beca

[beca]

Babe soup

It was a women-only thing. A man got in only if they came accompanied by women, if I remember correctly, and even still, those women needed to know someone who knew the gate code to slip into the silver-laden backyard. Gurgling over to the left was the star of the show: a large wooden tub gurgling with hot, fresh water hotter than your average Jacuzzi. It was like sitting in a babe stew, each glistening, naked, and always young feminine frame melting, like dissolving bouillons. Protocols demanded a simple rinse-off before wading in, so I guess you could lap up the broth if you wanted to. 

I wondered then—in 2012, the period in which I visited Essex—if maybe the person paying the mortgage for the home attached to the yard ever did drink from the pool.

Ten years later I felt pretty positive he must have. 

Leaning over a chilled bottle of pinot grigio with a younger friend, she detailed a recent trip to the Bay. Chelsea flew cross-country partially to skip around San Francisco, partially to bang it out with a hot mom she met via coincidence while visiting family in Florida. Waxing poetic on Muir Forest, the beautiful co-op where the hot mom lived, and a night marinating nude in a stranger’s backyard bath tub in Berkeley. When I soaked a decade prior, my friend Malaika, who sherpa’d us effortlessly past the heavy gate, called the place Essex. Chelsea called it Goddess Bath but I knew it had to be the same place. Sure, the Bay is notorious for being “weird,” but how many people welcomed unfamiliar guests to bathe naked on their property? Especially when it wasn’t like the dude who lived in the attached house exactly mingled with his mostly-young, almost-always naked, largely-female non-paying patrons.

My maiden voyage felt dangerous and poetic. Malaika rolled a spliff with Bugle tobacco, mids weed, crushed up white sage, and navigated us over in her van. We had peeled off from the compound where I was staying at the time, a zero-waste commune outfitted with renovated school buses stuffed with bunk beds. There, I became accustomed to peeing in a compost toilet, performing whatever duties my name landed on the chore wheel, and tolerating sharing those chores with a temperamental woman who often flaked on responsibilities and blamed it on being an Aries.

It was nice to get away. Even scorching all my delicate bits in the steaming Essex people soup felt like a luxury—otherwise I got about 30 seconds of warm water in the eco-friendly shower back on the compound (or had to flirt my way into the modern bathroom of the poolhouse someone else in the program was house-sitting. It was actually incredibly kind he let me and my friend Nasimeh do laundry there as much as he did, and I feel a little bad for exploiting his obvious affections for us for our own personal water gain). 

I was the solitary East Coast prude who opted for a bikini bottom while boarding the broth—a gesture vaguely made out of respect for my then-boyfriend who was busy fucking rising VICE columnist stars and snorting cocaine off shattered toilet seats back home in Brooklyn. Since we had brought a dude. His name was—I shit you not—Cello Joe. Tall, lanky, permanent smoldering scowl fixed to his face. When he wasn’t farming with us, he traversed the country on his bicycle, cello strapped to his back, sometimes pinpointing various festivals to perform at or simply take drugs at. After huffing patchouli and showing young inner-city school kids how to grow and maintain fruit trees for a solid month or so, I felt my “tour goggles” settle firmly. I craved Cello Joe’s validating chuckle when I cracked a sarcastic joke, wanted him to let me rinse off his mess kit after another oatmeal breakfast, hoped he cast his brooding dark eyes in my direction.

But that first night at Essex, Cello Joe’s eyes were mostly closed. I feigned respect for my friends’ privacy and my flailing relationship drowning 3000 miles away, sending my gaze upwards. Later, Malaika was delighted to share with me that she didn’t bother feigning, so she could confirm Cello Joe wasn’t only packing a huge woodwind instrument.

I’m surprised hot, hot water doesn’t kill people more often. Though I did hear about that one older gentleman who another patron found dead in the bottom of Spa Castle’s rooftop hot tub in Queens. I kinda get it, honestly. The warm and waviness lulls you into a stupor. It can’t be that unlike pre-life in the womb, sloshing around peacefully, cocooned in warmth and the illusion of safety. 

One time years later after drinking too much at a daytime music festival in East Atlanta Village, I fell asleep on top of my then-boyfriend in the bathtub. He fell asleep, too, exhausted from drumming then shoulder-rubbing for hours in the hot summer sun. Luckily he woke us both up before we slipped under the surface.

Maybe that’s part of why the mysterious tub-owner keeps Essex so fucking hot. It’s so fucking hot, even, I don’t think it would be possible to stay in there sober more than a couple minutes at a time (and luckily I always was at least mostly-sober in there). I took breaks to bathe in the moonlight, watching the steam lazily raise from my limbs I tangled into a pretzel on a swing in the garden. Some naked women I didn’t know did similar, perching on chunks of wooden deck, petting a cat, I saw a few bust out complicated yoga poses.

I sat under the tree canopy, bright swaths of starry night peeking out, the moon so round and full that once your eyes adjusted, you could maybe forget it was the middle of the night. Passing a herbaceous spliff with Mila, we talked about dreams. She wanted to do comedy—Mila didn’t need prestigious success to be satisfied, she just wanted to pick up less shifts in Humboldt during harvest season. At the time, weed still was available only via prescription in the state of California, and a lot of illegal family farms operated under the radar. Every fall, Mila stripped down to her underwear to trim up buds to sell. The money was good, but the threat of the feds busting up the entire operation always loomed. And then, of course, there were still “legit” lurkers, overjoyed to have any sort of power over the barely-clothed young women largely taking on the trimming work. Mila didn’t do much to sell the experience as a romantic one—she actively wanted out—but we made loose plans for me to join the following September—she had an old barn with a couch, she said. I wondered if I could pitch covering the experience to VICE, for whom I had only started contributing. Mila longed for uproarious laughter as she stood proud and tall on-stage, I just wanted a couple sexy bylines and the esteem I deluded myself into thinking that came with it.

We visited Essex a couple more times before I flew home. We were almost never the only bathers present and after that first trip, I never wore any kind of clothing—bathing suit or otherwise—when we brined in the barrel. Even the rare occasion when we appeared to be alone, it never quite felt that way. Like those glowing eyes I remember from The Great Gatsby watched over, memorizing the ripples left in our wakes while rising from the steaming tub, how the silver moonlight cradled a boob, almost certainly taking in the bizarre, naked yoga poses.

I changed some names, but not Cello Joe. Because I think he would be proud, TBH.

[beca]

CAT POWER: Still In Love

Walked outside this morning around 6 in bike shorts and a T and felt A CHILL. I will take it.

[beca]

I know I’m not allowed to say this, but I am so fucking sick of weddings. Now understanding that nature gifted me with a wrecking-intense case of social anxiety, after these highly social gatherings worsened by forced interactions fraught with various histories, an open bar, emotions cranked to 11, I feel so depleted. Like, lower than low. And in addition to the actual ceremonies, there’s countless awkward parties and bachelorette sojourns. I truly am thankful so many people I love love back enough they want me involved, but I feel like I need to nap for about three months at this point.

Lately, I feel so numb. Things that used to make me happy or excited barely inspire even a slight reaction. All I want to do is eat and drink and never leave my bed. I have the new, larger pants to prove it, too. Most of all, I want to sleep; to shut down. 

The medication I’ve been on, in addition to talk therapy and a bevy of additional holistic measures, has been helping but it’s almost like I’m backed into a corner. I am exhausted constantly and interactions outside a group of, say, 10 select people or so, demand more energy than I have readily available. I’m letting dishes and cat hair tumbleweeds and unread emails pile up. Deadlines come and go, along with canceled lunch plans. I don’t want to be a flake but it’s almost like I’m on some sort of disaster autopilot and I can’t figure out how to switch back to manual.

Worse, then guilt bogs me down about feeling blue. The frontal, advanced part of my brain recognizes all the reasons to be happy: good physical health, successful career doing a thing that historically brings me much joy, an unbeatable group of friends, a constantly expanding and awesome family, a partner I absolutely don’t deserve, cats who emanate love like static electricity, a cool-ass house I get to paint in all pastels. On paper, it’s all there. In my Medulla Oblongata, it’s like a long-forgotten La Croix: just... flat.

I’m trying to at least be open about my depression with others but there’s only so much room for that. Still, I have to work. Still, I have to smile in wedding photos. Still, I have to wash the damned dishes. I don’t want to make my people worry or anything. I guess all I want is a little patience��both for and from me.

[beca]

My aesthetic. 

Daily Independent Journal, San Rafael, California, September 8, 1955

[beca]

October tore onto the scene like a swell of foamy surf thudding through glass. I was in a low- to mid-grade hotel bed when the month officially turned, less than a yard from an old friend in a matching bed. The room’s plushness surprised me. I had a ceiling of about $150 for the last-minute detour, something I thought of as my Amtrak paused in D.C. en route to New York. About five texts and 20 minutes later, Rachael and I made plans in a few days for an overnight in the small college town, the same one recently ruptured with tragedy. And it was ruptured again after we parted the following afternoon. 

But as we lay in our respective beds, soft from the edibles she bought on H Street, temperatures dropped outside. We didn’t know, but the large sliding glass door frosted behind blackout curtains. Inside, we sipped from small plastic cups. I felt triumphant after, together, we forced the CostCo wine open with a pocket knife, its cork bobbing defeated just below the neck. Sure, it meant we had to dodge cork bits while sipping which also meant Rachael abandoned hers after a courtesy cheers and I had two more. 

New York was good, too—albeit an absolute whirlwind. Sweat pooled beneath a mock turtleneck dress as I bounced from the Condé Nast building to VOX to a park bench and back towards the World Trade memorials. It wasn’t late September, or at least it didn’t feel like it. After more than a dozen meetings and almost as many tequilas, french fry baskets, embraces with pixelated profiles turned flesh, I was sweating again at Penn Station, hoping to sleep away anyone interested in Rachael’s seat before Union Station.

This trip wasn’t well planned. I mean, it was a success in that I got to pull off a lot of professional meetings, see people I love, and still get work done along the way. It wasn’t well planned in that I hadn’t realized the drive from Atlanta to my sister’s in Harrisonburg would total almost nine hours, even if that only meant about $40 of gas. That the train to New York would take about seven and $140 each way. Luckily, I only experienced bouts of doubt and regret. Anxiety. I worried some about money and Amtrak’s spotty Wi-Fi, but not in the moment over wine I couldn’t pronounce with editors I deeply admire. Mostly, I felt malleable and at peace. I think I realized on this trip, finally, how much I like being alone. How replenishing that time can be, acting like armor for other scary times I had to face.

About a month ago, over pizza, I told Caroline, “My therapist says I have social anxiety.” She leaned closer. “I thought you knew,” she said, noting a specific instance very early into our three-year friendship. I might have written about this experience on Tumblr before, but I think about it a lot. How out-of-touch we can be with the iteration of self we show others. With access to such exact tools to carve a brand, delicate brushes to coax pixels, and so on—it all helps stack a parfait of a person, the one you see on a barstool. But still. We will always have blind spots.

This trip, besides being textbook productive (I made deadlines but also booked a lot of murder podcast hours), acted like a flashlight on some of my endless remaining blind spots. Hunched over instant coffee in Alanna’s spare room, an espresso or porter in Katt’s window closet, head resting on thick plastic as state lines rushed past, settled in the plush of my third-hand car’s driver seat, zooming to Harrisonburg then Atlanta and into October. Despite news of the tragedy in Las Vegas and Tom Petty’s passing just as I siphoned into the congestion encompassing my new hometown, I felt capable. And, weirdly, much more whole.

Yet, halfway through this post, I tried the door to my bedroom and instead got a handful of crystal knob. Rick groggily let me in. So. Maybe developing a barebones, general handiness is the next blind spot to tackle.

[beca]

IDK, either.

[beca]

Days 13 and 14

Okay, let’s try this post again—now that power seems to be slightly more reliable and I have the best boyfriend on the planet who’s letting me drain his data plan by using his hot spot till Comcast gets its shit together.

Day 13 was unremarkable; I did my NYLON shift and picked up around the house a little. Met Natasha for an early birthday dinner at Bon Ton. I beat her, sidling up at the bar psyched for a Topo Chico. Not enough restaurants offer non-booze bottles, IMO; sadly, they were out so I drained a pint of seltzer before she arrived. I love that Natasha and I can not talk for months then meet and jump right back into it. We talked about work, planning her wedding, travel, sex, me getting on medication, her getting off medication, how excited we both are for her bachelorette trip to New Orleans in November, pettiness in friendships, nuanced dynamics, our respective and complicated relationships with alcohol, pets, the future, money. There isn’t really any off-limits topics, an aspect of our friendship I’m super thankful for.

We parted and she headed for a murder clown movie screening; I made a pit stop at a gas station for cigarettes and coconut water before home. It’s been about five years since I bought a pack and almost 10 since I smoked regularly. I stood for too long surveying my options when the cashier barked. I fumbled, selecting the kind I remember smoking with Kim in the mornings with coffee on the beach when we were still incredibly young: blue pack Camels. I chose a baby blue lighter to match.

Resting on the porch swing alone in the blue early evening light, I took in the smoke and the cool air. It reminded me of the forced solidarity of smoking, something I missed most when I quit. Smoking cigarettes necessitates a break, stepping outside and having a few quiet moments alone or with a small group of marginalized people. In college, I took a survey to score $40. I was a self-identified smoker at the time and the study focused on nicotine use. “Are you aware smokers are regarded as unfriendly and undesirable to approach?” the researcher asked. I had the opposite experience. While blindly navigating the honors dorms freshman year, I finally found a warm welcome at the smokers’ tables—just slightly removed from the bike racks and other racket. We were grumpy, sure, but we found a small home with each other. I don’t intend to pick up smoking again. As of now, I average about seven cigarettes a year—an infrequent vice I enjoy very much. In the absence of alcohol, I enjoyed several more than normal.

Day 14 was similarly unspectacular. Did NYLON and finally baked some pot cookies for a forthcoming story. Winds were already picking up as the Irma aftermath approached the city. Ryan was a peach and grabbed me the last oil lantern ACE had in stock (in a cruel ironic twist of fate, he and Sarah lost power for about 24 hours, as ours only flickered for three). I doled out the pot cookies around the neighborhood for some good karma and also because I could never need 30ish pot cookies. I snacked on raw dough while baking and treated myself to two that fell apart pre-delivery spree. I was adequately high from about 6 p.m. on.

After dinner, Rick asked when I finished my last drink at Marlon and Andi’s elopement party two weeks before. I remember being wiped out from Kim’s wedding and traveling back from Rhode Island, guessing I finished my second and last tequila shot around 11 p.m. before switching to La Croix. He suggested stirring up two Old Fashioneds to officially break our alcohol fast at 11 p.m. I fell asleep in front of a dumb comedy, waking 10 before 11. I nudged Rick. “How ‘bout those Old Fashioneds?” I was honestly asking more for him than me. “But... we’re so close,” he offered. I wasn’t sad to wait a little longer.

Monday, the power dropped around 11 a.m. Rick and I celebrated by pummeling through data and scrolling Instagram in the dark. Luckily I’d charged the BlueTooth speaker so we could stream downloaded tropicalia and torment the cats. At noon, I skipped to the fridge, shoving two Tropicalias (the beer. The music was just a coincidence) into two koozies. Rick looked so happy taking a sip. Mine tasted bitter but good. I took it slow and nursed the can for about an hour.

Over the course of the day, I spaced out a good number of drinks, never encroaching on drunkenness. I felt fine turning in around 10, till stabbing pains in my lower stomach stirred me an hour later. I spent forever logrolling around our small bed. Sitting in the bathroom, mouth-breathing, my vision started to blur and darken. I shouted for Rick, who sat with me while I was all varieties of sick for two hours. We used two thermometers to learn I was at 95.9, lower than I ever remember. I finally went back to sleep, returning to a number of truly bizarre dreams. In the morning we still weren’t sure what went wrong, but I knew it certainly wouldn’t hurt to start instating my weekly booze limits ASAP.

Yesterday Mina came over to abuse Rick’s hot spot and we got so much shit done. Rick and I did our BeltLine loop again before I whipped up browned butter noodles and garlicky kale for dinner. As we wound down, I sipped a short Old Fashioned and felt blasé. It tasted great and I always like the way bourbon melts my calcified shoulder muscles, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could take or leave it.

[beca]

I was wrapping a huge, long post about Days 13 and 14 when the power shut down. It was out for about two hours. I’ll... try again later with that. Till then, I’m enjoying some escape from screen time with my sons.

[beca]

Will always have a special place in my heart for this one.

[beca]

Day 12

Booooom, baby. Almost done.

Yesterday morning I worked a little then Rick and I power-walked a mile loop on the almost-done Westside BeltLine trail. It’s coming along nicely and I’m pretty amped for it to officially open—mostly because I feel like a dick driving less than a mile to ‘hood pals’ places at night. Would be dope to bike beneath lit street lamps, etc. After, we snuck in a quick shower and I did minimal work till heading to therapy where I felt like a smug superstar. I got report that not only was I succeeding with the scary, hard thing (booze ban), but I finally found a cool (so far) roommate (another huge stressor: making mortgage solo monthly; especially when one of my largest time-suck employers owed me almost $3000 for about three months. Lucky that’s changed, too) and our latest fundraiser was a wild success (I keep thinking about bringing Amy Dope Girls merch but it never feels quite right).

I love when Atlanta starts flirting with fall. It’s pleasant to open windows and burn white sage throughout the house. My cats are ecstatic to set up camp by the storm doors. The crisp air and rumblings of back-to-school vibes have always signaled new beginnings for me: an opportunity to let go of some bullshit and feel energized to tackle an updated to-do list. However, my inner core vacillates between hyper ambition and front porch lethargy. Surely there’s a balance, but I haven’t quite found it yet. My brain still feels slightly chaotic, a constant static of shifting priorities and concern. I’m certain that may be a constant; something to work to accept and learn to better manage.

I have two floating assignments I cannot get started. They started with one of my favorite editors who was let go right after I returned to freelance full-time and the new editor wants me to completely rewrite each—for $200 a pop. It shakes out to a very shitty hourly rate but I feel obligated to oblige. There’s a couple other lingering pieces sans concrete deadlines. I need to force myself to drink from the metaphorical icy cafeteria milk carton and crank—to leverage from my current clarity, unclouded by pressures to drink or an existing hangover.

But there’s the impending storm, too, shooting off from Irma. I worry about family and friends in Florida but apparently can’t force them up here to seek refuge. Rick and I hit Kroger (I call mine Sloger these days. I have literally never seen more than two cashier checkout lines open simultaneously) to stock up on supplies: three crates of seltzer, wine for Monday and beyond, buns for veggie dogs, bagels, frozen pizza, fruit, nacho supplies, batteries, a few big jugs of water, sensi stomach cat food (for the spicies, not us), and an actual sack of shredded Mexican cheese. Oh, and a milli cans of beans.

SLaw and Ryan came over for family dinner, which ended up being some rushed chili Rick and I threw together. It was a brief albeit nice and cozy affair. I feel endlessly thankful for close friendships that make such interactions feel warm and restorative. I have many supportive friends I’m thankful for, but Sarah may be one of the best when it comes to never succumbing to judgement. She’s been so helpful and encouraging with my booze battles—and she never makes me feel alone. I’m very lucky.

With me and Rick on our hiatus and Sarah coming down with the crud, Ryan decided to rebuff our wine offers and go dry for the night. That was a nice gesture he didn’t have to make.

Oh, and Elise introduced Ludwig to the crew. That was special.

Sarah had an oncoming cold so after splitting a post-dinner bowl on the porch (me and Ryan. Rick and Sarah are less ‘bout that green), they dipped and suddenly it was 9 on a Friday night and we were done socializing for the night. I ate a huge heaping of strawberries our buds left and passed out before 10:30. Pretty great. 

The photo above isn’t from yesterday at all. My phone keeps nearing full, so this is a shot Rick snuck when we were clamoring to the Breakers in Newport after Kim’s wedding the other weekend. What a beautiful view. 

[beca]

Day 11

For as much progress as I’ve been making, yesterday was challenging—but challenging in a way different from Saturday (proof of me living through it above, with my two adult sons, Barry and Dustin).

I got a little work done in the morning, then mad-dashed to the Y with Rick again, barely making it back to my house before Gormley picked me up for yoga. Tyler showed up last minute, too, and it was a good, surprisingly hard class. The more I move, especially after just not if I didn’t have to for... a long time, the more I recognize areas of weakness. I’ve never had particularly strong wrists but all the inversions (and on my period! Sometimes I impress myself) and vinyasa heavy on the plank was tough. After, we grabbed some grub at Blue Dahlia downstairs, where we also had to sign waivers because of the camera crews and I had the extreme pleasure of explaining to Tyler actually, no, Little Women Atlanta has nothing to do with the book.

At home, I couldn’t harness focus for long stretches of time. I paid some bills, caught up on a few emails, and not much else before somewhat organizing Dope Girls merch away from the dining room table, squirreling it away in the quiet storm of my office slash cat bathroom. After a quick shower, Rick picked me up and I was in a noticeably testy mood. IDK if it was my period, lack of productivity, Jell-O wrists, or what. I couldn’t stop snapping so I popped a half Xanax. Even when my psych prescribed the generic version, I felt nervous. People get hooked on that shit! Plus, I fucked with it heavily enough in my fuck-all college and Brooklyn years I worry about the internal damage I’ve already done. But! I figure a minuscule gamble is worth not being a dick to my insanely kind, patient, helpful, and amazing partner (hi, Rick. I know you’re reading but also this is true).

We set sail to West Midtown to meet Maria at 5:30 and return her ramp—an ambitious quest, TBH, and extremely brave considering both our separately short fuses when it comes to thick Atlanta traffic. I hugged her and her cat, Geo, goodbye (not at all jealous about her plans to see Future Islands after we left. Nope, not even a little......................) and we parked a few blocks from Bar Taco for early dinner. Our collective rawness felt tangible to me as we hunkered on the shady back patio. I saw platters of frosty palomas pass, their allure almost trailing like an image caught with a slow shutter speed. But damn, we were so close. I had tuna poké and spicy cucumber salad. Rick had a brown rice bowl with shrimp and a meat item (?) taco. We split some guac and pounded a Topo Chico each, taking seconds on a wind-down stroll up past Terminal West and above the train tracks. It felt good to slow down and, when it felt very easy to drop guard, just... not. How shitty would it be to roll up to Amy’s (my therapist) today and be all, “Yeah, so I did great till last night when I decided to stop. For no actual reason!” Pretty shitty!

There wasn’t a ton of time to unwind before Elise, my new roommate, pulled up. She seems extremely easy going and nice—and you better believe I got to meet her little sugar glider. I already forgot his name but I want to say it’s something like Ludwig and he likely inspired my creepy nightmare last night, in which I was crossing some river by foot before remembering a little rat guy I was stowing in my blouse pocket. There was also elements of secret passages through the backs of refrigerated floral bouquet uh, closet things? Who knows.

I have to rewrite two freelance pieces today, in addition to therapy and a phoner. Tonight is family dinner with SLaw and Ryan, which oughta be chill. They’re supportive pals, to say the least, two I never feel judgement from. It’s a little heartening to notice selective allegiance throughout this fast and as I find an effective cocktail of drugs, therapy, exercise, etc. to manage my insane brain. Like the deafening silence followed by a slew of texts when I started ‘gramming about medication. You know, I appreciate people reaching out, but I wonder where they were before; why they turned up their noses till recently, how they are absent during my darkest moments but readily turn up when I score a decent byline. It isn’t surprising, I guess. It’s just how memory functions and patterns emerge. I think it’s pretty normal for inner circles to tighten over time, just a little disappointing how some of the outer layers dissipate when you would have never guessed.

[beca]

Day 10

After knocking out some mailing (more of which I gotta get on this morning. We are down to just two copies of Vol. 2! Everything else is sold out; I feel super humbled), I plugged away on stories and chasing interviews and such. It was my last day before Elise, the new roommate, moves in, so I wanted to be hella productive. Next, Rick and I ran some errands and grabbed Maria’s ramp from Asher before hitting the East Lake Y to rejoin. I’ve never had a gym membership with a partner before, and even though I’ve pushed exes to get matching tattoos while we were together, this felt like A Big Deal. But quick PSA: If you can find another adult human to share a Y membership with you, that shit is far more affordable. It’s something like $34/each per month for us, which is as dope as something as miserable as exercise can get. I’m ultimately doing it for anxiety management—and because I’m a huge fan of accountability (you’re on my blog, hi. You knew that), so since Rick was down, I had to jump in, as well.

I spent a half hour on the elliptical, the first time I’ve straight-up exercised (not something that’s exercise masquerading as fun, like a hike) in over a year. I jammed on Abbi Jacobson’s podcast and tried to zone out to an episode of Judge Judy with gibberish captions. Hopping off to mop up sweat, I got to experience that smugness again. Arriving home, I thought about how great a beer would be after that punishment, especially since I was gearing up to mow the lawn and was ravished. Instead, I had two sad slices of deli cheese and got a little stoned off a roach I found before while cleaning up at Ethan’s post-party (finders fees are real, don’t fight me). I did a medium-okay job on the back and front yards, mostly psyched Rick took over dinner duties. We had potatoes, oven-roasted buffalo tofu with gorgonzola, and garlicky kale. It was a goddamned delight.

While winding down, I had pineapple and he had ice-cream. A familiar, dreadful tone chirped in the hallway. “Warning,” the robot voice said. “Carbon monoxide.” This wasn’t the first time the alarm went off for seemingly no reason. But when physically exhausted and stoned and very ready for sleep, it’s... not anyone’s favorite. Rick dismantled the sensor with a broom, calling it a project for this morning. Just in case, we opened a milli windows and set fans off in all rooms.

For a couple weeks now, I’ve been petitioning to for the down comforter to reunite with our bed. Rick, a human heat rock, has resisted. But as temperatures settled in the mid-50s this morning, I finally convinced him. So that’s a win.

He was bummed I made plans a long while ago for a sleepover with Kellie Monday, the first official day we are back on drinking. As a compromise, we decided to get lunch somewhere, maybe the Porter, and toast to 14 hard days over with a session IPA. That’ll be nice. But again, I kinda dig the mostly-dry lifestyle.

Very much looking forward to therapy Friday. I feel like whenever my therapist and I’ve developed game plans, I return the following session, hoping she forgot about it. I even lied to her about how my goodbye party went when leaving the agency; we’d agreed on a two-drink max, but I had somewhere closer to six. I wasn’t at all sloppy, but I felt ashamed enough I didn’t share with her. It’s dumb, I know. Lying to your therapist is like why I don’t know Spanish; every semester I took it, I cheated my way through tests and asked my native-speaking friend to write my papers. If I’m not doing the work on my side, how can I ever expect progress or good change? That’s why I’ve taken this fast seriously—because if I don’t, there is no point. I’m too young to have fully given up and, frankly, I hope that always remains true.

[beca]

Day 9

Yesterday made me face an annoying habit of mine: subbing a snack with a beer.

I knocked out a few chores in the morning before heading to the Whole Foods salad bar to have lunch with a new friend. She is dope in general but mentioned in passing through our Internet-based friendship courting she doesn’t drink. I asked about that, obvs. She says it started with a break similar to mine, except hers was three weeks—and after, she... just... didn’t feel like drinking again? That was six years ago and although I’m sure the ~dry lifestyle~ isn’t the sole culprit, this woman’s skin looks AMAZING. It sounds silly, but it was kinda inspiring, especially because so much of her job deals with shmoozing, an activity I find best executed nice and lubey with IDK, seven? glasses of a table red wine. She says she usually gets Coke in a rocks glass with a lime, a delicious-sounding deviation from my typical seltz.

Headed to Billy’s next to stash a DG koozie on his porch to reward an absentee Venmo for Saturday’s fundraiser, then Gray’s to give her a shirt for her trouble proofing Volume 4. There I lingered for a bit and it was a nice break before jumping back into my laptop. Ran into Susannah when returning to my car and learned she, Gray, and I will all be in a forthcoming creative nonfiction class, taught by one of my fav local dude writers. I’m psyched. 

Set up camp at ParkGrounds where I plucked away at chasing checks (enormous personal victory in one of those long-running fights, BTW. By enormous I mean an expedited, overdue $2.5K and on-boarding to direct deposit), getting a few new pitches accepted, and catching up on emails. I celebrated progress with a pesto grilled cheese, instead of my typical 4 o’clock beer I order there. I briefly coveted a fellow couch anchor’s tall boy, but ultimately felt assured and borderline smug in my order.

Ran by Katie’s in Deep Decatur to grab the rest of the DG shirts en route home, where I made another enormous salad for me and Rick. He had to head back to Marlon’s around 9 to finish their EP (apparently in Europe, people buy music at shows. Weird), so I got to finally watch that creep-out episode of Black Mirror people have been telling me about for eons while I folded laundry. I didn’t even notice till calling it a day and climbing into bed around 11 p.m. I had zero substance at any point during the 24-hour cycle. I considered smoking a little weed when Rick ducked out, but didn’t really feel into it. Probably mostly because I read this story about a little boy haunting some BuzzFeed employee’s apartment recently; though I don’t often get the weed paranoias anymore, I didn’t want to gamble a good night’s sleep. Either way, that was kinda cool.

On a normal evening at home these days, I only get fleeting hankerings for red wine when we’re watching Game Of Thrones and even then, like I said, it’s pretty fleeting. It feels great to consider my health for once, and live on a day-to-day scale like I may live many more days. I often forget I won’t be 29 forever and I don’t wanna be a cirrhosis-wrecked, wrinkled water bag come 40 (I’d like to make it till 60, at least, before giving up).

Started this morning mailing out some DG shirts to big- and long-time supporters, which is always uplifting. It’s gray outside and I got nowhere I gotta be till dinner with an old colleague, Melissa, around 7. Crossing fingers for a day of late-summer storms—my favorite writing weather.

[beca]

Here yah go.

[beca]

Day 8

Had a lazy morning in Tucker with Mexican leftovers, Leo, Game Of Thrones, and that dude Rick or whatever. Walking Leo after we ate breakfast (which was bagels. The leftovers came later), I felt good. Since even before Stella (a foster dog I had about a month and a half in late spring. I don’t think I was Tumbling much during that time), I’ve had the dog itch. I WANT ONE. Sure, it’s time-intensive and objectively more expensive than cat ownership, but I love that it forces you to move. Kinda pet/plant ownership in general is great in that regard, especially for people suffering depression. It’s easy to sink into your bed and atrophy; to feel numb and allow yourself to stick. But! If a living thing is depending on you to survive, it’s rather quite selfish. I’m not saying mental illness is ever a choice, but I like blending in responsibilities to help regularly hoist myself out of problematic, stationary behaviors. If that makes sense.

Anyway! Retired home for a low-medium productive afternoon, sprinkled with helping Rebekah empty her room, passing along a print from Saturday’s show to Mina, then hitting Ingrid Goes West with Caroline. While editing CL’s culture section, I got tons of movie screening passes and over time, Caroline became a go-to plus-one. We’ve carried on the tradition, even now that we have to pay. Usually we sneak beers in or, if we’re at Midtown Art Cinema like we were last night, we grab tall boys at the front counter to bring with. Last night we stuck with seltzer and I honestly didn’t much miss dropping the extra $8 bucks on an already-(IMO-)steep $11 movie admission. I totally recommend the film, too. It’s haunting and uncomfortable and extremely real. I’m psyched to finally read all the think pieces on it. It’s so important—and hard! For me, at least—to hold yourself accountable for burying your head so deep in your phone and the pixelated fabric of online pettiness and deception.

Discussing the film after in the parking lot, Caroline and I agreed it’s nice our respective therapists need patient definitions for terms like subtweet. It’s good to remember how fabricated and fleeting so much of that bullshit is; however tough that may be when your actual job is creating the internet.

When Mina came over before, too, I made her take the remnants of that pot brownie I was nibbling. Her boyfriend has insane-o tolerance and I just... couldn’t eat it fast enough? It didn’t seem important to hang on to. I did, however, cut off my nibbled-on piece and chomped it before bed.

I ended up eating a nectarine and some chips for dinner around 5:30 and nothing more (besides said nibbled-on pot brownie). Met Rick after the movie around 10 and we crashed shortly after. My body is still demanding hella sleep which is annoying, but will hopefully change soon. Rick and I decided to re-open our YMCA memberships. I’m not excited but I know it’s crucial to improve my energy levels. I know it sounds like total bullshit, but even with adding bagels into a near-daily diet, skipping booze for eight consecutive days makes my gut feel slightly more shriveled. It would be nice to supplement a dryer lifestyle with actual cardio. Plus, like, anxiety management and so on.

More than halfway through, baby! This morning, Rick told me he couldn’t wait to have an Old Fashioned come Monday. Me? Occasionally a glass of wine (or all the Corona in last night’s movie. Did they sponsor the film or something? It was extremely extra) sounds appealing af, but honestly, I don’t really feel too hard one way or the other. I guess that’s good.

[beca]

Day 7

One week done and done, woo. As mentioned yesterday, I woke feeling very smug, albeit exhausted. While cleaning Ethan’s, I still felt great and with it. A mostly-clear memory of the night before—while hosting such a rager. I’d guess at least 200 people came and went while I was there from 8 p.m. till 2ish a.m.—was a refreshing experience; one I celebrated by texting every person I remember seeing there, thanking them. 

After we cleared all the cans, Rachel, Katie, Martin, and I grabbed lunch at Estoria and caught up some on zine stuff (Martin mostly pleasantly smiled). Back home, I cleaned up then met Matt at ParkGrounds. We talked about growing up religious, how he decided to stop drinking, how I did not-drinking the night before (he was there, but it didn’t seem super ideal to discuss in real time surrounded by a bunch of people I didn’t know well), anxiety, depression, death, dogs—all of my favorite topics! I left feeling really empowered, which was unexpected.

Met Rick in Tucker to housesit and watch his drummer’s amazing dog, Leo (above). We had Mexican food and I passed out within an hour. An extremely chill day during which I never felt inclined to drink—not even Estoria, which, trust me, is pretty big.

[beca]

Day 6

I did it!!!!!!!!!! The part I was most dreading during this drinking sabbatical has come, gone, and I survived both parts without a single drop of alcohol. I’m sure that’s NBD for many people, but, honestly, it was the first event I’ve thrown in recent memory not lubed up with some serious sauce.

Before my Lyft came to take me to Ethan’s, I considered the Alto’s in the freezer and how a quick swig wouldn’t hurt anyone. And! You know, it wouldn’t, but it would be a bummer to have gone so far (again, five consecutive dry days just... doesn’t really happen in my life) only to say uncle to the substance that’s held power over me for too long.

We had an insane turn-out. I don’t know how numbers shook out considering Venmo and paying certain percentages back to artists, but I counted over $600 in the cash box last night when I arrived home. That’s gotta mean something!

We sold a ton of art, shirts, muffins, and handed out plenty of koozies. I was so humbled to see a dense sea of familiar and new faces, all pretty jazzed from what I could tell. Some people just made Venmo donations without even getting anything in return; that was especially huge.

So, I planned to leave around 11. When I looked up, it was 11:30 and as I gathered my belongings to dance my fav dance (the Irish exit), Ethan grabbed my arm. “No biggie, but FYI, we are out of beer,” he said, adding that they could grab more from the brewery but it’d be about an hour. I thought that was silly, mostly because Wild Heaven already generously donated two kegs’ worth and these reproductive justice/cannabis legislature nut jobs had pounded through it so fast. 

By the time I found Katie, one of my co-conspirators, we had just eight minutes till stores would stop selling booze. We made a valiant, rushed trip to the gas station down Boulevard and grabbed four 12-packs. I actually ran into the shop, tense as hell, when the employee looked at me and just knew. “Relax, I will still sell you beer,” he said, moving the spiky broom handle from barricading the cheap selection. Those 48 cans went unbelievably fast; like, we basically poured them into the melting ice tub and they disappeared upon touchdown. It felt a little bizarre to treat beer with such urgency when I never cracked one myself.

When folks started filtering in at exactly 8 p.m., I felt a familiar tension wash over me. I was already a little stoned from the flaccid jay (I am terrible at stuffing those pre-rolled cones) we passed after Linda set up projections, so at first, the anxiety felt slightly spiked. Knowing I should make small talk with new people who surrendered their evening to our event, telling them about our work, remembering names, etc. Before I knew it, though, I got swept up in managing merch, hugging loved ones, running big bills upstairs, and so on. My dude Edgar grabbed me as I swam through the bodies in the front yard, thrusting a bottle of tequila forward. “Beca!” he said, deeply steeped in joy, from what I could tell. “Have a shot with us!” I felt badly declining because I love camaraderie and tequila but, again, who fucking cares? He didn’t! He was having a great time whether or not I took up his generous offer. “Oh! I’m not drinking right now,” I said, hugging him. Later I made a point to make him hit my little pen loaded with weird-tasting albeit potent oil.

Even after we were totally out of beverages (seltz, too) just after midnight, folks lingered. Katie and I split a fattie then waded around collecting cans in Ethan’s last remaining trash bag, hoping to inspire folks to head to Estoria instead. It didn’t seem to work too well but eventually Ethan released us. What a dude.

Then! Something slightly scary: I boarded a Lyft around 2 that wasn’t mine. It was some woman named Brittany’s Uber. Whoops. I talked the dude into just taking me home for a crumpled $20, even though it likely meant a dip in ratings for both of us. But seriously, already nice and crispy from the love and generosity and okay, ~cannabis~, I was ready to be home. Turned out the driver was cool as hell and his sister is cousins with D4L’s Fabo. We lamented the loss of Shawty Lo and bonded. I think we’re extremely tight now? 

When finally back, I made some caramel sleepy tea and a whole bag of popcorn, consuming most of both in front of Insecure and draped in my fur sons. It was lovely. And waking up this morning with a very clear memory of all the lively, inspiring conversations from the night before was such a unique and great feeling. And! Did you know you can actually skip hangovers? Wow!

Again, I’m not sure how my booze habits will look after this experiment, but it’s really nice to know firsthand that there are totally viable alternatives to how I was living before. I’m extremely thankful for the support from my crew. I really am the luckiest.