Thomas and I sat on the concrete bench outside the Amsterdam Eurolines station unwrapping the foil from the space cakes.
“You have to eat the whole brownie before we get on the bus,” Thomas says. “I’m not transporting drugs across the border.” Continue reading
1. Bridal Consultant–I’ve seen every episode of Say Yes to the Dress…all 182 episodes (sorry, Sherwin, for watching it on your Netflix account and ruining your indie foreign film recommendations). Yeah, I don’t know what’s my problem. I even applied for David’s Bridal, and they called me multiple times for interviews, so that definitely means something. Continue reading
I drive a red 2003 Ford Ranger named Sentry the Defiant, and I love him more than most other things in my life. I think of Sentry not so much as a mere mode of transportation or object I own but as a partner in life–one who helps me accomplish my goals (hauling shit), supports me in stressful situations (driving on ice/snow/other forms of precipitation), and challenges me to be a better person (one who gets oil changes on the regular and whatnot).
Since acquiring Sentry, I have spent a lot of time thinking about people who own trucks, and specifically women who drive them. In terms of defying stereotypical gender roles and solidifying my independence, I would consider owning a truck one of the most “feminist” things I’ve ever done. In those blissful moments cruising the open highway, dreamcatcher hanging from the rearview mirror, I think to myself, “Could I ever love someone as much as I love Sentry? And if I did, how could he ever be as reliable and useful as a truck?” While I do have a (human) boyfriend I care about very much and who is actually a much better conversationalist that Sentry, I would argue that he is the exception, and in most cases, trucks are better than boyfriends. Every girl should have one. Here’s why: Continue reading
That was the summer the NSA thing blew up. It was the first time in a long time that anyone could remember them coming out and saying they were spying on us, rather than doing the polite thing of spying on us discreetly, so we could pretend that they weren’t. Twenty-somethings stuck in Kansas City, far from D.C. or New York or California, or anywhere else things actually happened, slapped stickers on stop signs and telephone poles that read, “Big Brother is Watching You” and, “Everything the State says is a lie, and everything it has it has stolen.”
“Mom, why do her feet look like that?” I ask. We are standing near the end of a long line for the circus at Bartle Hall. I am so young I am not excited for the circus because I don’t yet know what a circus is. I am more interested in the old woman sitting on a bench by the back of the line, wearing a yellow wool coat and a silk scarf wrapped around her hair and tied underneath her chin. I peer around my mom’s legs, staring behind her at the plastic grocery bags covering the woman’s feet, securely knotted at her ankles.
“Well…she’s homeless. The plastic keeps her feet from getting wet in the snow,” my mom answers. Continue reading
“You lived in Denver…and you moved back to Kansas City? Why?” they ask.
I could explain the situation with the job. I could talk about the car, or lack thereof, after the accident. I could say, “It was just time,” or I could go into graphic detail about how life kicked my ass and sent me limping back to my parents’ house with my tail between my legs, so now I sleep on a mattress I threw on top of the hot tub, borrow my brother’s truck to get back and forth to work, and just generally spend my days avoiding anyone I might recognize in Smithville. Which is everyone. Or, you know, I could just lie.
“It’s home,” I shrug. And they get that knowing look because most people understand what it’s like to get sucked back into a place. Continue reading
The title of this post is obviously just a scam to make you confused and read my blog. In the words of Will Ferrell and/or Jay-Z and Kanye, “No one knows what it means, but it’s provocative. It gets the people goin’!” But trust me, it’s not an entirely irrelevant title. Cool, let’s begin. No, I don’t think Jesus was allergic to gluten. If he had pulled out some bread made of almond meal or coconut flour instead of wheat to feed the five thousand, he would have been crucified a lot sooner. Hint: Bread made without grain is not bread. It is the work of the devil. Continue reading