write me well

Tag: life

  • Nectar

    Be careful what you wish for, they say. I don’t think they mean it because when you finally get almost all of the things you’ve wished for, you don’t really know what to do with yourself, but that is very much my current 2022 experience. It’s the best kind of complaint to have.

    I’ve never been a prolific writer even when my life was its most exciting or full of motion. Even then, every three months was lucky. Writing for myself is a separate category, one that’s much better maintained (and never shared). I journaled steadily from halfway through my freshman year to my first quarter of college at UC Santa Barbara, and then on and off through about ten different notebooks up through today. I can picture at least three notebooks I have on the go right now, haunting me from various drawers and book bags spread throughout the house.

    But lately I haven’t felt the need to write, which is weird. I don’t like it. So in the same way you’re supposed to push through the unpleasant part of a workout (read: all of it) because it’s good for you, I’m going to push past this and write anyway.

    My job has been fantastic. I’m still very much in what is probably a honeymoon period, but I think most people that have worked career retail and manage to change directions probably have an extended honeymoon period once they land something new. Perhaps one that lasts years. I’m still in awe of so much about my daily life: the view when I pull off the freeway and turn towards the rolling base of the Santa Cruz Mountains, more often than not half-draped in a greying shawl of mist; walking past a name plate with my name on it and sitting down at a desk that is my desk; spending time reading academic papers and researching community partners; rolling onto a gravel parking lot and walking past greenhouses beneath shady, mid-stretch oak trees. Honestly, the only way this job could be better is if it was somewhere in England. Suffice it to say, my honeymoon period is going nowhere.

    I used to be pretty shoulder-shrug about living in San Jose, but I think I’ve officially become a fan. Aaron and I have tracked down a favorite taqueria, a favorite burger place, a favorite barbeque place – though what eluded us until very recently was a favorite Vietnamese place. Aaron loves pho and I love bún so finding one has been a mission. The last one we tried is the highest contender thus far, and I have developed a wild affection for their Thai iced tea. The cheapest gas in the area happens to be next door, and it’s right off 280, so I have on more than one occasion stopped by the restaurant after filling up just to get an iced tea to go. It’s not the healthiest of habits, but as I stated (and was seconded several times) on my Instagram, good Thai iced tea is the nectar of the gods. I’m not about to deny myself nectar of any kind these days.

    Nobody here will remember this, because I wrote it about two and a half blogs ago, but one of the other best things about living in San Jose is how close it is to Sacramento. It’s not right up in it, and it’s just far enough to give me space to live my own life and to have a bunch of other stuff going on (middle school me would probably be mystified by both my Bay Area affinity and 408 area code). I appreciated this on a level the first time I lived here, but now that I have a job that’s a little less involved (and takes that much less energy), I truly love that I can get to Sacramento and back in the same day. I even love that it takes two hours because it reminds me that I don’t mind those two hours in the car and that reminds me of how much I’m like my dad in that way. He never minded going for a drive. In many ways, I think driving was his happy place. Sure, the two hour delay on the day isn’t the best, but I have genuinely come to enjoy those two hours that I get to myself each way.

    I re-read something I wrote during my Peak England life – those precious, golden, pre-COVID days from 2018 to early 2020 that I did not appreciate nearly enough at the time – and was reminded of how much I love to love the things I love. And if I could wish anything for people, especially in these nonstop difficult times, it is to find things that you love to love. I waxed poetic about it at the time (I was having a Richard III moment), but the truth of my medieval-based passion remains. I don’t think that anyone can be truly healthy without having something to care about. And I think that’s part of where my lack of writing right now comes from. I care about a whole lot right now, but it’s not as introspective anymore. I definitely shared my life in England with people (so many amazing people), but I also did a lot of my solitary-ing that I did throughout a lot of my twenties. Now here I am, living a shared life, and I need to be intentional about making time to write. It doesn’t come as naturally as it did when it was my go-to day off activity. But I think it’s really important for me to start prioritizing again. Because I love how much I love writing.

    I think my nest-y vibes have overtaken that up to this point. (They stepped right up to the plate when I was clearly done sorting out my Roots feels – happy one-year anniversary to that unintentionally life-changing post, by the way!) Why be writing when I can be out at Goodwill or a consignment store or Antiques Colony or visiting Sacramento? Sure, the house is definitely not finished (stares off into the distance, hoping that if I concentrate hard enough, the sofa that I hate will spontaneously burst into flames and make room for a beautiful replacement sofa from Albany Park or West Elm or Sabai Design). And sure I love visiting with my family (love you guys even though I don’t think you read this). But these words that I’m typing? I love them too.

    So let’s make some room.

  • Nest-y

    I am not going to start this post talking about how I’m sitting in a coffee shop, because damned if a quick scroll through my last several posts didn’t show me that’s almost exclusively what I write about.

    If you follow me on Instagram or speak to me on even a sort-of regular basis, you’ll know about my fairly big news. I mentioned last time I wrote that there was some potentially really exciting stuff going on. Usually that’s almost a guarantee that said really exciting stuff will immediately implode and lead nowhere at all, but I’m here to tell you that THIS time, the opposite has happened.

    One week ago today was my last day as a retail manager.

    MIND. BLOWN.

    I promised myself in 2019, somewhere in-between ringing up customers and getting sale stickers stuck on my arm at the Anthropologie in Spitalfields, that it would be my last Christmas in retail. Christmas 2020 did see me in a shop (or it would have, if we’d been allowed to be open), but I wouldn’t quite call it retail, since my role at UAL helped me vastly expand my skillset and provided so many opportunities outside of working a salesfloor (and, COVID or no COVID, it was 9a-5p, Mon-Fri). I didn’t immediately think I’d be breaking my word when I joined back up with World Market last May, but when I took a store manager position in Santa Cruz in June, it did seem a bit like the death knell of that promise nearly two years past.

    Nothing extraordinarily bad happened while I was in Santa Cruz. It just served as a reminder of how nothing about retail had changed, but holy shit, I certainly had. I kept looking at my resume and how close I had been to achieving something different with my career. At the end of July, I decided enough was enough. I started applying elsewhere.

    By the end of August, I’d gotten nowhere. The holiday season was closing fast, and so one Sunday, out of respect for my district manager – who I’ve known for nearly a decade – I made myself a new promise. Christmas 2021 would be my last in the business and I needed to do the right thing and wait until the new year to pursue another job. And because life is life, roughly 24 hours after I made myself that promise, I heard back from a job application I’d sent out the week prior for easily the dreamiest and most ideal of any of the jobs I had applied for.

    When I wrote last, I was two interviews in and a week away from hearing that I got the job. I write this now having finished my first full week as an Experience & Program Coordinator at a historic house and garden. So it’s been a really nice seven days, even if I am still in disbelief half the time.

    Of all of the amazing things that have happened in those seven days, one of my favorites happened yesterday when I was walking to my car with my new manager. She was asking me how everything was going, and said she hoped it hadn’t been too overwhelming for a first week. I told her that at the risk of continuing to gush about this job (shockingly, I have already gushed quite a lot), I couldn’t be happier. I gave her an abbreviated version of how relieved I was to feel like I’ve finally found a role and career path I can settle into without having to constantly wonder what’s next, because I’m so unsure. She turned to me and said, “Yes! Roots. It’s so great when you finally get to start putting them down.”

    I thought immediately of what I wrote last January, a very wild nine months ago, about roots. The exhaustion of the what’s next and my inability to do anything but feed that vision. But I think, dare I say it, I’ve sorted out that rootless self.

    And now it’s time to get a little nest-y.

    I’ve started drinking more tea than coffee again, I’ve hung stuff on the walls, I’ve started to build a home with another person. Please stay tuned for more of the total craziness that is the fact that my life, for once, will not be so crazy anymore. I’m thirty-two, chill, and pretty fucking thrilled about it.

  • Ragrets

    During the pandemic when I worked from home, I sat at the dining table in my apartment (usually across from my roommate Luisa). When lockdown (somewhat) ended, it occurred to me that I could just as easily do the same for when I needed a place to write. It wasn’t the same thing as having an office or a writing room, but it could have worked. It was fairly spacious, the apartment had beautiful natural light and airy high ceilings. And plus, the coffee was way cheaper than any shop I’d yet discovered.

    But try as I might, I could not make it work.

    Ever since I’ve had the ability to throw my laptop in a bag and drive somewhere, I have become almost physically incapable of accomplishing any significant amount of writing within the confines of my own home. I am perpetually parked elsewhere, pretending I need the white noise of strangers around me to write when the reality is I always have my headphones in so I can’t even hear them. I guess, white noise or no, something about strangers and being in a public space holds me more accountable than my own self-discipline.

    I write this because I don’t quite have my own writing room yet, but I do find myself living in a space I plan on being for a while (ha!), which has enough space to at least have a designated writing table. Or, a table I can write at that’s not in the same room I’m usually hanging out in. And I find myself wondering if I’m actually going to use it at all. Today I’m forcing myself to because I’ve already spent enough of my day off throwing money at the local economy and it’s time to be indoors where I can’t do any further damage. In future, though? The jury is still out.

    Because I’ve been such a good little consumer lately (all thrifted, vintage, or marketplace’d), here are a few things I’ve bought lately and a few that I’ve passed on but still think about enough to potentially go back and get.

    I Made a Mistake: A 1960’s American Airlines stapler, which, as my sister pointed out, had likely stapled together thousands of paper boarding passes during its time at an American Airlines airport gate in Boston (or so we assume based on the hand-written tag). It still stapled remarkably well because old things are almost always better than new things, and when you did staple with it, the experience was a cool 10/10 on the Satisfying Things to Do with Your Hands scale. It was $35 and honestly I would rather have that stapler than the $35 I have because I did not buy it.

    No Ragrets: A Lane cedar chest from the 1960’s, complete with faux drawers and brass handles for said faux drawers. I spent twenty minutes going through a bag of mystery keys with the saleswoman before we realized it had a fake lock that you just pushed in like a button to open. The chest is in the living room, already housing all of my old notebooks and high school journals, as well as a stack of blankets and the fisherman’s sweater I got Aaron for his birthday even though we’re at least a month away from even vaguely fall-esque weather. (It was 95F/35C on the day I bought it. Ew.)

    I Made a Mistake: A vintage Heiwa Habataki Pachinko machine (Google it, please), which for the record, only one person on my Instagram poll thought I should not buy. It had superb colors (think salmon-y pinks, neon greens, creams, yellows, and metal details, since I bet you did not Google it), reminded me of Plinko from The Price is Right (and thus of my Grandma P), but served no real purpose. As our home is in no place to purchase $200 items that are purely for display (even if Aaron said he was pretty sure he’d be able to get it working again, yay for handy humans), I had to say no. I still think of it once a week.

    No Ragrets: A ceramic fruit bowl that was an impulse purchase when buying a set of jars for the tea and coffee stored on our kitchen countertop. It was sitting right at the cash register (what a funny way to describe a white Square unit and an iPad) and something about it said it needed to come home with me. Now it sits at the center of the kitchen table and is 90% responsible for reminding me to buy (and consume) fruit, since as nice as it looks on its own, it looks twice as nice when filled with apples.

    What else has been happening? Well. Some potentially REALLY exciting stuff. And some already exciting stuff. For example, I’ve taken on a digital volunteer project for an arts center. It’s been nice flexing my old not just a shop muscles and being back in Mail Chimp again because nothing brings my younger self quite as much joy as creating a newsletter. (Honestly. Starting around age 7, one of my favorite hobbies was creating materials for fake businesses that I would make up and then do nothing with because what are you going to do with a promotional brochure for the Electronic Master Club, Kathy? You are seven and that company does not exist.) So even though this is just a temporary project, it’s been great to have in the background, and there will hopefully be more to come. If nothing else, at least the Arts Center is real and can go on LinkedIn. Thanks for nothing, Electronic Master Club.

    And the potentially exciting stuff? You’ll have to wait. (Just like me. I would share if I could.)

    I suppose that’ll do for now, kitchen table. I’ll take these 980* words and call it a sweet victory.    

    *This was 831 on my first go. Credit is due to the Best of 2012 Spotify Playlist that got me here.

  • Timing

    It’s not lost on me that I’m writing this seated at a coffee shop in Hillcrest, fresh from a visit to Balboa Park with a friend of two decades. I’m visiting San Diego for the first time in five years and it’s as fantastic as I remember: just a bit balmy when I stepped off the plane at eight o’clock yesterday morning, already regretting I’d only be here for thirty-six hours, the harbor and rolling green hills and palm-trees-galore totally unchanged. I booked in a double tattoo appointment a few months ago and it seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. Post appointment and hangouts with my friend (and missing out on a few because of the timing), I wish I’d made it a real trip and had three more days.

    Alas, that’s life. I’m grateful to even be able to make the trip all things considered. The last time I was on a plane, I was one of thirty-seven people, making the mid-pandemic journey from London to San Francisco because I realized about two weeks after my last post that it was time for another major life shift.

    It’s worked out in that I never left California because I didn’t like California. I, in fact, rather love California (see last post for reference). I spent a month in Sacramento before relocating back to the Bay Area, drawn there unexpectedly by an opportunity with my old District Manager to take over a store in Santa Cruz. Living in such a recent past haunt makes the three years I spent in London feel more than a little like a fever dream – a hyper-realistic, life-changing, fantastic fever dream – and being in San Diego again is like another small dose of the same confusing nostalgia. It’s welcome, though. I’ll take any reminder that here or abroad, the places I love aren’t going anywhere. (For now, at least. This is a no doom-scrolling zone.)

    Talking with my friend this afternoon at the park, the phrase “life is a journey” came up. We were joking, but we also were not. We were talking about how life happens and you do things and once they’ve happened, it is what it is. There’s no right or wrong about it, and all you can do is change what you have now if you’re not happy about it. It was an excellent topic of conversation for someone that’s gone through the intense volume of change I have in the past four months.

    I keep getting Instagram and Facebook memories of a year ago, two years ago, three years ago (the most painful, since they’re from my recent arrival to the UK and filled with obnoxious captions like “can’t believe I get to live here FOREVER”). I made the right decision, moving back to California. But I miss London and my life there – desperately, sometimes. As another close friend of mine is fond of reminding me, two things can be true at once. It was the right decision, but sometimes it’s still hard.

    I got to go to my niece’s preschool graduation and mermaid-themed fifth birthday party. I can go out to lunch with or go spend my day off with my sisters or my mom, wandering thrift shops or discovering the best fried chicken sandwiches. I laid by the pool with my best friend and drank margaritas, and remembered for a moment why it’s so easy to not travel when you live somewhere like California: sometimes just the backyard can feel like a vacation. I’ve got a car and drive through pine-filled mountains every day on my way to work, and live in a neighborhood with a coffee shop I can walk to – not to mention the fact that I get to share the place with my boyfriend, a miracle in itself because I’ve known the guy for fifteen years and life is just really fun (and fantastic) that way sometimes, and things have just, well, worked out.

    When I look back at the last three years, I am nothing but proud. If there is anything I’ve learned, it’s that you can think you know exactly what you want and what’s next, and turns out – you 100% do not. And that’s okay.

  • Roots

    Some of my favorite memories are ones that are impossible to reminisce out loud. I was either alone or surrounded by strangers, which makes me wonder if they ever remember too.  

    Walking to buy popcorn chicken on lunch break from a driver’s education class hosted out the back of a strip mall classroom, hot summer sun and listening to Chutes Too Narrow while reading the book that was about to become my favorite for years. Sitting at countless coffee shops – I have sat at so many coffee shops over the years, because of all of the habits I have formed, it seems to be the longest running. Sometimes with my dog (he’s turning seven this year with a new family, another wild thought), usually alone. Almost always writing, almost never the same thing. Driving up the California coast, having cut through the hills to Laguna Niguel, walking through neighborhoods of the super tanned, super fit, super rich. Watching the ocean on several occasions, because you can never watch the ocean too much.  

    Are you okay? a friend texted me this morning. I’d taken the day before off work, for “reasons”, and she was just checking in. Oh yeah, I reply, Just general what-am-I-doing-with-my-future-life-is-really-weird-right-now malaise. I’m still sitting in that malaise and have been for a week. I spent the last hour looking at apartments in San Diego, even though I’m actively in the middle of sorting out the next phase of my life here in England. But I also spent five hours yesterday watching a show set in sunny southern California, a place that for me will always have a magic glow and impossibly vague siren call. In my dream world, that one with ceaseless funds and a job that allows a semi-rootless existence, I have two homes. One in San Diego, golden and salty and craftsman, with Gilmore, black iced coffees, drives down the 163 and warm walks through North Park and the Gaslamp. A lithe, aesthetic life where I spend my January to June. And across the world, I have my second home, from June to December. A terraced house nestled in a cathedral city, cozy and cold but faultless in the sun, brick and stone and the weight of a storied existence, energy moving from Roman to medieval to Georgian, all within a stone’s throw. A river nearby, because there needs to be water, and books and cups of tea and winding wandering walks, even just to a corner shop for milk.  

    Once when I was living in Long Beach, I decided to make a cake. It was a rare rainy day and I was only missing one or two ingredients. The rain stopped for a few minutes and I tried the tiny grocery a block over, walking rather than driving, getting caught in a downpour moments from the return to my doorstep. I called my mom for company while I baked my cake and tried to explain how much that innocuous walk had reminded me of living in England, of walking to the shops to pick up something, rather than getting into the car. I’ve never owned a car in my years in England, something that will likely change when I eventually leave London, but for now it’s something that draws a very specific divide through my life experiences. Everything about a car feels very Route 66 American, very freeway road trip traffic radio, very windows down Phantom Planet crooning California Here We Come. That will change, but I’m avoiding it. A car is the one form of root I haven’t planted over here. I think something about it makes me nervous in a way I won’t admit.  

    I haven’t had roots in a long time. It’s one of the beauties of being on your own, but it’s becoming exhausting. That’s where the malaise of this week really sits. Hiding beneath the very real exhaustion of living in Unprecedented Times, I’m tired of moving and the excitement of the unknown. I still appreciate how valuable it is to have options. But I would love, very much, to have this be the last “next phase” for a while. Whatever is next needs to last a while. Every move feeds that rootless self, that love of asking myself where do I belong? It makes me want to keep trying new places and finding new homes.  

    But I’ve already found enough homes.