t give a shit if it’s not appealing to men. My style is one of my favorite things about me and I absolutely would not change a thing about it just to attract a guy. But it is also genuinely true that that 1% moment, the one where I suffer crippling self-doubt and feel like I’ll always be alone, is a real fucking doozy. I miss having a partner. It doesn’t matter how much I love myself; it’s really hard to admit that I’ve just gotta wait around for a guy that’s not put off or intimidated by or unattracted to a girl that chooses to look like me.

    What gets me through those 1% moments is realizing that I’m not waiting: I’m just otherwise occupied. I have the luxury of other things to focus on and pursue and get excited about on my own. While it’s a little frustrating that my hair regrowth rate seems to line up perfectly with the creep-in rate of my self-doubt, I’ve learned to live with it (and my hair). Men might not be a fan on the whole, but just today I caught eyes with a lovely woman in her forties shopping with her friend. They stopped me and told me they’d been watching me since I came into the store because my hair was so amazing, and the friend pulled out her phone to show me the short hairstyles she’d just been looking up because I’d inspired her so much.

    Having said all of that, you could argue that I’m leaning real hard into my haircut as being single-handedly responsible for my singledom. Which is entirely possible too.

    Except you’re wrong, because what’s NOT to love about a loud, charming 12th century English history nerd covered in tattoos that can dad-joke with the best of them? I am flawless and so is my haircut.

     

     

     

  • The Bucket Theory

    I’m a chronic mom-caller. Like, I may live over three thousand miles away from my mother, and I may be a grown-ass thirty-year-old woman, but if I go more than 2-3 days without speaking to my mom, it’s weird. I used to call her on my way home from work, and now that I have my own place, I call her as soon as I’m home, eating my pre-made dinner on the couch while I tell her about my day and listen in turn about hers. I’ll call her on my days off when I have literally nothing new to tell her. I’ll call her when I discover pre-filled strawberry jam and cream scones for sale at Tesco. Chron-ic.

    Whether it’s because I do such a faultless job of this on a regular basis, or because my mom has a tendency to feel like she’s a ‘bother’ if she’s the one that calls me (“I never know what you’re doing! You’re so busy. You could be at work.” “Mom, I keep telling you. If you call me and I’m busy, I just won’t pick up the phone.” I digress.) – my mom hardly ever calls me. But this afternoon I was off work, sitting at a coffee shop, when my phone rang and it was my mom. Calling me!

    We talked about a lot of things, as we always do. Work stress, life stress, good things, challenging things. And at one point, somewhere between good things and challenging things, I mentioned my Bucket Theory. I feel like I tell everyone and their mother about my Bucket Theory, so I was 110% sure I’d already not only mentioned it to my own, but explained it in depth. But it turns out I hadn’t, and because I will never not enjoy the sound of my own voice – especially when expounding my own life views – when she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard about your Bucket Theory” – I LEPT at the opportunity. And as a result, the topic is fresh on my mind, and I figured no time like the present to infect the internet with it.

    So here, un-asked for, is my Bucket Theory.

    We spend an inordinately large amount of time while we’re growing up and getting older being told exactly What Will Make Us Happy. People, society, strangers, LIFE. They all act like there’s a one-size-fits-all formula for how to make a life for yourself that genuinely brings you joy.

    What I spent my twenties doing was unlearning all of that.

    Attaining happiness is only universal in that it can always be broken down into buckets. One bucket, six buckets, twenty buckets, every person is different. The buckets come in all different sizes. Maybe yours are all tiny and easily filled; maybe some are bigger, and need a regularly scheduled top up. But the constant between everyone’s buckets is this: the sum of their parts is a Satisfying, Happy Life. (Accidentally just typed Lie, and I’m gonna go ahead and ignore what that typo is trying to tell me.) The only way your buckets can be Wrong is if they hurt people in the process of being filled. As long as you have peaceful, kind buckets, I truly think your only priority in life should be to define them and fill them however you see fit.

    I believe I’ve gotten to the place I am in life because I figured out what my buckets are and made a big deal out of prioritizing filling them the fuck up. Having my family in my life is a big bucket – but for me, geographic closeness isn’t a requirement of keeping that full. I rely heavily and happily on technology to do so. Having a job that’s satisfying, but also allows me creative freedom in my style and on my days off, is another big old bucket. It needs a regular top up in that I always want to feel driven and like I’m developing the people around me, but I’m quite certain my career bucket will never get any bigger. It will always play second fiddle (second…bucket?) to others.

    And then there are the surprise buckets – Being Near Medieval English Things turned out to be a pretty major one. Nobody told me when I was thirteen that where I live would bring me more happiness than my college degree itself. Tattoos. Financial Independence. Writing – well, no surprise there. Seven year old Kathy could have accurately drawn the size of that bucket right after she wrote her first short story about a girl sneaking off from a family picnic to find a dragon in a hillside cave. It will probably always be my biggest bucket.

    But if your career bucket is your biggest, wahey to you! You will find no judgement here. The same if being physically close to those you love is a big bucket. I get that too. Making a family. Having a dog. Achieving fame. Immersing yourself in other cultures. Helping the environment. Listening to great music. Chocolate chip cookies. They are your buckets. It is your life. Too many people get down on themselves because their buckets are different or strange or maybe even because they’re not different enough. I assure you, it doesn’t matter. Nobody has to deal with whether or not something brings you happiness and fulfillment except You.

    So on this doing-its-damnedest-to-pretend-its-not-Spring April afternoon, if you’re looking for an extra bit of happy in your life, take a look at your buckets. And once you figure them out, there are only two things you need to do: chase their fulfillment like nobody’s business, and never apologize for it.

  • 2019. For Now, Anyway.

    Eighteen days into 2019 and I’m just now sitting down to write for the first time in what feels like an absolute age – that, my friends, is what a retail Christmas will do to you.  

    This is the first time I’ve parked at Foyles with a pot of tea, post-perusal of the English Middle Ages history section of the store, satisfactorily plonking out several overdue email responses since the ensuing chaos of December’s end. Retail Christmas is always a busy time, but this particular one was full of firsts that only added to the controlled burn: First time managing a flagship store through peak? Check. First time spending Christmas on my own? Check. First time launching end of season sale on Christmas day and then running inventory less than two weeks after NYD? Check and fuck-that-noise check (I mean, not really – I’ve got a dream team that got me through it, and you can only ever learn and improve). 

    Sitting here, though, five days following that last check mark, listening to Hozier and deciding his vibes are my 2019 vibes (has anybody else seen and fallen in love with that oatmeal-based Twitter exchange he had?), I wouldn’t change it. Every box you check off brings you that much closer to what you want your endgame to look like.  

    It does not hurt that I have a pretty clear idea of what the next few months will look like, and the forecast is most excellent. February includes my first trip home since moving here back in March! I’ll get to see several of the lights of my life that give me the brightest and best faith in the world and I won’t have to plug my brain in for fourteen straight days. May will see my first trip to Croatia with a fabulous friend, a week of beaches and books and delightfully one-pieced swimsuits. Dotted in-between, ideally with a bit more planning than last year but cherished regardless, more day trips around the whole of England, maybe even with a few weekend trips thrown in because nothing says living on the edge like a solo mini-break to a village most people would struggle to point out on a map, but damn yo, those castles!  

    It’ll also be the first few months of the UEA Women’s Alumni Network, something I’ve been helping put together for the past eight or so months and launched with a chic and lovely bang this past Tuesday at my store. You don’t realize how deeply energizing and empowering it is spending time with and relating to other women until you have an evening filled to the brim with chats and questions and anecdotes. Plus, as a rather pleasant side effect, it reminded me of just how much I enjoy public speaking. It’s not something I have the occasion to do very often but I genuinely enjoy the thrill of it – even if it was only about a minute and a half. I mean, I realize it’s easy to feel good at anything that only needs to be sustained for a minute and a half, but I’m also not too big to admit I like easy and good.  

    Resolutions on the whole are a bit bullshit – we as a society know that – but can you even call it January if you don’t resolutely overreach and then hate yourself a bit for it less than halfway through the month? Suzy has encouraged me towards the philosophy that the only true resolution is to listen to your body and believe in moderation, and nearly-thirty-year-old-me is quite inclined to agree with her (she writes, feeling smooth, sophisticated, and balanced, two cups of tea and six songs into her Hozier playlist). Yes, I have chosen to test myself in my annual fashion by cutting out my favorite beige foods, but it’s more an exercise in will power than anything else. One of my great glories in life is that I am very happy with who I am, where I am, and that I’m lucky enough to get to present myself to the world, both physically and mentally, in a way that is incredibly satisfying. If there’s anything I’ve truly resolved to do, it’s to be more present and supportive to those that don’t have that luxury. So there that is, 2019. Less new year, new me; more new year, old me with significantly improved friendship, mentorship, and partnership performance. Next year I will focus on trying to make myself sound less like an emotional Volvo.  

    Other things I’m looking forward to: making my new place feel like a home, bookshelf by bookshelf and wall art by wall art; diving head-first into longsword fighting or boxing (…emphasis on the metaphor, ain’t nobody got time for decapitation); making myself a better manager and leader; wearing more mock-necked everything; embracing facial moisturizers and a committed skincare routine; continuing my mission to simplify my wardrobe and only commit to classic, clean, investment pieces; helping motivate and develop those around me; eating more green things; devouring more medieval history than has been healthy since the seventeenth century; and, finally, let’s be honest…probably another tattoo. 

    I’m not so special as to see my writing as any kind of forum, but if you’ve been looking for the place to jot down 2019’s positivities and potential proclivities, and unlike me don’t have roughly thirty-seven blank notebooks to choose from and then immediately regret doing so because handwriting is the WORST whenever you need it not to be, here’s a safe space for them.

    2019’s gonna be a good one.

    (Or, at least, please oh please better than the last trip around the sun, right?)