A Letter to My Boxing Friends

A Letter to My Boxing Friends

Wednesday, December 28, 2022

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A letter to you, my PGB friends,

I’ve never done very well in groups. I was in a sorority in college, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. I’ve never felt more out of place, more alienated, more unworthy of friendship. And even though I’ve successfully been a part of multiple friend groups since then, that experience has always stuck with me. It’s become a deep and inextricable part of the story that I tell myself about myself, like it’s a fact — I have brown hair, I have a loud voice, and I don’t do very well in groups.

This year, though, had been the year that I’ve started rewriting that part of my story — and so much of it is thanks to you, the women in this room and the others who have been here throughout the year, even briefly and in passing. Every single person and every single interaction in this gym and on GroupMe and during our social events has taught me not only about all of you but also about myself. 

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Soul Connect: Moving Wayyyy Outside My Comfort Zone

Soul Connect: Moving Wayyyy Outside My Comfort Zone

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

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I'm generally a little bit of a skeptic, if you want the truth. 

I'm not a touchy-feely person. I have a lot of feelings, sure, but I'm not the kind of person who reads Brene Brown or puts stock in crystals or gets vulnerable in groups of strangers.

Until I do.

For the last few months, I've been following Soul Connect on social media, a movement to connect local women on a deep & meaningful level. Run by life coach/yogi/entrepreneur Katie Kurtz, who I met at a blogging event last year, Soul Connect hosts monthly events for Cleveland-area women. Some are yoga-centered, or focused on the new moon, or crafty, or food-based; they're all different.

Ever since I learned about Soul Connect, I've gone back & forth about whether to attend one of their events. Would they be too hippie-dippy for me? And would I ever dare to go alone? I decided to attend the January event knowing it would be way out of my comfort zone - & with vision boarding, no less.

But you know what? It turned out to be exactly what I needed.

I showed up alone & awkward & more than a little jaded. I literally paused in the hallway outside the room where others were gathered, & I considered leaving. I could hear people chatting & laughing, but I was too scared to go in by myself. When Katie spotted me peeking my head around the corner, though, I was caught. I had to go in.

I entered the room to find a dozen women sitting in a circle, cross-legged on yoga blankets, drinking tea & eating snacks. In the center of the circle were crafting supplies - paintbrushes, blank canvases, colorful paint - & a deck of "moon cards" with the word "ANGELS" emblazoned across the front.

Oh, God, what had I gotten myself into? 

But I took a deep breath, picked the first woman in the room who'd smiled my way, & pulled up a blanket next to her. OK, let's do this.


Katie introduced herself, the group, & the evening's activity, repeatedly reassuring us that we didn't have to do anything. We could paint whatever we wanted, however we wanted - we just had to commit to being open & honest & genuine in our intentions. We went around the circle & introduced ourselves, telling the group what we were giving ourselves "permission" to do for the evening. It felt like a hippie-dippy start, touchy-feely start, but I decided to be honest: I give myself permission not to be such a skeptic. 

Katie asked us not to look at one another's paintings or to feel bad about theirs as compared to our own - to just paint & talk & enjoy. As we painted, we talked about the new year - what we think about new beginnings, whether new year's resolutions are bullshit, what we wanted for ourselves in 2018. We talked about judgment - about whether it's a learned behavior, about how we can try to give other women the benefit of the doubt, about how social media makes it extra-difficult sometimes. Because I didn't know anyone, thought I wouldn't talk much - but I was wrong. I had plenty to say.

And you know what? I absolutely loved those two hours painting & talking about life with complete strangers. 

My painting turned out ugly, but so what? It was one of the nicest evenings I've had in a long time - & to I'd almost talked myself out of it entirely. It was such a relief to be in a safe space where, strangers or not, we'd all agreed to leave judgments & preconceptions at the door; to just be ourselves. I left feeling refreshed & reinvigorated & reassured. Hopeful.

Katie & Soul Connect are creating something truly incredible - & this skeptic, for one, is looking forward to continuing to be a part of it. I already bought my ticket to the next event! See you there?

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Confession: I Am 31 Years Old, & I Have a TON of Grey Hair

Confession: I Am 31 Years Old, & I Have a TON of Grey Hair

Thursday, August 6, 2015

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My mom stopped coloring her hair after my grandma died in 2011. My grandma didn't like it when my mom let her hair go, thought it made her look old when the grey started to show through. But my mom's hair is short & thick & grows like a weed, so the greyer her hair became, the more difficult it was for her to keep up with the process of coloring it. It was annoying, it was expensive, & her roots would start showing again after a week, anyway.

When my grandma passed away, my mom decided to just let her grey do its thing. Some people - my uncle & my dad's best friend included - gave her grief for it. But I thought it made her look beautiful, vibrant, natural. I loved it then, & I love it now, & I think our family has come around on it, too. Strangers certainly have.My mom gets so many compliments on her grey hair, in part because, like I said, it looks amazing. Also because my mom is 61 years old, & at her age, grey is A-OK.

But me? I'm just two days into 31, & I still think that's a little young for a full head of greys.

It started a few years ago. At first, it was just a small patch near my right temple, a few white hairs sneaking in amongst the browns. I imagined that if I stopped coloring that spot, it would grow into a chic, Stacy London-esque streak.

OK, maybe not. I tweezed those first few greys right out of my head, tossed them into the toilet & colored my hair as usual, the way I'd been doing for years. I didn't think twice about them or my brief dreams of resembling Rogue from X-Men.

Until recently.

I haven't colored my hair in, oh, seven months? It's been awhile, in part because I'm a little lazy & in part because I'm a little broke frugal. I'd certainly like to look a little bit more put-together - for a long time, I prided myself on having good hair, & my mom has recently reminded more than once that my hair it's starting to look pretty ratty. These days, though, there are other indulgences more deserving of my money, like my upcoming trip to Los Angeles, or my November trip to Denver. My hair? Whatever.

The greys are taking over, though. I don't have to look closely anymore, don't have to dig through my brown hairs to find them, because there they are. They shine bright white & stand out, glinting in the sunlight & calling out that I've gotten older, that I've "let myself go," that I'm no spring chicken anymore. That I turned 31 next week.

In my early 20s, I teased my friend Ben about his many greys, jokingly tried to pluck them out of his curly, would-be Jewfro when he wasn't looking. "They bring me wisdom," he insisted, but on special occasions, he'd like me pull one out, just for fun (thanks for indulging my weirdness, friend).

I think of Ben now when I look in the mirror, wondering what wisdom my greys have brought me (he's notably wiser than I am). I wonder, too, when & if I will ever feel confident enough to stop coloring my hair, to stop insisting on ombre & fielding questions about my natural color.

Because these days, my natural color is, well, mostly grey. I know now that if I let it grow out, the effect would be decidedly more Storm than Rogue, but I'm still not grey enough to look good doing it. If I thought my natural hair would look as good as Storm's - or my mom's! - I might even go for it now, just let myself turn full-on grey.

As it stands, though, I'm just looking, well... kind of ratty. I know, Mom. I know.

Still, part of me doesn't want to cover them up. I'm officially into my 30s now, & I don't know what wisdom these years have brought me, but I know there's some in there somewhere. I know that I am finally not scared or ashamed to grow older. In fact, I'm even a little proud of it.

And that? Well, I think that's a sign of aging with grace, greys & all.

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The Time I Had a Tarot Card Reading

The Time I Had a Tarot Card Reading

Sunday, November 3, 2013

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Hokey though I recognize it may be, I've long been fascinated by all things psychic. As a kid, my best friend & I even created a fake guide to psychic activity, authored by Ima Foné (genius), to try to... I don't even remember. Trick her brother into believing that psychics existed? (Sorry we were sort of mean to you, David. I love you.)

It follows, then, that I'm fairly obsessed with the idea of visiting psychics. Don't worry, I'm not doing it on a regular (or even a semi-regular) basis, but I like the idea of it, & so whenever I pass one of those "PSYCHIC READINGS, $5" signs on the front of some hole-in-the-wall joint with beaded curtains, I'm sorely tempted. Occasionally, I give in - which is what happened earlier this month when I forked over $12 to have a tarot card reading done at a hippie store in downtown Red Bank.

Let me set the scene for you: This store sells dreamcatchers & incense & tumbled-smooth rocks & palmistry books & lots of handcrafted silver jewelry & small stone statues of faeries. I like it because it reminds me of my college town, where old beatniks abound, but I can't think of a single thing I'd ever be likely to buy there. And yet... it was a Saturday, & the sign in the window read something enticing & succinct, like, "TAROT CARD READINGS TODAY!" & I fell for it. I paid my cash, put my name on the list, waited 15 minutes or so, & was eventually ushered into... a dressing room with beaded curtains.

My psychic - can I call her that? I'm gonna call her that - was a slightly disheveled but friendly-looking woman of unidentifiable age, clothed in black velvet. [Sidebar, if I may. If I've never told you how I feel about velvet, here it is: I think touching velvet feels like petting a cat backward. It shouldn't be done, it's horrible, get it away from me. However, because I recognize velvet as a culturally important fabric to those who believe in the super- & preternatural, I tried to overlook this grievous textile offense.]

Her cell phone alarm went off. "Sorry about that!" she exclaimed. "I just got my first iPhone, & I'm not sure how to use it yet." I leaned forward, ready to try to help her out when I realized that it was actually an Android phone. This was the moment I learned that technologically unsavvy individuals sometimes refer to all smartphones as iPhones, even when they're not of the Apple variety, since confirmed by a friend who works for Verizon & lists that as one of her primary pet peeves. I assigned negative two points right off the bat to my psychic, although I suppose a psychic doesn't necessarily need to have a profound mastery of modern technology.

She asked me a lot of questions, more questions than I think a psychic should have to ask, but I'm not in the business of telling people's futures, so I tried to be helpful while staying as tight-lipped as possible. I didn't want to give her any emotions or added commentary that might color my reading. You're the psychic, lady, you tell me. I'm not giving you anything to work with! When she asked me how old I was, though, I answered ("29."), & she seemed taken aback. "Wait, really? I thought you were a lot younger. I'm 32 &... well, I thought you were a lot younger than me." Now, I don't look particularly young - in fact, I'd say I look exactly 29 - but in fairness, if pressed, I would've guessed that she was about 42, so maybe one or both of us has a skewed perspective.

Anyway, the reading went well, I think, in terms of her not telling me I was about to kick the bucket, or anything. The first card I pulled was "Chaos" (of course), so she spent a lot of time talking to me about the mess that is my life & all the things life has planned for me in the near future, & it was all so alarmingly spot-on that I had trouble hiding my surprise. In fact, it was actually a reassuring experience: Oh, the stars say everything will turn out OK & I won't end up financially destitute & miserable? Thank God. Then again, she also told me she can see that I'm very close to my parents (Note: My father died in 1995), which helped ground me in the recognition that such readings are to be taken lightly. Still, I left her fitting room - er, psychic lair - equal parts rattled & reassured.

Have you ever been to a psychic? Do you want to hear about the time one freaked me the hell out by telling me about my personal guardian angel slash child ghost? How about the time I got a reading in a New Orleans park by a turban-clad woman who called me "my dear" every five words, such that I couldn't pay attention to the rest of what she was saying?

Like I said, um, I'm prone to falling for these things.



Top image: Candles And Cards by Katrina Joyner. All other images my own.

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The Return of the KTP: Hunt Like a Mainer!

The Return of the KTP: Hunt Like a Mainer!

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

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*Photo heavy. Also, awesomeness heavy.

Remember this place? It's baaaack!



That's right. I returned to the famed Kittery Trading Post yesterday, this time with my city-dwelling BFF in tow, at her eager request. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by KTP's standard decor: taxidermy. This moose met us at the entrance, & we had a good chuckle at the sign accompanying him. Please don't feed the dead moose.

How was this visit unlike all other visits? This time we branched out by venturing up to the second floor, which is home to all of KTP's camping & hunting gear. I don't know what I was expecting, but I think it's safe to say that I was shocked. I shouldn't have been, as I regularly see guys toting their rifles around the store, but nothing could've prepared me for the rows & rows of guns for sale in this place.

Luckily, they had this sign posted up & down the gun aisles to remind shoppers to practice safe firearms shopping habits. Whew.

"How many people on this floor do you think are Republicans?" I asked Rachel. "Um, all of them." Like good little pro-gun control liberals, we actually sort of freaked out & scurried away from the gun section, trying to shake off the willies. Nearby, we found the Bragging Board, sponsored by a local taxidermy company (naturally!) & featuring a 12-year-old girl who felled some massive animal.

Want to shoot some wildlife of your own? Well, you're gonna need some gear - and not just guns! Let me outline for you a few of the accoutrements you may want to acquire, all available at your my local trading post. First, you'll need to brush up on yer huntin' skillz with some aptly titled magazines.

And books about very cute hunting dogs, uncomfortably positioned next to a book about sharpening your knives. Please note: You should not use these knives on your very cute hunting dog(s).

And now, onto the actual tools. But... oh, no! The wall of Bear Grylls hunting tools is wiped clean! That crazy Brit sure is popular &, well, crazy.

But wait! What's that on the other side? Bear Grylls machetes? Oh, scorrre.

 

You may also want some plastic animal decoys, which will put the actual animals (i.e. your furry victims) at ease by making them think they're amongst friends rather than amongst hunters who wants to turn them into tasty venison chili.

While you're in the habit of tricking your prey, you might want to make sure you have access to things like doe urine, which will, again, encourage your furry friends to come out of hiding in search of others Bambi buddies. Mmm, doe urine.

Of course, deer urine only works on deer. If you're hunting up here in the hinterlands, yer gonna wanna be able to mimic moose. And I've got just the trick!

Not comfy with a gun? You could always take up archery. Of course, then you have to carry around this bow case, which distinctly & rather awkwardly resembles a southern region of the male anatomy. Manly indeed!

Of course, if you're going to become a hunter, you've got to have the proper attire. I understand this mossy Yeti get-up to the right, if you need to look like a tree while you're trying to stalk your prey (though that doesn't negate how ridiculously funny it looks). But can someone tell me how a neon orange fedora is a legitimate hunting accessory? Again, I understand part of this: The color ensures that hunters don't become the hunted. But a fedora? Listen, if you want to dress like Sinatra on acid, the forest is probably not the right stage.

For the parents of budding young outdoors(wo)men, we've got old-fashioned sling-shots, camoflaged malt balls ("I know I bought malt balls, but I can't find them anywhere!") & hunting action figures with ominous named like "The Bone Collector." KTP's kiddie pop-guns even come in light pink so you can uphold artificial gender constructs while teaching your little lady to cock a rifle.

If you're not in the mood for hunting, though, never fear: The Kittery Trading Post still has something for you. On the left, a contraption that claims to make ice cream anywhere. It is ostensibly designed to allow campers in the boonies to indulge in creamy dairy goodness, but Rachel commented that she'd like to use it in her living room. You could also read Ted Nugent's patrioticly/vainly named bestseller or take up basket-weaving with this easy beginners kit.

Or you could take up ice-fishing.

Yep. There's always ice-fishing.

*Disclaimer: I freaking love this place. I'm also not anti-hunting, for the most part. I once even shot a porcupine. When I was 8, with a real gun. I shot it dead, then cried liked a baby. And I still own a .22.

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Redneck Disney World

Redneck Disney World

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

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At the southernmost tip of the great state of Maine lies a magical place known as the Kittery Trading Post. When you Google this mythical land, the subcategories that show up include "shooting accessories, "ammunition & magazines," "hunting clothing & footwear" & "archery," which should give you a feel for where this is going.

This moose greets you at the entrance. Similar moose greet you at the other entrances - because this place is freaking huge, multiple suburban blocks long & three floors high, so as far as I can tell, there are approximately a bazillion ways to get in. I once asked an employee for directions out & when I said, "I came in near the big moose," she asked, "Which one?" But lest you think this cadre of moose complete the KTP's taxidermied troops...

Would a zoom help? And maybe some big red circles to help you identify each dead animal? OK, here you go:

Yeah, I don't even know what some of those are. Is that a mountain goat? And that's just one wall! Kittery Trading Post is a veritable Where's Waldo of formerly living forest creatures.

But if formerly living forest creatures are too creepy for you - though I can't see why they would be - KTP also sells the cuddly creatures featured below. This is also a great way to prepare small children to their futures as expert marksmen.

The Foursquare reviews of the Kittery Trading Post are largely positive &, I assume, largely written by hunters & archers. I think I'm on Scott K.'s side:

But three floors is room for a lot of crap, which I have taken great pains to thoroughly explore. KTP specializes in actual hardcore outdoorsy gear, with the second floor almost entirely devoted to camping gear, kayaking equipment & the like. Because I am one of life's least outdoorsy individuals, I have yet to explore this area, but I have put lots of effort into checking out KTP's many tchotchkes, which is Yiddish for "crap that accumulates dust on shelves." If there's one thing I like, it's tchotchkes. Here's a smattering of some of my favorites:

At KTP, it also becomes obvious that these Mainers really embrace their Northeast roots. Just about everything in the store screams, "ALL WE HAVE IN THIS STATE IS MOOSE & LOBSTER & TOTAL WILDERNESS!"

But KTP is more than just a souvenir haven for Maine-bound tourists! It also sells items of great practical use. For example, if you're a lady cowhand in search of a new pair of overalls to wear while mucking in animal dung all day, KTP has just the section for you:

And you'll need shoes for all that dung-steppin', so don't forget to stop by KTP's shoe section*, where you can go hog-wild over the latest style of Dingos. Next wall over: UGGs. I kid you not.

If you fancy yourself a homemaker who values locally sourced foods, you'll love KTP's fascinatingly excessive selection of jellies & jams, stocked with everything from classic Strawberry Jam to the naughtier Spiced Rum Butterscotch Sauce to savory choices like Roasted Garlic Onion jam.**

And if you've got an unsightly hitch on the back o' yer truck, KTP can help you cover it up... with even more sightly plastic hitch covers in the shapes of feathered & furry friends! Turkeys, for example. And coyotes, but you have to pronounce it "KI-yotes," please, like the locals. And, um, buoys, for all you animal-haters out there who still want to cover your hitches in style. God, I've never used the word "style" so liberally in my life.

 

If you want to know the truth, I'm mildly obsessed with the Kittery Trading Post. OBVIOUSLY. It really is like redneck Disney World, but without the princesses & excessive branding. It's the Country Bear Jamboree come to life! At least they own it:

And in case, at the end of your visit, you're feeling overwhelmed by the dirty sin of consumerism, just stop by the bathroom on your way out, where your friendly local evangelicals have left reminders for you of Jesus's love. Atop the soap dispenser.

*Full disclosure: I bought a pair of discounted Sperry Topsiders here.
**Let's face it, this shiz is delicious; I can't bring myself to hate.

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On-The-Go Beauty

On-The-Go Beauty

Sunday, June 28, 2009

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I guess sometimes you just don't have time to trim your beard before leaving the house.




Do yo' thang, my friend.

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The Vodka Monologues (Or "The Great Stoli/Smirnoff Caper")

The Vodka Monologues (Or "The Great Stoli/Smirnoff Caper")

Friday, May 29, 2009

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Stoli or Smirnoff? That was the major question at hand tonight, as I sat around a table at Ben's Next Door for a friend's birthday. (Side note: The restaurant is owned by Rock Harper, winner of Hell's Kitchen, & is next door to DC's iconic Ben's Chili Bowl).

Birthday Boy Jake brought along an eclectic group of celebrators. My coworker & his childhood friend; his college pal, from here on known as Vodka Girl, or VG, clad in a shredded beater & a white blazer; his roommate, unironically sporting a sparkly silver bowler; & a 40-something guy who may or may not have been the roommate's boyfriend.

I was pretty busy watching the final quarter of the Cavs/Magic game, but I tuned back in to the table's conversation when I noticed that VG was yelling about something - namely, about vodka. She'd ordered two raspberry Stolis & soda but was fairly insistent that she'd instead been served raspberry Smirnoff & soda, which she apparently felt to be a near-criminal offense. In a rather high-pitched voice, VG went on quite the vodka-comparing tirade, insisting that Smirnoff is bottom of the barrel & that it's absolutely distinguishable from Stoli. All attempts to convince her otherwise or to inject any doubt into her argument were promptly trampled.



She flagged down our waitress & asked whether the drinks were, indeed Stoli; our waitress responded that they were. When VG told her they tasted like Smirnoff, the server laughed & said she'd look into it, taking drinks with her. The table agreed that her willingness to investigate insinuated that she knew the cocktails did not contain the Stoli she initially claimed they did.

When she returned a few minutes later, she was carrying two drinks. Setting them in front of VG, she said, "These are raspberry Stoli." Contented, VG began drinking, exclaiming, "The difference is so clear. These taste so much better," re-launching into her apparently-unfinished vodka-comparison tirade.

Now, VG assumed the waitress' statement meant that these were two new drinks containing raspberry Stoli. It was, however, abundantly clear to at least four of the other five of us that they were the exact same drinks as before - the waitress just returned them & confirmed their contents. How did we know this? Well, for starters, as Sparkly Bowler Guy pointed out, the limes in each drinks were pre-squeezed, which isn't something bartenders do - but it IS something you do before you sip your own drink, as VG did before dipping into her initial cocktails, the ones accused of being Smirnoff.

So as she went shrilly on & on & on & ON about the many differences between pedestal-worthy Stoli & not-worthy-of-being-used-for-rubbing-alcohol Smirnoff, her arguments became less & less salient, especially knowing that she was drinking the exact same drinks as before & seeing the results she clearly wanted to see - & basically making things up. It was akin to that old college party trick where you secretly serve nonalcoholic party punch to a sorority sister & watch as she gets sloppy "drunk" & hits on everyone in the room.

Umm... Placebo effect, anyone???

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TMI Thursday: This City is Full of Ugly People in Excellent Relationships

TMI Thursday: This City is Full of Ugly People in Excellent Relationships

Thursday, May 21, 2009

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I'm giving TMI Thursday a try, though I refuse to be wholly embarrassing, at least not yet. I will, however, try to stretch my limits a little bit by blogging about things I wouldn't typically say.

First things first: I attempt not to discuss my love life here. That's partially because I have absolutely no love life to discuss & partially because I'm not much of a public sharer, despite my penchant for tweeting, talking, gossiping. Yes, I recognize that all aspects of my personality ought to point to my being a public sharer, but it's simply not the case. I did talk about my Johnny Fajitas fling, if only briefly, because the nickname "Johnny Fajitas" was way too good to keep from you guys, but that's been the extent.

Anyway: I'm also not big on vulgarity. I like to swear when it gets the point across, which is fairly often, but I tend to shy away from words that reference genitalia. They feel inappropriate & make me uncomfortable, & I assume they make my grandmother & my boss uncomfortable, as well - & as we've determined in past posts, both of those folks read this blog. That said... goddamn it, do I love Speak On It's blog post today, genitalia vulgarity & all, about why she's still single in this city. Not for the faint of vocab, she writes:

When I look at people all bunned up in a relationship with baby #3 on the way that are 4 years younger than me, there are a few thoughts that run through my head.

1 - Well goddamn who the fuck decided to stick their dick in that thing at least FOUR FUCKING TIMES to make a NEW PERSON?
2 - How in the hell did they land a husband and I’m still single?! It must be the head. She HAS to be giving good head. Because duh.
3 - Aw, I want a husband and a house and 2.5 kids with a dog and a yard with a garden and the picturesque bullshit idea of a family life that we all love to cling to.

This is typically my train of thought upon running into young couples, as well, though such thoughts increase exponentially upon my encountering couples that don't seem to match. You know what I mean. This week, for example, I met a really unattractive woman. I also met her particularly attractive husband. And listen, don't give me your "It's not always about looks!" bullshiz. What are you, my kindergarten teacher? I know looks aren't everything. I get that. I'm down with that. And as a fairly average-looking individual myself, I very much rely on that cliche principle to assist me in landing hotter-than-average members of the opposite sex.

That couple I mentioned meeting, though, is, interestingly, not an anomaly here in the District. In fact, this city is teeming with mismatched couples just like them. Couples that are half Angelina Jolie & half Drew Carey. Half Pierce Brosnan & half Susan Boyle. Half Carrie Prejean & half Skeletor. (On second thought, I'll take the Skeletor half of that combo, please. This is one example in which the "personality trumps all" card really comes into play). And every time I spot one of these bafflingly mismatched couples, I have to admit that my thought process is typically as follows:

1. "Wow, that attractive [insert gender here] must be really open-minded, accepting & kind."
2. "Wow, that brutally unattractive [insert gender here] must be really effing charming and/or manipulative."

What are these attractive folks thinking? And what are these ugly folks doing to land them? More importantly, which side do I take advice from? And WHY ARE THEY ALL IN D.C.?

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