Comedian Drew Hastings moved from L.A. to Ohio to become a farmer and is making a documentary about his experiences. It’d almost be offensive if it wasn’t so funny:
Raising those calves cost him $3000.
Once, while my dad and I were taking care of a dead calf, I asked him why he chooses to farm when it takes so much effort for so little payoff, and he said, “Well, because I like it.” Oh, farmers.
1) My stepsister, Jenny, spoke up during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and said, “Katie, I want your name in the Christmas gift exchange this year!” I was surprised, because I only see Jenny 8 or 9 times during the year and wondered how she possibly not only knew what to get me but was also excited about it. And then she reminded me of the Christmas list I posted right before I came home and thought she could handle my extensive wants.
2) My best friend, Tracey’s, new temporary-until-someone-hires-her-to-use-her-Master’s-degree job is at this frou-frou scrapbooking store with a workroom for customers. I thought her having to work instead of sitting at home with me all day was going to impede our usual fun-making, but it turns out I’m really good at getting stuff done on my four-years-with-Kamran scrapbook when she just pops in every now and then to say hello instead of entertaining me nonstop with cats and children’s movies in her home scrapbooking room.
3) And her working at the store and my being there for hours at a time with her totally put us in the mood to look at our old scrapbooks, one of which is The Kissing Book, which chronicles all of the toads we had to tongue until we met our current princes. We went through each page, told stories about each boy, and were kind of grossed out to find our little black hearts filled with love when we got to her husband’s page and then Kamran’s. It turns out we actually sort of like the boys we’re with.
4) Tracey and I went to visit our other best friend from high school, Katie, whose baby is one of the happiest I’ve ever met. Katie really knows how to grow some of the cutest kids around, but apparently at least one of them is a vampire:
5) Noel Cordle met Tracey and me for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory, which she had unbelievably never been to before. We had a really great time talking about in-laws, polygamy, and the things you can’t say on your blog, but I got kind of concerned at the end that Tracey and I were talking way too much about ourselves. I’m pretty sure every sentence started with “when we were in high school” and ended with “and that’s why my mom thought we were lesbians”. Sorry, Noel!
6) It was my family’s week to light the Advent candles at church that Sunday, so I read some Bible verses to the church and then spent the next 20 minutes fighting back tears as we sang praise songs. I have no idea why church music makes my cry–sentimental childhood feelings or horrible guilt?
7) My cousin, Ethan, and his wife, Katherine, threw a party for me and told me to invite anyone I wanted. I guess they thought I’d make it some swingin’ bash, but I just invited Ethan’s parents, his sister, and their family friend who became one of my good friends when we all roomed together in college. Oops. It was a great excuse, though, for us to sit around and talk about that year on Worthington Street when my car got spraypainted and I didn’t thank Ethan for cleaning it off for me, when a bird flew in through the chimney in his room and he broke his TV in trying to get it out, when someone lit the dumpster outside our house on fire and we made friends with the neighbors while waiting for the firetrucks, and when Ethan’s sister threw out his bag of ice because it was taking up too much of the freezer and he had to walk down the scary alley to the Taco Bell in the middle of the night for a refreshing drink. I swear we didn’t live in the ghetto. But close.
I don’t know if it’s my dark, curly hair or the many Michael Chabon books I’ve read, but despite my feelings about the U.S.’s totally wack Israeli foreign policy, I sometimes feel a weird kinship to the Jews.
Which is why, last night, when I heard a Hispanic dude on the corner of 42nd and Lexington saying, “She kept trying to jew me into coming to that party!”, I wanted to turn and say, “Listen, you spic, my people have been enduring stereotyping and ridicule from a-holes like you for thousands of years now, and it ends right here, right now.”
But then I remembered that I’m a regular, old white girl from Ohio. Minorities get to have all the fun.
My new roommate, Jack, has officially owned his condo for three weeks now, and neither of us is living there yet. My excuse is that I don’t want to start staying there until Jack does, and Jack’s excuse is that he doesn’t want to start staying there until all of my crap is out of his living room and put away.
The problem is that I went from a larger bedroom with a massive closet and two kitchen closets that I entirely claimed as my own–one of which was slightly larger than an entire studio apartment–to a smaller bedroom with a smaller closet, a shared closet just inside the front door, and a linen closet that’s technically in Jack’s bedroom but he’s being kind enough to share.
If Jack and I were renting the place as equals, I would absolutely kick him out of both closets, fill them with all of my tchotchkes, and take over the bigger bedroom while I was at it. But since he owns the place and I’m just his tenant, I feel like I have to defer to him when he says I have to keep my Avenging Unicorn Playset from Kamran and The Birds Barbie from Tracey out of plain view.
See, Jack’s apartment is very modern, and he’s keeping the decor chic and sleek. When he asked me, for instance, if I had any magnets for the refrigerator, I took it as an invitation to gleefully slap my 6″ Dick and Jane likenesses and the homemade Tracey and Katie photomagnets Tracey gave me when I moved into my last apartment four years ago all over his new appliances. But it turns out he was just asking in order to prepare himself for what I might try to fight for. Luckily, only the sides of the brushed metal refrigerator are magnetic, so he can hide most of my transgressions while making me feel as if I’m leaving my imprint on the place.
To be fair, he did allow me to put my bookcase in the living room and has so far not said a word about the things I’ve put on it. I’m not sure he’s seen my jar of plastic pickles or my Penis Pokey book, though.
I love the 34th Street subway station at Herald Square. The street above is tourist shopping heaven–every awful American retail chain, plus the Manhattan Mall, and Macy’s, which claims to be the largest store in the world–with all of the annoying crowdedness of Times Square but none of the pretty lights to distract from the family in front of me walking 8-wide across the sidewalk and stopping every five feet to decide which Jonas Brothers photo they want to buy from the street vendors.
But in the station itself, when you’re waiting for the N/Q/R train, you can peer down the platform and see into the tunnel for what must be blocks. All of the different lights, the spot where the express and local tracks come together, the way the train comes around the bend seeming so small and slow but roars past you seconds later–I still get a thrill out of that after seeing it for more than five years.
The only thing that could possibly make it more exciting for me? The dead rat I saw on the tracks yesterday.
It’s getting pretty hard to be seen in public photographing dead animals, half-eaten food, and what is probably urine. But I do it all for you, dear reader.
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