In Retrospect, I Didn't Have To Use The Pickaxe.

After I came out of my shell, I turned around to face it.
"What do you know?" said I.
"It's made of chocolate."

rats live on no evil star.

tonight, the night before halloween, i went to a party.

like, a party. basically one where everyone stands around drinking and yelling and talking about how drunk they are and how they can't hear each other beacuse they're not yelling loud enough. yeah, one of those. but there were costumes involved this time, too, and mine garnered some attention.

i got a shot of manhattan at midnight from a rooftop in brooklyn tonight.

a drunken oopma loompa told me how he "fucking LOVES true blood, man!!!," while the girl who was with him (his willy wonka) also told me how great my waitress outfit was.

this weekend, the empire state building is orange and white, all night. usually the lights go off at 2 am.

a man dressed as che guevara, who i think thought i was cute because of the way he kept looking at me (though i've lost my ability to discern these sorts of things since last december), wanted to know "HOW BUSINESS WAS GOING AT SAM MERLOTTE'S?"

"great!" i said. "it's going. i'm here to serve drinks."
"YEAH? WHO AM I?"
"che!"
(here, he took of his hat, shaking his head.)
"NO, I'M THAT WEREWOLF."
"oh! alcide!"
"YEAH! ALCIDE!!!"

charming.

lesson one, to that kid from med school who was trying to get his friend to dance near me because he probably wanted to talk to me: just talk.
lesson two, to that friend of mine who regret(s)/(ted) not engaging that boy in conversation: eye contact is key.
lesson three, to that other friend of mine who spent the night chatting up a swede who is only in town for a brief amount of time: if it's supposed to happen, and you want it to, it will work. trust yourself. trust each other. trust each moment you can be in his presence, however few there may be.

as usual, i was the designated sober friend, a role which i actually find enjoyable, sometimes. getting a friend who was consciously drunk off of one can of four loko on the l train to manhattan at 2 o'clock on halloween morning was an experience in itself.

as we were waiting for the light to change so we could cross the street, i saw a man with a bright red wig in a lab coat. he was alone. i read the name written in sharpie on his right side, not even processing it before saying, "beaker!"

he turned and looked at me before he hopped backwards a little, the way beaker would.

i smiled, and waved a little.

my childhood is forever changed.

performing myself

in high school my teacher showed a movie called tough guise. it was about the face males put on, gender expectations, the whatnot.

everyone in the class laughed at the title, the silliness of the pun, and at the lisp of the movie's narrator.

I went to an all-male high school.

I want a boy to sing beyonce's if I were a boy.

today I started to cry at the end of rocky II, when rocky staggers around the ring, grips the microphone, and says he just wants to say one thing to his wife back home.

I'll Be Buried With A Stake Of Holly Through My Heart.

So the next time you ask me, "What's your favorite book, Katie?" do us both a favor and don't let me get away with serving you my go-to routine, you know, the:

"(sharp inhale) Oh, (knowing laugh) there are just so (chin rub) many, I mean, you know, books..."

Because that's just bad vaudeville, and not even the sort of bad vaudeville that's so bad that it's good, just bad, bad, vaudeville, through and through.

And because I can tell you what my favorite book is, even though it's taken me this long to come to terms with the fact that, holy hell, I am capable of making decisions once in a while.

It's A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens.

(I feel so much better now.)

it's getting hard to be someone but it all works out

actually not that big of a beatles fan, but that feels right.

adventures in our time #1

Daddy, When I Grow Up, I Want to be A Martyr

That way, I could die with dignity. Let’s see: I could always willingly accept death, somehow, in my efforts to defend an endangered species, or to advance thinking in the field of Sub-Saharan-African gastronomy, or while filming a documentary about stingrays (RIP, Steve). See, I’m trying to dream up something unique here, something new; I’m trying to really think about this. I mean, I could do the religion thing, but that just seems overdone, overworked, almost cliché. Besides, I would never be able to live up the hype of being a saint.

I could die for my fellow nihilists, but I don’t think they’d really care.

I could die for my longstanding support of homeopathy and herbal remedies, but I rather not have to suffer in the onset of something excruciating.

I could die for “FREEDOMMMMMMMM,” but that’s been done in movies.

I could die for my country, but I don’t think it would really care.

Hey! Wait! I could always die for science! I could donate by body to research, or my organs to people who need them, just like you, dad, just like it says on your driver’s license! But oh, right, I’m not old enough to drive.

There has to be something out there, something special, an opportunity for me to make my mark in the history of martyrdom. Will they write books about me? Erect a statue in my hometown? Interview the wife and two children I’ll leave behind? Maybe my family will be interviewed by all the talk shows; hopefully they’ll make it onto the ten-o-clock news.

I could die of old age, but that’s not really martyrdom, is it? I guess I can settle for being a stockbroker, or an insurance agent, or even a lawyer. Really, what’s the difference?

fear.

"don't get that master's. don't bother. it'll be a waste of your money and time."
"and, with your resume right now, you really won't need it."

(i know i've been whining about how much i want to be self-sufficient, but hearing this completely threw me off.

does this mean i'm ready to be a real person?)







(help.)








(please.)

adventures in times before us #1

a stranger in a stranger land

william powers gives voice:

http://therumpus.net/2010/04/all-we-read-is-freaks/?full=yes

These Are Ordinary Times.

Yesterday, I bought a new candle. It's burning in my kitchen this very minute. I'm worried that I should be watching it. Maybe I should invest in a baby monitor. But that's not important right now (though I imagine that it will quickly become very important when the building burns down and I'm the one to blame). What's important right now is the following conversation. The context is entirely up to you.

"Oh, this is soft. What is it? Cotton?"
"No, it's merino wool."
"Oh, cashmere?"
"No, merino wool."
"It's a nice sweater."
"They're on sale right now. You should get a few."
"I should."
"And this style comes in every color imaginable."
"Really?"
"Charcoal gray, light gray, black..."
"Wow!"

YOU DIDN'T NAME ANY ACTUAL COLORS.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
THOSE ARE SHADES.
A PORTION OF A GRADATION FROM WHITE TO BLACK.
OR POSSIBLY FROM BLACK TO WHITE.
EVERY COLOR IMAGINABLE?
EVERY COLOR IMAGINABLE.
I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T KNOW THAT YOU WERE RAISED BY PANDAS, PENGUINS, AND ZEBRAS; ON THE WORDS OF PRINTED NEWSPAPERS; AT THE BEGINNING OF THE WIZARD OF OZ.
I'M SORRY. I SHOULD BE MORE TOLERANT.

I can appreciate the charcoal grays, the light grays, and the blacks.
They're essential for any respectable closet.
Right now, I should be intoxicated with the scent of my new candle, but I'm wasting its precious wick because you've given me no choice but to write about your affliction.
Saddle up my high horse once more.
It's time to ride into the sunset.
And I won't return until I've shown you what it means to know every color imaginable.

Good Oh-Mans, Or: A Prayer To St. Anthony Of Padua, Patron Saint Of Lost Things.

You should know that I've had this conversation more than once.

"My grandmother interpreted dreams."
"WHOA, that's so -"
"Not for a living."
"Oh."
"She was a seamstress. Dream interpretation was just a hobby."

She did it over breakfast.

***

About my grandmother.
My mom's mother, rather. I've never been able to refer to her as "Grandma," probably because she died before I was born, so we never met. My mom says that we'd have gotten along swimmingly. She says this a lot.
Every time, I ask: "Why?"
And every time, my mom responds: "She hated wearing shoes."

Which isn't to say that I hate wearing shoes, although that, too, is true.
But it's the principle of the thing.

She ensured that my mom had a new, hand-sewn dress for every school dance.
(It would be waiting for her on the mantle [or was it the kitchen table?] the day of.)
She smoked like her life depended on it.
So, as is often the case with the things on which our lives depend, it killed her.
She indulged in sweets, even when (especially when) she became diabetic.
Some might say that she did herself in.
(Maybe that's why we'd have gotten along swimmingly.)
(But here's the difference: she didn't take care of herself, but she, at least, made sure that she enjoyed every minute of it.)

***

The knack for dream interpretation skipped a generation. I enjoy the practice, but my mom abstains from it. I got her a book on the subject. It was a birthday gift. I usually put a lot of thought into gifts. I usually start making them weeks in advance. But this year, for whatever reason, for what-every reason, I had to resort to giving her a last minute find of a petite (like my mother), unassuming (unlike my mother) volume on the significance of various symbols in dreams.

It felt like such a cop-out.
It felt like the way that most people give gifts.
"Here, let me show you how much I pretend to care about you and how well I pretend to know you by exploiting the one tidbit of information about your life that I remember, and we never have to talk about how I don't know anything else about you, okay?"

I was certain that she'd see right through it, that she'd wonder where the handmade flipbook or the sculpture or the short story about her was.
But she didn't.
She loved it.
"You remembered," she said.
Was she tearing up?
Oh my God, she was tearing up.
"Remembered what?" I asked.
But she didn't have to answer. So she didn't.

This isn't the first time that we've talked about my mom's birthday.
But it's different, isn't it?

***

Last night's dream involved an award-winning dissertation (the product of my mind [by that, I mean that I wrote it, but even if I hadn't written it, even if it was, perhaps, published by an arch-nemesis of mine, it would still technically be the product of my mind, right, because it was my dream, right?]) about the romanticization of cannibalism. I don't remember it in much detail, but I remember that it was a bang-up piece of work. I wish that I could recreate it now. But why bother? It's like dreaming that you can fly, and then trying to fly the next day, and then, inevitably, failing. Flying and writing a near-perfect 250-plus page paper are pretty much the same, on the scale of impossibility, even when you've seen that you're capable of such things in dreams.
Especially when you've seen that you're capable of such things in dreams.

Additional, potentially significant dream elements:
- A circus train filled with bales of hay.
- A funeral.
- Mountains made of sugar.

***

My mom lost a bracelet a few days back.
She lost it somewhere in a town that's a handful of towns away from ours.
(From hers? I mean, because, I don't really live there anymore. I don't really live there much anymore, I mean. I don't do much living there anymore, I mean.)
She told me about it, over the phone, as I was reading some Buddhist literature.
As such, all I could hear in her voice was "Attachment! Attachment!"
"I wouldn't mind, but it's [here, she specified which bracelet it was, which isn't all that relevant to you, I suppose. Then again, is any of this relevant to you? Probably not.]"
Call me crazy, mom, but I'm pretty sure that you would have minded anyway, regardless.
"I'm sure you'll find it," I said half-heartedly, distracted by words like bodhicitta and samsara.
"Do you really think so?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. I've looked everywhere."
"Have you looked to nature?" (That was me being an asshole.)
"Very funny, Katie."
"..."
"...am I on speaker phone?"
"..."

A few hours later, my mom called again.
"I found my bracelet!"
"What?"
"I found it!"
"Where was it?" I asked, fully expecting it to have been in her handbag, or her pocket, or the car this whole time.
"It was in a pile of leaves in the town park!"
"...what?"
"Thanks for the inspiration, Katie. Thank you so much."
"You're...welcome."

Look to nature.
Jesus Christ.
I'm a fool.
I'm a scoundrel.
I'm the luckiest person you know.

Amen.

For Your Enjoyment.

And for mine, too.

It's A Straight Line, But Who's Counting?

Point A:

In last night's dream, I was taking a shower with Barack Obama.
This means that I was wet (obviously) and unclothed (obviously) in the presence of the current President of the United States.
He didn't look a whole lot like Barack Obama, but it was him.
He was standing behind me, and he was caressing my back.
Maybe that particular aspect of the dream was triggered by that memory, that memory that made both of us sad ("But I can't be sad, because I'm the one who ended it," you said, right?), that memory of those times when I'd do the dishes and you'd come up behind me and hold me around my waist and kiss my neck.
(For a distraction, you're very attractive.)
And I wish that I'd have responded every time by tossing dish duties to the wind, you know, maybe I'd have spun around and thrown my arms around your neck and thanked you for reminding me that there's more to life than a sink full of dirty plates. But most of the time, if I recall correctly, most of the time, I'd tell you to stop, because I didn't like it when you held my waist, not after we'd eaten dinner and I felt sick (but really, just fat).
In case you were wondering, Barack Obama uses Dove body wash.
That's what I saw, at least.
I think that I was a man. In the dream, I mean.
Does that make Barack Obama gay?
Maybe.
But this morning, the more I considered it ("it" being "being a man"), the more I realized that it was an impossibility.
I can't be a man.

I'm far too used to buttoning my shirts with the buttons on the left.

Point B:

My mom wanted to buy me a pair of pants today.
She became less enthusiastic about it when she saw that I was back down to a zero.
"I'm such a zero," I thought to myself, "in so many ways."
(It's really more like two ways, but I was inclined toward the hyperbolic, at the time.)
She bought me the pants anyway, even though neither of us really wanted it to happen.
They're nice pants.
"Are you making progress, at least?"
I didn't lie when I said yes.
I am making progress.
I never said that I was making it in the right direction.

Did you know that they sell double zeros nowadays?

my watch has stopped and i am a blubbering fool.

the air in grand central station tastes like the air inside a shopping mall. i have never noticed this before. maybe something changes when you're trying not to burst into tears for the 97th time. maybe wherever you go gets that mall-scent.

i almost went home today. i was tempted by the track postings and the tickets i know i have with me to just hop on a train, go home, and say, "hello, family, i really need to be away from everything right now, will you let me sleep in my bed?" instead, i took the 6 back down to my other house, which, for the past few days, finally felt like a home.

that was about 7:45 this evening. 12 hours earlier, i almost hopped a train to montreal. (okay, by "almost" i mean it was there and i wanted to.) i was tempted by the thought of prolonging this — whatever this is (is this how people are supposed to feel all the time? is this what i'm missing out on? or is this just reserved for a special few who understand what it means to walk and breathe and think in sync?) — and forgetting that i have other things i supposedly should be doing.

instead, i stood next to a stainless steel trash can in a corner and wept for ten minutes.

and now i am weeping because i'm sentimental and corny as fuck. i just don't understand why all i have left is a shirt and a heartbeat to remind me of what i don't have. and i don't understand why, for a nineteen-year-old girl who is living so much life every day, the universe has decided that i operate much better when i feel so empty and hopelessly alone.

I'm A Liar By Nature, An Asshole By Trade, And A Professor By Design.

There they were, clad in forest green flannel shirts and black skinny jeans.
They're too _____ to pretend that they dress alike by accident.
Too Young: Not like my parents, who, when standing in the kitchen, found themselves faced with the sudden realization that they were wearing matching outfits.
Too Superficial: Not like you two, who, when standing in a different kitchen, found yourselves doing the same.
("It's only because he picked out my shirt!" A likely story. Embrace your status as soul mates and we'll both forget it ever happened.)

There they were, slim-hipped hipster douchebags, in all of their matchy-matchy finery.
Birds of a highly ironic feather, poring over the extensive condom selection in Duane Reade.
It only took a moment for me to register my disgust.
But it took less than a moment to register my disgust at my disgust.
Why do I care? I thought.
Who am I to be disdainful? I thought.
When did I turn into such an asshole? I thought.
Is it because I, a self-proclaimed NOTAHIPSTER, don't have much reason to find myself in the condom aisle these days (and not just because, A. I have an unopened box in my underwear drawer, and B. When you're a woman sleeping with a woman, you don't need a condom!), and maybe, just maybe, I'm bitter?

And now I remember the instant that I laughed at them.
And it wasn't when I first caught sight of the identical getups.
And it wasn't when they started cooing over the condoms.
It was when they held hands.
And smiled.
And looked genuinely happy.

If you think I'm charming, I guess I've done something right.
(And by "right," I must mean "clever.")
But I don't deserve affection from any of you.
So please, let me tend to my work.
I've got a stable, and it's filled with high horses.
When my shift's over, I'll come back for you, if you'll have me.
But for now, all I really need is a shovel.

daily occurrences.

i became very emotionally attached to a little boy on the subway today. he said he missed his mom once she left to pick something up at her office, and he refused to chew an apple chunk, and giggled when his father tried to make him put the rest of the apple slice in his mouth but then opted to do the same thing as his son. he — the son — also had two transformer toys. and his dad was wearing his dinosaur backpack.

(i heard you ringing, but i didn't answer because i was wet and naked, and for that i apologize.)

Action Figures Of Speech.

"I understand the value of a button-down shirt," I thought, as I checked my reflection in the window of Kmart.

I was sharing the window with another woman.

2010 Holiday Barbie.

According to my research, she's been on sale since June.

My research was the result of my attempt to ensure that "2010 Holiday Barbie" is her correct name.

(It is.)

Her latest review (she has several, already), is titled:

"Never lets you down!"

I should invest in more button-down shirts.

I'll Have The Idiot Savant, Hold The Savant, Please?

What I'm saying: "I don't understand people who use recipes."

What I'm saying: "I'm so fucking great, and those morons who rely on recipes are wasting my precious time and my precious space on this planet. You know how I roll? I just walk into any kitchen like I own the place, put on a blindfold, pick out some ingredients, do some crazy shit, and BANG, amazing meal, done. Don't thank me yet, though. Because whenever I clean the dishes, I inadvertently discover the cure for a major disease. Now, who wants some fucking brilliant carnival squash with a maple-glazed winter grain salad and a side of NO MORE AIDS?!?!"

My ego never shuts up these days.
He's the reason why I don't:
Like recipes.
Check the weather.
Use instruction manuals.

But I've got this picture, you know, this picture in my head, and I think I've been imagining it since I was seven years-old.

(Seven is the age of reason, according to the Catholic Church.)

It's me, and I'm forty-five years-old, and I'm alone, and I'm crouching over a busted Kenmore washing machine, and I'm in tears because I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I've never felt so impotent in my entire life, or maybe just since the last time I tried to fix something, anything, really.

And then I wonder which scenario is worse:
The one in which I'm despairing because I've thrown the instruction manual away.
Or the one in which it's sitting on the counter, but I'm too damn proud to reach for it.

if someone asks this is where i'll be

Which Nobody Can Deny.

"When I die, I want - "
Woah woah woah.
Hold the phone, mom.
Let's talk about the fact that we're celebrating your birthday, and you just said the words "When I die."
She kept talking, of course, because I didn't actually interrupt her.
That being said, I didn't necessarily keep listening, though I did hear something about how she's been thinking, something about wanting to be cremated, something about ashes over the Sound.

Today is her actual birthday. I won't tell you how old she is, because it's not right to reveal your mother's age, not unless you have a death wish.
I don't have a death wish.
And even if I did, it's not my birthday, which means that I'm not the one blowing out the candles, which means that I don't get to make a wish. Not even a death wish.
"I figure I'm entering the final third of my life," my mom said, before she got to that whole "When I die" deal. I wanted to protest, "How do you know you haven't already entered the final third of your life? How do you know that you'll live that long? Or maybe you haven't even reached the halfway point!"
I did protest, a little bit. It was more of a sit-in than a rally.

My dad doesn't drink that often. At least he doesn't do it around me.
But he had something or other. Probably other.
And he's usually pretty talkative, and he usually rubs the bony part of my shoulder, but something about the way he talked and shoulder-rubbed in the midst of this conversation led me to believe that he wasn't entirely himself.

"You know, Katie, over the summer, mom said something to me. And she got very philosophical -

(At this point, my mother raised her eyebrows, as if to say, "It's unusual for me to be philosophical?" To which I my dad and I might say, "Yeah, it is.")

- and do you know what she said? She said, 'David, when I die, I want to be cremated and have my ashes spread over the Sound. And if you live longer than I do -

(At this point, the three of us reached the consensus that this was improbable, but not impossible.)

- then I want you to scatter them. And if you don't outlive me...well...' And then, do you know what I said? I said, 'Stephie, you have two daughters who can do it if I can't.' And do you know what she said to me?"

(At this point, she took over.)

"I said, 'I want Katie to do it.'"

And it felt like the Earth opened up, or like I've been dead for years and just realized it now, or like I was in the middle of a movie (not watching one, in one, the scene being shot as we spoke), or like I was the butt of a practical joke (haha butt!), or like I suddenly understood everything that's ever happened and is happening and will happen.

And it felt fucking weird.

And I was looking straight ahead, partly because I didn't think that any of it was actually real, but mostly because, by this point, both of them were rubbing the bony parts of my shoulders (my dad on the left, my mom on the right) and smiling and saying "You'll do it, won't you, Katie?"

And then my mom started laughing. Hard.

"David, after the week she's had, can you believe we're telling her all of this? What timing! After all that she's been through! And we're talking about death!"

You don't have to know what I've been through this week.
I don't have a problem talking about it. It's just not what I want to talk about right now. Here's what I want to talk about:

I never heard my mom say the words "When I die" until last night.
It's a subject that has always been smothered in euphemism.
The eventual and inevitable death of my parents has little in common with, let's say, my sexual orientation, or, let's say, the fact that my mom is the only remaining Catholic in our family. Unless we're actually discussing any of those things, in which case it is safe to say that those three topics are treated the exact same way, marinated in a saccharine glaze of delicate language for which I've lost a taste over the years. That being said, to hear her actually speak of her own death with such bluntness was refreshing, startling, and terrifying.

"I don't think I've ever heard you say that, at least not in front of me, mom."
"Say what?"
"'When I die.'"
"I probably haven't."
"And maybe it was for my sake, and Jessica's, you know, like you didn't want us to hear about it, right?"
"Well - "
"But it was also for your own sake, right?"

(I was ninety-nine percent sure that I'd only thought that last comment, but, as far as I know, my mom isn't telepathic - yet - so I guess I spoke it aloud.)

"Yes. It was."
"Oh."

I don't think I'll ever know if I need my parents more than they need me or if it's the other way around. I don't think I'm supposed to know, and I don't think it's even possible to know. Our need for people, and our need for them in all of their various capacities, is, like everything else, subject to constant change, permanent impermanence.

"Katie?"
"Yeah, mom?"
"I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know that I don't want to go out of this world as a typical person."
"Why wait until then to be atypical?"
"You're right. Katie?"
"Yeah?"
"I swear, if you don't see to it that [I really don't remember what she said here], I'll come back to haunt you."
"You already haunt me, mom, and you're not even dead yet."

And then my mom started laughing. Hard.

killers

through the crackle and thrum of the baby monitor, my father heard the noise of swarming. a throng of bees had funneled through the ceiling; they stung me in my crib, my brother too. (my mother says she cannot describe how sick she was with terror.) the bees came in through a hole in the ceiling, a ceiling that was otherwise smooth, untarnished and unblemished, painted a shade of white. Above the ceiling was the attic, an unkempt and humid space. it is where our holiday decorations went for storage, where forgotten keepsakes collected dust, where one bare light bulb hung from the rafters, and from that a silver pull cord that directed the filament to either burn incandescent or remain unlit. I do not know how the bees worked their way through the ceiling and into my room; I do knot know if they had been in the attic for any span of time or if their invasion was spontaneous; I do not know why the bees descended at night, a time they reserve for light sleep. but I think this attack is the reason for my fear of any insect with a stinger.

my grandmother is on oxygen. this after a trip to the hospital, another ambulance, a visit from her nurse. when I speak to her on the phone she takes a sharp breath on every eight syllable. her dog, mojo, does not bark.

the day after the bees, my parents called a fumigator to the house. he came by himself in shorts and a shirt. all he had with him was a can of spray, not even a protective mask. that man was a killer, my mother said.

my earliest memory of my grandmother is of her crackly voice.

yes, my father said, he was.

Nothing New Under The Sun.

Last night, it was raining. It's raining now, too, but we're talking about last night, and it was raining then.
I walked in, and I began to cook.
I soaked wild rice for thirty minutes and simmered it for forty-five, I chopped shallots and asparagus and broccolini and miniature heirloom tomatoes* and tofu and prepared a pepper-apricot glaze, I boiled, I roasted, I sautéed, and then, when it was over, when all was said and done but none was eaten, I did the dishes.

And that's when I realized that I was still wearing my raincoat.

When I was in middle school and high school, I'd do the same thing.
Granted, I'd be watching my mom cook rather than doing the cooking myself (I might have cooked, you know, if she had let me, but she didn't, so it's no use thinking about it), but I never, ever took my coat** off.
Until she'd say, "Katie, take your damn coat off."
And even then, I wouldn't.
She'd have to say it a few more times, and we'd have to sit down for dinner, perhaps, before I complied.

I had no reason to keep my coat on. But I didn't have much of a reason to take it off, either. I suppose that's why it stayed on.

Sometimes, and by "sometimes" I mean "since last night," I wonder if it all means something, if I was reluctant to shed my outerwear because I don't like to stay in one place for too long, or because I don't like to be at home, or because I do like to be at home, I just don't feel at home most of the time, or because I don't like to settle, or because I don't like to commit.

Someone once said something about how anthropologists are homeless or something.***
But that's neither here nor there.
(No, really, it's neither here nor there, because you know those homeless anthropologists, they're always moving around, never stopping here nor there.)
(That, friends, is an example of a joke that isn't very funny.)

But then, there's this:
When I was in middle school and high school, and the temperature began to drop, my mom wouldn't let me out of the house if I wasn't wearing a coat.
Sometimes I'd wear it outside and take it off as soon as I was out of her sight.
Sometimes I'd carry it and promise her that I would put it on later.
Sometimes I'd just leave it in the coat closet. (Such brazenness!)
But she wasn't born yesterday, under a rock, with the wool over her eyes.
"Katie, put your damn coat on," she'd say.

When I see her now, which, as of late, has been more often than usual, she still asks me if I have "enough" winter coats.

"Enough? What, like, one?"
And she repeats: "Enough."
Which to me, always sounds like: "Too much."

Man oh man, would you believe that I just thought about making some godawfulreference to monogamy?
And then (it gets better), that I considered bringing this whole discussion full circle by going back to the Resistance To Taking Off One's Coat = Anthropologist Syndrome/A Fear Of Commitment equation?
What do I look like, a professor?

If I clocked you in the head right now and knocked you out, would you mind?
It's nothing personal.
I just want to make you see some stars:

*There was this one miniature heirloom tomato, and, my God, I wish you could have seen it. It was far too large to be miniature, but I didn't want to say anything, you know, to give it a complex. But it was perfect. It was hideous. It was marvelous. It was grotesque. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
**Jacket?
*** Claude Lévi-Strauss (in his book Triste Tropiques) on the anthropologist's predicament: "Never will he feel himself to be 'at home' anywhere. He will always be, psychologically speaking, an amputated man" (Lévi-Strauss, trans. John Russell 58).