Bonjour! Today is our last full day in Paris. The time has gone by too fast. But, guys… Saturday? Madness. The majority of the Paris rioters usually convene around the Champs-Élysées, which is in the… More
Isn’t it crazy just how many things can change in five years? Like somewhere in the course of just living, we form long term bonds that weren’t there before, we say goodbyes that were never anticipated, relationships change and strengthen or they change and fall apart, we have big career failures and overwhelming career triumphs. There are personal coups and collapses. We learn wonderful and scary things about ourselves and about our friends and about the world. We have little moments of humanity, of meanness, of pettiness, of valor. We fall in love. We learn what love is and what it isn’t. We become better friends. Better citizens. How can one predict all of that?
I did all of the above in the last five years. I lost my grandma, which was crushing. But what a wonderful stroke of luck to have been her granddaughter and to have had her as long as I did. I lost a friend to cancer and was racked with grief. But how lucky I am to have memories of her that make me swell with laughter.
I’ve had new successes and made lovely new friends in the last five years, but I’m very thankful for the things that have stayed the same, too. My best friends. My family. My ride or dies. They helped me rip out my first gray hair and then helped me laugh about it when it grew back. They talked me through grief and heartache and wanted the best for me. They’ve celebrated my accomplishments. They’ve been reliable, they’ve been truthful, they’ve been loyal.
I am very lucky.
I’ve got a birthday coming up, kids. I have a markedly different life than I did five birthdays ago; some of it sad but the overwhelming majority of it so good that I couldn’t have dreamed it up five years ago had you asked me to.
Cheers to another five.
I made it through Black Friday having only bought one thing. A blanket. It may seem silly, but I needed one. I like to keep the temperature in my place pretty cool. Like a meat locker. Or an igloo. I hate being hot. This works fine when I’m cleaning, cooking, etc., but if I’m sitting still I freeze my ass off. Like shivering, teeth chattering, the whole nine yards. I know–I know it’s ridiculous to shiver in my own house. Like…turn up the heat, you idiot! Right? But what if I start folding clothes or…dusting? Then I’ll be hot again! I don’t know. I consider myself to be an intelligent person, but this is pretty dumb. And yet… ‘Round and ’round I go.
During the summer when I’m watching TV or taking a nap, I use a blanket my grandma gave me. It’s my favorite. But it’s not long (or heavy) enough when it’s cold. Either my shoulders are out or my feet are out. I can’t get warm enough to drift off to sleep. I also can’t get in my bed underneath the covers, because making the bed is an entire production that I can only be bothered to do once a day. Also, napping in my bed turns a short nap into a three-hour nap and there goes my whole day.
So I needed a blanket, and not just any blanket because I love naps. I went to Williams Sonoma and found the softest, prettiest, heaviest faux fur blanket in the world. And it was half off. Victory. I also consider it a victory that I didn’t buy anything else this past weekend, because I really wanted to. But I’m trying to stop buying things I don’t really need. Trying to save this planet for my kid(s), ya know? Don’t want them growing up in Hunger Games just because I couldn’t stop buying crap that ends up in the landfills and oceans.
And that seems like a good place to end this blog and get off the internet, because it’s currently Cyber Monday, and it’s taking untold amounts of willpower to not hit up Glossier for more body wash and Boy Brow.
Yesterday, in Chicago, Dr. Tamara O’Neal was shot multiple times and left to die by her ex-fiancé because she dared to call off their engagement.
Recently, my anger has been bubbling to the surface more often. Anger over lots of things; children in cages, mass shootings, poor people getting poorer and being treated as if deserving of their poverty, cancer patients being bankrupted, domestic abusers and rapists being treated with kid gloves, sexual assault and harassment being waved and laughed off… The list (and the suffering) goes on and on. And fucking on and on and on.
I don’t know where the line is between staying informed and being crushed under the weight of our collective everyday anguish, but I’ve been skating a little too far toward being crushed. I could probably try therapy, as right now I’m lucky enough to have decent insurance. But…I’m not a sharer. Especially with strangers. And I hate crying about my feelings to people, even if I love you madly. So I joined a gym.
For the last few weeks, I’ve been to kickboxing class almost every single day. And beating the shit out of something for forty-five minutes a day has really turned my mood around! I have boundless energy, I’m always sailing on an endorphin rush, and my butt ain’t looking half bad either. And seriously, guys, don’t accidentally run into my thighs. They’re like brick walls right now. They can fracture bones.
I feel more like myself again–happier, calmer, belly-laughing, and more able to manage the world’s injustices. I mean, one day I’ll probably acquiesce to periodic therapy sessions but right now I’m just really interested to see how high and firm my butt can get.
If I were to offer my advice to anyone also struggling with the overwhelming, it would be to find whatever (or whomever) makes you feel like yourself again. And if that something happens to give you a nice butt? Stick wit’ it.
You know those scooters that everyone either really loves or really hates? I finally got around to trying them. On the street–not the sidewalk. It was…terrifying. But also exhilarating! But trusting Atlanta drivers not to mow you down? Terrifying. Trusting my clumsy self to not fall off or crash, head first, into a garbage can? Terrifying. But I did it successfully and trust myself more. Still don’t trust Atlanta drivers, though. We’re the worst.
You know where I was going on this scooter? Sephora. Yeah–I know. I was really shocked and embarrassed about the amount of money I spent at Sephora and possibly becoming a Rouge member, but you know what? That was then; this is now. I need bath salts and eye shadow, okay? I’m a Rouge member! This is who I am now. And while I did restock my bath salts supply, I wasn’t there just for myself this time. I was buying gifts. Kids, there isn’t much that makes me happier than Christmas shopping. I want to express to you how excited I get when I find the perfect gift for someone, but I can’t. It’s impossible to convey. I don’t want to sound cliché, but it really is the most wonderful time of the year. Gah, I can’t believe I just said that. But I also stand by it.
Yesterday I went to CVS to get my flu shot. I stood in line for over thirty minutes, which was kind of annoying. But I’m a flu magnet, so I just had to wait it out. When I got up to the counter, the pharmacist told me that I had really glowy skin, which made me feel like this for the rest of the day.
After my flu shot, I bought some travel size toiletries for my upcoming trip to Paris. A trip I’m paying for solely with credit card rewards. I’m very impressed with myself. I tell anyone who’ll listen. Usually that’s just my goddaughter, and that’s only because she’s three and doesn’t have anything else to listen to. Why do you think I write this blog, guys? I’m very chatty sometimes and no one listens to me!
Alright. I think that’s it. I’m on my way to the Nike store to buy clothes for the Pilates classes I signed up for. I’ll tell you allll about it next time.
À la prochaine !
About ten years ago (ohmygod) I was at a club and the DJ played this song and immediately every. single. woman. in the club screamed, jumped up, and ran to the dance floor. And then, of course, all the men followed the women. And we all danced and sang and laughed for, like, four minutes. It is one of my fondest clubbing memories.
On Saturday night around 8:30, I heard this song on the car radio and was instantly transported back to that unencumbered and happy feeling. When I got home I called my friends to convince them to go out. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not the friend to call past 8:00pm and ask to do something last minute. Fortunately for me, my friends are those friends. It didn’t take
much any convincing.
Around midnight we all arrived at MJQ and danced and danced and danced.
There may have been some drinking in between the dancing, too. Although, definitely not as much drinking as there was ten years ago (ohmygod).
From Doug E. Fresh to Biggie to Pac to Drake to Cardi to Kendrick to Mac Miller…
On over to Taylor to Demi to Bey to Jay…
What a magical way it was to put the world on hold for a few hours.
We weren’t even tired at 3AM, but the the club was closing. So where do you go when you’re not tired but everywhere else is closed? Waffle House, obviously. I hate the Waffle House, but even I can’t deny the siren call at 3 in the morning. It’s just something you have to do.
I stumbled into bed around 6:30AM. It was a good night (morning?).
See you guys in the club in another ten years (ohmygod).
I’m redecorating. I’m going for the look of a five-star luxury modern African hotel suite. Now… I haven’t exactly nailed down my vision one-hundred percent, nor am I one-hundred percent sure of what I’m talking about, but I’m getting there. Have you heard of glamping? It’s kinda how I would envision glamping in Johannesburg… But in my house… In Atlanta.
Like this vase? It has to be in a luxury Johannesburg hotel, am I right? Probably. I got this one from Target, though, if you’re wondering. Same for the artificial leaves, but I can’t find those to link.
Right now I’m trying to find a breathtaking and unique rug, but it hasn’t happened yet. There are a lot of rugs out there, and I’ve worn myself out looking for one. I don’t want to look at another rug for at least a week. Who says it all has to be done at once, ya know? The selective perfectionist in me really wants it done in time for Thanksgiving, but the realist in me knows that it’s impossible. The lazy lump in me is happy to let the realist take over for now.
Where’s your favorite place to shop for home decor and furniture?
Guys…white truffles cost, on average, two hundred bucks. These MUSHROOMS, on average, cost two hundred dollars. For one ounce. I mean…what?
I know this because I’ve been taking a cooking class, and one of the dishes I’ve been perfecting is scrambled eggs. I know, I know– “Scrambled eggs? How easy! You need a class for scrambled eggs?” Yes, jerks. Because lately I’ve been making the creamiest, fluffiest, most flavorful scrambled eggs you’ve ever had in your lives, and it’s all because of this class. And since you were rude about it, I’m not going to tell you my technique or recipes (except for you, Julie–chives and lobster!).
My teacher likes to give different ways to elevate scrambled eggs. One of his suggestions is to grate white truffles over the top of them before you serve, so off I went to locate some white truffles.
Two hundred dollars. Four hundred dollars. Eighty dollars. These were my options. And–no. This just ain’t gonna happen. Why don’t I just cut up some cash and sprinkle it atop the eggs? Or maybe my 401k? Two hundred dollars is an outrageous price! Outrageous!
But… Maybe for Christmas?
No. It’s ridiculous, right?!
But possibly for my birthday?
No! Why am I even considering this?!
Full disclosure–I’m pretty desperate for elevated scrambled eggs. Who else out here is making elevated scrambled eggs?! I could be the only one! That’s very seductive! Can you imagine people saying, “Kristin makes the BEST scrambled eggs in the world!”? That’d be great, right? Have I lost it?
Guys, I’m obviously not going to buy these white truffles. I’m a rational human being. And it would only be rational to buy such a thing on a birthday or, say, Christmas…