Bitch Media is still very graciously letting me talk about my feelings.
Area Woman Regrets Leaving the House That Day Before She Even Gets Out of Bed In the Morning.
Louisville area woman Kaitlyn Soligan regretted leaving the house that day while still in her pajamas in bed that morning.
“I absolutely should not have done that,” Soligan muttered, still safely buried under several comforters and wearing two pairs of both pajama pants and socks. “What was I thinking? It is freezing out there. Listen. You can hear the ice in the windows cracking under the strain.”
“It was a terrible mistake,” Soligan continued, making breakfast in her cozy home where, due to the ancient and often malfunctioning furnace, it was as warm as 75 degrees all morning long. “It’s awful. Just awful. I read somewhere that you can die of hypothermia in 30 minutes in this weather,” said Soligan, who would be outside for the length of time it took to walk the 40 or so feet from her front door to her car, then another 20 steps to the grocery store and back. “It’s not fit for man or beast.”
Soligan continued to lament her poor decision making as she bundled up in long underwear, a long sleeved t-shirt, several sweaters, an additional pair of socks, a jacket, and every pair of gloves she owned, as well as multiple hats. “And you just know that as soon as I get back I’ll have to take a hot shower and drink three cups of tea and I’ll still never warm back up right and then I’ll have to get up tomorrow to go to work,” Soligan added, to no one in particular, as she stood in her living room, gazing out at the frigid tundra she had yet to enter once all day.
At press time, Soligan was still standing by her front door, muttering darkly to herself and shaking her fist randomly at the heavens through her insulated windows.
Barrel-Bottom Wisdom: Time Travel.
My tagline promises life, location, and hard liquor, and I’ve leaned fairly heavily on the first two while withholding the last, which, especially in Kentucky, is the height of rudeness. As a corrective measure, I give you “Barrel-Bottom Wisdom,” part the first.
In January, two friends came to visit (bless them) and we went out on the bourbon trail to Maker’s Mark. Bourbon is on a boom, you may have heard, but a trip out to Maker’s gives the impression that this is no typical bubble. While the flavored vodka boom was an abomination and an affront to the Gods of Liquor resulting in the final indignity of something sorbet flavored masquerading as an acceptable beverage for adults, most bourbon is lovingly crafted, and time-consuming. Production simply cannot and will not meet demand, never mind exceed it. All of the Maker’s Mark ever sold is still made in the same place, the very one we toured; the only concession to expansion is a building, visible from the original site, where more barrels can be aged. It is possible, in a day, to see every barrel and bottle of Maker’s and trace their origins, excepting those already in stores. The gift shop also allows guests to hand-dip their own bottle.
The weekend we visited had been a trying one in which our nightmarish roommate allowed our electricity to be shut off through negligence and poor financial planning, then became irate when I insisted on turning it back on myself rather than wait for her to do so at her leisure. When we dipped our bottles, I earmarked mine for our first home together, the one that would truly be ours, that would mark living together as a dedicated project rather than a tetchy experiment. When we moved, it was the very first thing I unpacked, tucked back in the freezer until we were ready.
We opened it this weekend at our housewarming party, where, with the aid of the ever-helpful bourbon, I time-traveled to the life I had envisioned in that moment almost a year ago: a house, with a front porch, and a library, a lit Christmas tree, full of warmth and laughter and friends and family and love, happy and content to be perfectly where we were. You might say that’s not the bourbon, but I will tell you this: the bourbon sure doesn’t hurt.
Some Thoughts, As I Do Battle With the Abandoned Field We Call a Yard.
1) People are always sharing this little sign on Facebook, “Discipline is good for kids! Share if you were DISCIPLINED as a child!” Why? What does that prove about you, or your parents? Notice that this does not imply that the discipline was useful in any way. Maybe you’re a serial killer. I don’t know you. No, no more of that. How about this: SHARE if your parents made you do yard work as a kid, so that as an adult, you could look around at what closely resembles an abandoned field next to a Walmart parking lot, sigh deeply, go out to Target and get the good trashbags – outdoor, 30 gallon capacity, it’s all they have – return, and spend the next three hours engaged in what often feels like a futile battle with the knowledge that it is certainly not, in fact, futile, because you did the yard every fall in New England with your family and every year it always got done and it looked perfectly fine. SHARE SHARE SHARE.
2) There was broken glass under piles of dead leaves that must have been there for a decade. Who were these previous tenants? Savages.
3) PILES OF DEAD LEAVES ARE WHERE THE MICE LIVE. UNACCEPTABLE.
4) At various points over a decade or more, people have attempted to tame this 20×20 ft wilderness with the following: decorative concrete, bricks, cement blocks. It is sweet. Past tenants who dreamed of a lovely backyard in which to spend time with friends and loved ones: I salute you, and I go forth in your honor and in your memory.
5) Final tally: 665 gallons worth of trashbags filled to maximum capacity with leaves, sticks, and assorted debris.
6) We measure trashbags in gallons, which is a foolish invitation to fill them with liquid. This seems worth reconsidering.
My Year of Magical Thinking
I left my friends and my family and my job and everything else that anchored my self-identity on October 27, 2013, and moved to Kentucky. Six days later, I turned 29. One day after that, the loneliness hit me, hard and fast as an elbow to the face, knocking the wind out of me and sending me reeling backwards, straight into bed, where I stayed for the better part of the next week.
On November 6, three days after my birthday and two days after The Loneliness and I became suddenly and intimately acquainted, a package arrived.
I left it unopened for hours, comforted by the knowledge that something good was inside; comforted by the knowledge that when I opened it, something good and special would certainly happen. Knowing that you are in the moment right before something good happens is rare under any circumstances. In the middle of the desert of The Loneliness, it might as well have been the only glass of water I would ever have again, held right in front of me. I held onto the knowing like a prayer that was going to be answered.
I pulled open the box that night, sitting on the still unfamiliar floor of our new room. Inside were tiny tissue-paper packages held with string, each marked by a sparkly silver tag, each from a different friend. I cried as I opened them. Each one of them felt like being home and each one of them was perfect. Coffee from my favorite shop in New York and the most perfect birthday mug in the world to go with it. A Buzzfeed tote bag (The 15 Greatest Philosophers Ranked by Hotness) just as I had worn holes in my old beloved one. Three kinds of tea that smelled like home. A tiny package of magic from the witch, with a candle that smelled like patchouli and tobacco, and a little potion called “boundaries in a bottle.” Sweet handwritten cards and letters.
When I was done looking over everything, I took what I needed immediately – the tote bag, the tea and coffee, the bottle of boundaries – and put the rest back. For months, on a bad day, I would glance at the box, weigh the pleasure of opening another gift on that day against the inevitable day the box would be empty. I took things out one at a time, once a week, once a month; I smoothed each piece of tissue paper out when it was no longer needed and saved it. I kept one shiny silvery tag hanging over my desk. It said, “Northern Downpour.” I went back to that box and I went back and I went back until May, when I took out the very last gift, and then I turned the box upside down and shook it just to make sure I had gotten every last tiny little bit of magic out of it.
It got harder for a long time instead of easier. I thought about moving. When our roommate was being particularly awful or the stress of being severely underemployed felt like too much, I thought about going home. I thought about selling everything I owned and burning the rest and heading even further west, out to a state I’d never lived in, or another country. If I was going to be lonely, it would be better to be alone. My loneliness was crushing everyone else near me. I was a happiness liability.
Everyone told me how friendly southerners are, and they are right – southerners are all greetings and warm smiles and my northern tendency to consider a terse nod plenty of interaction for a grocery store is taken well by no one – but no one ever said they were polite. A clerk at CVS checked my ID and commented in the most upbeat tone of voice that she “could just never live up North – I had a friend who moved and she just hates it.” Did I hate it, she wondered? Had I moved south to escape the Northerners? She had heard they were rude. And the cost of living. So outrageous. Yes, I thought, seething and counting change, but the drivers who don’t take to snow like a homicidal maniac locked in a haunted hotel all winter takes to an axe, well, it sure runs stiff competition to all the people here asking me where I go to church and why I’m not married to the man I live with. I sprayed myself with Boundaries every time I left the house. In March I ordered a new bottle. For months I couldn’t get a job at all, not to so much as sweep sidewalks; a real improvement was when low-wage labor accepted me as one of its own and allowed me to work as, in short order, a retail associate, a barista, a nanny, and back to retail. Attempts to pick up pieces that resemble whatever life I knew before have had the feeling and ultimately the same results as raking my soul slowly over hot coals.
I would think of a Lori McKenna line all the time, the one where she says, “Well but God only gives us as much as we can take… I guess.” There’s another unspoken truth there; not quite that we get what we need, but that we get what we need to do what we must. I got Emily Mowery. Acquaintances through a mutual best friend, we ended up in Louisville at the exact same time, accidentally, each knowing no one else. We eyed each other wearily for a few weeks, circling, expressing ourselves gently, before realizing that we were two pieces of the same puzzle and going all-in.
Emily’s a kinetic learner. We had to go everywhere, touch everything, try every restaurant, have every adventure. We drank beer at Holy Grale, out back in a secret garden with twinkling lights. We stumbled onto First Friday at Garage Bar, where it became apparent that Emily Doesn’t Understand How Bars Work. We did a weekend trip to Columbus, OH, where, on Friday the 13th, under a full moon, I taught Emily how bars work, and we were both made of magic. We went rock-climbing at Red River Gorge and stayed up all night drinking beer with the summer employees of the hostel where we stayed, grown-up campers with no responsibility beyond having fun and making sure everyone else did, too. I insisted we go see a free show at 4th Street Live, something no self-respecting local would ever do, because the beautiful man playing that night was going to blow up and be so huge and we would be able to say we saw him way back when, I just knew it. We got into the meet-and-greet; buried somewhere in my files is a photo in which I look totally insane, arm around the performer’s waist. The show was incredible. The kid had the number one country song on the charts two weeks ago.
Without a steady job, I found projects. I wrote for myself and for other people. Someone published something I wrote. The witch got a little business off to a rollicking start and sent me some magic in the mail; a friend and I started the back-end work on an organization; another friend and I got into the planning stages of a business of our own that might someday come to be. Other friends and family members made things that inspired me to keep pushing; one friend’s fully-funded kickstarter will soon be a podcast I cannot wait to listen to; my brother and sister took a pilot they co-wrote from east to west coast and won Best Pilot at the LA Comedy Festival. I accepted that life isn’t going to look like it did before, even though I don’t yet know what it will look like in the future.
I went to New York to see friends and family and stopped by the MADRE office, where I used to work. I walked 50 extra blocks when I left, circling all the way around to the Flatiron building and back up to Ktown, so I could walk by the museum where B and I met. I got confused and took an inefficient side street to get back to the metro, a block lower than the one I needed. Everything looked familiar. When I stopped to think why, I found myself in front of St. Francis, the church my coworker Roxana attended, where we held her memorial service and where I sometimes went to sit and think after she passed away. I went in and lit a candle for her, and told her not to get any ideas. I’m still Jewish.
When we were looking for our house, the one that took forever to find, I pictured it over and over. I saw the two of us painting and unpacking, how bright and how warm it would be, felt the wood floorboards underfoot. A psychic told me it would have three steps leading up to it, but the day we found it, it had closer to twenty – until, at the landing, when we turned left, we were facing three steps leading up to the porch, and the front door. To paraphrase the witch, when you don’t have a dentist, a primary care physician, or a 401k, but you do have a psychic and a pack of tarot cards, that is magical thinking.
The other night I was reading in bed when I heard a scratching sound. I sat right up, looked frantically around for mice, of which I am hateful and terrified and which were, in fact, a huge problem when we first moved in. I called out for Ben; he heard the scratching too, but insisted it was coming from outside. We have eight cats next door, but I know their sounds now and I find it comforting. The backyard is more theirs than ours, and they patrol it regally. They are not prone to scratching and squeaking. We listened for another moment. “I think there’s a dog out there,” Ben said. He headed for the door. I had a moment of panic. “Where are you going?” He looked at me. “I’m going to check on the dog.” I should have thought of that, but I was busy keeping all of my appendages on the bed, where nothing could reach out from the dark and grab them, the commotion outside was making me that nervous. Ben called from the back door, “He’s trying to get in.” I got out of bed. “Does he have tags? You might as well let him, we have to call his owners.” The tiniest, most perfect little beagle mutt came bounding towards me, then away from me, trying to smell everything and see everything at once. “Come here boy!” I pet him while Ben tried to read his tags. He accepted the petting while simultaneously attempting to be in a completely different room, smelling more things. “Good boy! Sit!” Ben grabbed his face while I made a grab at the collar. I looked up. “Ben?” I held the tag for him to see. “I think the dog’s name is Ben.” The puppy licked my face. I wanted a dog so badly I called one to us by name. His owners were very happy to hear from us.
Every now and then, maybe five times in my life, I’ve been sitting in a moment and realized, “I have dreamed this. This has happened before. This has happened before in a dream.” I had one of those moments walking down a street with B’s sister-in-law and sister – I recognized the street, the houses, the exact moment itself that we were in, even though I had never seen any of it before. Then it happened again during a weekend in the catskills for my friend’s 30th birthday. Then again, back in Louisville a few days later, three times in just ten days. If I’m not where I’m supposed to be, something sure wants me to feel like I am. In the nearly seven months since I ordered that second bottle of Boundaries, I’ve used only a little more than half.
There’s an eloquent line from Cheryl Strayed about what Amy Poehler aptly calls time travel – that thing we do where we find ourselves in a moment we forsaw. “Who we become is born of who we most primitively are,” she says; “we both know and cannot possibly know what it is we’ve yet to make manifest in our lives.” I knew we would find the house. I knew someday, someone would publish some of my writing, and then some more, and then some more after that. I both know and cannot possibly know that there is success in many bizarre forms in my future, in ways and shapes I would never have anticipated; I both know and cannot possibly know that there is travel, and family, and warmth and laughter, a dog, more challenges, houses full of people we love, enough money, rewarding work.
I did not know I would still be working holiday retail at the age of 30, one year after I began. That I am afraid I did not anticipate.
I’ve spoken to one friend almost every day since I moved here; probably not coincidentally, he is a therapist by trade. We were talking last night about an irrational fear I sometimes have, which goes along these lines: My intuition has always told me the right place to be and the right thing to do before, but what if it stops? What if that feeling that drives me is finite? What if I only get so many of those, and I used them all up? He laughed a little and said, “Yeah, under circumstances like these we get into some magical thinking.” I stopped. “It is so weird that you just said that,” I told him, “because I’ve been working on this post for the site…”
An American Haunting, Part 2
I Have a Lot of Feelings about Those Rape Scenes in Outlander
Bitch Media generously allowed me to share them here.
Louisville Water Company
I haven’t hooked up my own water or electricity for nearly six years. I kept moving in with people who had already taken care of that sort of thing; once, notably, my parents. Moving into the new place, we defaulted to Ben setting up the utilities because he’s used these companies before, which doesn’t necessarily make sense but can be explained, like most things, with the law of inertia. But it worked out that I had a day off and Ben had to work, so I made the two shockingly easy calls to get set up. When I called the water company, the answering service asked me to say “Main Menu” if I preferred English, or it would allow me to Press 1 if I wanted to use my “touch-tone phone.” There was also an optional faxing service.
I am glad that I did this. I feel I now have a much deeper understanding of the median age and technological knowledge of the average citizen of Louisville or, at least, the median age and technological knowledge of the average water company customer.
Nothing Happens, and then Everything Happens All At Once.
When I moved out here, B and I moved into a condo his friend owned, off a Route-1 type two-lane highway filled with Starbucks and chain restaurants. For a first-time relocation to a new state, it was a good spot: a mile from a Target, across the street from a liquor store, and, accidentally and gloriously, 7 minutes from the mall where I had been hired to work part-time, sight unseen. But I’ve been a city dweller for eight years, and before that I was a campus pedestrian, so not being able to walk anywhere drove me quickly insane. You expect apartment living in New York, but out here it’s nice to meet people, and our complex wasn’t great for that. A lot of our neighbors were a tight-knit group of Indian families who all know one another; they were friendly but not inviting. There was a nice family downstairs with a baby that I would have loved to get to know, but I once called the cops on the husband when I heard him abusing his wife. It was our first time living together, and both of our first time living with a partner, which made it special, and it had advantages – modern amenities, a pool, washer and dryer!, and the sweetest landlord on earth – but wasn’t ideal living, all around.
We started looking for a new place months ago, trying to pull that one foot I’ve had out the door all the way in, trying to commit to this new city, new state, entirely new life, and we had no luck. None. Nothing was right, nothing was in the neighborhood we wanted, nothing was the right price. If it was a house it didn’t allow dogs. If it allowed dogs it was carpeted, or so expensive I might as well move back to Manhattan. We talked about staying in the condo, re-arranging it totally to make it truly our home. We talked about looking other places. Mostly, as with so many other things out here, I stood still, or shifted incrementally. I’ve had a series of lateral-move, temporary jobs, an apartment that feels like a place to stay, not a home, a Massachusetts license still tucked into my wallet. I’ve been standing still.
Last week, a few days after our October 1 moving deadline had already passed, we went to see a house. It was perfect for me: wood floors, a little fireplace, a magic garden in the backyard, and it allowed dogs. B got on board and said we could move. Over breakfast, I told him how much that meant to me, but that we should do what was right for both of us. He just started a new job with a huge increase in responsibility, and this house wasn’t as perfect for him as it was for me by a long shot. We could take our time. We could stay in the condo, as we had discussed on occasion. We could figure out a way to move forward together, as partners.
We stopped by to see one last house, one that I knew three people were already interested in that we had no real chance of renting. I fell in love immediately. Shiny wood floors, high ceilings, a walk-in kitchen with a pantry. A living room and a library. Carpet in the master bedroom. A backyard and a front porch just begging for a swing, in a better location and for a better price than the first place. After all that talk about “taking our time” and “doing what was right for both of us” less than hour before, I walked out and told B, “if we’re going to take it, we have to take it now.” And we did. We had the place in our name in 24 hours.
After almost a year of nothing moving, swaying stagnantly from side to side, B started a new job, I got some opportunities to write and a few interviews, we’re moving, and we’re closing in on my one-year anniversary and my 30th birthday. I know people love the phrase “when it rains it pours,” but I’ve always found that to be a little subtle for my particular circadian rhythm, which moves along a lot more like this: Nothing Happens, or Everything Happens All At Once.
I Have a Lot of Feelings About “Sons of Anarchy.”
And I wrote about them over at BuzzFeed.