ALCOHOL FREE AF AF AF AF

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this for myself and anyone who might also be questioning their relaysh to alcohol. No judgments here or anywhere you might find me!

If you had told me two months ago that I wouldn’t drink alcohol ever again, I would have laughed in your face — and then chugged my beer. I loved drinking. And I was good at it. I took pride in being able to keep up with the guys, in being able to stay out the latest, and in my ability to do it all again the next night. I drank when I was happy, I drank when I was sad; I drank to celebrate and I drank to commiserate. I could not picture a weekend, let alone a life, without drinking. 

I was also great at being hungover. I almost preferred it to waking up clear headed. Something about being a little frayed and raw. In the fall of 2021, I would go out most nights, wake up at 6 or 7 am, go to hot yoga and then sit down to work my two writing jobs — all shaky, sweaty, and swollen. And somehow, I was proud of this. I especially loved being hungover on trips, waking up before everyone else and exploring the town, probably a little buzz still sloshing around my corporeal being, giving everything an air of unreality. Yeah, hangovers were fun — like touching a bruise, a small reminder of how much fun you had the night before. Actually, if I hadn’t been so good at being hungover, this blog might’ve written itself a lot sooner. 

I didn’t know it that night, but on February 9, 2023, I had my last drink. There was no tearful goodbye, I wasn’t clutching that glass of red wine knowing alcohol wouldn’t be part of my life come February 10. I didn’t wake up the next morning, pour a handle of vodka down the drain and declare to the world that I was never drinking again and start tallying days sober. That said, becoming alcohol free didn’t exactly come out of nowhere. For the past five or so years, there has been a question, a low murmur in the background of my mind wondering, “do I drink too much?” 

So while my drinking has been something I’ve questioned for a while, a few things happened recently, all converging on me at once, effectively fast tracking me to where I’m at now. They were: a doctor’s appointment, a breakup, and a book. 

THE DOCTOR

I went to the doctor in mid January because something wasn’t right. Unexplained weight loss, shaking all the time, couldn’t eat. I flinched and yelped in pain as he gently touched the upper right quadrant of my abdomen and told me that my liver was probably swollen; to which I said, “yeah, no shit” as I recalled the past six months of binge drinking. I asked him what that meant and how I could fix it. “Well you can never drink again.” “Not even a glass of wine on my birthday or on vacation?” “No because you wouldn’t be able to stop at just one.” “Fuck you, you don’t know me.” OK I said that last part in my head, but upon hearing his words, I literally fell over on the table. 

Someone had just taken away my pacifier. How would I go out? How would I enjoy weekends? Vacations? Go on dates? My mind quickly tried to find a way out of this. He’s a quack, I thought. Where does he get off diagnosing me like that just by touching my stomach? Someone take his license away! I’ll get my bloodwork back and it’ll be fine; I will drink again. Oh and imagine my rage when he emailed me a list of social workers to reach out to. I was livid. I was calling my doctor friends for second opinions. This guy is wrong wrong wrong. By now it should be clear that I was much more concerned with not being able to drink again than, you know, the fact that he said I would die of liver failure in ten years if I kept drinking. The way my mind immediately tried to find a solution that kept alcohol in my life and the defensiveness I felt around my drinking is something I now recognize was indicative of my emotional dependency on alcohol. [Editor’s Note: Duhhhhhhh.] 

Walking home crying after that appointment, I told myself I wouldn’t drink while I was waiting for my results. I could be patient enough to make sure I wasn’t actually in danger, right? Spoiler alert: I didn’t last very long. A friend wanted to go to one of the sexiest restaurants in the city and I felt like it would be exceptionally rude not to drink several glasses of wine with her there. Since the healthcare system in America is fucked seven times to the weekend, after an ultrasound and four rounds of bloodwork later, I still don’t know what’s happening to my liver. But one thing has changed since that first doctor’s appointment: even if he comes back to me with a clean bill of health and tells me I can drink again, I won’t. A far cry from the girl who assumed the fetal position on his table two months ago. 

Fixed it!

THE BREAKUP 

A week or so after that initial doctors appointment, my relationship came to a screeching, heart-wrenching stop. I had been under the delusion that I had found the person I would spend the rest of my life with, so no part of me thought that I would grow to be so grateful for the days after the break up (days that I spent rotting in bed, unable to stop crying, unable to shower, unable to eat) or that this heartbreak would play a crucial role in removing alcohol from my life. 

I have a very generous friend, who treated me to a night at a hotel in the city where I could be alone with my heartache. Instead, I day drank, stumbled my way to the hotel around 4pm, and kept drinking until late into the evening. I woke up and looked around this amazing hotel room and felt so out of my body and my mind. I had to wear my sunglasses to breakfast and kept thinking the waiter thought I was on drugs. I had numbed out so hard, I had drank away a beautiful opportunity to feel my feelings, process them, and move on. Suddenly, I felt like a coward for needing to numb out with alcohol. A growing voice in my head started to remind me that I am not a coward. Not even a little bit. That was a light bulb moment for me, one in which I realized that if I stayed sober in the wake of the break up, I would be able to get through it to the other side so much faster. Little did I know how life changing this experiment would be. 

This Naked Mind is good witchcraft of the highest order.

THE BOOK*

I quickly got the proof I needed to know that I was on the right path. I was about 75% of the way through This Naked Mind (a must-read if you’re curious about your relationship with alcohol), when I had the most Monday-ish Friday of all time. A Friday in which I spilled an entire $8 latte on myself, had a brief but infuriating exchange with my ex, worked until 7pm, and found out that the ex in question was already back on the apps. So if there was ever a Friday night to crawl into a bottle of wine, it was that night. I felt myself wanting to want it — but there was no denying that I actively did not actually want it. I couldn’t even access the muscle memory of wanting it. So I rolled a joint and drew a bath and blasted music while reading This Naked Mind instead. I felt power and peace coursing through me in equal measure. 

*I could write a glowing, dissertation-length review on this book, but just know that when I started reading it, I was hate-reading it. I didn’t want it to work and also didn’t think it would. But the effetciveness of the psychology she uses, which she borrows from the king of quitting smoking, Alan Carr, can not be overstated. I naturally want to rebel (as we all do), so a program like AA or rehab probably would’ve sent me straight to liver jail even faster than before. Whereas after reading TNM, it’s not that I can’t drink — it’s that now, I don’t want to. There is no willpower being deployed, this is my choice, my free will, there is no inner battle. I am free. There is nothing to rebel against with the exception of the societal norms of drinking — which is pretty fucking cool if you ask me. 

I guess on some level, I always knew this was coming. I know this because I can recall how I felt when I met someone who didn’t drink or had happily stopped drinking. I would feel an acute mix of fear (am I going to have to stop, too?), jealousy and admiration (how can they do that so easily?), and annoyance (for some reason, when my brother stopped drinking, I felt like something was being taken from me. Which is insane. He was gaining his life back and I was upset I was losing a party friend. To be fair, he was really fun to party with. But to be fair to him and his sobriety, he’s way more fun all the time now). Ultimately, all of these feelings laddered up into me being forced to both question and defend my drinking habits. Clocking these feelings and the questions they brought up for me were my first clue that, just maybe, me and alcohol weren’t all we were cracked up to be. Because why, if drinking is, like, sooo great and sooo fun, would it leave me in a constant state of shame, defensiveness, and doubt? 

ALCOHOL IS A LIAR

One of my new favorite quotes is, “Alcohol doesn't permit one to do things better but instead causes us to be less ashamed of doing things poorly.” Kind of nails it, no? I remember when I was having body image issues, I couldn’t get a glass of wine in me fast enough. Just one was enough to take the edge off, feel a little better in my skin, and quiet the insecurities that were running through my head. But I see that now as a band-aid and a lie. And lowkey cowardly behavior; a temporary solve instead of doing the actual work, work that would’ve made my confidence sustainable and authentic. Alcohol lied to me that I was comfortable in my skin when I wasn’t, that I was happy when I was actually sad, that parties were only fun if it was there, and that drinking was just “what you do.” It told me that it’s a requirement to dance, date, destress, and have fun. Lies!

Alcohol lied to me by dulling me to my own pain. It dulled me to the point that I thought I didn’t have to do anything about it (except keep drinking), which only prolonged and increased said pain. What’s worse, it didn’t just dull me to my pain — it also dulled me to my happiness; a pure, unadulterated happiness that has only been revealed to me over the last two months. I find this the most offensive of alcohol’s crimes.

ALCOHOL IS A THIEF

Alcohol is a thief of joy, time, and money. I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco but never went because I had heard it’s hard to find alcohol there. That’s fun stolen before I could even have it! Or how about last summer when I blacked out three times in one day while driving a boat in Mallorca. This was the same night that I fell asleep naked on the kitchen floor of our Airbnb before my friend corralled me into her bed, where I eventually woke up very confused. I kept joking that people were going to ask us how our trip was and I would say, “DON’T ASK ME, I DON’T KNOW!!!” Which is kind of funny… and kind of a huge bummer. Drinking literally robbed me of my memories. Alcohol is a thief of time for the obvious reasons (let’s add sleeping in to sleep off your hangover to the list), but in looking back, it also stole time because when I was drinking, it took me longer to hear what my intuition was telling me. I wasted (ha, get it) time on people who were only fun to be around under the hazy guise of being drunk and spent time in situations that sober me would never entertain. On to actual money, though. Drinking is expensive (especially where I liked to do it: LA and NY). But beyond the actual cost of liquor, there’s the cost of Ubers and the next morning expenditure of getting something greasy delivered to your door. It’s also currently stealing my money at the doctor’s office.  

Who needs booze when your personality is giving perpetually buzzed?

NOW TO THE GOOD PART: THERE’S SO MUCH LIFE IN MY LIFE

Ever since I can remember, if I’m driving and I see a group of cars that are all the same color, it hits some pleasure center in my head hole and I feel a jolt of creativity, joy, and aliveness. This is my constant state now that I don’t drink. Everything is amazing and beautiful and worthy of being called art. Everything appears as mise en scene. It brings me to my emotional knees at times. My chest swells with gratitude for this life. I cry baby tears of happiness upon waking up each day. I’ve returned to a childlike state of wonder at the simplest of things. It’s like when you’re on a camping trip without cell service, and all of a sudden you’re delighted at everything and also nothing: a cool bug, an interesting stick, the perfect rock to climb. Everything lights you up in a way that feels so pure and real. It reminds me of being in high school before we started drinking. The vibe is very much, let’s pile in Morgan’s Volvo and drive around listening to music and see what weird shit we can get into. No, I’m not going around at age 34 TP-ing houses or trespassing, but I have always loved the act of mischief, and abstaining from alcohol has restored me back to a constant state of innocent delinquency; it’s as if a glimmer that was lost for so long has returned to my eyes. I was on autopilot and now I’m looking around for the first time in a while. And I really like what I see. (For example: I even cried while looking at a rather unremarkable cloud the other day.)

Not drinking has changed my life (if this word count is any indication) — but this massive shift is owed to the sum of a bunch of tiny, little imperceptible changes. I have more patience. Music sounds better. I’m overflowing with creativity and ideas. I’m much more open minded. I’m a far better drummer than I was when I was learning hungover. My memory is better. I’m way funnier. I’m better at my job. I feel more mature but not in the way that I was always scared to be. I handle shit (and there is still shit) with a newfound level of ease and trust. I’m weirder than ever in the coolest way. I’m more present and in tune with my needs. I’m able to process emotions easily and efficiently. I’ve found that I really enjoy being of service to others. I am a better daughter, sister, aunt, roommate, friend. I still go out as much as — if not more than — before. I love going to shows and in between sets, when everyone swarms the bar, I get to check out the merch booth, use the bathroom, save money, and remember the show. I’ve found out what I always suspected to be true: I fucking love bars. Catch me drinking water or NA beers at dive bars, airport bars, hotel lobby bars, swim up bars, country bars, metal bars, etc. I’ve removed the hangxiety that was so present in my mornings. Why did I text them that? How did I get home? They’re probably mad at me. Oops, better delete that Instagram Story. Everyone is talking about how much I drink behind my back. All of that is gone. Now I have so much time to think about other things. By removing so much ickiness, so much goodness has come in and picked up the slack.

Sober is sweet and sexy.

DATING DRY

There is not one part of my life that has suffered from not drinking. In fact they have all gotten immeasurably better. See: previous paragraph. That said, I was worried about dating sober. Which is understandable, we’ve been fed this huge lie that we need alcohol to calm our nerves, to make out with strangers, to meet new people, to be fun and flirty. So on that note, sober is sexy. Because at its core, it’s indicative of confidence. And perceived confidence begets more confidence; the more I date sober, the more confident I’ve become in every aspect of my life. The very substance I was consuming to be more confident was actually doing the opposite. Now, I go on coffee dates and with my clear and caffeinated mind and within five minutes know if there’s something there. File under: time saver as hell. I didn’t see this side effect coming, but since I’ve stopped drinking, I have spare time, creativity, and motivation in spades. This has all translated into me putting more time into my hobbies and putting less importance on dating. Where dating used to take up my spare time, it is now second rung to all the other cool shit I have going on. I suspect it’s correlated, but this time around, I’m attracting the type of people I’ve always wanted to attract and am no longer wasting time on people’s potential. So yeah, the scariest part of going alcohol free has one hundred percent proven to be the coolest and most rewarding part. Shoutout to my first sober make out (which happened in the cat food section of an East Village bodega), which proved to me that you don’t need a glass of wine or three to kiss a stranger. Shoutout to my first sober f*ck, who proved that sober is in fact really, really, really, sexy. Shoutout to myself for being brave enough to show up as my true self. (Minus the time I showed up on mushrooms on a first date, but he was super cool about it.)

The day I knew I was af af 4eva.

OK NOW WHAT

As I’ve waxed poetic for over 3,000 words now, you can tell that not drinking has been incredibly rewarding for me. But up until recently, one question remained that left me feeling a little itchy, incomplete, anxious even: How am I framing this longterm? Will I take a year off and reassess? Will I drink on special occasions only? Am I never drinking again? I tend to shy away from “never” statements so to decide that I’m never drinking again felt too black and white. What if one day I want a cold beer on a warm patio? But then last week, as I was driving through the Arizona desert admiring the fluffy white clouds propped up against the bright blue sky, I got my answer. In that moment I did not decide, I realized. A warm knowing washed over me. A knowing that I won’t drink again. Because to go back to that, knowing what I know now, would be the biggest F U, middle finger to myself I could ever imagine. 

Not drinking has made me feel drunker than ever, in the best way <3 But I am worried that I might never sing karaoke again. Stay tuned.

🌸 🌸 🌸

TWO AFTERTHOUGHTS

Last May, I took a very large dose of mushrooms in Austin, Texas. I was at a concert surrounded by drunk college kids. The feeling I had when I observed them was not of judgement, but I was overwhelmingly sad that the alcohol was closing them off from what was truly happening around them. I felt like I could see alcohol for what it was that night: something in the way of something so much richer, bigger, and better. I tried to drink a beer that night and couldn’t even choke down more than a few sips. This was the knowing before I knew it.

— — —

I met my friend Joe last summer. Amazingly fun and funny guy, sober for a few years and just a joy to be around. I ran into him a a few months later at a time when we were experiencing a few larger than normal climate crises (because of course we were) and it got me thinking about end days. I asked him if he would drink if he knew the world was, hypothetically, going to end in three days time. He said that he’d thought about that exact thing, but that he would rather be sober and present to watch it all go down. And I think that (beautifully) says it all.

Who do I talk to about getting a NA Presidente into production though fr fr fr

too old to be stupid but still dumb enough* to try

I’ve reached an age where I can no longer, in good faith to myself, do the fun stupid thing. To send the text, to hope that I can change someone’s mind by telling them what’s on mine. To think that one more interaction would change the course of the narrative for the better, forever, yadda yadda. The romantic wild heart not afraid to put it all out there even if it means getting smushed has retired. Or wised up. Is this… growth? Whatever it is, it’s kind of boring. I miss being chaotically hopeful and reckless with my emotions. But I guess after enough times touching the hot pan, you stop touching the hot pan. Because it fucking hurts. But damn, I think about the pan a lot.

I was going to choose a pretty picture from Tumblr for this post but this one is more accurate. You see, the asterisk in the title is because this post should be called “too old to be stupid but still dumb enough to want to try.” I want to want to touch the hot pan. It’s like, to quote one of my favorite memes, there are two wolves inside of me; each competing with the other as to who is steering the ship that is my actions. One wolf wants to throw the hail mary, to dissect everything, to demand answers. To be a little dramatic. Look, I just want to feel something, OK? The other wolf is like, yo please don’t. The second wolf is annoyingly at peace with not knowing why things happened or didn’t happen the way they did. And the older I get, the more she is leading the pack that is my brain cells.

Let sleeping dogs (or wolves) lie, sure. If they wanted to they would, yeah yeah totally. But what if we miss out on something great because we didn’t sic the chaotic canine on the situation? A thought for another blog. Wow, helpful stuff from me, huh!

dispatch 112421: on film and timing🎞

I missed my subway stop the other day and ended up having to get off on 23rd Street (instead of 14th St/Union Square where I was to stay safely underground and transfer to the L and back to my sweet little corner of Brooklyn). But when I popped up onto 23rd, I found myself in front of the photography museum where the Andy Warhol exhibit that I had wanted to go to anyway was being held. So duh I went in. Also because what kind of cult leader would I be if I didn’t abide by the rules of my own cult?

In some of the best museum copy I’ve ever read (shout out Vince Aletti whoever you are), I discovered that Andy Warhol and I had something in common. As Andy once said, “Having a few rolls of film to develop gives me a good reason to get up in the morning.” He also said “I told them that I didn’t believe in art, that I believed in photography.” Well I just got a roll of film back and can confirm both statements to be — at least for me — very true. 

If you’re an adult, or whatever, someone (probably on a dating app) has asked you what you do for fun (wow, how original! But also what a terrifying question when you really think about!). But as it turns out, most adulthoods don’t offer a lot of room for fun, so when you’re inevitably faced with this question, you’ll probably panic, take stock of everything you do outside of work hours and realize you don’t have any hobbies and the arthritis you have is from typing dumb emails not from something cool like playing tennis and is drinking Thursday-Sunday considered a hobby (no it isn’t) and what is it all for? So, like, what are you doing with your life?! To be clear, I’m talking to and about myself right now (but maybe I’m talking about you, too? I don’t know). 

Wait, I think the point of that paragraph was to say that taking photos is something I do for fun and something that genuinely makes me happy. Let’s add writing blogs into the abyss, too, because I find that I am quite enjoying tickling the ol’ keys again. Keys as in keyboard? Not my best, not my best, but let’s all decide to move on.

Anyway, photographic evidence of what I do when I’m not a cog in the machine that is capitalism and am truly ~vibing~ instead can be found below. Side note: I cried some little tears looking at this roll because I realized someone is living my dream of being bi-coastal and that person is ME. A thought for another blog. I digress. 

Yeah so, amazing timing for me to accidentally fumble my way into an Andy Warhol exhibit, remember I love Andy Warhol, remember I, too, love taking photos of people, and for me to get a roll of film back. But timing; timing is a tricky, tricky mistress. And a concept that I think about a lot. I stopped writing for *checks blog* a whole entire year (my bad), so there’s a lot of context I should give and light bulb moments I don’t want to gloss over, but the cliff notes is this: I quit a job that made me high key consider murder/suicide, went freelance, started working less and making more. I had this thing called “free time,” not sure if you’ve heard of it, and I kept looking around asking the imaginary producers of my life if this was all a set up. Then I took on another client and all that was taken from me in a flurry of Google Docs, Sheets, Meets, and, OH MY GOD, THE SLACK NOTIFICATION NOISE. Does anyone know where I can put in a formal complaint about that. noise. in. particular???

The aforementioned year-long blogging hiatus is showing because I have too much to say and don’t know how to say it without rambling the fuck on and on, so long story, trying to be less long: I came to a professional fork in the road and had to decide if I wanted to become an indoor cat once more (go full time with benefits and a steady income stream) or keep being feral I mean freelance. 

And as far as full time gigs go, what was being offered to me was the gold standard: freakishly nice people (who were also funny and didn’t make me want to end my life daily? Like what? They exist!), all the trappings of a successful DTC start up like cold brew and kombucha on tap at their Dumbo office, team outings, ping pong blahblahblah. But I kept thinking back to this summer when I couldn’t believe my life was… my life. Freelance is for lack of a more eloquent saying, fucking sick as hell.  

In making the decision, I felt what it was like to be every dude who has ever cited “timing” as a reason they couldn’t be with me. Did I love quip? Did I like the idea of having health insurance and a steady paycheck? Was the idea of being their committed wife a good one? Yes, yes, and yes. But the tiiiiiiming. It was off. It’s not “like” I just got out of a ten year relationship with full time employment, it is actually exactly like that, no “like.” If I had been out here as a freelance alleycat for years maybe I would be ready to find my forever home, and if so, it would have been quip without question. The importance of working with normal, nice, fun people can not be overstated!!!!!

But. But but but. I want to stay single and flirt around. To play the corporate field, to work less and make more, to cheat the system, to work from the foreign country and make my own hours, to get out of debt while also buying (used) Prada loafers. To have a life beyond staring at a laptop punching the keys hoping the paid media asset you’re working on has a good cost per click. 

So to tie all this rambling up in a bow: it really is all about timing. In love, life, career. And in this specific instance, it’s also heavily underscored with the ground-breaking personal realization that I can have a life where I work a little and have time to go shoot a roll of film and see what comes back a lot.

i miss my blackberry — scroll holes pt. 2

Uhhh ok hi. So in "i miss my blackberry — scroll holes pt. 1" — which was full of musings on social media and hyper connectivity and the need for validation from strangers on the internet — I was, to say, “ON ONE.” I’ve recently calmed down and made my way back onto Instagram but can confidently say, it’s in a very new way. This follow up chronicles the introspective journey I’ve been on, one which has ultimately lead me to log back in. (Wow! This is so dramatic! Do you think Reese Witherspoon will play me in the movie based off said introspective journey?) Let’s begin.

— — — 

A quick aside on Instagram developers and the app update that made us all worse:

As I reference in my first post about all this, the golden age of Instagram was genuinely a good ass time. The stakes were low, the content was funny and real. When that shifted though, posting to your grid was less fun. Maybe influencers ruined it for us, maybe it was the algorithm, but whatever it was, posting a photo to your grid felt too stressful. So we stopped doing it. 

But Instagram’s goal is to keep you on the app as much as possible, so if we were all frozen, not wanting to post something out of fear that the algorithm or our followers will hate what we post, well then, that meant our relationship with the app was.. fractured. Sooo in came Instagram Stories to change all that. Overnight, the stakes were low again! You could post something without it fucking up your grid or not getting enough likes. (Side note: hahahaha we are all so sad.) 

A few weeks ago, when I realized that the invention of Instagram Stories was all just a ruse to keep us on the app, I got pissed. I felt duped, manipulated. You can’t control me anymore, Instagram, and to punish you, I’ve decided I’m going to put every dumb thought I’ve ever had on my feed where it will live forever. OK not-so-quick aside over. Back to my journey.

———

Around the time time that I wrote pt. 1, I was flirting with the idea of shunning Instagram for good. I started a private Instagram where I followed only 40 people and really let it fly (“it” being me, the real me!!). There were no filters — literally, figuratively, blah blah blah. I spent as little time as possible on my other Instagram, growing resentful of all the brands and strangers and acquaintances I followed and only checking messages before logging out as quick as I could. I felt morally superior for not being “addicted” to Instagram. I watched my screen time go down and my serotonin and self confidence go up. It was very nice! I should probably keep doing it! But no, I miss the big internet.

My private Instagram was/is called @feralkittycatmeow — a name that was inspired by my decidedly feral Covid summer traipsing up and down California, swimming ’til dark, not wearing shoes, and peeing outside more than I peed inside. And since I lose a phone at least once a quarter and refuse to understand the Cloud, @feralkittycatmeow was not only a fun, cute, semi-cursed visual diary, it was a great way to look back at lost photos. But now, when I compare @feralkittycatmeow and @cheyenneboots, I’m not sure who the latter is. So curated! So normal! So afraid to step on someone’s toes less they decide to *gasp* unfollow her! Admitting that feels so very cringe but whatever. I am flawed!

The way I was using my private instagram was exactly how I used to use my other one. It’s good, it’s funny, and it made me get comfortable being myself on Instagram again. (I can’t believe that’s something I just said out loud on the Internet!)

All of this to say: I’m gonna go feral on main. I feel like I have a better grasp on the boundaries of what I’m willing to consume on the internet and a hankering to be who I am more freely. I’m done having two different identities and feeling like who I am isn’t algorithm-safe, because you know what? Fuck. the. algorithm. This is me! I’m about to give a masterclass in how to lose followers. Should be fun!

So yeah, it’s about to get very weird and very me on @cheyenneboots. Thank you @feralkittycatmeow for reminding me to be me. 

a big lesson (in love + dating) in the smallest big city ever

A few weeks ago, I matched with a handsome and brooding-but-genial funeral director on Hinge. As my friend Dom said, going on a date with a funeral director is her worst nightmare and my dream come true. What can I say, I’ve always harbored a curiosity for the morose (darkness reigns!) and the idea of dating a literal embalmer was very cool to me.

On Friday, we agree to meet up on Sunday night when he is off work. We’ll have some wine in the park and fall madly in love over our shared love of creepy shit. As you can see, I like to keep my expectations for first dates low. But that Saturday, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris won the motherfuckin’ election and the whole ass city erupted in utter joy and champagne and dance parties and, needless to say, Sunday came around and I was feeling pretty close to death myself.

He asked if we were still on for later and despite feeling like I would need a mortician to do my make up, I agreed to pull myself together for the date. Because, hangover aside, I was excited! I didn’t want to put it off! You know how I know I was still excited to go on this date? Dude sends me a video of SOMEONE’S FUNERAL and turns the video to selfie mode and does a little head bop, and instead of thinking to myself, “Wow that was an intensely private moment between family members that should not have been shared” I was like, “oooooo he cute.”

Thirty minutes before our date, he floats a very forward idea to me, something along the lines of, “Hey I know you’re super tired, I wouldn’t kill you if you just wanted to drink wine at your place, maybe order some food, and watch YouTube videos. But it is a nice night out!” OK first of all, person I’ve never met, I can’t tell you how much I hate watching YouTube videos. Somehow that suggestion was more offensive to me than when he, a total stranger, quasi-invited himself to my house during a global pandemic. I tell him I would love to get out of the house. He said he would let me know when he was off work.

Ten minutes until our date was supposed to start:

Have you left work yet?

No, shoot I haven’t, just finishing up! Shouldn’t take long.

Uh, ok.

You’re probably getting tired though so I understand if you want to find another time.

*Me, already showered with mortician make up on* If you leave within the next 10 minutes, I can hang in there.

This is how it went. For the first 20 minutes he enthusiastically tells me all about his life and line of work and, to his credit, what he does is very interesting to me. He is — and this is not an exaggeration — a celebrity embalmer. He then looks at me, “so, what do you do?” I start talking for the first time and his body language is screaming, “I DON’T CARE.” Dude could not have been less interested in me or what I had to say. In the course of our date, he also accidentally tells me that he was having a beer with his friend after work “tonight.” Uhh. He’s also proud of himself because he actually left work much later than when he told me was leaving. I think I was supposed to be impressed? I hate this dude. At one point when I was talking, he got his phone out. I stopped talking just to see if he would notice. Needless to say: not a match.

But here’s why I’m actually so glad I went on the date with him.

Six months ago, I would have gone on that same exact date and instead of writing him off, I would have gotten to work on how to make him love me. Classic Cheyenne. I love the chase and what’s more fun than winning over the guy who couldn’t give less of a shit that you exist? Ha ha ha. A great question for my therapist, I know. But actually none of that was true this time. Instead of immediately trying to figure out what is was about me that he didn’t like and how to remedy those parts of my personality post-haste, I was like, “hold on just a minute…. I don’t like HIM!” What a fucking relief to finally see it this way. Like, news flash, your opinion in these matters is actually kind of important, Cheyenne.

Logically, this always made sense to me, but I had never put my ego aside long enough to let it actually happen. And let me tell you, now that I have, I am never going back. This feels like an act of self love that is so very long overdue. I wish I could bottle this feeling up and give it to my 20-year-old self, or at least all the 20-year-old girls out there right now. But then again, maybe this is just something we have to experience for ourselves in order for it to really stick. We have to let our hearts/brains/evolutionary instincts go all haywire in the face of a “cool” guy who is currently talking to 17 other girls. We have to lose who we are while we contort ourselves into our idea of his perfect girl, only for him to leave us on read. We have to go through these grueling mental gymnastics long enough that we eventually tire ourselves out, to then come to the life-altering realization that the best and only course of action is to just be our amazingly cool selves and only make time for men who see that, honor it, and do everything they can to keep up. RANT OVER. I AM FREE! (FROM MYSELF!) AND STILL SINGLE BUT WHATEVER LOL.

A horrific little P.S. to this story:

I ran into my friends [redacted] and [redacted] who are similarly into creepy stuff like me, so, naturally, I was excited to tell them about how I was *this close* to falling in love with, and ultimately marrying, a funeral director. OK, ha, not that close. Anyway. I was like, “Oh you guys, I went on a date with a funer—” and before I could get another word out, [redacted] stopped me and was like, “WAS HE TALL? DOES HE HAVE A MUSTACHE? IS HIS NAME [REDACTED] AND DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM?!” Turns out, they have a friend who went on a date with him and slept with him. He failed to mention to her that he had a kid and also failed to mention that he gave her an STD. Bullet, dodged. And this is why they call it the smallest big city in the world, folks. Eeek!

dispatch 101820: inside out and outside in

I did a dance class in a park this morning. Something about doing a group exercise class outside, especially in New York City, conjures up major rom com vibes for me. Add in me and my friends flailing about (*interpretatively*), and the whole scene should’ve starred — depending on era — either Meg Ryan, Kate Hudson, or Kristen Wiig.

Post-interpretative dance, we lay on the grass, staring up at the sky with the fluffy fall clouds floating on by and I was caught off guard by how… spiritual I felt? It could’ve been the positive ions that had been released due to aforementioned flailing and dancing like no one was watching. Emphasis on flailing.

Have you ever noticed how the temperature drops a few degrees the second you walk into a park? Even walking next to one provides little gusts of fresh, cool air — an especially welcome reprieve in a place as nature-less as New York City. Something just changes when you’re in nature.

One of my favorite feelings is day two or three of a camping trip. That seems to be the time when you lose interest in all the trappings of your non-camping, non-wild life. When all of a sudden, an ant carrying a crumb of food down to its colony is more interesting than your newsfeed; when you care more about who can find the most interesting rock instead of… uhhh who can get the most likes on Instagram. Living in a city, park hangs feel like micro versions of this shift. Take away the four walls and a roof, and checking your phone repeatedly feels dumb, that’s something you do when you’re inside. You’re outside right now and you better take a look around.

I went back to the park this afternoon, a place that I’ve always loved but have grown to appreciate even more since Covid. Now, it’s more than a park — now it acts as an extension of our living rooms; a place we can be safe but still feel like we’re gathering… but gathering without agenda other than hanging out, much like you would at home. And hanging out in the grass and on the dirt just feels better. I can’t explain it, but I do know there are actual scientists who can.

In my ideal world, outside and inside don’t feel all that different. I think about this a lot — and in doing so, my thoughts often go towards the Huntington Beach Library, where a giant fiddle leaf fig grows from the ground floor, through to the third floor. Its giant leaves reaching out, delighting book browsers mingling in the suspended floors. As an English major, I spent a lot of time in the library, but would often find reasons to go back there long after college because it was, for lack of a better expression, fuckin’ cool — not unlike a house a 70s movie star would have. See below.

On the way to the park this morning, I saw a hawk. I saw the same (?) bird again this evening. It makes me feel better knowing that something as wild as a hawk, something so beautiful and free, would choose to live here, too.

dispatch 101620: functional cute things

I didn’t write anything yesterday. The subway broke down on my way to work and on my way home from work and I knew that whatever I wrote was not gonna be… nice or fun or a reflection of who I am as a person.

So, on to brighter subjects, such as today’s topic of my admiration: things that are both functional and undeniably cute (I will also accept “cheeky” here). I’ve always felt that if you’re going to buy something, it should 1) make your life better or easier or both and 2) not be boring. Because why would I want normal measuring spoons when I could have these ones that look like cherries? Alternatively, see: Kikkerland’s entire website, where you can find items as cactus shaped dryer balls, this fisherman teabag holder, and this Mozart timer.

This is why I had one of those bunny tail phone cases. It was simple, effective, and cute. That’s why I love anything in miniature; erasers that look like food or this tiny dutch oven by Le Creuset for example. Like why are you so cute and tiny? Something about these items sets off a physiological response known as “cute aggression” in me; which Wikipedia describes as “superficially aggressive behavior caused by seeing something cute, such as a human baby or young animal. People experiencing cute aggression may grit their teeth, clench their fists, or feel the urge to bite, pinch and squeeze something they consider cute, while not actually causing or intending to cause any harm.“ Yeah, that.

All of that puts me a bit at odds with home trends of the past few years. It’s like we all decided we wanted to live in rooms that look like insane asylums for botanists. See below. I do love a nice simple aesthetic, but I also like things that are fun(ny).

Which brings me to the Moschino jackets at the beginning of this post. They’re soooo fun. And I like fun! I was recently asked what brands I like by a pretty well-known designer and I totally flopped, freaked, and was trying to convince him that I love Celine. Like huh?? Anyway, I don’t know how I didn’t realize it, but Moschino is clearly my favorite designer. Homeboy (Jeremy Scott) made a croissant handbag and, I mean, if that ain’t me. Now I just need to figure out how to pronounce Moschino.

dispatch 101420: subway sweetness

I was transferring from the C to the L at 14th Street right here in the greatest city in the world (you may know it — it’s New York City, baby), when something happened that encompassed exactly why I love this place so much.

I was crossing the mezzanine when a nicely dressed 20-something caught my eye. He was wearing a maroon blazer, Gucci loafers, and I want to say sunglasses. The way I’m describing his outfit is heinous, but trust me, he looked great. He was very much headed somewhere when he suddenly stepped to his right towards an emergency exit gate. He opened the gate where a guy was waiting and hoping someone would help him with his fare evasion. Success. Once through the gate, the two barely looked at each other aside from a subtle nod of recognition, before going their own ways and on their own trains.

It was so fast — a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing — but it said it all for me. This a city full of strangers who, when you really look at us, don’t act like strangers at all.

dispatch 101220: the only reason to watch emily in paris

My roommate and I just finished Emily in Paris, all 10 episodes, in one sitting. What had us at such attention? Was it the storyline? No. Emily’s outfits? Definitely not. The Parisian scenes? Normally yes, but not this time… I just marathoned some cheeseball would-be-CW show because of one man’s face. The face of Lucas Bravo.

I’ve always wanted to go to one of those parties where everyone has to present on a topic of their choosing for three minutes, powerpoint and all. But I never knew what I would present on. Until I watched Emily in Paris and found out that Lucas exists. I could put together a TEDTalk length presentation on his bone structure alone. He’s offensively hot.

You can’t put a guy like that in a show and expect us to care about the main character’s career in social media, you just can’t. My inner Disney child was damn near about to fast forward through any parts that didn’t involve Gabriel and Emily ogling each other before they both make terrible decisions (terribly terribly hot decisions). He’s the kind of hot that makes you feel like you’re 14-years-old again in a way that is both sad and addicting.

He’s hot no matter what, but I think there’s something to be said about the timing of his arrival into our Netflix queues and hearts. It’s Covid, it’s an election year, nothing is great, and all we can do is doomscroll on various social media platforms. We needed this. We deserved it. To forget for just a few moments (or 10 episodes) and indulge in an impossible crush. Also, the fact that his name is Lucas Bravo? Like, kindly fuck off with that name. Again, offensively hot. Borderline rude. Unfair to men everywhere.

Let’s put it this way: I even saw a photo of him at Burning Man and I still would.

dispatch 101120: thirty-two

I can’t think of a more perfect age to be turning in the year 2020 than 32. All the excitement of entering a new decade is two years in the past, Covid is still a thing (and I’m praying my coworkers don’t do a “fun” Zoom background for our meeting tomorrow), and we’re all walking around holding our collective breath until November 3rd, when we’ll finally see if we live in a democracy or under autocratic rule. So yeah, you could say that the age matches the mood. It’s not like I’m turning 33 (which has at least some numerological flair to it) and I’m not in that weird late twenties middle ground of 26-29 which are numerally boring but, emotionally, were a buckle up it’s gonna be a wild ride time. Thirty-two feels remarkably unremarkable in a year that has been anything but. I’m just 32 and that’s fine with me. So I’m gonna put my mask on, go eat some cake in the park, and be thankful I’m alive and kicking it!

dispatch 101020: the nonlinear path to happiness

Prefacing this whole thing with the fact that I’ve had a god damn rosy ass existence. Best of the best. Some people are in the 1% of wealth, I’m in the 1% of happiness. I think it’s partly chemical and partly pure luck. See: my family, friends, where I grew up, etc. That said, the last two years of my life have been the hardest. Debt. Health issues. Dead ends. Loneliness. Self doubt. Global pandemic. Everything you need for a stiff cocktail of bleh.

While reflecting on the last two years, and the 30 years leading up to them; I realized something kind of sucky about happiness. But also kind of obvious. And it’s that the path to happiness is not linear. It’s not this emoji 📈, unfortunately. It’s just that — and I’m not exaggerating — from years 0 to 30, my life was consistently on the up and up. Sure, there were set backs and heart breaks here and there, but they all felt necessary and exciting and romantic; the building blocks for the happiest me.

As I mentioned, I am chemically blessed with a disposition that leans heavily towards optimism. Some people, for instance my therapist, might also say that I use humor as a defense mechanism. To which I say: can I please just have this one thing?! But seriously, the past two years have been difficult. I’ve cried for no reason and every reason; I’ve felt out of control and not like myself; I’ve hated my job and flirted with complacency; and I almost surrendered to the idea that, eh this is just life, better get used to it. So yeah, shit has been, let’s say less good, since I turned 30. But I have a feeling (and the aforementioned serotonin levels) that all of this [*gestures broadly towards…everything*] is going to have a pretty big pay off. I trust that I’ll look back at these years from the comfort of my old age, and think, “Thank god all of those things happened to her, she was getting so boring.”

If all of this was too hard to follow, I’ve made a graph to better illustrate my point. I’ve also included a Pinterest self help quote, which sums up this entire blog in twenty words and has glitter. So, Pinterest: 1. Cheyenne: 0.

HAPPINESS CHART

dispatch 100920: routines and the moon

It’s been nine days since I committed to writing one thing a day for the month of October. What I didn’t know when I set out to do this was, that there are two full moons this month; one on the first day of the month and the second one on the last day. I once paid an astrologer to read my birth chart (file under: things you do when you’re a little lost and want to light money on fire) and she informed me that I am very controlled by the moon. So maybe this daily writing endeavor was a little astral nudge from the big piece of cheese in the sky.

So yeah, it’s day nine and I’m sitting here at my kitchen table, harassing my keyboard, trying to get something to come out to play. Instead, I think I’ll leave it at this, because if I know one thing. it’s that you can’t force anything.

dispatch 100820: on empathy in office

I would imagine that what I’m about to explain is pretty normal, but on the off chance that this is something reserved only for those of us lucky enough to be both writers and people with anxiety, I’ll go ahead and explain it anyway. When I have a lot to do or when there’s a tricky conversation I need to have, my inner monologue tends to take over and I can’t focus on anything else until I write it down. It’s like I need to extract it from my brain and banish it to a piece of paper where it can be properly contained.

After I write a to do list, I instantly feel like I can focus on what I need to do. Nine times out of ten, I’ll also add “write to do list” to give myself something to cross out (because of who I am as a person). The act of taking my thoughts and putting them on paper yields a truly physical response. Before I do it, my brain feels chaotic and fidgety (imagine a miniature kitten on espresso rolling around where your brain is supposed to be). But after, there is relative peace and the chaos now exists politely on paper. And no, I’ve never seen a doctor regarding a potential ADHD diagnosis, why do you ask? It was the caffeinated kitten thing, wasn’t it?

All of that to say, I know I’m not a political pundit and you probably come here, if you come here, for thoughts on online dating and other new-age Carrie Bradshaw blah blah — not politics. But I’ve had something on my brain since the first presidential debate that needs to come out on paper/website. It’s like I keep fantasizing about getting a seat in the White House press pool and being granted 30 seconds to rip Trump a new one. Side note: think how much money would be raised for charity by auctioning off that opportunity. We could probably cure hunger in minutes. So yeah, I know me writing this will change literally nothing but I am also literally going insane rehearsing a hypothetical conversation with Donald Trump in my head. So, yeah, here we are.

During the debate, Trump completely fumbled his chance to once and for all — and for real — denounce white supremacy. Instead, he did some sick dog whistle to the P*oud Bo*s. After the debate, his talking heads immediately got to work saying that he did denounce white supremacy “in all its forms” and has done so in the past. Sure, the words have come out of his mouth before, but have you ever once believed them? He is so infuriating in that he says one thing, but you know he either 1) doesn’t mean it or 2) is insinuating something entirely different. It’s not the perfect metaphor, but something about him reminds me of the guy who finds the genie’s lamp and uses one of his three wishes to ask for another wish. Simply put: he’s the worst.

I can’t help but think back to Obama’s reaction to Sandy Hook. He cried. He was angry. He felt something. That’s what we’re looking for, that’s what we’re craving. That’s what should be baseline for an American president and what now feels like something of myth and legend. It’s like we flew too close to the sun with Obama and now we have this orange American disgrace.

Alright, it’s out of my brain and onto the internet.

dispatch 100720: i don't want to know what an itch is

A few years back, under the influence of marijuana, I had a thought I had never thought before: What is an itch? Not the easily explained kind caused by brushing against a stick or something, but the small, rather non-noteworthy ones that you bat away with a scratch of your index finger. I pictured teeny tiny skin flakes rubbing up against each other just so as to create that little phantom itch.

My natural reflex was to grab the small internet machine in my pocket and Google it, but I thought, maybe just this one thing can — and should — remain a mystery. Something for just me and my brain. That it would only be until I was on my deathbed, that I would finally give in to science and reason and accept an explanation. And that for now, it would be my thought to think and my question to bring up at parties. (No Googling allowed… because, really, what has killed good conversation more than Google?)

I’m a huge Bill Bryson fan (read A Short History of Nearly Everything, you will be funnier and smarter for it!) and was tickled when my mom checked out his latest book, The Body: A Guide for Occupants, out of the library for me. The first chapter was about skin! So cool! So fun! I always wanted to know more about our largest organ. But unlike you, who has the luxury of foreshadowing on your side, nary an alarm bell went off. Nothing was telling me that I was about to get the answer to my favorite question.

I didn’t even see it coming. I read straight on through until I was getting the answer I never wanted.

The good news is, in an act of self preservation (and possibly due to the fact that I was definitely drinking red wine while reading the book), I couldn’t for the life of me tell you the answer. So it remains my little secret.

Please don’t tell me the answer.

dispatch 100620: on embracing change and affordable housing

My fellow Encinitians,

Do you often find yourself yearning for the Encinitas of your youth? Perhaps the 90s when you were ripping around on your skateboard or bike? Cue the chorus of, “back in my day we didn’t have no e-bikes!” Hell yeah, brother. Same. Anyways, Lous Records, the smoking patio at The Saloon, and Olyo’s Pizza? Yeah, those were your spots. Traffic wasn’t something you shook your fist in the air at and Taylor Steele was filming skits on every corner; yeah… I’m looking at you, San Dieguito High School classes of ’92-’98; who’ve undeniably became the stalwarts of crotchety old Encinitas. Here’s the thing: I GET IT. I’m younger than you but I’m kind of crotchety, too. I’m not afraid to say it: I miss when Encinitas was core.  

Sure, Lazy Acres is one of my happy places and I eat at Nectarine Grove more than I, or my bank account, would like to admit. Also, see: Birdseye Kitchen. But change happens. It’s inevitable, and sometimes as much as we hate to admit it, it’s good. For example, I love that I can feel safe enough to ride my bike from my dad’s in Cardiff to my mom’s in Leucadia; pedaling through a cornucopia of native plants; safely riding by my favorite restaurants, beaches, and people I went to high school with and/or have made out with at The Saloon. I blame the popularity of Fireball during the summer of 2012 for the latter. 

Yes, I am in full support of policies that have made Encinitas more bike-friendly. You lose nothing, as a car-owning person, by making our streets safer for *all* people. In fact, if you count yourself in the group of residents who miss the quieter days of our town, it’s actually in your best interest to get people out of cars and into bike lanes and sidewalks. Because as you know, Highway 101 can, at times, resemble a freeway, which I don’t find very cute nor quaint nor core nor very Encinitas. 

We can talk about how some people in this town have an aversion to equitable transportation at a later date, because this post is about something bigger and more pressing than that. This is about our triumphant return to core. And here’s the deal: it’s not too late to make it happen, but it’s up to us and who we vote into local office. 

The integrity of our town is on the line. In the past ten — and especially five — years, Encinitas has become, how to put this… rich as fuck. We’ve already lived through not only the opening of a Whole Foods but the CLOSING of a Whole Foods. A plot of land that, up until recently, housed three family homes was just sold; and according to building plans will soon house one of the largest single family homes in all of North County. Where three families once lived, will now be occupied by only three people.

Duplexes and funky tiny homes are what have made this town so charming. My mom successfully kept all three of her children and two step daughters a mere 20 feet away by converting her garage into a one bedroom studio. So pay attention moms, this is how you keep us! In fact, biking through Leucadia and seeing the creative ways in which people have added more living space to their lots is one of my favorite activities. Turns out you don’t need much else when you live in one of the best towns in the world. Big ups to the current city council who have voted in favor of state legislation to legalize these ADUs (accessory dwelling units) — or ‘granny flats’ as they are more lovingly referred to. With their leadership, we’re on our way to fully legalizing these cutie pies — and getting more.

Sixty years ago, the people who lived in this town were largely blue collar. Teachers, plumbers, surfboard shapers. What working class family could afford to buy here now? Now is the time to ask yourself: What kind of town do we want to be? What kind of people do we want to attract? Do we want to attract developers and solely the 1%? What kind of community does that build? What would the community look like if it drew in people of all different means and socioeconomic standing? Wouldn’t it be rad if your kid could bump into their teacher at the farmer’s market on Sunday because their teacher could afford to live in the same community that they teach in? What if the people who owned houses here actually lived here, as opposed to people from LA buying and renting out to the exceedingly higher and higher bidder? Again, who do we want to be?

And I’m not anti-rich people. In fact, I would love it if I could be friends with a generous bajillionaire. Like, that sounds super cool for me. But while we’re adding houses for the 1%, isn’t it logical that we would also add housing for the teachers, firefighters, librarians, non-profit workers and janitors that fulfill the roles in a harmonious, equitable society?

We all lamented the closing of El Torito Market. But raise your hand if you spent your money there and supported their business. I know I didn’t go there enough — and I regret that. Let’s dig deeper. Did you actually love El Torito or did you just love that it was a reminder, a symbol, that your town was still cool and kind of crusty? A sign that your town hadn’t been fully gentrified yet. It was there and that was enough to make you feel cool. Let’s take Keno’s for example — which as anyone can attest to, I have proudly supported throughout the years. How would you feel if it was gone tomorrow and a True Foods Kitchen was put in its place? We’re talking overpriced gluten free, organic cardboard masquerading as food. You’d probably feel like a fucking dweeb for living in a town that would let an institution such as Keno’s be lost. Correct? I repeat: who do we want to be?

Change suuuucks, I get it. But we have the opportunity to be the ones in charge of what that change looks like. It’s going to happen, as much as we dig our heels in, so we should be hyper-active in helping decide how those changes materialize. And to me, the biggest factor in creating positive change is housing — namely affordable housing. I do bristle at the thought of high-density housing, but the fact is, track homes from the 80s and now mega-mansions have taken up a lot of space that could have been used to house a lot of people, comfortably. Just a bunch of empty five-bedroom clone homes filled with Costco shit. But at the end of the day, I would much rather live around more people of lesser means, enriching our town with diversity, than live with a handful of rich white kids driving golf carts. (Trust me on this, I lived in San Clemente where the average 12-year-old makes $100k a year from surf industry endorsements and it is not. the. vibe). 

We have to act quick (like this November-quick!) to enact policies and vote in candidates who will go to bat for affordable, equitable housing. I think it’s the best bet we have if we want to live with longtime locals, young people, working-class artists, our kids’ teachers, surfboard shapers, non Tesla owners, etc. Also: now would probably be a good time for me to mention that we are legally bound by the state to figure out a housing plan, so you know, there’s that, too.

There’s a slippery slope between where we are now and a very Orange County-esque future. And as someone who lived there for six godforsaken years, PLEASE do not let us become south Orange County. 

dispatch 100520: grocery stores

One of my simple pleasures is walking the aisles of unfamiliar grocery stores — bonus points if they’re in a foreign country. I want to say it started when I went to Italy in 2008 and discovered the world of digestive crackers, which everyone knows are actually just cookies. I’ve always been a sucker for branding and packaging and standing in front of a wall of digestive cracker/cookie/biscuits, all vying for my attention was really fun.

Something about taking in all new information, on a scale as both large (the building itself) and minute (the singular food items) as a grocery store feels meditative for me. It’s also an immersive way for me to understand how people in other places live; it’s not as intimate as getting a home cooked meal from them but way cooler than just eating at a restaurant in the area. As someone who has a tendency to get distracted or sucked into my phone, I love that the grocery store forces me to focus on the task at hand.

And that was 173 words on my thoughts regarding grocery stores. Now would probably be a good time to tell you that I am wildly hungover and the fact that any words happened at all is shocking.

dispatch 100420: i miss my blackberry — scroll holes pt. 1

WELCOME TO ‘SCROLL HOLES’ PART 1 OF I’M NOT REALLY SURE HOW MANY BECAUSE I HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS.

The year is 2012 and I don’t care who knows it: I LOVE Instagram. All my friends are on it, curating my grid feels like a fun little puzzle, and it’s a great way to *Madonna voice* express myself. Let’s see, it’s 2012, so I’m probably in my white border phase, I’ve moved on from Hipstamatic and use PicFX to edit the shit out of my photos. There are no ads, Stories, Lives, or DMs and influencers are just now beginning their horrific ascent into our feeds. You can surmise who’s sleeping with who, who’s breaking up, getting together, etc. all based on who’s liking what — it’s like our very own Entertainment Tonight, produced in realtime. And with each new post, I feel like I’m adding a brick to the building that is my personality — and I’m building a cool, artistic, 20-something who, like, only uses #hashtags ironically guys!!

OK now the year is 2020, which you may recognize from such things as global pandemic and the demise of democracy as we know it. For quite some time now, the consensus is that social media sucks and we all totally hate it. For sure, for sure. I parroted this sentiment many times, but I never changed my behavior. I kept scrolling, posting, liking, commenting, DM-ing, stalking my ex and his new girlfriend’s sister’s dog and uhh yeah you get the picture. And you can probably relate. But there’s been a shift within me — and with a lot of my friends as of late.

Nothing about it feels good anymore. It no longer feels like something I’m doing because I enjoy it, but rather something I have to do. Side note: I am a social media professional so technically I do have to do it, but now even my personal social media feels like something you’d have to pay me to do. When I go on Instagram these days, it’s hard to find anything that feels additive to my life. I can’t think of the last time Instagram made me a happier, better, or more informed person.

Moreover, I’ve begun to feel decidedly icky about what I share. And the motives behind it. I understand that there’s a dopamine response and you feel temporarily loved when the likes come in, but why… why would I feel the need for people to always be thinking of me? To see my little picture in the top row of their Story bar? Like me, like me, like me.

I recently took a trip to Catalina with my mom. It was beautiful, she is beautiful, we had a great time and I took a lot of photos that would look stellar on my feed. But I don’t want to share them with anyone. It feels performative. Why do I care if you care that I took a trip to Catalina? Would a photo of my mom getting over 100 likes make my day better? The whole thing, it just feels… icky.

There’s the obvious assertion that people are logging on less and less because Instagram is turning into Facebook; that it’s moved too far past its humble beginnings as a straight-forward photo sharing platform. But to me, this feels like the beginning of something bigger. It feels, and this is my sincere hope, that it has less to do with the platform itself and more to do with the fact that we’re all getting disenchanted with social media as a whole.

More on this later. Gonna go search eBay for a Blackberry.

dispatch 100320: the cat guy who did not think i was funny

Last November I started talking to this guy I met on Hinge whomst I believed had a good deal of promise. He was interesting, easy to talk to, smart, good looking, employed, and bonus point: he was a skater. Haha, it’s OK, I hate myself, too. I didn’t realize it at first, but above all those other things, this guy was really really really into his cat.

Over drinks, I learned that he had the name of his first cat tattooed across his chest, that he carried his new cat around in a Baby Bjorn non ironically, and that his plans for the rest of that weekend included going to Prospect Park to spread the ashes of his old cat, a ceremony that he would, of course, be bringing his new cat to in the carrier (carrying it not unlike a newborn baby).

For our second date, we saw Parasite (loved, by the way!), no dinner or drinks before or after. Call me crazy but after a movie, you’d assume you might get to debrief on it, but no… he had to get home to — you guessed it — his cat. “I’ve been gone all day and he’s probably mad at me,” he said. I stood there, mouth agape (“wow, this is a first,” I thought) and then promptly found a bodega to purchase some sad/confused girl chocolate.

We texted a little bit in the days following the movie. I asked him for a photo of his cat, because, and I can’t stress this enough, this cat was INSANE. A truly *chonky boi* with bright yellow eyes that were too close together, deep set into a sea of black fur. I texted him, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your cat totally looks like it would eat you if you died alone in your apartment.” His response? “lol I guess…” I knew I had struck a nerve, I guess I just didn’t know how badly. Dot dot dot.

Fast forward a few months and he matched with one of my friends on Hinge. Being the absolute ride or die bitch that she is, she fucked with him and said “Hey, you’re the cat guy who ghosted my best friend!” To which he said, “Well how would you feel if someone had disrespected your dog like that? If someone had implied that your pet could be violent?” To be clear: the only thing I will apologize for is mistaking you for someone with a sense of humor, Cat Guy!!! The kicker? After she didn’t say anything back, he said, “Well, what do you think? I’d still love to meet you.”

Meow!

dispatch 100220: this isn't about the day's news (!!)

I have not looked away from my Twitter feed for more than three minutes today. There are many many many things I want to say regarding America at present, but insteaddddd I’m going to noodle on something different. For self preservation.

— — —

I was on my flight back to New York earlier this summer after spending May and June back home in California when I got to thinking about how best to spend one’s numbered days here on earth. You know, nothing too heavy. Earlier this year, I had made the decision to go home and ride out what I thought would be a “few weeks of quarantine,” presuming that I would have to be back in my New York office by early June. (Side note: hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.)

When I left New York in May, I had only been living in New York for 11 months. It hadn’t even been a full year since I had left everything I’ve ever known (this is dramatic! but true!) behind to live in a wildly different place. A place, not to mention, that was very very very far from my family and 99% of my super awesome friend group.

Some context! After high school I attended a community college .4 miles from my house, nestled right next to a picturesque lagoon. I then made the giant leap to UC Irvine, a whopping 60 minutes from my hometown. Six years later, I moved back home and lived behind my mom in a garage-to-studio shoe box that I loved. Two of my brothers lived not only on the same street, but on the same block (a cul de sac, no less!), my dad was a three mile walk away, and my sister was a 30 minute drive, tops, away. It should be noted that my other sister lives in the middle of the Pacific on Kauai, because apparently wanting to uproot and move thousands and thousands of miles away is genetic. I had friends whose houses I could walk and bike to and life was good. But I had to go.

So I went. And it was hard. It still is. [Editor’s note: If you’re in your twenties and reading this, hold on to your pals because it is HURRDD to make new ones in your thirties.] But there’s something about getting uncomfy that felt — and still feels — very necessary for me at this current juncture. But, fuck, it’s hard. Which begs the question: Why do it? At the risk of spoiling the end of this story, I’ll tell you now that I do not know.

OK so I’m on the plane, floating somewhere over Arizona and I’m crying. I’ve always been of the mind that life is short so you should have as much fun as possible whilst on this earthly plane. I’m certainly more than a little bit existential, not in the way that every guy in their twenties claims to be, but more in the “nothing matters so we might as well have a sick ass time” kind of way. Try fun, ya know? So why reinvent the wheel? Why move across the country with no guarantee that it’ll yield results half as good as what you got back home? If life is so precious, why waste time on anything less than great? Again, I do not know.

One thing that keeps me going (and keeps me in New York) is the knowledge that, for the most part, my people know without a shadow of a doubt that I love them. Endlessly and completely. I like to think that, heaven forbid, I or someone I love were to die unexpectedly, that we would both be at peace because there was an understanding. An understanding that we knew how much we loved each other. That the times and memories and bond we shared are what made my life worth living. That nothing was left unsaid. Realizing this has forced me to be more forthcoming with how I feel about people, because the thought of them not knowing that I am ✨o b s e s s e d✨ with them would actually kill me.

So, I guess I’m out here trying to find more humans to add to my roster of amazing people. But the only way I’m able to do this (without fully freaking out) is with the knowledge that I have a bunch of them back home who know how I feel. And that all that we’ve done together here on this aforementioned earthly plane is more than one almost-32-year-old could ever hope to have accomplished. And chances are, if you’re reading this, I’m talking about you — yep, you!

The short version of this entire piece of writing is this: life is short, so happiness is what we should strive for, right? And I’m really happy when I’m around my family and my oldest friends… but is that not sort of cheating? Giving in? Happiness is harder fought out here in New York, where I’m more or less starting over; but in doing so, my hope is that it will be even more rewarding when it does come. But if it could all be over tomorrow, then what’s the point? Would it not be wiser to just be with the people who are a guaranteed good heart-filled up to the brim kind of time?

But, I have to admit, the pizza out here is pretty great.

dispatch 100120: this magic moment

I am nothing if not romantic. For love. For life. The good and the bad. Not in an annoying thespian/drama kid way, just in the kind of way where I think the next moment, every moment, is going to be the one to change my whole life. I’m annoyingly optimistic about it all. That said, for the sake of this story, I will be focusing on the romantic love kind of stuff.

So like most women my age, I grew up on the classic Disney princess fairytales — or to quote the iconic Diane Barrows in the Olsen twin classic, It Takes Two, I grew up on that “can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.“ And it unfortunately shaped my outlook on love and dating and is something I’m very much looking forward to talking to my therapist about.

I remember being in sixth grade thinking that, by some miracle, the “hot”* “guy”** was going to make his parents stop by my house on the way to the movies with all the other “cool”*** kids, because he all of a sudden couldn’t go another day of his eleven-year-old life without me in it. As his girlfriend, of course. I would put on my slickest Delia’s look, some roll-on body glitter, and practice my caught-off-guard-by-this-sudden-interest-in-me reaction on the off chance that this fantasy was definitely, totally going to come true.

*Air quotes were deployed here to imply that my crush was not hot, nor a guy — he was eleven, he was a boy — and that no one is cool in sixth grade.

I remember a time when I thought my ex was going to pull a 180 on his entire personality, like literally become a different person, and execute a large scale public declaration of his love for me; realizing that he, too, could not live another day without me. (Ahh, a theme emerges). I genuinely thought he was going to orchestrate some sort of surprise party with my family and friends to officially ask for me back. That didn’t happen. I’m fine, I’m fine. Yet despite my imagination being right 0% of the time, I’m still pretty hyped on the thought of what or who comes next.

The most recent form of this romantic idealization caught even me off guard, though. I was walking to the fluff and fold when I happened across a cutie guy. Before I even realized what it was doing, my mind was doing its *thing*. You see, I have recently become disenchanted by online dating (though I do think I deserve some sort of award or recognition from Hinge for being so resilient in the face of ghostage and other let downs), and have been noodling on the idea of deleting it and letting the universe step in and serve me up a real, live, breathing man in the wild. Was this him?! I love a chance encounter, and that’s where my mind prematurely filed this .001 second long interaction. I started thinking backwards and chronicling all the decisions and circumstances that had lead me to this exact moment on a dirty sidewalk in Brooklyn. These moments weren’t just, “I got bored and depressed at work and left early and thus am walking down this exact street at 5:41pm.” No, it was more like, “well, a global pandemic made it so I could go to California. And since I went home, I had dirty clothes I needed to drop off. And since that apartment search (which took years off your life) lead you to so many nos, it also lead you to the apartment you finally said yes to and now this is your neighborhood, and this is your laundry mat and maybe this is your dude.”

Anyway, he barely looked at me and kept on walking.