Friday, November 24, 2017

They Found Her

“Ladies and gentlemen we are looking for a three-year-old child in one of the cars of this train. If anyone has seen an unattended three-year-old child, please alert me, the train conductor, right away.”

A chill creeps up my spine, and I look around the car to see my fellow passengers also scanning the length of the train, until my eyes fall upon a little boy playing a game of some sort on an iPad. He looks up from the game and says to his father, “This one’s too easy for me," while the later tries to keep a concerned expression off his face.
One year ago: Sweet With Teeth
Two years ago: What Good Are You?
Four years ago: Tales From High School
Seven years ago: Who Really Runs This Joint 


The manager from Whole Foods, when we tried to talk to someone about our problem on the phone last night, said that if we wanted to replace the seven pound turkey we'd received with the ten pound turkey we'd ordered, we'd need to get there early. "Like, early," he emphasized when we asked for clarification.

So here I am, out at seven in the morning on Thanksgiving, happily riding my bike down to the Gowanus in the lovely, quiet, crisp air, not a soul other than me on the road.

The honk at my left shoulder comes as a bit of a shock, then, like the only car in Brooklyn hunted me down for the sole purpose of hassling me, and I pull over despite him having the entire road, and motion him past with an irritated wave.
One year ago: Suburban Apocalypse
Two years ago: Karma Leaves a Mark
Three years ago: What's Eating You?
Seven years ago: crossing paths

Thursday, November 23, 2017

They're Just Having A Nice Time

They're sitting across the train car from me, laughing, these two women, and for just a second my stomach tightens and I feel painfully self-conscious. I have my headphones in, so I can't hear what amused them, but I can remember what it was like to be seven, eight years old, and have the other kids laugh at you, pretending it's not you, acting like you're not the subject of their ridicule.

Maybe that's what I'm reacting to, nothing to do with right now.

I close my eyes and turn up the music, and I remember that I'm not really that important, or conspicuous, nor am I as awkward as I was when I was eight.
One year ago: Like a Gas Leak
Two years ago: Sales Banter
Three years ago: Growing Up
Six years ago: Rrrrargh
Seven years ago: Snapshots of a Commute

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

We're Knot the Same

Each of the sculptures in the booth where we're selling Katie's work is labeled with a small, kraft tag tied to the piece with a small length of dark green string.

For new pieces, she's left a small baggie of the strings in tidy, knotted bundles at the booth. I unknot the bundle to obtain a single piece of string for a new tag, and silently marvel at her organization, her foresight and planning for even little things like this.

But when I try to retie the knot, what was an elegant, neat whorl of string disintegrates in my hands into a disorganized, depressing tangle that I spend longer than it should take trying to fix.
One year ago: Agoraphobia
Two years ago: Competitive
Three years ago: Make-Up Work
Four years ago: No Making Out Tonight
Seven years ago: A Little Forceful

Much To Answer For

"Guys, just stop it!" Katie says in frustration to the newest sexual harassment revelations (this time against Charlie Rose). She stands by the door after getting ready for bed, pulling her hair up into a pony tail. "I mean, are most guys like this?" she adds.

"Yeah," I say sadly.
One year ago: Swimming Lessons
Two years ago: Seed
Four years ago: Old Before Her Time
Seven years ago: The very nice doctor is not a dentist

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Grow Gills

"There were two actually broke artists talking to me today," Katie says after her shift at the market where she's selling her sculptures, "and when I told them that this was my full-time job, they were like, 'Whooooaa.'"

"But I told them," she continues, "there's a point where you're spending money to do stuff for your art, so you're working to get the money to do that, and eventually the balance shifts, and there just comes a point where your canoe flips over and you find out you can breathe under water."

"Did you actually say that?" I ask, incredulous.

"No, I didn't want to be weird," she says without embarrassment.
One year ago: Not Above It All
Two years ago: Caught In The Act
Three years ago: Scruffy, Part II
Four years ago: Fall Is Just The Space Between
Seven years ago: Late Edition

The Last Doge On The Left

We've been feeding the doge treats off Katie's cousin Ryan's shoe, in an effort to get her to calm the hell down whenever he's in the house. We figured it would get her to associate his smell with treats, but that's not really working, although she seems to appreciate the whole eating a lot of treats part of our plan. She still barks, growls, and carries on like he's some kind of home invader, intent on killing us all and making us into lampshades, and being the charming, affable guy he is, he finds it personally offensive that any creature would have the poor taste to dislike him.

When he goes on the doge's walk with us, hoping to get her used to his presence, she twists around every few seconds to look behind her at him, as if he's the killer in the horror movie, gaining every moment on the heroine as she stumbles in terror through the forest.
One year ago: Boogie. Down.
Two years ago: Good Intentions
Three years ago: Attention Must Be Paid
Four years ago: Picky