Monday:

Why don’t you do extensive research on something you know absolutely nothing about? I don’t even know how I got there, but I spent hours researching hydroponic gardening yesterday. I thought it was something fairly straightforward, but there are fascinating nuances and arguments about this method of raising plants. I have a hydroponic herb garden, and it was just riveting to know more about how it worked; I learned so much about what I never knew. Such fun!

Tuesday:

Why don’t you make yourself a really difficult password on Amazon so that you don’t do what I did last night? I had a lovely bottle of expensive wine and suddenly I ordered two-hundred dollars worth of books. That was a surprise the next day to find the receipt in my email. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ They’re getting here this afternoon and I can’t wait to dive in. But honestly, I should not have treated myself so thoroughly. 

Wednesday:

Why don’t you investigate CBD as a health aid? This substance derived from hemp, which is not psychoactive, is legal in all fifty states and is the definition of a hot topic. Ever since my multiple sclerosis diagnosis, I have been open to absolutely anything that might help me. CBD didn’t do much of anything but I noticed that I didn’t feel so stressed when I tried it. I just bought my sister some CBD pills at the GROCERY STORE and she went from wanting to be voluntarily committed to an insane asylum to daydreaming about kettle chips. This substance is miraculous. Give it a try. Please.  

Thursday:

Why don’t you really do what I suggested last week and observe the Ramadan fast? Put it on your calendar for next year. It’s hard. But the fast has really made me reconsider what I need. I’m not Muslim and I have broken the fast repeatedly with unrealistically justified sips of water and sticks of gum, but this religious rite has really forced me to think about the vices I enjoy. Limiting yourself is kind of like retraining your mind and body. I didn’t make it to the end of the fast, but the experience was one I will never forget.

Friday:

Why don’t you head to www.zennioptical.com and treat yourself to several new pairs of glasses? They’re so affordable and they’re usually of decent quality. I haven’t purchased glasses from a store in so many years; I don’t even remember the last time I’ve been to one. I just ordered a couple pairs the other day, and I’m loving my new brass rimmed glasses. They’re not perfect, but they were less than fifty dollars and I can see fine and there are no scratches and I am blessed. Shop, reader.

Monday:
Why don’t you go out and do something about the burning Amazon? I won’t deny that I don’t feel as emotionally shattered by this blaze as I did by Notre Dame, which is not only absurd but shameful. I won’t attempt to defend myself. But as the rainforest fire grows more and more severe, I grow more and more concerned. The Amazon is one of the last unknown places on the planet, and it is full of tremendous diversity of life. And it’s surely loaded with unknown traces of humanity’s past. We are at risk of losing history and losing the trees that create the oxygen that we desperately need. Ugh. Fix it.

Tuesday:
Why don’t you figure out a way to create less waste? I have been growing more and more concerned about how much crap I produce on a daily basis. So much trash, and none of it seems to be extraordinary until I see the bin full of plastic wrappers, bottles, and cardboard boxes. I’m going to have to start repurposing and recycling more. It’s shameful. I just can’t help but think of all those microbeads in the ocean every time I brush my teeth.

Wednesday:
Why don’t you learn something that freaks you out but will help you out enormously once you understand? I’m spending the day learning all about Google Classroom, an online assignment manager that allows teachers to manage quizzes, writing, share links, and so much more. It’s an amazing resource, but I have always been wary of it. Mainly because I don’t care for the Google suite of apps. They’re free, though, so they are what education is going to use in the future. I can already see the value, though I remain perplexed.

Thursday:
Why don’t you figure out where in the hell the second annual Missouri Egyptological Symposium is being held for me? I read about it one of my archaeology magazines and I haven’t stopped screeching about it ever since. Can you imagine, reader? An Egyptological conference in the state next to me in a couple months! I can’t get over it. BUT I CAN FIND NO DETAILS ANYWHERE. All I can find is that it’s being held on October 19. That’s it. How are lunatics like me supposed to get there?

Friday:
Why don’t you find an architecture student who needs to do a project for school and will do it for me for free? I need designs for a villa that will someday be constructed either in Mexico or Egypt. It is to be the lovechild of the Chateau Marmont, the Museo de el Carmen, and the Palazzo Daniele. Essentials are a courtyard with a fountain or a well and a decadent sense of decay. It’s where I’ll retire someday.

LOVE:
Bad Education:

I have been spending an absurd amount of time watching telenovelas lately, something that I am absolutely not ashamed of. I have learned so much more Spanish than before and I can’t wait to get back to Mexico City at some point and try out all the latest dramatic phrases I know about the cartel, cheating husbands, devilish siblings, and the Colombian drug trafficking network. These shows are really and truly a major passion of my life. If I die and I don’t have a doctorate in Egyptology, look like Joan Rivers, and was not in some way connected with a telenovela, please let everybody at my wake know that I lived in vain and that they must work hard to do better than I did. Life goes by so very quickly, reader. Over the Labor Day weekend, I got back into an old passion of mine, British comedy, and it was well worth the time I devoted to my Netflix account. I watched quite a few programs, and I’m going to discuss at least two of them on this blog at some point. First up: Bad Education. This program, which consists of three seasons and a movie, is absolutely hysterical. It’s about Alfie, who could be considered one of the most ineffectual teachers ever hired in the history of public education, but that wouldn’t be a totally apt descriptor for him. He has a heart made of gold and he wants his students to succeed in life, even if that doesn’t always translate to academic success. The characters are WILD but if you’ve ever spent any amount of time in a school, you’ll be forced to chortle over how true to life so many of the seemingly absurd plot points are. One of my favorite episodes of all was the season two Christmas special — a delightful tradition of English television that I don’t understand why we don’t do. Wouldn’t it be great to see some of your favorite characters return from a hiatus for a half hour special that is inevitably heartwarming? Our programming could take a few pages out of the UK’s book. Also, the shows are only six to eight episodes which forces them by necessity to be high quality. Anyway, I’m off on another one of my tirades. Sorry. The Christmas special involves a robotic version of the nutcracker and it is the very height of absurdity. It’s wondrous. And as an educator, this is such a wonderfully funny program. Like the excellent film, Bad Teacher, starring the inimitable Cameron Diaz, this kind of entertainment allows us to live out our silly daydreams without risk of firing, and also, it gives us some exceptional ideas. For example, in Bad Education, Mr. Wickers — Alfie — has a procedure called “CLASS WARS” where the students reenact famous battles. It’s a terrible idea and has the disastrous consequences that you can well imagine, but there’s a spark of genius there. In my student teaching yesterday, I emulated this to help students understand the differences between presidential and radical reconstruction following the end of the American Civil War. They seemed to get a lot from it, and I felt like a British success. Get on Netflix, reader.

Nespresso Aeroccino:

This summer I had to spend considerable time in a school to fulfill the requirements of my teacher education program. I was placed in a school an hour away, and I couldn’t dream of driving there and back every day for three weeks, so I settled myself into the luxurious and dreamy Baymont for $50 a night. I was living the high life, reader! And the Baymont was much nicer than the Best Western across the street. They allow snakes and monkeys as pets at the manager’s discretion. And I just find that too odd. What is happening over there? I did manage to meet former vice president Joe Biden at that hotel, which was just as odd, though, now that I’m thinking about it. But this has nothing to do with this installment. I was going to be in a hotel for nearly a month, and there are certain necessities that I needed to bring with me. So, to prepare myself mentally and convince my brain this was a vacation, I went to Target to buy some supplies. I got some gorgeous copper cups and plates and bowls, and a suit, but the crème de la crème was a new Nespresso machine. I didn’t need this, mind you, because I had one from work, but I was so enchanted by the design of this new one that I couldn’t resist. It’s my third Nespresso machine and it’s absolutely the best. Normally, the pressure of an espresso machine makes it sound like a ship taking off for the moon, but this one is so quiet that I would almost call it silent. It’s not, but it’s amazing. And it’s cute. And it’s chic. And it’s everything I ever dreamed of in a Nespresso machine. But this little post is not about that bit. Bundled with the machine was a milk frother, something that I had no interest in, but the machine didn’t come without it, so I found myself the reluctant owner of an Aeroccino. Reader…my life changed. You pour milk into it, hit a button, and then the little thing gets to work. It whips the milk into a perfect foam and heats it up…and it’s flawless. I was so pleased. It’s a bit much to clean, but the result is so creamy and dreamy and I’ve never made such a good latte or cappuccino in my own home. Or my own hotel room, rather. Get one today reader. It will make life worth living again.

Student Teaching:

Student teaching is the last hoop to jump through to get a teaching job. It’s hardly the final hoop of the entire process, but it’s one of the bigger ones. It’s been on my mind a lot over the past few years because I’ve been in a teacher education program and my friends in the program have been disappearing to go be student teachers. Finally it’s my turn, and reader, I have to be honest with you…I’m having the absolute time of my life. Instead of working and going to classes and doing endless work and being a theoretical teacher…I get to actually live my life. I have to talk straight to you: going to college sucked. I’ve complained about it on here many times and I’m so glad that I don’t have to do that anymore, but I’m going to go again for old time’s sake. It absolutely blew. I didn’t have time for anything at all. I didn’t have time to cook, to clean, to wash my hair on a regular basis. I didn’t have the energy to do anything at all for myself so my health became an absolute joke. I was becoming better educated but my life was in SHAMBLES. I’m being dramatic but I’m not lying to you. Now all the classes are over. They’re over, y’all! I will take classes again I know because if I don’t die as an Egyptologist, as I’ve said before, my life will have been lived for naught. But that’s beside the point. Now that I don’t have to go to classes and slave away online at other classes, I get to focus solely on student teaching. This has been a joy and a delight, reader. I just go to student teaching and then I can go home and live my life. I’ve been going on walks again. Last night I actually cooked food that wasn’t out of a box or a quickly tossed salad. It has been insane. I’m almost finished with my first month and it seems like just a moment ago I started. I’ll have a classroom of my own before long. And now that I’m teaching lessons and getting to know the students better, I know that this was a good move for me. I needed a change and this is the right one for me. Today, we made social media posts about the Transcontinental Railroad and it was a hoot. The kids are clever, who knew they could make a VSCO girl/hydroflask meme out of a cattle drive? It’s a hoot.

My Vineyard:

From a very early age, I have been enchanted by France. I have wanted to speak French, wander around with a baguette tucked under one arm, be unbearably thin while swaddled in black, and stare off into the distance with a look of enlightened disdain for mankind on my face. Largely, I do all of those things. I used to be thin, but other than that, I speak French, eat too much bread, wear a lot of black, and go through an existential crisis a few times a year. I’m as French as it’s possible for me to be at this point. One thing that always captivated me about the nation was the wine, but more than that, the vineyards. I thought it was marvelous that there should be sprawling acres of ancient, gnarled vines loaded to bursting with sweet and delicious grapes, begging to be squished and fermented. A little over a decade ago, I decided that I simply must have a vineyard all of my own, and so I set out to create a wonderland of sprawling vines. Almost all of my projects end in failure and few and far between actually come to completion. The vineyard was never exactly finished the way it was originally envisioned, but of all my projects, this is the one that I’m truly the most proud of. I repurposed old fence poles and dug holes for fourteen posts in rows of diminishing length. I took ancient fencing and nailed them to the posts, then I went out and bought four different varieties of grapes. There were Concord, Niagara, Catawba, and Edelweiss. It took ages for them to get established, and it was a fight to the death to succeed. The Edelweiss couldn’t stand the winter. Two of the Concords were hit by farming chemicals. One of the Catawbas was ripped out of the earth by some villain. The Niagaras shockingly survived, though they have been rather pathetic. Now, ten years later, I have five plants with thick stems and they seem to be thriving. I couldn’t be happier. Years later, I am finally having enough grapes ripen on the vine to actually bother with. Then a new foe arrived: birds and bugs. I am still traumatized by the birds. A few years ago, I was waiting for the grapes to reach their peak ripeness, and the day before I decided to harvest, they were absolutely ambushed by birds. They didn’t leave a single rotting grape. The year after it was a Biblical plague of grasshoppers. The year after, I literally put every single bunch of grapes into a brown paper bag and sealed them away before wrapping the whole of the vineyard in bird netting. This was exhausting, but it at least gave me enough fruit to try and make wine with. I still haven’t tried the stuff, but I doubt it’s going to be any better than earlier efforts. This year, though, I decided I didn’t give a crap and just set out to enjoy the serenity of the spot. It’s very secluded and relaxing, and I love nothing more than lounging out there in the sun with a book. For whatever reason, probably to drive me absolutely insane, the grapes thrived. They ripened beautifully. They are gorgeous. Last night, I harvested them and could hardly carry the baskets inside. The fruit isn’t cosmetically perfect, but they are something I’m so proud of. I’m using it to make jelly this year. I want to be able to enjoy it for months and months and months. Making jelly is exhausting, but reader, I’m so pleased.

IT Chapter Two:

I don’t think Stephen King intended for his massive book about a murderous clown to be the funniest movie of the year, but for me, that’s what it turned out to be. I’m reading lots of reviews of the movie and this is quickly becoming a consensus. The movie was an absolute hoot. It wasn’t at all scary. Some moments were disturbing, truly and deeply, but these moments came from very real characters. Sexual abuse, spousal abuse, suicide, gay bashing, and more were all awful, but all of these horrible things stemmed from living and breathing humans. The antics of the clown, while murderous as ever, were not nearly so bleak or grim. If anything, it was funny. Like for real. I mean…a little girl getting chomped by Pennywise under the bleachers of a baseball game isn’t exactly cute, but the exchange between the clown and his victims plays out like a stand up routine. In this conclusion of the narrative arc, the Losers, who are now adults, find out that they don’t really have a lot to fear anymore. Life is scary enough and they already beat the clown once, so they can surely do it again. What follows is a series of absurdist vignettes where a statue of Paul Bunyon comes to life and an old woman dances nude like she’d been electrocuted and a pharmacist grabs a mole and wonders if its cancerous and Stephen King himself plays a crotchety antique dealer. None of it was scary. There were jump scares, and there was excellent CGI, and there was an odd moment where a zombie had a knife, but largely this was a laugh. Bill Hader stole the show, and led the humor through the ridiculously lengthy film. And the ending, y’all…the ending was so absurd that nobody in the audience could take it seriously. Pennywise is an alien…or something? And the Native Americans were in on it and failed to stop him? And there’s a leather box for some reason. None of it made any sense, and the feeling of confusion filters throughout the entirety of the movie, robbing it of even more tension. In the final moments, the Losers decide they need to make Pennywise small, so they make fun of him, and he shrinks and shrinks until he is the size of a doll. Then they squeeze his heart and it’s over. Wild. Hilarious. And nonsense. And a hoot. Go see it for a good laugh, don’t go see it for a scare because you will leave disappointed.

Between you and me, dear reader, New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday. Of course, Halloween is my absolute favorite, but you can celebrate Halloween all year. After all, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying a ghost, witch, vampire, and/or a chupacabra at any point in the calendar year. Halloween is a state of mind and part of who I am, but New Year’s Eve is the only holiday that feels truly worth going all out for. I love the specificity of midnight, I relish the idea of reflecting on the good memories and preparing for better ones to come, and I thrive on the suggestion of reinvention. Each new year, though it truly means nothing, is an opportunity to try something new, learn, broaden, and seek. We don’t have to make resolutions, and I’m particularly opposed to resolutions — long story, but the advancing of the year gives us an opportunity to cheekily say, “New year, new me.”

With each year that flies by, I like to think I’m a little bit ahead of where I was the year before. I’m inclined to believe that the calendar will provide me opportunities to explore a new part of the world or uncover a hidden aspect of who I am. And, in fact, this behemoth of a website itself was born out of a special New Year’s Eve. I began blogging in earnest when I moved to Paris during the final few days of 2008 to study at Le Cordon Bleu.

I didn’t start writing for anybody in particular, but I’ve kept it up because I love the narcissistic process of documenting my life. Our time on the planet is so insignificantly small, and yet we can accomplish so much and share so much more. I learned today something that has left me in a kind of rapture. If you go back, random centenarian by random centenarian, there are only fifty-five centenarians between right now and the dawn of human civilization. Isn’t that wild? Like there are fewer than fifty specific people between me and Ramses the Great! We haven’t been documenting our existence here long, yet look at all we’ve done!

Whatever little documentation remains of me after I’m dead and cremated is my vision of true immortality. I can’t possibly know it, but these words might be read by somebody in thousands of years who will look upon them with the same intellectual curiosity that I am overcome with when I study ancient Egyptian papyri in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Every life has moments that are worthy of remembering forever. Maybe I’ve written too much or too little but at least there will be some remnant of me on this planet for the rest of time.

And though it may not seem like it, President Obama and I have so much in common. We’re both hella cool, human rights activists, the greyer our hair gets the hotter we become, and we both put together hotly-anticipated yearly summaries. His, I will admit, always seem to get a bit more coverage than mine. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Every year, no matter how politically ugly, can be wonderful, and I find that most years are actually all right. I lost some things this year, but I gained infinitely more. In this post, I will talk about the seven most significant and impactful things that happened to me in 2019.

Mail Cat:

Cats are, and will forever be my favorite animals. I love every single cat that has ever lived and every single cat that will ever live. I think of my Edwin and Clea as extensions of myself rather than animals kept for my amusement. If I could, I would adopt every cat that needed a home. I would take care of them and love them and spoil them rotten, but of course, I’m only one person, and I can only take care of a reasonable number. I live on a farm, though, and we always had cats that lived outside. We would love them with the same ferocity as the ones indoors, take a few select individuals in, but always thought of them all as part of the same family. Over the years, the clan of cats on my farm has died out. This happens with a limited gene pool and the rough living that is required for a farm cat. This year, I adopted a litter of kittens from a distant family member and gave them the chance to thrive at my estate. The parents of the kittens promptly left for greener pastures, but the two kittens have stayed and started the next generation of my family of farm cats. I didn’t know how much I missed having cats outside. I love when they walk around the yard with me, I delight in watching them scurry around, rushing up trees, playfully attacking each other when it is least expected. They are a delight and a joy and I named them Cuatro and Cinco. Long story. Cuatro soon distinguished himself as somebody special and even as I type this, I’m toying with the idea of inviting him to join my little angels inside. Each day when I got home from student teaching, Cuatro would hurry to the car and then walk with me to the road to get the mail. I quickly rechristened him Mail Cat, and that name has stuck to him like rubber cement. He’s an absolute sweetheart without a mean bone in his body. He purrs loud enough to concern his sister. He has crossed eyes, a leonine nose, and clear traces of Maine Coone ancestry. He’s the nicest little boy in the world and he’s taken to sitting on a planter in my kitchen window and staring in like he’s watching a reality television series. He’s absolutely perfect and I’m so glad he’s mine. He’s made 2019 rather special.

La Reina del Sur:

For a lot of people, a telenovela might not be much more than a pleasurable interlude or an exciting distraction. Telenovelas are different for me. I’ve watched them since high school, hardly religiously, but I always enjoy them when I’m flipping through the channels. Most of my early proficiency in Spanish came from a program called Asi es la Vida, and I honestly have no idea what it was about. But I loved it. The theme song is always stuck in my head. After my first visit to Mexico, I found myself extraordinarily homesick for the place, and I found a series on Netflix called Ingobernable starring the inimitable Kate del Castillo. In this original drama for the streaming platform, Kate plays the wife of the Mexican president who is hunted by the government after corrupt officials lay the blame on her for the assassination of her husband. I was sucked in immediately and I loved the gorgeous cinematography that showed my beloved Mexico City off in the best light. And I simply could not get enough of Kate, so I watched the documentary about her meeting with the cartel leader, El Chapo. This show talked a lot about Kate’s most infamous role as Teresa Mendoza in the hugely popular telenovela, La Reina del Sur. I started it without thinking much, but it wasn’t long before it became my favorite show of all time. I became obsessed with the characters and the situations, the absurdities and the tenderness of it all. I also learned everything I think I’ll ever need to know about the North African network of hashish trading. The episodes were addicting, each of them like the drugs that Teresa had to transport and sell to make her way in the world. And far too soon, it was over. I was lost, y’all, that show was something special to me and I still don’t know why. It was made about a decade ago, but because 2019 has a wonderful tendency to bring old things back, a second season of the show was announced. I’m not going to dive deep into this because if you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you’re aware of my feelings. I screamed and I cried, I shouted, I gasped, I clutched my pearls, I hardly blinked. Sixty marvelous episodes were mine to watch and once again I was on an adventure with Teresa and Conejo and Oleg, and it was too wonderful for words. There were no English subtitles, so I was forced to use the best of my Spanish abilities and my artistic sentiment to understand, and I have rarely had such a fun time. The show is deeply meaningful to me because it shows how far my linguistic abilities have come. (And because it allows me to shamelessly take part in a culture that is not my own but one I deeply admire. At heart, I feel quite Mexican, and though there are any number of reasons for that, that’s not important now.) It was wonderful to have an hour away from reality every night to fall in love with new characters, settings, and ideas. I reveled in the time I spent with Teresa fighting for her kidnapped daughter. The whole thing is on Netflix now, and I just might have to watch it all over again. This precious program was truly an unforgettable part of what 2019 meant to me.

The Bidens:

My year took a rather weird turn in the summer. As I was finishing up the requirements for student teaching, I had to do a series of odd little practicums in different schools. I was sent to Marshalltown for two of them, a town about an hour away from where I live, so I stayed in a hotel there for a little over a month and helped teach ELL and Reading to fifth graders. Not my usual summer getaway, but Marshalltown was wild. I’ve never been anywhere with such a massive Walmart. And they had an amazing Mexican restaurant and a first-class hotel that made sensational martinis. I stayed in two different hotels, only for a few days in the first because it had a strange feeling. It was a convention center with a weirdly lonely pool, a parking lot that felt dangerous, hallways covered in hypnotic carpeting that stretched on for what felt like miles, and bizarre pet accommodation. Cats and dogs were fine, but so were snakes and monkeys at the consent of the owner. Rules are usually made for a reason, reader; what had gone on in that insidious convention center before I showed up? Was there a circus? Did somebody actually try to check in with a monkey? I wasn’t particularly bothered by the permissibility of these creatures, but I was haunted by the story of why they were there. I asked employees but nobody was illuminating, which I found suspicious, so after the first week, I moved to the hotel across the street. Much nicer. None of that is particularly important to my story. While I was in Marshalltown, it was the Fourth of July and it was the year before the Iowa Caucus, so everybody was in town. At that peculiar hotel across the street that welcomed monkeys — which I don’t even think are legal as pets in Iowa — Joe Biden was campaigning. I have a weird connection to the Biden family, but that’s a wild ride for another time. I decided I needed to go. I have never forgiven myself for missing the chance to see President Obama and Oprah years ago when he was first running. It’s a hate crime that the only president I’ve ever seen is Donald Trump. So, I went to the speech and I was duly impressed, and I decided I wanted to chat with the former vice president if I could. I pushed and politely shoved and before long, Joe was holding my shoulders as we discussed the current state of medical research being done on multiple sclerosis. I was stunned by his depth of knowledge, by his kindness, and by his ability to connect with strangers. I know Joe is old fashioned and some of the things he says and does make us cringe, but he’s a good man. He’s a smart politician and would make an excellent president. I don’t understand why the Democratic Party is trying so hard to shoot itself in the foot with this election cycle, but again, that story is not meant for now. Joe and I spoke for quite some time in comparison to the other people in the ballroom. I introduced myself to Dr. Jill Biden afterward, and we had an engaging conversation about the state of public education. I left the hotel feeling quite encouraged by the possibility of a better America. I’ve met them again several times after. They’ve both sent me greetings through my Biden connection. It’s simply the strangest thing.

New Appliances:

One of the major ambitions of my life is to have a home that feels like a vacation home. If you’ve never gone to a decadent AirBNB that felt like the height of luxury, please correct this and then get back to me. I am obsessed with the idea of having a sanctuary that feels like a hotel, and I have been actively working on making this a reality for nearly a decade. I’m nearer now than I ever have been before and it has changed everything for the better — quite exactly as I anticipated it would. As I work my way through the house, upgrading whatever I can, I feel a sense of contentment wash over me. I can’t tell you how freeing it is to throw things away, to recycle, to donate, to toss into a blazing inferno in the middle of a blizzard. (Highly recommended, that.). Each piece that I get rid of makes me a little bit lighter. Walking out to the dumpster was not a highlight of my 2019, though, it was the replacements for the things that found themselves on the way to the dump. I came into a little money when my father passed away and some of this was used on hugely necessary upgrades. I put down a gorgeous new floor in the kitchen and from there…well, things got a little out of hand. I had a new refrigerator delivered and it is everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Stainless steel with French doors and, most importantly, it has filtered ice and water dispensers! If you have lived your life without these luxuries, reader, you don’t know how spoiled you are, you don’t know how fabulously you’ve been living. The new machine replaces an absolute nightmare that leaked water, that was filthy, that barely functioned, that was an absolute eyesore. My new fridge is blindingly bright and marvelously clean inside and I can’t get over sticking my cocktail shaker under the ice dispenser. It’s the epitome of class. I didn’t stop there, and I bought myself a very nice dishwasher, too. I have had several portable ones in the past, but I wanted something permanent. I decided to teach myself new tricks, and I managed to install the dishwasher myself. To do so, I had to remove a cabinet from my kitchen, add a new breaker to the house’s wiring, install wiring and an outlet, and then I had to fiddle with plumbing. It took several trips to the hardware store, several curse words, hours on YouTube, but in the end, I installed the dishwasher all by myself and it works flawlessly. I’m almost disturbed by how bright and shiny things come out. I accidentally put in a gold coffee thermos and it came out silver. It was so powerful it took off the plating! I made several other purchases, but I’ve saved the best for last. Reader, I bought a Roomba. I’ve dreamed of one for so long, but a friend finally convinced me that it was time. So I bought myself the Roomba s9+. It is not cheap. At all. Like…it’s absurdly expensive and I felt a bit ashamed of myself for ordering it. But ever since it arrived, I have no regrets of any kind. Reader…that Roomba has saved my life. Every day at nine o’clock, Rosie — that’s what I call the Roomba — comes out and sucks up everything in sight. It’s a triumph. I literally haven’t vacuumed in months. It’s so powerful it lifted off a linoleum tile from the bathroom. When the Roomba is full of detritus, it takes itself back to the charging station and sucks the crap out of it into a bag. I only have to dump the bag once a month or so. I literally have to do nothing. I can tell the Roomba to start from an app on my phone — even from another state! — I’ve done this just for the fun of it. I made other marvelous purchases like an August lock and a Ring doorbell and a Vitamix blender, but the appliances are really what made 2019 one for the record books. Shop reader. Shop until you drop!

Señora Pati and Simba:

Mexico City is a tremendously special place for me. I’ve written extensively about my trips and the unforgettable quotidian experiences I hold dear to my heart. This year, I was only able to get back for spring break, but the events of this little sojourn have tattooed themselves on my memory forever. Mexico has become my escape and I long for the next time I land in the maddeningly complex airport before hailing an Uber and rushing back to the Centro Histórico. I’ve only ever stayed in one place in Mexico and that’s the same studio apartment off the Calle Bolìvar. It satisfies me completely. I’ve described it to you already in my rambling expostulations, but I’ll give you the basics. The room itself is not important, the shower is lackluster, the range makes you worry about gas leaks, and the decor is begging for help — so I help it every time I go. The real thing that matters to me is the wonderland of the courtyard. In the center of an uneven stone pavement sits an enormous well where the inhabitants of the building do their laundry. One family keeps an absurdly big pet rabbit so large that I never believe it’s real. Others have dogs in desperate need of brushing. Some of the tenants get home late and play loud music and others play soccer at two o’clock in the morning. But the most sensational part, and the reason I always come back, is the cats. One neighbor had four grown cats and a litter of kittens, and I kind of catnapped them and called them my own. There is Patron and Little Chiffon and Simba and Bitch Cat and Frijoles and Taquito and Slim. I make regular visits to Walmart just to stock up on cat treats to feed them. I keep fresh filtered water for them. I pet them whenever I can. I nap with them whenever I can. I’ve made three separate trips to this spot now, and the owner of the cats has seemed to accept me as a weird uncle to her pets. She thought me silly at first, but this year, we became something a little bit different. You see, reader, Simba was nowhere to be found when Jessica and I arrived for our trip and I tried not to think the worst. On the second day, the woman was coming out to do her laundry and we struck up a conversation in my silly Spanish. We learned the real names of her cats, and with misty eyes, she told us that Simba had recently passed away. I was gutted. Simba had been my constant companion the year before. As I was writing a lengthy research paper on traces of ancient Egyptian language in modern English, Simba would sleep in my lap or on the table, purring loudly and staring up at me with his beautiful orange eyes. Jessica and I bought flowers for Señora Pati, for that was the woman’s name, and took them over to her. She wasn’t home, but when she came back, well reader, it was an emotional scene. She thanked us profusely, hugged us, blessed us, and shared her phone number with us. I showed her the keychain I had made with pictures of all her cats. And we never could understand each other perfectly, but our common love for cats made us lifelong friends. A few days later she sent us the above picture of Little Chiffon next to the bouquet we sent her. It was perfect, and though I’m devastated to lose Simba, I’m glad to have made a new friend in Señora Pati.

Death of Karl Lagerfeld:

Karl Lagerfeld was ridiculous. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been utterly obsessed and captivated with him. I was fascinated by the way he created a life around himself that may or may not have been true. He would relish in never being clear on his past. One of my favorite anecdotes about him is how he befuddled the press by celebrating his 79th birthday four years after an extravaganza for his 70th. Karl lived life in a way that I admire, making the most out of it for himself and not being bothered by anything but what he found interesting. As a young gay man and particularly as a young gay man who was enchanted by fashion and aesthetics, Karl Lagerfeld was an indelible icon. He was a link between modern luxury fashion and the 1950s realm of haute couture. He was timeless, seemingly immortal, and I wanted nothing more than to know him. I thought up the most ridiculous scenarios. If I saw him in New York City, I would ask him to autograph my arm. I would then have that autograph tattooed. If I was in Paris, I would always peer in the windows at Maxim’s, wondering if he was there for dinner. If I bumped into Baptiste Giabiconi or Ben Taub at Colette, I would find a way to befriend them and befriend Karl through them. And every single time I passed by Angelina’s on the Rue de Rivoli, I had to stop and wonder, was Karl in there right now? This specific mystery goes back to my time at Le Cordon Bleu. I was attending a workshop on a variety of traditional French bread and my partner, Allison, had recently gone on a class field trip to that famed bakery. Lo and behold, Karl Lagerfeld was in the dining room with a demitasse of their famed hot chocolate and a Mont Blanc. Allison never said if she saw him actually eat the pastry. I have doubts… And I would long for Chanel and spend as much time as I reasonably could in the boutiques. Once I apparently seemed so wistful that an employee let me look in on the famous mirrored staircase — a moment I will truly treasure for the rest of my life — but Karl was out that day. If there was a fashion show at the Petit Palais and I was in Paris, I would be lurking outside waiting for a glimpse of the mysterious man with his sunglasses, starched collar, half gloves, and ghostly white ponytail. The only person I ever saw was Jared Leto. I tried so many times; it’s a comedy of errors. I would wander the streets where he supposedly lived. I would spend hours in his bookstore, flipping through pages of his photographs. I would read every interview, every biography, everything I could. His security probably flagged me as some kind of stalker. I suppose they wouldn’t be wrong, but at least somebody connected to Karl might have noticed me. And in the end, I never did see Karl. I never met him and I never got to live out any of the delirious fantasies that I had of him. He died early in 2019 and it broke something inside of me in a way that death doesn’t normally do. In fact, I’ve never truly mourned the loss of anybody but Joan Rivers and him. They were both massive parts of who I am, who I’ve become, elements of the best parts of myself. And, for me, I think that it might be for the best that Karl and I never crossed paths. There’s an old saying that you should never meet your idols, after all, but I don’t think this is particularly true. (Dame Angela Lansbury was charming when we met, after all.) It’s impossible now. Karl’s dead, cremated, and his ashes are scattered. Now he will always remain the enigma he always was and I will always remember him with a love I really can’t explain.

Finishing School:

2019 was the year that I finally finished going to school…so that I could get a job in a school and never stop going to school. I’ll always be in education one way or the other it seems, but I’m finally free from being the student! I can’t tell you the glee this fills me with. I am beyond happy that my life went the way it has. I’m glad I went to Le Cordon Bleu and lived in Paris and had time to wander around Europe and the United States and Egypt before settling into the degree that was right for me. While I’ll always regret not becoming an Egyptologist, there’s nothing really getting in the way of that. I now have a bachelor’s degree, a license, and I’m a professional in a way I wasn’t before December of 2019. Completing my degree was wonderful, reader, don’t get me wrong, but I learned so much more from the extenuating circumstances of acquiring it than I did from the process. To begin student teaching, I had to leave a position that I was very comfortable in. I had no interest in doing this, and in fact, it rather perturbed me, but this taught me one of the most valuable lessons I learned in 2019. In fact, it’s probably one of the most important things I’ve ever learned in my thirty trips around the sun. Routines are deadly. Being comfortable is a good description of a mattress but not for life. You only get one shot at living, so you must squeeze the most out of life that you possibly can. Leaving my position forced me out of my comfort zone and introduced me to a world of opportunities I didn’t know existed. I don’t want to share all the specifics, but I learned so much from being free of old obligations and behavioral patterns. Life is so much fun, after all, if you let it be. As my beloved Joan Rivers once said, life is one big movie. Intuitively, I felt that she was right, but before this year it didn’t really mean anything specific or poignant to me. It does now. If you ever find yourself too comfortable, scare yourself somehow. Change something. Do something to remind yourself that you’re alive. So I finished my classes. I finished student teaching. (And I must add that student teaching was another highlight of my year. I truly had an unexpectedly wonderful time at Boone High School. More fun than I ever anticipated and it was beyond illuminating. I can’t thank the staff and students at that building enough for showing me another side of education. And yet another side of myself.) All I have left is to frame all my certificates and degrees and then start speculating when I’m going to shake things up again and head to UCLA or the University of Chicago or the American University in Cairo or University College in London to pursue Egyptology. It’s a matter of time. I’m only thirty. This has just been the opening act of my life. And it’s so nice to realize that. I suppose this clarity comes with getting older.

Also, I wear rings now and that’s changed everything. It was a good year. May we all have a happy and prosperous 2020.

Monday:

Why don’t you use the stale tortillas in your fridge to make chips instead of throwing them out? I know this is going to come as a shock, but tortilla chips are made out of tortillas. Wild. I know, my mind was blown too. I’ve been frying up some stale corn tortillas in vegetable oil and tossing them with various spices. They’re better than they really should be. And now it feels like I’m in a delicious Mexican restaurant and I feel like a thrifty pioneer.

Tuesday:

Why don’t you watch the BBC’s adaptation of Dracula on Netflix? Dracula is one of my favorite pieces of literature and until now there has never been an adaptation that meets my rigorous standards. (Like anybody cares!) This three-part miniseries truly blew my mind. It remains lovingly faithful to Bram Stoker’s novel but reinterprets almost everything about the story in a way that rarely failed to shock and surprise me. Yes, there were some moments of the show that were ridiculously bad…like the first half of episode three…but there were other moments that rose to the level of a modern masterpiece. It was brilliant. Get to watching!

Wednesday:

Why don’t you take the longest bath of your life? I am obsessed with bathing. A shower is a wonderful quick indulgence, but it can’t compare to the luxury of sliding underneath boiling hot water. In quarantine, I’ve been taking too many baths — if such a thing is possible — and I’ll even take two in a day for fun. Yesterday, I read the entirety of an Agatha Christie mystery whilst my skin pruned up. It was good fun. The hours fly by in a different fashion when you’re utterly and totally relaxed. 

Thursday:

Why don’t you, if you’re able, join a scholarly society to support their work and enrich your mind? I can’t tell you why I’ve never done it before, but I just became a member of the Egypt Exploration Society which is headquartered in London. It’s a major player in Egyptian archaeology, particularly in the early days of the science, and now I’m a full member. I get to vote on things. I was delighted to learn that membership also allows me full access to their library of Egyptological material if I’m ever in London again! Go away, Coronavirus, I have old books to look at!

Friday:

Why don’t you go drive around the block if you own a car? Due to the pandemic, I haven’t driven in over a month. I get everything delivered because of health concerns, and I’m enormously thankful and appreciative for my deliveries. My car has sat for longer than a month before, but it’s good to make sure it works. Turns out mine didn’t! A few miles from home my brake locked somehow and a tire EXPLODED. It was incredibly dramatic. Had to pay for repairs and a new tire. Ugh. I’m just glad I wasn’t on the highway when it happened. That would have been hella annoying. Maintain your stuff, dear reader, don’t be like me! [UPDATE: After getting a new tire and driving it home, THE EXACT SAME THING HAPPENED AGAIN. I’m cursed…maybe?]

Monday:

Why don’t you start composting? I’ve been home since March, and over the past months, I’ve grown somewhat manic about my yard. Either I’m really and truly old or I just understand why people yell “GET OFF MY LAWN.” I have plants everywhere. I’ve pruned everything. I’ve taken cuttings. I’ve buried rhizomes. I’ve been thriving. And I knew that I needed what Martha Stewart once called “black gold.” So I bought a composting barrel. You load it up with literal garbage and spin it around. In a month or two, this breaks down into nutritious organic material that plants love. I found the entire process thrilling. My first batch will be ready soon, I think. Rotten apples, leaves, grass, and lemon peels are turning into this fabulously rich looking black stuff. I’m so excited. 

Tuesday:

Why don’t you knife a tire as a form of stress relief? I don’t know if life is like it is in the movies for you, but I have never been in a situation where I needed to exact revenge on a foe by slashing their tires. But life is so varied these days, maybe it’s normal for you. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I have a junk car in my yard that needs disposed of, so I suggested to my sister that we slash the tires for a laugh and to reduce her incredibly high stress levels. Let me tell you, reader, it takes a bit more force than you think, but it’s a supremely satisfying thing to do. The hiss of the air rushing out makes you feel like you’re in a gang. Highly recommended. 

Wednesday:

Why don’t you subscribe to the Great Courses Plus and learn everything? I’m listening to lectures on Latin, watercolor, a tour of the Universe, and self defense. What a hoot! I’m particularly enjoying the Latin lessons, which I didn’t expect. I’ve long wanted to learn the language because of it’s historical significance, but to my shocked delight, it’s really rather fun. The teacher has the worst sense of humor that honestly has me screaming with laughter while I learn how to conjugate. Latin is much easier than expected so far, too, which is a blessing! It’s not maddening like my beloved ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. There are so many courses. It’s so fun. I love learning.

Thursday:

Why don’t you find a way to illuminate everything outside? You’ll remember from just minutes ago when I proclaimed my love for outdoor design. Well it’s become even more insane with the discovery of these solar powered light pucks I found on Amazon. They are these lovely little things that you spike into the ground and when the sun sets, they burst forth in luminance. I have my vineyard beautifully landscaped and now at night it simply glows. I have a gently lit path that leads you there. At night, it’s like being at a luxurious hotel with a sumptuous garden. I’ve spent maybe a couple hundred dollars on these lights but they’re worth so much more in the satisfaction they’ve brought me.  

Friday:

Why don’t you do yourself a favor and watch Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga on Netflix? I adore Eurovision and I’ve watched it for the past decade with religious fervor. I love the spectacle, the drama, the insanity, the absurdity, the relentless joy! You never know whether tremendous talent will take the stage, or classically trained opera singers dressed as vampires, or Russian grannies baking a cake, or Germans suggestively churning butter. The entire thing is beyond description. And it never stops being fabulous. To my shock, Will Ferrell created an ode to the contest that was hilariously funny, full of heart, and straight up stupid. I loved it so much. It was truly done with love, and I just can’t get the music out of my head. If you don’t understand Eurovision, you might not scream with the same laughter I did, but you still need to watch for the murdering elves alone. It was an absolute joy.

Time is a slippery thing; I can’t make sense of it. The tasks I think will go on for days only take minutes and the ones that don’t need any time at all take me decades. There’s a piece of base trim that I have no reason not to put on…I just don’t. It’s not that I won’t. I just don’t. It’s been like ten years for real, professional procrastination on another level. Mexico City was a dreamland, but during this extended stay, it was also a sentence in academic prison because of my inability to get anything done if I’m told to do it. And I had so much to do for my degree that summer. Papers left and right. And then more. (It turns out that college is just a bunch of writing. That’s basically it, oh and jumping through a few hoops where you have to demonstrate your ability to do something basic. Big price for what? This isn’t the place for that rant, though.) On top of academia, I was trying to stay current with my reading, go further in my study of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, navigate the laundry services in a language I’m not fully fluent in, and try to find a moment to get in some exercise. I always found time for a taco, mind you. That never proved to be a problem.

Academic prison isn’t exactly a nightmare, reader, it’s too much of a good thing in a way. You usually don’t get into the kind of classes I was in unless you have a particularly particular interest. Not one of those necessary and boring classes — truly unnecessary in almost every instance, mind you. I was writing a lengthy paper for one of these classes about the linguistic origin of certain words in modern English from the language that ancient Egyptians spoke. You’d never guess, but there’s a fascinating history to words like ebony and adobe. I’ll link you to the paper. I got an excellent score and the comments really were an ego boost.

I spent days poring over PDFs of old books searching for a sketch of a tomb wall that I had once seen and couldn’t find. It was a desperate search. Eventually, I found the stupid picture and it was thrilling, but upon reflection, I made that paper more of a dissertation. Unnecessarily complex. That’s how I do everything. I must work on that. It was a lot of fun though. (To this day, whenever I get an email claiming that somebody quoted a B. Phillips on academia.com, I assume it’s me. It’s obviously not, but I never check so I can never really be sure it’s not. I think this is immensely mysterious and charming of me.)

This project took a larger physical and mental toll on me than such endeavors usually do, and I knew that I was overstimulated and working too much. It’s probably a little bit of neuroticism or a fun symptom of multiple sclerosis. I get obsessed easily and obsession is not healthy. And writing is one of the most horrifying things in the world to begin with, which is why I do it every day. The more you do it the less awful it is. When you write for an academic audience, though, every single word is selected with excruciating exactitude. I have aspirations for a higher degree, but the stress isn’t worth it right now. No thanks! I needed a reprieve from broken papyrus scraps for a spell. So, while I wrote, I developed a scheme to go on vacation.

Before you say a single thing…yes, I was already on vacation. I’m aware! After my previous trip to Mexico, I learned how much I loved the city, but more than that, I learned how intrigued I was by the entirety of the country. The short visits I had away from the metropolis were fascinating. I knew that I needed to see more of the country and so I researched in the moments I wasn’t researching dead languages. I had a dozen dreams, but eventually, I settled on Cuernavaca. When I look back on this decision I can’t believe I ever seriously considered anywhere else. Cuernavaca was perfection to me. 

When I returned from that fateful first visit to Mexico City, I decided to read all I could about the history of the place and about the cultures, and, well, just simply everything I could. I stumbled upon this bizarre book called Under the Volcano written by Malcolm Lowry. He’s one of those writers who had a horrible life, did nothing to make their horrible lives any better, wrote convoluted garbage, and died. His writing is said to be the stuff of masterpieces. (I would say otherwise.) It took me ages to even get into the rhythm of the book, but I was determined to make it through. I sat in my chair in the courtyard, glaring at my Kindle as I slowly became absorbed in the story. Spoiler alert: there really isn’t a story but people see all kinds of connections in the story. It was fine, and it has lingered in my memory, but I wouldn’t recommend it to a friend. The thing that caught my attention was the description of the village where the story takes place in, Cuernavaca, the city of eternal spring. 

I did a little research, booked a couple nights in what looked to be a charming hotel, and packed my bag. The next morning — which obviously ended up being mid-afternoon — I made my way to the airport. Cuernavaca is only a couple hours away and it’s a popular destination so there is a direct bus connection between the airport and the city. Rather smart, I thought, accepting a bottle of jamaica, some sweet nut thing, and settled into my plush seat and got lost in the passing views. 

I wish I could ride around in a bus all day in Mexico and just look at stuff. It was hypnotizing to watch the city fade away, to see the suburbs that were so far from the heart of Mexico City that it was hard to conceive of them as being part of one metropolitan area. The suburbs gave way to the mountains and the road wound and wound through them. We climbed through clouds I think, but it was probably just fog. I never thought I’d see something like the top of a Colorado mountain in Mexico. This country is full of surprises. 

The mountains gave way for a moment, and it wasn’t long before Cuernavaca appeared on the horizon. I’d read many descriptions but I honestly wasn’t prepared. 

There are two types of places that draw me in, allure me, give me a very specific feeling of either NEEDING to move there immediately or to preserve it eternally as a fantasyland, to love it endlessly, but never truly know it. Some places need to be kept a dreamy mystery so you can go back and back and get tricked by the veneer. (Unfortunately, reader, we’re about to go on a wander through my memories for a moment. Sorry, I can’t help myself.)

Like Sarasota, Florida. I always thought I wanted to live there — can you imagine? — because I loved the palm trees and the sea air and the ripe oranges falling off trees and the sand, but then I looked into it. Sarasota is bleak, y’all. The apartment options are sad and the view is a parking lot — usually crumbling — and wages are low. And there are a variety of bugs I was unfamiliar with that are apparently common. And guys…the Scientologists have a creepy fake road nearby! And can you imagine me as a Floridian? I’m a California girl! So I’m glad that I didn’t ever move to Sarasota. Now it exists as a hazy, lovely memory, it’s just coffee cans holding up pizzas at an Italian place on St. Armand’s Circle, it’s the whitewashed statues of those horrible explorers magically illuminated, it’s the piers and the sound of waves. It would never be that if I lived there. So Sarasota is a place I want to keep in my imagination. 

That’s how I lost my adulation for San Francisco. At first it was just the bridge and the bay and the skyscrapers at night and the Ferry Building and the fog and the suddenly blue sky and the hulking remains of the Panama-Pacific Exhibtion and then Greens restaurant on its artsy pier and a free Opera cake in a Nespresso boutique. The CITY — as I learned they call it — haunted me, and when I went back, I tried to learn all about it, and I quickly learned too much, and I don’t love San Francisco like I did. I wish I had never seen things, heard things, understood things about that bizarre city.

Cuernavaca, I realized, walking across the bridge with my fabulous black leather bag with the black leather fringe, was a fantasy. I knew that I loved it — we vibed immediately — and I knew that I never wanted to ever lose the dreamy feeling I had looking at the pastel buildings, the wonderfully old Spanish palace with a Starbucks hovering nearby, the cactuses with their flesh etched and scarred with lovers’ initials, the glorious hills, the sky, the flowers, those whitewashed walls that reflected the brilliant light, that perfect eternal second standing in the Museo Robert Brady, oh just all of it. It’s divine!

(But it turns out IT’S NOT! After all, there isn’t a single spot in the world that’s completely perfect. But like…Cuernavaca was the heart of some hardcore cartel stuff. It was said to be one of the deadliest places in the country! And later on, there’s this part of the city I found myself looking around for a restaurant when I was clearly in a spot where tourists don’t go and then other stuff — but I don’t want to know. I want to keep that all to the things I’ll never really know. I want to think only of the broken roof tiles and the inexplicable gardens and the delirium of stumbling by Aztec ruins beside a 7/11.) 

The hotel was a revelation to me. It’s called Las Casas B+B though there’s nothing about it that makes you think of a bed and breakfast. It’s this wonderful sprawling mass of whitewashed buildings and halls and stairs and tiles and it’s all exposed to the outside with lush tropical plants pressing themselves close to the building. I have no idea what the structure was originally, perhaps it was built to be an inn, but whoever did their decoration was fabulous. I was delighted but not shocked to learn later that the hotel was featured in Architectural Digest Mexico with rapturous reviews and photos. 

My room was a dreamy walk through a tunnel and past pools, onto a veranda and then up a stairway. It felt absurdly secluded and exclusive. And it wasn’t that expensive. Crisp white walls and sheets. Black accents. Marble floors. A plush bathrobe waiting for me. It was entirely suited to my tastes and I felt at peace at once. I was going to have a wonderful few days. 

We’ll get into all the reasons why in upcoming posts, but I assume the only logical explanation of this immediate connection is some kind of psychic response to a past life or a vortex or crystals or something. Whatever it was, I felt quite right in Cuernavaca. As I stated earlier, I knew instantly that I didn’t belong in Cuernavaca like I did in Mexico City, but it wooed me. Maybe it lured me? I just wanted to let it drift in, sink in as bits and pieces. I was repulsed by the idea of building a mental map. I wanted to be lost. But it was late because I had been lazy that morning and I really didn’t want to be lost at midnight in a new town. That’s never stopped me before, though, but the hotel was truly captivating.

I drifted to the restaurant as I am so wont to do. It was in Cuernavaca that I realized I was fat again. What a bummer that was. With this knowledge in mind, know that I was deliriously happy, and I considered my oncoming obesity while perusing the menu and making healthy yet extravagant choices.

The restaurant is a sensation. It made me feel like I was in the Chateau Marmont, but only…maybe…better? I don’t know if I mean that. I hold the courtyard restaurant of the Chateau a sacred and rather holy space in my memory. But there was something dreamy about being seated in the low courtyard with those wonderful white walls and the plants and the crisp white gravel and the pool reflecting every fairy light and the romantic chatter of Spanish and low music and the aroma of cooking delicacies. I was in ecstasy. 

I ordered a carajillo, a drink you surely now all about now since I’m so behind on these posts. It’s a shot of espresso and a shot of Liqor 43, a complex liquor that I can’t even begin to describe. When the coffee and the alcohol are shaken, the concoction becomes almost like a refined dessert. It’s foamy and rich, but it’s also sophisticated and remarkably attractive. I could drink them by the gallon. 

The main course was a delight, carpaccio of fresh Yucatán fish was served with charred balls of fresh avocado and the zestiest dressing. It was a thing of beauty. I simply couldn’t get over how wonderful every stage of the meal was. Excellent all around. And the ambiance couldn’t be beaten. I was even photographed for their social media having a delicious evening under the stars surrounded by firelight. It was adorable, never did get a copy of it. A pity, it would have been a treasure. If I was cute. If I wasn’t, I’m glad it never showed.

Exhaustion was coming quick and morning would be coming soon. I didn’t exactly want to rush out at first light — that’ll never be me — but I didn’t want to spend the entire day dozing luxuriously! Just a little bit of the day, of course. I mean, this was a vacation!

Monday:

Why don’t you see if the library of your favorite deceased author is up for sale, scour through the offerings, and then serendipitously buy her personal copy of your favorite children’s book that reminds you of her even though it has absolutely nothing to do with her? Or does it? Having another person’s book really lets you do a fascinating study on them. Any bookmarks, folded corners, sheets of fragile notepaper tucked between pages, an interesting sticker, underlinings, secret codes? Any pages lay flatter than any others? You get what I mean. I screamed with unexpected delight when I found that I could be the proud owner of Barbara Mertz’s copy of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. This fever dream of a book is about two children who run away to live in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, investigate art mysteries, and befriend reclusive ladies of means. It captivated me as an adult. Never knew of it as a child. For that, I’m sure the police are extraordinarily thankful. What a treat for me to own that book and have that book be Barbara’s own! The world can be wonderfully silly sometimes. 

Tuesday:

Why don’t you get a COVID-19 vaccine the second you can? I have no data, so I can’t confirm or deny reports that vaccines are being destroyed if they expire before use. I can assure you, though, that in the state of Iowa (at least), if a vaccination site has doses set to expire and there are no appointments for them, anybody who is alive and in the vicinity can ethically get vaccinated before they expire. I received my first shot of the Pfizer vaccine this way. This dose was expiring twenty minutes from when I received it and it wasn’t spoken for. If it hadn’t been for this stroke of luck I haven’t the vaguest inkling of when I would be vaccinated. The rollout has been tragic, but I’m excited about how much better it’s gotten since President Biden assumed power. The shot was painless and it was free. Botox was more painful, actually. To be fully transparent, I had side effects I was not expecting thet were way more severe than I could have imagined, but they were still absolutely not nearly as bad as dying of COVID-19. I look forward to getting my next dose of the vaccine and then, soon, I can spontaneously go for lunch in LA. It’s become an overwhelming fantasy of mine ever since the pandemic began. 

Wednesday:

Why don’t you take all of the foreign language classes the Duolingo app offers? Honestly, why don’t you? There are no consequences for doing poorly, and there is no tangible benefit to doing well in the app. I’ll explain why in a bit. No matter how many lessons you master or how infrequently you do them, you’re always learning, so there’s no losing. You’re always going to do better by just doing it, even if the app yells at you for missing a weekend. I was curious and so I made it to the top of top of the app. It took many-many-many hours of work to dominate the leaderboard, and it was mildly exhilarating though nothing at all happened when I assumed the leader position for days on end. I was sure that when my time as overlord of Duolingo arrived and ended, I would get some kind of digital reward or recognition. And I was right, I got like a handful of virtual gems, and I was delighted at the pittance. I knew at that moment that there was nothing at the top for me, so now I don’t allow the leader board dominate my life, I just take random classes on whatever language strikes my fancy. It’s liberating and I can order wine in like…literally every country probably.

Thursday:

Why don’t you twirl like a whirling dervish in your home library? I mean this absolutely literally. One of my favorite walking series on my treadmill is a tour of Turkey. I’ve never had much interest in this country other than perhaps visiting Istanbul at some point, but I think I might have had a past life there. Every episode makes me tear up significantly. I can almost cry on cue now thinking about the finale of episode two. We were led to the top of a mountain where whirling dervishes spun with a sense of utter and total serenity. I thought it was spectacular and burst into tears — I think I really miss traveling — and nearly fell off the treadmill. Anyway, I’ve been twirling in my robe in the library ever since and it really is wonderful. Let me show you just how serious I am about this:

Friday:

Why don’t you buy yourself a Vitamix FoodCycler? This is the definition of a nonessential item, but I will be shocked if a similar appliance doesn’t become standard in home kitchens in the next few decades. It’s essentially a rapid composter, but that definition stretches the bounds of the definition of composting. You’re not making textbook compost; you’re breaking down food matter into viable plant nutrients. It’s about the size of a big bread maker and you load up a bucket with all of your food scraps, hit a button, and within five to eight hours, it breaks the food down into what looks like dirt. It’s truly incredible and shocking to load the bucket with egg shells and citrus rinds and kale stems and excess herbs and withered flowers and coffee grounds and tea bags and pull out maybe a cup of nutrient rich dust that you can add to the soil in your garden. It’s truly an amazing product that makes me feel like I’m doing my part for the planet. I really don’t think I could be without it now that I have it. An absolute game changer.

Monday:

Why don’t you stop, drop, (ROCK STEADY), and roll, and listen to everything that Aretha Franklin has ever done? I don’t recall the chain of links (see what I did there? You will if you follow my advice.) I clicked to get there, but one night I found myself with a tear streaming down my cheek watching Aretha Franklin deliver “Nessun Dorma” live at the Grammy’s ages ago. (I’ve been going through a secret opera phase, please don’t tell anybody, its embarrassing.) It was transcendent, let’s watch: 

Ever since that night, I’ve been listening to every album she ever released, in order, three times. It’s not hyperbole to say that I’ve never had more fun doing a deep dive into a musical artist. Everybody knows Aretha Franklin. She’s like Elvis or Cher and Michael Jackson. We hear Aretha all the time, but my god there was more to that woman than “Respect.” Never before this month have I ever heard “Hooked on Your Love” and I feel absolutely robbed that I’ve lost three decades of my life without it. I think…yes it’s my favorite song. You have to hear it: 

Trite though it is, I feel blessed to have found Aretha. I’ll leave you with what has been happily stuck in my head ever since I said, “Hey Siri, play me some Aretha Franklin…”

Tuesday:

Why don’t you let people talk to you about their passions? This can start the most unexpected and stimulating conversation. I’m having solar panels installed at my home, and in the process, I was introduced to a young man who has a passion for fixing cars. This is NOT something that I’m interested in. He mentioned a model of a car that I, oddly enough, have an older style of. I showed it to him, and he was like a child in a candy store, he was like me in an Egyptian exhibit, he was fully alive. Absolutely giddy. Before listening to him, I never knew how interesting cars could be or what kind of emotional power they might possess. Let me assure you reader, when I decided to go solar, I did not anticipate being drenched in sweat in a filthy old barn, on the verge of tears, listening to the story of a crippled man nearly finding the power to get up from his wheelchair when he heard the engine of his beloved, ruined car start up. It’s been the most interesting week I’ve had in a long time. 

Wednesday:

Why don’t you grow berries? I planted a golden raspberry plant and some strawberries from France, and I can’t tell you how nice it is to go pluck a handful of delicious treats from the yard every morning. I’ve never really liked strawberries, but one that is perfectly ripe and warm from the sun is an extraordinary experience. It’s incredible that we accept fruits and vegetables with horrid textures that taste like nothing for the convenience of getting them at a store. Store bought produce is so boring after realizing what they’re really supposed to taste like. Get planting, reader. I need to add more varieties; I’m obsessed!

Thursday:

Why don’t you get stuck in a Wikipedia loop? I can’t recall how I got there, but I’ve been devouring information every night and being thrilled by connections I never knew about. I’ve learned about philosophers and composers and the way certain motors operate. I know more about subatomic particles than I ever dreamed I’d find necessary. I drink it all up and then find a new obscure connection that thrills me. My current obsession is LGBT individuals in the early days of Egyptian archaeology. I was absolutely unaware that so many of these people existed, which goes to show how paternalistic this field of study is, even for people fully saturated in that world. I’m appalled that so many people like me were forgotten. I feel like I’ve found an entire new world that is ripe for my investigations, and that fills me with bliss.

Friday:

Why don’t you go to Turin? I know I have to have mentioned it before, but I’m betting fiercely that the next Eurovision competition will take place in Turin. I could not be more ecstatic. Though I often say I have a favorite place, I have several places that I deeply and spiritually resonate with. Paris, Luxor, Mexico City, and Turin. They complete me psychically somehow. Anyway, I recently read that Nietzsche had a mental collapse in Turin. I once, too, had a mental collapse just blocks from where he went wild. He also made a goat path famous in the tiny village of Eze in the south of France. I climbed that path in my youth. I’m not the reincarnation of Nietzsche, thank god, but at least we appreciated the same bits of the world in the same way…and I find that really rather odd. That’s all aside from the point, more of an autobiographical saunter…get to Turin for Eurovision! Turin is wonderful. It’s beautiful and mysterious. It’s one of the best places in the world. There’s a shop that sells double fried Belgian fries with a sauce made of harissa and cannabis leaves. It’s curiously delicious. And so weird. Turin is also, I have to repeat, the strangest place I’ve ever been. 

Monday:

Why don’t you get driving gloves for the lawn mower? You know, like my never-met-idol Karl lagerfeld always wore? They truly make it more comfortable to drive the bumpy machine, but you’ll also feel like Lord Carnarvon recklessly driving to Highclere Castle at shameful speeds before the accident that left him ill enough to seek the warmer climes of Egypt. We might still not know about King Tut if it weren’t for his terrible driving practices. That’s a stretch, admittedly, but it’s not wrong, and it makes work a lot more fun for me. My yard isn’t in the English countryside but I certainly pretend it’s a country estate and my driving glove fantasy really helps. This is certainly one of the more ME things I’ve suggested. 

Tuesday:

Why don’t you let me tell you something extremely private and academically damaging? I’m captivated, endlessly curious, and delighted by a show on The History Channel…a cable channel that is too often as removed from reality as Fox News is from reality. (My (()) beloved Ancient Aliens speaks volumes to their lack of credibility in 2021.) Anyway, the show is called, dramatically, The Secret of Skinwalker Ranch, and it holds me at rapt attention. It’s about perplexing anomalies that occur on a ranch in Utah. I know it’s television, so most of it is hype…yet I hope something about it is real. It’s so curious. It makes me think of so many subjects that intrigue me. I love that we don’t know everything just yet. The world and the universe are still mysterious waiting for be unraveled. 

Wednesday:

Why don’t you run to the kitchen and clean the ice maker in your refrigerator? I’m not a dirty person, but I never once thought to look at the ice maker. Nobody told me to. It didn’t look possible, and it turns out to not be simple, but necessary. You guys…in the summer, gnats are attracted to water and they sometimes congregate in that cone where the ice pours out. It’s disgusting. I was mortified. I felt ashamed. I felt a fraud. I cleaned the entire thing IMMEDIATELY which should have been much simpler if this is a somewhat common issue. Anyway, I get a little nervous every time I get ice, but there no longer seems to be an army of gnats clinging to my ice. It was so gross, y’all. I hated it. 

Thursday:

Why don’t you learn something new and set your digital watch to display numbers in a foreign language? It doesn’t matter if you know the numbers or even how to pronounce them, but three is always going to be where you expect it. Seeing the unexpected numerals forces your brain to become familiar with them. My watch is set to show Arabic script and the numbers one through twelve are pretty much memorized now. When I’m in Egypt; my favorite thing to do on long road trips is try to convert the license plate numbers of people we pass from Arabic into what I’m familiar with. Time flew by. Anyway, don’t waste another second of your life.

Friday:

Why don’t you take an Epsom salt bath? There’s all sorts of pseudoscientific reasons why you’d want to, but I just wanted to see how much weight I could lose sitting in hot, salty water like I was at an Icelandic spa. Turns out not much. But I wasn’t following any protocol. I guess professional fighters and actors can lose like 15 pounds in a single day by not drinking water and then drying out in a salt bath. It’s basically the early stages of human mummification…which was of course additionally fascinating for me. I didn’t lose any significant weight, but I did find myself feeling enormously relaxed, which I almost never truly do. Some people say that they are so drained by an Epsom bath that they fear they might never get out of the tub or they’ll drown. I was eager to feel a little loopy to see what the fuss was all about, but in the end, I just felt chill, which works just as well for me, I suppose.