Despite my best efforts, I am usually late. I try really, really hard and bargain with the universe to be on time, and then I am so sorry I’m late. That’s how it came to pass that this morning I was fifteen minutes (but only fifteen!) late to brunch (after pushing back the meeting time twice–how does this happen?), and it is also why I’m only starting to blog about my wedding now, almost 4 months after the event. I think since it has been so long, I should just post pictures from the actual wedding since that’s what people really want to see, but I like being thorough, so let’s begin at the beginning.
Way back in July, my friends surprised me with the most perfect party I could ever have imagined. It was technically my bachelorette party. It was so perfect that there are almost no pictures because everyone was too busy having fun. Here is the little photographic evidence I do have.
There was fun. There was laughter. There was not a group picture. : (
There were homemade streamers and confetti, a big lavender-blackberry cake and tiny thumbcakes, snacks on snacks on snacks, and Drake on the stereo. Then, we went out dancing, and we walked straight into my dream place, which Tasha, Devin, and I had tried to go to for my birthday but weren’t even allowed to stand in line! Then, we ate falafel with a hot sauce so spicy it made me sob. It was hands-down the best falafel I’ve ever had. Then, we had a sleepover and watched an episode of ‘The Newlywed Game’ from 1966 with a surprisingly feminist contestant who seemed to be very happily married! And finally, we went on an epic quest for my favorite New York City brunch that culminated in a free cab ride. The whole time I kept looking around and realizing, ‘My friends really, really know me. They understand me, and they like me!’
I’ve never liked the concept of a bachelor/ette party. You know, “One last hurrah before you lose all your freedoms!” Ew. But a celebration of friendship and being 100% accepted for who you are? That’s a party I’d like to throw for every single one of my friends. Whether or not they get married is irrelevant.
I turned 24 in February, but I have no pictures to prove it and I got writer’s block because I didn’t have anything interesting to say about it. But I can’t not write about my birthday—the only holiday all about my life—on the only blog all about my life. So here we are almost a month later, and uh, I guess I have some thoughts about my age?
The best part was reading and hearing everyone’s birthday wishes to me, which all went kind of like this:
Dear Kristy,
Happy Birthday! I am so proud of you! Look at all the things you have accomplished since last year!
I love you! Your friend/mom/cousin/friend/partner/co-worker/aunt
And they are all 100% correct to point out that I’ve accomplished a lot since my 23rd birthday. Because I was a hot mess last year.
Last year, I had my birthday dinner at Chipotle because I was too overwhelmed by New York to find a restaurant. And I couldn’t even find the Chipotle because I didn’t understand that Broadway and West Broadway are two totally different (stupidly named) streets. After dinner, I dragged Anda to find a dress with me and then cried outside Bloomingdale’s because “all those dresses are so ugly! I can’t even afford them, but I just don’t understand why there are no good dresses anywheeeeeere” (sorry, A).
A few days later I had a nice birthday party thanks to my friends, in our tiny apartment filled with flowers. And a year later, somehow I ended up 24 with a CSA share and a membership to the YMCA. I knew how I wanted to celebrate my birthday and what I wanted to wear, but it didn’t hit me until I was having dinner. I looked around and saw almost all the friends who were at my 23rd party (plus two of my new roommates). And I realized most of them had been at other birthday parties of mine!
Marissa at my 10th birthday sleepover in Texas. Jess at a surprise party for my 18th at Spiral Diner. Anda threw me the best party on the 19 bus for my 19th. Tasha showed up to my 23rd Chipotle birthday meltdown with a pink rhinestone piggy bank, and here she was at my 24th with a stack of party hats and a pink tinsel tiara for me. On and on around the table.
Growing up, I always imagined my ‘adult life’ like this: living in a city, full-time job, regular-status at a coffee shop. But I didn’t know I’d get to keep my friends.
I’ve known most of them since I was 18 or younger. That’s 6 years or more of shared history! In multiple cities. (Woah.)
So, if you’re reading this, whether we were together in real life or through technology/our hearts/whatever, I hope you know that you’re my favorite birthday present. The gift that keeps on giving. The present that always fits just right, etc. etc. I love you!
‘Home’ is the word I most strongly associate with Portland, Oregon. It is far from the only thing I associate ‘home’ with—shopping malls, telenovelas, Christmas, American commercials from the 90s, and Mexican junk food all rank high on the list. But Portland is a special part of that list because it is the only place where I have felt at home from the moment I arrived.
I remember landing in PDX airport in August of 2007 and running to the restroom. When I turned to flush, I saw my first dual-flush handle (it allows the user to control how much water is used to flush, which saves gallons of water.)
It was love at first flush.
Everything I encountered after that was just as perfect: farmers’ markets, efficient public transit, bike lanes, flowers the size of my face, trees the size of my dreams, public parks, and delicious vegan food everywhere…
Because I moved to Portland for college, it became my first home apart from my mother’s. And what a home it was! Fittingly, Portland also has some of the most beautiful houses I’ve ever seen. While I was visiting last month, I tried to capture some of them.
The number-one reason Portland houses are beautiful is, of course, the setting. The above picture is an unedited iPhone photo of a random house I saw on my way to the bus. Look how full of life Portland is! Look how tall that tree is! Look at that tangle of flowers on the mini-porch! There’s probably a more apt term than ‘mini-porch’, but I am not an architect!
Even if you subtracted the setting–as I tried to do for this shot–Portland is full of beautiful Victorian and Craftman-style houses painted in cheery colors. This house with individually-painted shingles in some of my favorite colors used to be my dream house. When I showed Abbita, my grandmother, a picture of it, she noted that it had too few windows for her taste. You can’t tell from this picture, but I agree with Abbita. My dream house should have no fewer than one million windows.
Portland residents also like to add fairytale touches to their already magical real-estate realities. This Craftsman has miniature toy dinosaurs on every rock in its front yard! I’ve also seen tiny toy horses tied to horse rings in sidewalks. (Horse rings are what people in the 1800s used to ‘park’ their horses. Read more about Portland’s toy horse project here.)
But what’s a home without an interior? This picture of my friend Alex’s house shows two things characteristic of Portland homes: (1) amazing old wood details and (2) color. Sadly, the photo doesn’t do justice to the deep orange of this dining room’s wall. Another thing I love about this picture is the cross. Alex was my roommate freshman year, and this cross is the first thing we bought to decorate our room. We bought it at a store selling fair-trade artisanal goods from Latin America. From what I remember, it’s either from Ecuador or Honduras, but uh, don’t quote me on that. Living with Alex is one of the best living arrangements I’ve ever had—and that’s even considering the size of our room. It was so small that the next year it was turned into a single-occupancy dorm. Alex, if you’re reading this, I love you! Thanks for letting me crash in your perfect house.
When I walked into Jo’s house (a house I’d been dying to see ever since I saw this house tour on her blog), the first thing I saw was this yellow tea kettle sitting on the most darling gas stove I ever did see. I was breathless over the color coordination among the kettle, wall décor, and dishtowel. If I had a Pinterest, I would pin this soooo hard. Let’s focus on what’s important here, though: tea kettles. Every Portland house has one! A lot of them have a stovetop one and an electric one. I didn’t even know what an electric kettle was until I moved there, and I’d only really had two kinds of tea in my life: chamomile and peppermint. Then, I started drinking tea to stay warm, and pretty soon I was drinking it just to drink it. Once, when I was feeling very romantic and Devin was writing his thesis, I bought him flowers and fancy tea. Only the tea tasted like perfume, so I ended up using the tea bags as potpurri for my drawers. All my socks and t-shirts smelled really good for a few months. After I took the above picture, I discussed kombucha with Jo and her housemate Aria. It boggles my mind that a lot of North Americans reading this probably don’t know what kombucha is. If you have never heard of it, here is all you need to know: it originated in China, it’s fizzy, some people think it cures every disease ever, everyone in Portland has an opinion about it, and once Lindsay Lohan claimed it made her drunk.
Jo, Aria, & Chris also have the neatest book & zine corner. This picture is a testament to their design genius, in case you weren’t convinced by the kitchen shot. I know not everyone knows what a zine is, so I found this webpage from Brooklyn College that explains the concept. Basically, it’s cool writing made and self-published by cool people. Most zines are made using paper, scissors, and photocopiers though that has changed a lot thanks to things like computers and Photoshop. When Devin asked me to be his girlfriend significant other—he asked me to be his girlfriend, but I prefer the term ‘s.o.’ ‘Girlfriend’ is just too antiquated/normatively gendered for me. So is ‘fiancée’, but I haven’t found any accurate equivalent for that so most of the time I say ‘partner’, which doesn’t really capture it…ack sorry, what was I saying? Oh yeah, Devin photocopied every feminist zine he could find at the Portland Independent Publishing Resource Center, put them in a binder, wrapped the binder in newspaper from the New York Times Style section, and asked me to be his ___________. The rest is history! (Can you tell I miss Devin? Me too.)
Jo’s living room is one of the prettiest I have ever seen (I got to sleep on that couch, you guys!), but it also reminds me of every Portland living room I’ve ever been in. The vintage couch by a window, the glass jars and bottles on a coffee table, the laptop… The whole scene gives me goosebumps, in a good way.
P.S. Every time I rave about Portland, I feel a strong moral conviction to acknowledge the huge problem of racial segregation in that city. Portland’s racial inequality is increasing. Seattle—the other metropolis in the Pacific Northwest—is decreasing racial inequality thanks to bold, innovative policies. This episode of Think Out Loud, a radio show from Portland, is a solid introduction to the problem.
P.P.S. If you enjoyed the pictures of Jo’s house, check out her blog. It is my favorite blog in the whole of the worldwide web. Her latest post, especially, inspired and moved me. I cried the best kind of tears.
This year I spent my birthday feeling a little out of sorts. All of my very best friends in New York gave me lovely presents and surprises, but for most of the day I was alone in this big city I am trying to call home.
I felt like I should feel lucky to have the day off on my birthday—a Tuesday, no less—and I should be happy exploring New York by myself, because I have always dreamed of living here and now I do. But the truth is, I felt lonely and overwhelmed despite my best efforts to feel otherwise.
This led to me getting upset with myself for not being happier, more thankful, more well-adjusted. It went like this: first, I got upset at myself for not feeling like a New Yorker and for wondering if I’m not cut out for this place after all. Then, I got upset at myself because isn’t living in New York and hating it the biggest cliché of all?
This emotional catch-22 lasted until I talked to a girl on her way to get a tattoo symbolic of her hometown. She told me she was moving back home after living here for a year and wanted to get something to remind her that she’d come to New York for a reason. ‘It wasn’t to live here; it was to realize how much I love home.’
Just writing that puts me at ease. When I mulled it over, I realized the reason I came to New York was to grow. I may not have a favorite restaurant or a dream job, but I am certainly learning something and striving to be a better person every day. And this is exactly what I want my life to be about.
When I think about my twenty-third birthday, I hope I’ll remember this lesson…and one of my favorite birthday parties ever. (It happened the Friday after my birthday, which was a MUCH happier day.)
Do you want to see pictures?
Anda and Tasha helped me put up these streamers.Most of the food and flowers came from the Union Square farmers’ market! All the drinks were sparkly.This is my soul in cake form.Everyone ate and talked and had fun (I hope). Some people made hats and drawings. I got to see friends I hadn’t seen in ages!There was the traditional singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ followed by the traditional blowing out of candles.I finally found a birthday dress the day before my party! I’ve written before about my clothing politics and am proud to report this is a vintage find. That belt, also vintage, is one of my first attempts at accessorizing. Do you want to know what the buckle is?A horse!
Thanks to Jess and Tasha for the majority of these pictures. Thanks to all my friends and family for a terrific birthday, overall.
On Valentine’s Day, I got to be an extra in an ad. The ad was for whiskey, but we were actually sipping on a mixture of apple juice and coffee. (Delicious and avant-garde! Sure to be a hit at your next brunch!)
I arrived at the photo shoot and immediately liked two of my fellow extras. They were funny and gregarious! They were not too cool to talk to me! Throughout the shoot, I lamented my lack of friend-making savvy. If only I were more like my mother blah blah, etc.
Thankfully, one of the extras suggested we go to my favorite coffee shop after the shoot. When we got there, the barista took one look at me and, before I could say “soy latté,” he asked me if I was Kristy. I am Kristy, but I had no clue who he was. “It’s been a while…” he trailed off, leaving me with no choice but to stammer, “Yeah—um—who—I don’t recognize…”
“I’m [generic boy name with interesting spelling].”
Cue the memory montage of meeting [generic boy name with interesting spelling] at a Cat Power show, being serenaded on the guitar to Elliott Smith and Bob Dylan, hearing about his passion for latté art and his dream of working at a snobby coffee shop (mission accomplished). It all ended with him reading me a farewell letter from his Moleskin notebook at a bus stop, asking to kiss me, & yelling, “Miss you already!” as I boarded the bus.
I should clarify that this epic saga lasted all of two and a half weeks during which we saw
each other three times. But! If I leave out that part (and the minor detail that we just weren’t that into each other), I think I have the perfect indie love story on my hands.
I mean, what are the chances of running into each other four years later on the opposite coast of the country? And did I mention that he made a perfect latté art heart on my drink?! (Everyone else got platonic palm fronds.) Tweak the ending to happily ever after, add “handwritten” titles & credits along with a sweet indie pop soundtrack. Ta-dah, love story of our times.
Please advise me on how to sell a movie idea to a major studio. Aesthetically, it should be a mix between The Science of Sleep and 500 Days of Summer. I’d like Emily Haines to do the soundtrack. I’d also like it to be teeming with product placement and for much money to be given to me. Please and thank you.
Back to the pretentious coffee house of my dreams, I sat there dumbfounded and tried to look normal while getting to know my new friends. A few minutes later my phone buzzed thanks to my cousin Vanessa, who asked if I wanted tickets to the Harlem Globetrotters. This turned out to be the perfect way to cement a friendship as my new friends were totally down to see the globe’s best b-ball team!
So, let’s recap: on Valentine’s Day I learned that it’s easy to make friends. All it takes is getting a job as an extra in an ad, going to your favorite coffee shop with other extras, having a weird experience, and getting free tickets to a comedic basketball game just in time to invite your potential friends. Um yeah, I’m still mystified. Please advise me on how to make friends.
Also, does anyone have coffee shop recommendations in Williamsburg? I have to find a new favorite.
2 weeks ago, I met Devin’s
15 year-old cousin. She is approximately
4.2 times cooler than I could ever hope to be, and her bedroom is
500% more magnificent than the average outstandingly magnificent room.
The only rooms I have met on that level have all been yours, and though I know you don’t need interior decorating tips, I took pictures of her ‘fairy lights’ for you.
These are they.A wider view (check that papier-mâché sun in the background!)She even had them in your favorite color (or is blue only your favorite color for pen ink? I forget).
TUTORIAL:
1. Make origami boxes to fit over twinkle lightbulbs.
2. Put them over your existing twinkle lights.
3. Hang them up and feel proud.
4. Take pictures and send them to me.
Love you more than words,
kristy
P.S. I drew this picture of us today.
We'd make cute cephalopods.
P.P.S. I unwittingly drew it on a personality analysis webpage.
Your personality analysis based on this drawing: You think you are very intelligent. You are a needy person.
Readers, there you have it. An unbiased analysis. Get yours here. Also, ‘fairy lights’ is proper British nomenclature.