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[youmightaswell]

Die!

The Mystery of the Apple Pie Spice

As you know I just hate everything about fall, right down to things that one thinks fall smells like – like apples, cinnamon, pumpkin. Tonight, though, I just made a large cup of decaf coffee and had the impulse to put some apple pie spice in it. I wanted to rub salt (or in this case cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg) into my autumnal wound. But it reminded me of something weird. Probably too weird to try to explain in writing. So when you read things I write you might get the impression that I am really psycho, and maybe internally I am – my internal monologue which I sometimes share with you might seem off-kilter. However, in person, I promise you I come off as being normal, funny, some say attractive…

Anyway, this tiny apple pie spice jar was given to me by a friend a while ago – maybe like three years ago. (Now, typing that also makes me wonder how long dried spices are supposed to last. I probably have some in there for over 10 years. How embarrassing!) My friend was moving from his apartment to a tiny studio and didn’t want to have to pack anything. So he threw out literally everything he owns save for important papers like passports, etc. He gave everything else away. He only re-bought very basic things like a pot, a set of silverware, 7 pairs of socks, underwear, etc. He said it would be cheaper this way than paying for a move and also he wanted to become a minimalist.

When he was moving he had me come over and take anything I wanted. I took all his spices. All were pretty much never opened and brand new and by the brand Penzeys. I love that brand of spice. I had never had apple pie spice which makes sense bc I don’t make pies. But over the years I seem to use it all the time- to add to oatmeal, muffins, chia seed pudding, tea, cider, pancakes… I use it weekly BUT here is the very Twilight Zone thing about it: It never gets any less in the tiny container. I just looked at it when I put it in my coffee and it is still almost full – like maybe 20% used but I have been using it consistently for more than THREE YEARS. I always think about this every time I take it out of the cupboard. At least once or twice a week I think: This has to be a magic spice because it is never going to run out. It’s gotten to the point where I purposely try to use it – and use A LOT of it – to get it to finish just to prove that I am not insane and it is not magic. But lo! Tonight I used it for coffee and it seems like there is EVEN MORE OF IT IN THE CONTAINER. The tiny container is nearly completely full. WTF? Is something supernatural going on here or am I losing my mind? What a great short film this would make. I feel it is something that Miranda July would make – a short film or a vignette in a film about a magic spice jar and a woman who notices it never gets empty.

Jane Campion, an Australian filmmaker did this series of film vignettes that I saw years ago. One was about people remembering the words to songs wrong but then remembering them while they are doing odd things that they thought were depicted in the song. In it a man has always gotten the words of the Monkees song, Daydream Believer wrong. He has always sung it day jean cleaner for some reason, truly believing those were the words. Then one night he is bending over his tub washing his jeans and starts to sing what he believes are the words to Daydream Believer and stops and wonders why anyone would write a song about something as esoteric as washing jeans. And he wonders how the song got so popular.

Peel: An Exercise in Discipline was unveiled in 1982 as Campion was embarking on another short with Gerard Lee and Veronika Jenet called Passionless Moments. The black-and-white short chronicled a series of vignettes in which many people do mundane things throughout the course of the day. Some of these moments include a fat man doing yoga, a boy trying to get some food before a bomb goes off, a woman alone in her room, two neighbors eyeing each other, a man cleaning his jeans in a tub as he sings the Monkees’ Daydream Believer, and other stories.

Passionless Moments’ sense of style came from Campion’s desire to find something engaging in the mundane. She and Lee shot all of the vignettes in the course of a day and created images that were quite compelling. An example of this comes in the first segment where the fat man looks at words while turning doing his yoga. It’s among the many moments in the short that Campion wanted to show that even something mundane can be extraordinary. A series of vignettes make up this wry take on the mundane scenes of everyday life. Campion and Lee imbue the film with radical humor and artfulness. You’ll never hear the Monkees’ “Daydream Believer” the same way again.

I guess I like that art can be made about anything – the odder or more mundane the better.

[Related: Penzeys used to be like THE spice. The go-to good brand. And their stuff is still good. I love their paprikas – they have three: California, Smoked and regular. But now in the last year there is a new brand that is getting tons of attn. It’s called Burlap and Barrel. It’s quite expensive. Even more expensive than Penzeys. It’s like $10 for a tiny container. But I am dying to try it. I think you can only buy it online. Someone I watch on YouTube works for them writing their newsletters. She is a food writer and works in test kitchens. The more recently I saw them on Shark Tank. They didn’t get a deal but they are flourishing. It’s the hip spice co.]

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Less and Less "Yets"

I have been saying for this last year that nostalgia is a quicksand. Something about reaching my 50s changes everything - and I don’t just mean my neck.

The whole taking up with Marco was a very long, winding dance down memory lane. So bittersweet. Such loss and longing, but for what exactly? Not him, not someone specific, except maybe for the girl I once was. But also for this concept of “yet” being pretty much over.

This is hard to put into words. Not because I am having such deep, nuanced thoughts, but because, even at this advanced age, I have trouble finding the right combo of words to describe an overwhelming, but fleeting feeling. I can only equate it with trying to chase some floater on your eye. The minute you turn your eye, even ever-so-slightly, it is out of reach.

I find myself always thinking about dates - like if someone mentions 1996, I immediately think: Oh I was 26! I had just started a new job and moved into a new apartment. I was dating XYZ.

Yet, I also feel like things that happened in my 30s were just a few months or years ago, not two decades.

So in trying to pin down this deep feeling of sadness, a toothache, but in my heart and mind concurrently I can only clumsily explain it this way: As I sink further and further into my 50s there is less and less “yet”.

When I was in my 20s, 30s and even 40s I’d be able to gloss over upsetting things by thinking, “I don’t have XYZ, YET!” I’ve wanted a stable partnership for 35+ years and I pretty much seem silly if I say, “I don’t have one YET” as if it might just be happily around the corner and then everything will be fine. But there’s less and less hope in your mid-50s. For most things. It’s not that good or exciting things won’t happy, of course anything is possible, but chances are they won’t. If they haven’t happened by now, there’s not that much of a chance they will suddenly come to fruition. If you are in your 20s and say, “I don’t have my college degree YET” or “I don’t have a family YET.” You know you have some time. But in your mid-50s many options no longer exist. Sure, you could get a degree in your mid-50s, but it won’t have the same impact as it did in your 20s, changing the whole trajectory of your life.

But this isn’t about tangible things, really, that you can work for. It’s more about how things have aligned. In your mid-50s if you still haven’t been to Paris YET, you can still go, but it may not be the same as if you went in your 30s.

At this point, there’s not much to wish for without feeling foolish. There will still be “firsts” but they will just not be the same as if they happened in the sweet part of my life. It just so sad.

I, of course, could still walk down the aisle in an amazing dress, but the fantasy loses some of its luster, thinking about doing so with sagging skin and wrinkles. And I don’t just mean the external ones. But inside, I have much sagging and figurative wrinkles.

Chances are things aren’t going to take a huge upward swing. I am probably not going to become rich, or land an amazing partner, or suddenly have a washing machine, dryer, and fridge with an ice maker in it. An apartment one can tolerate saying, “It’s just a starter apartment, I just haven’t been able to upgrade YET”, becomes downright depressing when you realize nothing is a “starter” thing anymore. And there are less and less “yets” to be had.

Or maybe there are less and less GOOD yets. There will be be surprises and "yets" but most I can foresee will be bad ones. My legs haven't gone YET, my hearing or memory have not yet waned… But when I think of the future now, there are less exciting things focusing on fun growth and far more about not-so-fun decay.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

At least is is better than getting stabbed

I was just walking Biggs home from the library this morning when out of nowhere the royal-blue-wearing guy in the pic, who was pushing a stroller or cart, lunged at me and spit in my eye. No words were uttered. He then kept walking down York Avenue at an even pace. I turned, called 911 and snapped his photo.

Of course, not a priority, they showed up about 15 minutes later to take a report and said they'd drive down York, but he was probably long gone.

Now I'm scared I'll get pink eye or Covid, but I guess this should just be considered a very aggressive kiss from NYC.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Fade2Nada

Marco, my very first boyfriend, when I was 19 in 1989, was an artist. While in my college at an Amnesty International concert I organized, someone tapped me on the shoulder. A guy handed me a Kudos bar (remember those? My favorite was the chocolate chip one which was sold in my school’s vending machines) and said, “My friend likes you.” Interestingly, thinking back, how fitting he used that to convey his romantic intentions when the tagline was: “Kudos, I’m yours!” 

I looked across the room to see a motorcycle jacket-clad guy doing his best James Dean impression. When I mentioned this to my friend she said she knew him. They grew up together and he lived on her block. He got the seal of approval.

So it began. He had come to the show in his friend’s two-seater so I sat on his lap all the way home to my house. The music was blaring and every time I asked him his last name I heard “loud”, instead of his actual surname, “Lau”. 

From then we were an item. His sister went to my college so would sometimes pass me notes from him. (He attended school nearby and lived closer to my college than my home.) 

I did not have a phone because cell phones -- even AOL messenger -- hadn’t been invented and I didn’t have a landline at home because my schizophrenic mother had been convinced the government was listening to her calls. 

We made do. He would ride his bicycle miles to visit me unexpectedly. He is pretty much the only person who ever met my mother. I was embarrassed he did but he inserted himself into my life aggressively. What was done was done. 

Later we’d take long motorcycle rides, me hanging onto him for dear life, our helmets butting when we came to a short stop. 

He also aggressively campaigned for me to lose my virginity to him. While I had no specific reason for not doing so as yet, I have never been one to be pushed into anything. If someone tried to bully me into anything, I’d dig in my heels. 

He’d send me letters and postcards; I’d return the volley. I’d be at his house all the time and often would sleep at my friend’s house who lived on his block so we could be together. We went to the same clubs, concerts. 

Finally one night he aggressively lobbied for me to have sex with him (he was never rapey at all and I always felt totally safe with him. He was simply annoying, but not scary) and I started crying. 

I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t like his attitude. I felt anxiety. I also didn’t like that he was uncut and I never liked his smell. It’s not that he wasn’t clean; our pheremones just never jibed. 

Apparently I had sent Marco a letter afterwards saying I wanted to lose my virginity to him but I just wanted to feel I was in a safe and secure exclusive relationship with him. I wasn’t feeling seen or heard. (He saved this letter and still has it 34 years later. We reread it together recently.) 

At his house shortly later he left a polaroid on his bedside table that he had taken of a girl I came to know as Nadine. She was wearing a thong and fishnets. Clearly he wanted me to see it. I was very hurt, but also knew then to emotionally detach from him. 

A while after that he mailed me a card and letter. (I saved it for all these years and he and I recently reread it together. I’m glad he seemed horrified at his brutishness when he did.) In it he mocked my crying, ridiculed me for my “divine virginity” and had said I was ridiculous for making that request for him to be exclusive. It would only make him resentful of me. 

After that I sort of distanced myself. I got another boyfriend very quickly and lost my virginity to him. He never even knew I was a virgin and there was never any stressful conversation or prompting. It all was natural and organic and he and I ended up dating for five years. 

Marco didn’t initially know about Rick, my boyfriend, but sent me an card telling me he was sure I probably heard but he had a girlfriend now, Nadine. It has all worked out as it should. I was very hurt, but also knew I made the right decision peacing out on Marco. 

I coined a term then that I and friends still use to this day, “The Half-Eaten Sandwich Theory”. I told Marco that we were not fully done. I was putting a pin in this but that I was with him first and reserved the right to circle back around at any point. He agreed he was indeed my half-eaten sandwich and also felt he had the right to circle back around when/if he felt the urge. Who would ever think that would really happen 34 years later? The Universe is a tricky bitch with it’s foreshadowing and private jokes. 

We kept in touch sporadically and when I was going through a breakup with Rick years later, Marco visited and we almost had sex then. At the last minute I, once again, didn’t pull the trigger. I was still resentful of how Marco how treated me. 

That same summer we took acid together. I am anti-drug and so neurotic even an extra strength Tylenol could make me freak out. So why I thought it was a good idea to take the Superman acid with Marco in my tiny basement studio apartment is beyond me. He has always been a bad influence, I guess. Acid, marital affairs... for some reason he has a way of making me throw caution to the wind. Taking half a tab did nothing - or so I thought. So I finally took the other tab. 

Within minutes my rug was breathing and I was freaking out. Marco blew incense smoke in my face and I made him leave. I was overstimulated.  I got into the shower and obsessed over how the acid would finally know when to stop being, well, acidy. I cried my eyes out convinced I had ruined my life and everyone would think I was schizophrenic like my mother. No one would realize it was just because of the acid. The only solution I could think of to make the acid stop was killing myself. I had hoped Marco would have taken care of me, an acid pro.  But I had to fend for myself. 

I called the drug hotline and told him I am not a bad person. I have never taken any drugs before. But that I was having a space/time continuum issue. I remember the woman on the line laughing and saying it was apparent I had not taken drugs before. She talked me down, Marco came back for a few minutes with Burger King for me and I was left alone tripping for another 18 hours.

He ended up moving to my neighborhood  shortly after that, but I’d rarely see him. I finally moved to Manhattan. However his younger brother began seriously dating my best friend’s sister in law so I’d hear tons of stories about Marco. He was dating another woman, Edith, and my friend’s sister in law told us it seemed a mismatch. His girl was nice, but bland and not a creative. She didn’t see it working out and felt Marco wasn’t that nice to her. She felt Marco and I were way better suited. 

Then she said she was at a dinner with his family and Marco stood up and made the announcement he was marrying Edith. Everyone was shocked and my friend said the whole thing was rather embarrassing to all involved. Years later I heard they had split. The marriage never happened. 

I ran into him in the City and he now tells me I looked like I had seen a ghost. I don’t recall feeling that way, Although I believe him. My face doesn't lie. We made plans for him to visit me at my Hell’s Kitchen apartment. 

It was quick and polite. I was standoffish and I just recall thinking he had gained weight and looked less James Dean-ish. By now he had a very good job as a creative and seemed stable and had matured. We didn’t seem to have much to say and the air seemed heavy. 

I don’t recall seeing him again, but he now tells me he met a rich boyfriend I had around that time. 

I got married in 2004 and never thought to invite Marco although several other ex-boyfriends attended. 

When Facebook started he was one of the first people I tried to friend just became I had wondered what became of him. We had tons of mutual friends so I figured we’d all connect. He didn’t respond to my friend request so I assumed either he didn’t recognize my new married last name or simply didn’t like me enough to friend me on this new social media thing. 

I learned from a mutual friend shortly after Marco had married an Eastern European model. My friend quipped he only saw pictures on Facebook and that it looked like a “green card marriage”. I had no idea, although Marco has always loved fashion and photographing models so it seemed on the nose. I was happy for him. I was now going through a divorce so Marco and his marriage were the last things on my mind.

Then I got deathly sick with Lyme and battled horribly for three years. During this period Marco had friended me on Facebook, but we didn’t speak. It was all I could to to stay alive so I wasn’t really paying attention to Facebook or old friends. 

Apparently over the years Marco had reached out to friends of mine to ask them about my disease and resulting chronic illness and disability. I had no idea. I has no interest in him, especially romantically, so I didn’t go poking around. Every so often I’d notice he was still married, no kids.  I do recall for my 44th birthday (I was still very sick) friends took me to Zuma, a midtown restaurant. A day later Marco posted from there. I left a quick comment saying we missed each other by a day! He didn’t respond to me but his wife did. I forget what she noted but it was odd. A mutual friend of Marco’s and I DMd me saying it reeked of insecurity and apparently Marco was on a short leash. I didn’t think much about it. 

Several more years went by and one day Marco messaged me this amazing picture he took of me at 19. I was wearing a bra and looked ethereal. I asked if he could please print me out one so I could frame it. He said he’d do that but I should come meet him downtown at his job and pick it up. I had mentioned he could just drop it at my doorman. 

I never got that photo although he swears he printed it out and had it in an envelope for me. Now, more recently, he said he suspects his wife had found it and discarded it. 

Right before the pandemic struck he posted about his motorcycle. I recalled how as college kids he and I would ride on his motorcycle all over. I noted I’d love a ride for nostalgia’s sake. He replied via DM saying he’d love that but to please not leave notes on his page because his wife monitors it and he is prohibited from having female friends. 

I balked and made it clear: We had not dated for 30 years and I didn’t want him then and I don’t want him now. He said he knew this but his wife was insecure and would not see it that way. He knew he and I had no romantic interest in each other. 

Still, looking back, he is so thoroughly intertwined with my life. When I look back at my young adulthood, he was there. And now, at the near-end of our lives, he will be the most impactful thing that has happened. He has fashioned himself bookends on my existence. And I think I am that for him as well. 

Again, I put this out of my head. I even thought about simply unfriending him because I did not want his wife to get the wrong idea. I was dating someone and had no interest in him, married or otherwise. 

But then one day mid-pandemic we met up at a park by my house. It was lovely. We caught up -- he seemed sad and more pessimistic than I had ever seen him-- and he confessed he had slept with a friend of mine from college days. While this was long before he was married, his wife found out, hence his ban on being able to speak to female friends. This seemed abusive and restrictive and not something I’d personally tolerate, but it’s his life. 

We met again several months later and had pizza by my house. Again, so lovely. Just such a nice feeling of nostalgia. It  was so great tp see how successful he had become in his creative career. How far we had come. He was a videographer/photographer; I was a writer who owned a small PR firm. Both of our lives converged with a common theme of story telling - his visually and mine via written narrative. We would have made a great team. 

A few months later during a night of drinking in the city he messaged me late-night. This was odd because he rarely texted. When he was suddenly outwardly flirty I was shocked. But soon realized he was drunk and told him he’d feel stupid in the morning. I was worried, though, because he was clearly shitfaced and I didn’t want him to drive home to NJ in that state. I stated explicitly I was NOT flirting or trying to seduce him but to please take a cab across the park to my house to wait till he was sober. I’d give him water and coffee and stay up with him so he wouldn’t get into an accident. He continued to flirt and when I shut it down he opted to drive drunk instead. The next morning he called to let me know he was alive but he saw double the amount of lanes that he should have. He committed to not drinking like that again and also was scared I’d tell his wife he had been flirting with me. I assured him I had better things to do with my time. 

But then mid-pandemic he messaged me one day saying he was coming into the city on his motorcycle and was going to take me for the ride he promised. 

I figured, “What the hell!” 

Immediately it was as if time shifted and folded onto itself. I was both a 52-year old woman but also a 20-year old one. I was in the same Doc Martens Marco had gotten for me 30 years before. Levis/band t-shirt. It was as if time existed in two places at once with 25 years in the middle completely erased. Two different time periods spliced together as if by a skilled surgeon. 

He held my hand, had his hand on my leg. It was clear something was happening. Nostalgia is a quicksand. We were both feeling our age. Just ask my neck, which I had lifted just months before. Wrinkles, aches, pains. How mortal we were. There was such a bittersweet loss and longing for when we had been together the first time, the future laying out before us. Now there were no surprises. It’s hard to get into real trouble in your 50s. Also, the half -eaten sandwich was getting moldy. What were we waiting for? 

Clearly this was a man miserable in his marriage. A tale as old as the day is long. It is boring just typing about it. 

And then we kissed and I asked if he has ever cheated before. He replied that despite his wife falsely accusing him of it for the last 16 years he has indeed been an altar boy. 

I told him that he was surely going to feel awful guilt when he saw her that night. He said he wasn’t so sure.  YOLO. I told him to call me the following day simply to tell me how he felt. I was scared he’d hate me forever for indulging his indiscretion. 

Before he dropped me off at my house he brazenly said, “I don’t just want to kiss you; I want to do everything with you we didn’t get to do when we first dated.” I rolled my eyes. He ended with, “I want to have sex with you.”

Ballsy! 

I knew exactly what he was doing. I believed because I had denied him for years he knew I was a safe bet to say no now, especially seeing he was married. He wanted the fantasy of being able to have an illicit affair without the threat of really having one. I was going to call his bluff and teach him a lesson.

I said, “Ok. I’ll consider it.”

I figured the next day he’d call in horrible guilt. 

But no, he doubled down. 

Again, I called his bluff and said ok.

I didn’t want any of this. He, once again, thrust himself into my life, much like he did introducing himself to my mother years before.

He reminded me he was indeed my half-eaten sandwich. It was time to resume. 

I finally agreed, willing to bet all the money I had that he’d choke at the last minute. I was so excited about teaching him a lesson and having a good laugh about this. I will always have a soft spot for him. 

But now, over a year later, I was the one who got taught a lesson and no one is laughing. 

What initially I thought would be a non-starter at best, a one-time fling at worst turned into a full-fledged serious relationship, culminating with him taking me on vacation to NC to stay at his friend’s house while his wife was in Bulgaria. 

The year was generally blissful except for the same brick wall we hit over and over: I wanted him to tell his wife the truth. It never sat well with me he was lying. He would say she was getting suspicious: smelling me on him, seeing my name and birthday trip on their shared calendar by mistake, and even going so far as asking him point-blank. Each time he’d deflect. 

We’d go see art, eat, do creative projects. I’d come with him on work shoots and we watched just about every low-budget horror movie we could find. We message all day and all night, never mentally far from each other.

I don’t think either of us expected this to grow into what it did or last as long. At least I thought this was extremely meaningful to both of us. He’d tell me he’d only risk his marriage for me. 

But we had waited to just be together without the stress of his wife being around for over any year. The NC trip was so carefully planned It was to be the climax of our whole 34 years.

And climax we did. But after great heights can sometimes come a great fall. 

And I hate to say I TOLD YOU SO, but just like I told him at least 100 times that  his wife would eventually find out, she did. He always swore he’d tell her the full truth if she discovered our relationship. He just could never pull the trigger because he was tied to her and the marriage financially. 

But when she found out it appeared he still wasn’t giving her the full story.

And just like that the blurred lines were not just blurred but erased. 

***

I started looking back at all the foreshadowing. A writer and self-proclaimed Nancy Drew, I wanted to do forensics on our year together. Surely the Universe had given me signs he was the same old Marco from my youth. I had mistakenly thought how great it was he matured and evolved so much. I admired the man he grew into. I didn’t expect him to become so stable and caring and was so happily surprised. In our youth we both had very rough edges, but they had softened considerably over the years.  But at the end I realized it was all just an illusion. Ever the filmmaker, his careful planning of our year together was a script he carefully storyboarded and projected for my eyes only. We were each other’s confidants for a full year. 

I have kept the receipts before that term existed. Just like he and I both kept our old love letters and cards to and from each other for a whopping 34 years, pictures of us taken back in the late 80s, etc., I now kept our full Whatsapp transcripts, every porn video, series of sexy pictures, messages on IG/FB/Telegram (!) and text. 

I reread each one, looking carefully over ever picture he took and sent. Analyzing each video, no mater how vulgar as if looking over crime scene footage. I was a lovelorn, brokenhearted CSI detective. Where did this veer off the road? 

What I found super interesting is over the year he’d always take amazing pictures of me. But from one of the very first ones the only note I made was wondering why he cut off my legs. 

When I complained, he accused me of not thinking him talented. Which was totally untrue. The pictures he’s taken of me have been some of the best I’ve ever seen of myself.

BUT WHERE ARE MY LEGS? 

I had visited him downtown for lunch by his job. I was wearing these little black booties that have big silver stars on them. It seemed weird to cut me off at the knee just after my dress. 

He’s a professional, so this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe my legs looked weird? Did I look fat? 

Anyway, after that it became a running (see what I did there?) joke about how he needed to remember to keep my legs in the photo. 

But again, when I saw another portrait he took of me, I noticed my legs weren’t completely erased but were severely blurred. He knows how to edit photos and film. This wasn’t some amateur mistake. 

So now, after our upheaval post-trip, I began scouring all the pictures he took of me. While the first merely cut me off at the knees, some that followed blurred my legs. He has a foot fetish and would often ask me to send pictures of my feet, implore me to let him pick out my pedicure color, etc. So this wasn’t about him not liking my feet or legs. 

So why this mini-erasure? Was it a subconscious symbolism? Was he alluding to the blurred lines of our relationship? 

I went back and looked at one of the very first pictures ever taken of us together in 1990. He  had recently resent it, poring over all the archives of everything he kept from us for over three decades. 

And there is was, we were both blurred. As if ghosts existing in some purgatory or limbo. Did this 1990 photo foreshadow our relationship 34 years later. This feeling of waiting for something to happen?

He’d say he wanted his marriage to end organically. I questioned him about what he meant. A marriage ends organically if one of the spouses dies. Was he wishing that? Awful! And if he was the one to die, well then we did this for nothing! We wouldn’t get to be together after all this angst anyway. 

The only other way a marriage ends organically is if one partner requests a divorce. He didn’t have the gumption to do this, often citing financial issues. So was he hoping his wife would just one day ask for one? That seemed unlikely. She was so attached she was always very nervous he might cheat.That wasn’t the mark of someone who would wake up one morning and want the marriage to end with no catalyst. He said, “Well she might decide it’s better for her to be with a vegan, a yogi, someone who has more in common with her.” My meat-eating, anti-exercise paramour had a point. But it wasn’t likely. 

He came to my house and set up four cameras, to have multiple angles for a film we made. Interestingly, in reviewing the 11-minute footage of our film, again, even from the ceiling camera, the edges of me are blurred. Did he do this on purpose? I understood why he didn’t want the camera to focus on himself. If his wife every came upon all this footage she’d kill him. But why are all my lines blurred? Am I actually dead and is this all just a dream? Are we somehow in a simulation? A world Marco and I somehow created. Did we somehow die on that motorcycle ride back in April of 2022 and no one told us? Was our limbo being played out in Bayonne and the Upper East Side, this feeling of waiting for Godot never dissipating? 

On our trip to NC, finally free to do anything we wanted without the fear anyone finding out or being rushed, we made another video. This time, after careful planning and no rush, at the end we realized the cameras didn’t work. Only a side one seemed to capture us, but blurry.

While upstairs with his friend, I was downstairs reading. Apparently he was editing pictures we took. Again, they were beautiful, but again my legs were blurred. 

The next followed so were my hands. 

He jokingly commented, “Do you have hands or paws?” 

He was quite literally erasing me. 

It’s interesting to note his social media moniker is “Fade2Nada” a nod to his Cuban Chinese heritage. But also probably the biggest foreshadowing of all that we wouldn’t flame out, we’d just fade away. 

Once back in NYC, after his wife found out and he was in NJ waiting for her return from Bulgaria I messaged him that I was basically stuck in his own version of “Boxing Helena”. He and I love Lynch so it seems fitting he’d be recreating his heroine Sherilyn Fenn, in me. Photo by photo, film clip by film clip. 

So now here I am, the victim of someone’s mashup of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Boxing Helena, a pencil end and photo-editing software. 

If I felt unseen and unheard at 19, it’s much worse at 53. I mistakenly thought the sandwich was half - eaten but now realize it was cut into thirds, because this still doesn’t feel finished. 

I guess I will have to wait another 34 years to finish this story - a figurative After Midnight. 

[youmightaswell]

BABKAGATE

My latest article for Upper East Site blows the lid off Babkagate. Not since the iconic Seinfeld ep detailing the pastry have babkas been so controversial: 

https://www.uppereastsite.com/new-york-best-chocolate-babka-adir-michaeli-breads-bakery/

[youmightaswell]

Die!

An Interesting Letter from Serial Killer Michael Swango

He sent this letter for three reasons: First, he and I often discuss the New Yorker story, “Marathon Man” about famous a famous sociopathic dentist in the Midwest who faked running a marathon in every state. Also, he sent this because I am friends with the CNN producer who did the docu-series on Swango I appeared in and she is a marathon runner. Lastly, he trained for this long ago with his male best friend, who was never mentioned in the book about Swango and his murderous crimes.

I will be reaching out to this guy and showing him this letter and asking him how he feels about having been bff with a serial killer. This guy is a PHD in Psych, so it will be really interesting to hear his perspective on Swango and all that unfolded about him.

I find it interesting that Swango points out that homicides were being committed by him while he was friends with Orme.

[youmightaswell]

LIVE

Strawberry Soup

This year my goal was to try to make assorted recipes from the 1400-page-tome The NYT Essential Cooking cookbook. 

My first recipe is: Strawberry Soup

[youmightaswell]

The Similarities and Differences Between Michael Swango and Bryan Kohberger

I have been holding off on writing about this since my phone conversation with serial killer Michael Swango last week. While I have permission to write his thoughts, I have been waiting for a letter or email of his thought so I could take direct quotes from him. Mail is slow and Swango is not super fast about getting snail mail or emails out, so for now I will put my and his thoughts down here and then amend or add when I get his actual in-writing information.

And of course, we all know Swango was convicted of four murders and admits to more than 60, while Kohberger has said he hasn’t done anything wrong and has not had a trial yet. So for now this is just an exercise Swango and I did, based only on what we know about Kohberger so far, assuming that he is indeed the perpetrator of such murderous misdeeds. I’m not going to type in “alleged killer” over and over, so please keep “alleged” in mind when reading below. Also, please note when writing on my personal Tumblr I do not proof or edit, so there will be typos. 

Swango and I (and I think we can all agree) that anyone who can kill so callously, seemingly without reason, is a sociopath/psychopath. In order for that to make sense you’d need to understand the characteristics of one. https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/antisocial-personality-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20353928

A person with antisocial personality disorder does not need to have ALL the characteristics but would have many. I’m not a psychologist. 

When I first started my Letters from the Inside project one of my requirements was to only write to those who had high IQs. Both Swango and Kohberger had advanced degrees and were academics. While Swango was an actual doctor, Kohberger studied psychology and immersed himself in criminology, going so far as applying for a police internship before the murders, hoping to assist law enforcement in technological profiling. Swango immersed himself in both the EMT community and the medical one.

Both are remembered as being “odd” by other students.

Both Swango and Kohberger would seem to be glib – Swango is known for his (superficial) charm and while we haven’t heard Kohberger being charming, we did hear him say a few very glib things like when asked why he had gone into Idaho he said, “The shopping is better in Idaho.” He also allegedly used famed serial killer Gacy line when arrested, asking if anyone else was arrested.

Another characteristic is addiction or compulsive behavior – Kohberger was said to have once had a heroin addiction. Swango, had a mother with severe alcoholism and he even wrote to me about how this upset him while he was growing up. Another compulsion they both seemed to share is that Kohberger was a strict vegan and described by his relatives as requesting them buy new pans that never touched meet. Kohberger has reportedly been overweight and bullied and now appeared compulsive about staying slim and watching what he eats. Swango used to drop down and do exercise in class, becoming the butt of fellow students’ jokes. He was reportedly a food hoarder, keeping tons of rotting sandwiches under his bed.

Swango told me he had boundless energy throughout his killing days. He could work a 12-hour shift at the hospital or even a double and then stay up all night. It was reported Kohberger also was up all night, oftentimes vacuuming at 1am and going out all night driving.

I think a major difference between the two is that Swango was known to be very good looking and was quite a ladies man, juggling several women at a time. It appears, at least for now, that Kohberger did not have an significant others at the time of the murder and so far no one from his past has seemed to come forward discussing how he was in an intimate relationship. There have been jusa few friends, students and one Tinder date he had who came forward so far. 

Swango believes that he and Kohberger share a similar reason for their seemingly random killings: Both were narcissists who got an almost orgasmic (not necessarily a sexual charge) feeling of being the smartest person in the room for even a brief period of time. While Swango says very clearly he did not specifically target people he had feelings about – such as anger or jealously – he only killed or poisoned people out of opportunity. It was about the glee he felt being able to try to get away with someone under others’ noses. He believes Kohberger shared this sense of glee and overinflated sense of intelligence and cunning.

Swango was clearly a serial killer and he said his first inklings of it were at the start of college. While we have no idea if Kohberger has committed anything else and not gotten caught, I think it is pretty safe to say he may have done this again if not caught.

Swango entered the military prior to med school and Kohberger’s yearbook says he, “Wants to use his skills to become Army Ranger someday.”

Another difference is that Swango had trouble with the law prior to killing. He was arrested for poisoning EMTs long before he ever was arrested for murdering patients. It appears Kohberger had a clean arrest record. Swango also falsified documents to get his medical license, jobs, etc. So far we see no evidence of Kohberger ever lying, being deceptive, etc.

This is only the start. In the next year I’m sure more and more will be revealed about Kohberger leading to a trial. I’m interested in hearing what Swango has to say about himself and Kohberger as well.

Generally, l I feel it’s noteworthy that I am in a rather unique position to have direct access to an infamous serial killer to weigh in on this topic. It’s pretty unique to be able to call someone who had perpetrated diabolical crimes on the scale of Kohberger’s (obviously Swango’s were more numerous that Kohberger’s.)

***

This just came in from Swango:

The   IDAHO   suspect  MUST  begin  with  a  famous                quote   that   KNOW   you've   seen.  To  paraphrase:

                "He   who   stares   into   the   ABYSS   must   be   careful                     that   the   ABYSS  does   not   stare    into   him."

                 WHEN   you   find   the   exact   quotation   and   author                    PLEASE  send   it   to   me.  Thanks.

                   I   want   to   say   NIETZSCHE   but   not   sure.  John                   Douglas   used   it  in  one   of   his   FBI  BSU   profiler                    books.   I  believe   the   IDAHO   suspect  became  SO                    fasinated  by   criminology   that   he   FELL   INTO                     the   ABYSS.   Unfortunately,  he   apparently  forgot                     EVERYTHING   he   had   learned   about   DNA/  cameras/                      cars/ etc.     Will  try   to   write   more,   but   that   is   the                       gist.  

This just came in from Swango (updated: 1/10/23)

Few more points on the

“differences” you queried: After “falling into the abyss”, our young PhD student (Apparently) METICULOUSLY PLANNED the IDAHO crime. And as mentioned, DESPITE his knowledge and planning, made numerous fatal errors.

            With  a   few   notable   exceptions (i.e., the  dentist/              doctor),  DR.  X   [EDITOR NOTE: Swango calls himself Dr. X] acted  randomly   based  on   current              situation   and   conditions.   Blink   of   an   eye.              Permission   to   use   info   and/or   name.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

NBD, spent part of the afternoon talking on the phone to infamous serial killer Michael Swango about the difference/similarities between him and Bryan Kohberg.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

The Angelina of India

[NOTE: I decided to do a throwback travel story from 2008 when I spent three weeks in India, touring Goa on a scooter. Hilarity ensued.]

Aside from the fact that everywhere we went men wanted to take pictures of or with us and ask us about ourselves, a life-changing event occurred in India that made me feel like Angelina Jolie must at times.

I tell Stef that because of her idea to do this she will owe me money for at least 15 years of therapy.

I’ve traveled to many faraway places with Stef and the one thing that annoys the shit out of me is her idiosyncracies around food. For example, when we were on a small island off the coast of Venezuela, instead of ordering the common rice/beans/chicken she would terrorize unsuspecting waiters by asking for things like creme brulee and broccoli. And then look to me to convey what she wanted in Spanish. To them, I was a douchebag by association. Que buena!

So when we got to India we were in an area with rows of restaurants. Of course, Indian restaurants. We sat down and she complained saying she wants REAL Indian food. I replied, “Stef, an elephant just went walking by on its own. This is as real as it gets.” Then she insisted we go to the Italian restaurant. In INDIA! [She complained about the risotto there and was annoyed they didn’t understand what cappucino was.]

We were on the beach and she told me that when she was in Indonesia there were people who’d take you to their homes and prepare an authentic meal and teach you how to cook it. After the cooking lesson you sat down with them and ate it. Sounds fun, right?

So Stef got the brilliant idea that we could offer one of the poor women on the beach who hawked pens and did nails money to invite us to her house to cook us a dinner.

The plan seemed to work fine when Stef got the girl who did our nails on the beach to do it.

Her name is Kamla and she is 24 with 4 kids. She got married [arranged] at 15. The other women on the beach also have the same stories. Only one says she likes her husband. The rest—not so much.

So there was much to orchestrate to make this happen. First, Kamla leaves the beach daily at 6pm to take a bus to Mapusa which on scooter should be about 30 minutes. In the bus, about an hour and a half. We nixed the bus idea right quick and offered to pay to have someone take her on scooter and we’d follow on our own.

Keep in mind we were on our own rented two-dollar-per day motorbike. When I asked for a helmit they hemmed and hawed and finally gave me a football helmit—held together with duct tape. Did I mention the brakes on it worked only sometimes? And more so, Stef and I had gotten into a near-fatal motorcycle accident just a year before leaving Stef with two metal rods in her arms and me with a fucked up jaw.

 The sun began to set and we followed. And followed. And followed. Women there sit side sadle on the backs of bikes, saris flowing in the breeze. Even sitting properly and holding on for dear life I thought I was going to die.

Finally (!) we got there. But there was about to change my life. About 25 little kids ran out and surrounded us, some scared, some fascinated, so wanting to touch us. They had never seen a white person. These were poor kids from Karnaktka who came with parents to Goa for the tourist season so the families could make money to bring home during the rainy season. We were taken to Kamla’s “home”. It was a 9X9 room with a dirt floor, stone walls, rigged electricity to handle a small light and tv. No refrigerator, no running water. There was a small hot plate and just enough room for 4 people to squat on the floor. At night they slept, sans bed, all four (2 kids and parents) on the floor huddled together. Bugs crawled about. Rice was left on the floor. Dirt, bugs, squalor. Christ!

We could NOT eat here. Yet, we were.

In India I overpaid for everything. On purpose. I figured that as a good deed and holiday charity, I’d give to the poor. I offered to pay Kamla her month’s rent for the meal. She seemed pleased. My stomach did not.

As we sat on the floor tons of kids lined up at the door to get a glimpse. It was a bit overwhelming, but fascinating. There was mass chaos; Stef just sat on her Blackberry texting a friend, trying to remove herself from the situation. I had no option but to engage and so I sat teaching the mass of kids the ABC song and counting. They were really eager and smart.

When they got too loud and buzzed around us like bees, I turned up the music and got them all to dance. I’d scream “Dance Party” and show them and then everyone would start to wiggle. So fun!

Meanwhile Kamla was preparing the meal. Grinding vegetables into the dirty floor, putting rice bugs had crawled on into the pot.

I couldn’t meet Stef’s eyes. I could tell she was about to FREAK OUT!

I was glad I chose to wear pants and a shirt as opposed to a little summer dress. I knew they didn’t look kindly upon women who exposed skin and I was happy to be covered to avoid bites from malaria-ridden mosquitos.

Then she served the “chicken”. This is a word Stef and I promised to NEVER say to each other again. It was jet black and floated in a red water. This was NOT chicken. It was fiberous and had white strings in it. It was less appetizing than eating rat.

I could not put that in my mouth. Stef started chewing hers, all eyes on her and when no one was looking spit it out into her bread. Not a very good plan overall. I, instead, decided to appear selfless and feed the meat to the small boy who never gets it because the “chicken” is too expensive. He appreciated it and so did I. Not a morsel touched my lips.

I did eat the rice and couldn’t avoid eating the sauce. She made lentils with vegetables which tasted good but knowing where it all had been freaked me out. She made a salad too but we declined trying to explain that raw veggies were not good for Westerners.

Considering they had no running water and even the best running water in India was toxic, we declined drinks also when handed warm water. It was not from a bottle.

The biggest trauma of the night was after the dinner. My stomach was rumbling and it was all I could do to not throw up in their scant square. I asked to use the bathroom. What was I thinking. I was brought out in the pitch black to a gate. Out in the open it was a square area, mud and shit on the ground (HUMAN!), no hole. Two girls, no bathroom came to mind.

Basically I’d have to squat admidst other people’s shit in order to at least pee. Why had I worn pants again? I might have considered peeing had I been wearing a skirt. Better to pee on my own feet than to attempt a move of pulling down long pants, underwear and squatting in the dark trying to avoid flies, bugs and other’s shit.

She stood there with me watching. WTF?

Finally I told her I couldn’t do it.

The big problem was that I had to pee so badly and the thought of going on the scooter for a long bumpy journey was horrifying. We hightailed it out of there, very much worse for wear and tried to figure out how to get back to Candolim.

It was only then that we discovered our ghetto scooter pretty much had no headlight. So there we were, stomachs churning, my bladder about to burst, cows crossing our road paths in the dark, lost, far from anything even remotely touristy with no light.

At one point I think Stef and I were aboutready to stop and just cry.

But, we made it back, an hour later. We showered like ten times each, peed and I pretty much Purelled my whole body.

We couldn’t laugh about it yet. It was too new. Comedy is tragedy plus TIME. We needed TIME.

A few nights later we tried to tell new friends of our experience.

I still can’t say the word “chicken” without getting nauseous. Stef owes me BIG TIME! But I also owe Kamla and those kids for giving me a heartwarming experience that I will never forget. The joy these kids had in their faces, having so little else reminds me that each day is a gift. Although, the chicken, well, that is another story.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Resort Karen

One of my favorite things about travel, aside from the organizing of a trip, is the stories one gets from being thrust into different places with random people. Airports and hotels are great peoplewatching spots and even something as seemingly benign as staying in one place for week, like at a resort, can be fascinating.

On vacation alone at a resort I typically get very into my own head. My thoughts seem magnified. I am more “me” while alone in a strange place, than anywhere else. And much like with reality tv, when in a strange place, not knowing anyone and having limited access to tv, sometimes one creates a narrative to keep themselves entertained or gets involved in conflict. I have the most fabulous and creative time with myself while traveling. 

I joked with friends before leaving to the Viceroy Riviera Maya  -- my fave resort ever -- that I was going on my The White Lotus trip. Both seasons of The White Lotus take place in tony, luxury resorts in tropical places. The Viceroy could easily be the set of one of these seasons. Extremely high end, with just 40 villas, it is a great peoplewatching spot because there are so few people you easily figure out what everyone’s deal is almost immediately.

And just like The White Lotus, I’ve come to realize over years of travel, every good vacation needs a nemesis. Every story needs a great antagonist. 

Enter: Resort Karen -- the most brilliant moniker I have ever coined.

###

A bit about resorts in general and the Viceroy in particular. Most resorts, even nice ones, tend to be crowded and guests tend to have to get up early to snag a lounge chair by the pool or beach in a good spot. Usually the way to “hold” a prime-spot chair is to put a towel on it. So not only is it a big pet peeve of mine to be staying at a hotel that only doles out a few beach towels per person and rations them, but an even bigger peeve is that on vacation, when one is meant to not have any chores at all and just relax, one would find themselves getting up at sunrise just to be sure to snag a good chair for the day.

I have written about this concept many times and writer Kelly Oxford said it best in her own vacation essay, explaining it by shouting: TOWELS EQUAL POWER. Towels are to cigarettes as resorts are to prison.

But one of the reasons I keep coming back to the Viceroy, year after year, even though it is the priciest place I ever stay, is because not only is the road paved with towels, but there are only a handful of guests at any given times and more than enough prime-area beach and pool chairs. Also there is no fee for a cabana like in most places. You can usually saunter onto the beach at any time, no matter how late, and get a cabana on the beach with no problem.

It truly is one of the only places in the world I can relax.

But, again, enter: Resort Karen

###

The first afternoon I got in late so quickly unpacked and headed to the pool for my first marg and guac. I looked around sizing up the other guests, but it was latish so not many people were around. 

The next morning I headed to the beach and the cabana boy set up two chairs on the lonely beach, just steps from the ocean. I always ask for one in the sun and one with an umbrella for shade so I can bounce between both all day. 

There are a row of really nice, shade-laden cabanas behind the row of beach chairs but I typically don’t take them because I like an unobstructed view of the beach and like to have both sun and shade. The regular lounge chairs can easily be moved to track the movement of the sun, but the cabanas are in a fixed state.

However, on that first day at the beach the cabana boy alerted me there were intense winds so no beach umbrellas could be put up. He asked if I wanted the cabana behind me set up and I said I’d wait to see just how sunny it’d be. 

Within two hours the sun was directly overhead and the manager came out and introduced himself to me. He said he was having the cabana set up behind me as a convenience seeing they could not use umbrellas that day. I thanked him profusely. He said to keep both my sunny beach chair and shady cabana. He mentioned the resort was only 50 percent full (That’s less than 35 people) so every guest could easily have one for shade.

I hadn’t yet gone into the cabana but was about to, when a very loud, fleshy blonde woman stomped down from a beachfront villa to the cabana and started throwing my towels on the sand. 

She started yelling for a cabana boy saying she wanted him to set up the cabana for her. 

Just a few feet from her and incredulous, I smiled and explained I would be sitting there - that the manager had just personally set it up for me, but that the empty cabana next to it was indeed free. She started yelling that it was HER cabana and that she had the villa behind it. (Note: This is not how things work. No one villa is attached to any specific cabana. There are more than enough to go around.)

I explained that the cabanas didn’t belong to specific villas, but the one next to her was totally free. The cabana boy explained I was already in that cabana but offered to set up the one two feet from it. She demanded a manager! (Now you can see how brilliant this moniker I came up with for her is!) I sat quietly in my cabana watching the “tv show” unfold before my eyes. I had found my vacay nemesis. I was indeed living The White Lotus life if you substitute “cabana” for the “Pineapple Suite”. Three different levels of management came to explain to Resort Karen (RK) that no cabana belonged to any specific villa or guest but there were currently five empty ones, one just two feet from the one she wanted. 

(Actual pic I snapped in real time of RK)

They set it up for her, she huffed, her very much old, rich boyfriend joined her with his laptop oblivious of her tantrum. 

She loudly begun telling him I took her cabana. Again I smiled and explained calmly I didn’t even want a cabana -- the manager merely offered it because they were not allowed to put up the beach umbrellas for safety reasons in such strong wind. She shouted she could not hear me and that she didn’t have time for me and this.

She stomped away in a big huff and she and the boyfriend left the cabana that was just made up for them. It sat empty the rest of the day.

It’s noteworthy to  mention: RK was staying in the most expensive villa at the resort to the tune of $2K per night -- and that didn’t include fees for all-inclusive food and drinks which would be another $350 per day for the couple. It came with it’s own beachfront pool and sun/shade area as well. 

That night the harsh wind continued. I went to the beach to eat at the casual restaurant (there is another fancier one that is fully indoors)  because they were hosting a Mexican street food night. I initially sat at a table on the sand but it was too windy. I opted to sit at the bar all the way to the far corner out of the wind and out of sight of all the couples dining at tables. I ordered a drink and waited for the street food tasting menu to begin. There was one empty seat to my right and the rest of were taken with those who had the same idea as me -- to take refuge from the wind. 

As my first course came out, so did Resort Karen, wearing an ill-fitting, tummy baring number. She sat at a table and immediately stood up screeching it was too windy. 

She went to the seat next to  me but there was no extra seat for her bf. She complained she wanted my seat so she could sit out of the wind with her boyfriend. The bartenders just stared at her. She was shown back to the windy table. 

Once again, RK was just a few minutes too late. 

I was tickled by observing RK. Just everything about her is exactly how you’d imagine a character by that name. The hairstyle, the heavy walk and fleshiness, the pitch of her voice...  I was fascinated.

Fun Fact: If you follow multi-tiered marketing maven from Rodan and Fields Sarah Robbins, RK looks like a less glam version of her. Funner Fact: I hate-follow Sarah Robbins for the exact reason I am so fascinated with RK. 

I love to hate-read and hate-watch (Lena Dunham, I’m looking at you!) so there is a certain pressing-of-a-bruise feeling I enjoy. There should be a German word for this feeling. A Schadenfreude, but the enjoyment of one’s own discomfort. A sort of masochistic schadenfreude.

As the night progressed, a few people left the bar area and this super nice British couple who had just arrived sat next to me at the bar and started asking me about the menu. I explained I had been to this resort many times and told them how it worked. They were so very nice. 

###

The next morning I was out to watch the sunrise and saw the coveted cabana RK wanted had already been set up and reserved with her stuff. Fair enough - she got up early to snag it or more likely paid the cabana boy to do so. 

But as the day progressed, she never used it. Other guests would come and try to find a cabana, but hers sat unused. She simply wanted no one else to have it. How fucking petty! 

Later, the woman of the British couple I had met the night before stopped to say hello and asked me if I had every seen The White Lotus. She explained her and her husband kept saying this resort was exactly like it and they felt thrust, somehow, into the third season. I laughed and said I had been saying  that to people all week! I added that there was indeed a super interesting White Lotus-esque character in our midst as well and quickly gave her the rundown of RK’s antic. Turns out the British woman had heard RK’s screech earlier.

So now it was on -- we were keeping tabs on RK and loving it. We were living for getting tipsy on spicy margs and even spicier resort gossip. 

Later I went to float in the pool and RK was at the bar yelling into her cellphone. She went over to a beach lounger by me and put down her HUGE leather Fendi bag. She never sat down on the lounger, but again, seemed to just want to claim it. She was ushered off to her spa appointment a few minutes later. 

That night the Brits and I didn’t see RK, but the next morning, once again, the coveted cabana was made up and reserved for her and again, I was angsty all day, watching it remain empty. At this point the Brits were all anxious as well. How could one woman be so entitled and spiteful? 

The following day was my time to leave but the Brits were staying on for several more. We bid our goodbyes and the British lady said she’d let me know if anything else happened involving RK. 

Sad to be leaving a “show” without seeing it’s finale, I hopped on my plane and began my post-vacay depression.

Imagine my surprised the next morning when I got a series of IG DMs from the lovely Brit. She explained RK put on quite a show that past night: She had showed up to the fancy restaurant with her quietly elegant boyfriend and loudly kept ordering rum and cokes until she had to be literally carried out by her boyfriend for creating a scene and knocking down tables! The following morning more drinks were delivered to RK’s villa and the cabana was again set up with her stuff but never used. 

She was last seen in the pricey gift shop buying a super expensive purse. 

###

We had speculated that if RK had a job, she’d be in HR. Work Karen could easily morph into Resort Karen on vacay. 

And as with The White Lotus, a vacation show is only as interesting as the locals. I have already written about Gume, a local who worked giving guests massages. 

One could only imagine that if my trip had been a season of The White Lotus, RK would have ended up dead. Perhaps she would have found out that Gume was the best masseuse and she’d have stomped over reserving her for the duration of her trip so no one else could benefit from her caring massages. But perhaps, RK would be just a little too demanding, screaming for Gume to rub harder and deeper and an unfortunate massage-related accident would happen, culminating in RK’s demise.

Not wanting anyone to find out, perhaps Gume would bury RK under her beloved cabana, never to be seen again...

[youmightaswell]

LIVE

Gume

Before I get to my “Resort Karen” – the most brilliant moniker I’ve ever coined -- I want to share another little tidbit from my recent resort vacay in Mexico.

Because I’ve been there so many times I have a distinct routine. For me, routine and planning and listmaking are all more exciting than a trip itself. I love ritual.

The minute I get to my resort I unpack, shower and put on a swimsuit to sit and have a marg and guac at the pool. I arrive latish – around 2:30pm so by the time I’m out there it’s nearly 4pm. I sit for about an hour taking in the atmosphere.

Then the next morning I’m up super early to watch the sun rise at the beach, drink an extra foamy decaf and size up the guests as they each hit the pool and beach areas for breakfast.

As soon as I have done that I always go on the hunt for the person who will be my massage person. The hotel’s massages are $220 for 50 minutes which is insane. And they aren’t done on the beach. So I go to one of several nearby, beach setups for one. They are usually $35 for an hour (this year it was $40). I have found that if I pick one person and tell them I will be there everyday for four or five days, they will reserve a spot for me and give me a discount or extra time. This time the first woman who approached me and handed me her card was Gume. She is an older woman (late 50s) than most of the workers. I told her I’d be there every day at 3pm and she agreed to give me the $60 deep tissue massage for 40 and tack on an extra 10 minutes each time. A great deal!

The first day her granddaughter did the massage. She was fine, but I wanted someone more seasoned. The consecutive days I got Gume herself. Little by little I heard her story. Her young and very pretty teen granddaughter had worked super heard and earned a scholarship to the premiere ballet school and school for performing arts in NYC. They were both leaving Mexico and moving to NYC in September. The granddaughter would be fine – she’d get a great dorm room in Greenwich Village, she speaks perfect English and would make friends/get a job, etc.

But Gume was super scared. She doesn’t speak English, will only have a tourist visa so needs to be super careful about finding work. She has no idea how to find a place to stay for four years in expensive NYC.

I can’t imagine how hard it would be to uproot my life in my late 50s and head to a new country where I didn’t speak the language and try to navigate such an expensive world. But her granddaughter’s mother is out of the pic so Gume is willing to do anything to ensure that she has a great life.

We talked about aging, money, etc. I told her I had no idea how an immigrant with a tourist visa navigates finding a job and apartment, but that there is a big Mexican and bigger hispanic community in NYC. I suggested she try to find some who are working here in restaurants, laundromats, salons and ask for advice. Perhaps some have a roommate situation or can help her navigate getting supplements from the City and State. I have her my email address and said right before she arrives I’d put her in touch with my Venezuelan housekeeper who did all this 23 years ago.

If the Viceroy is indeed The White Lotus, the narrative is only as strong as the locals’ stories. While hate-watching Resort Karen flitter about having tantrums and screaming into her cellphone, the really captivating part of my trip was learning about Gume’s personal story.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Float like a butterfly, get stung by a bee

One of the things I like most about travel, whether it be a trip to explore a new city or a vacation simply to stay at the hotel (and eat there daily The White Lotus-style), is the stories I get. Sometimes they are truly noteworthy; sometimes just tiny little oddities from peoplewatching. But these special, one-of-a-kind memories add something a bit special to any travel.

Airports and hotels are great places to be voyeuristic. Peoplewatching is next-level when thrust into the wilds, surrounded by people from all different places.

This trip was no different. Of course there was yet ANOTHER noteworthy happening involving a BEACH CABANA. But I will save that for my next post. Those following me on IG know I have been posting stories (and Kartoons) about someone I like to call, “Resort Karen”. More on that later.

For now I will tell you the very minor thing that happened to me while staying at the Viceroy Riviera Maya, my favorite resort in the world that I’ve been to, which I go to yearly. It’s my one big splurge trip. The costliest, yet shortest, and the most relaxing.

Last year the noteworthy thing that happened involved The Worry Doll they put under my pillow. If you need a link to that story in case you don’t remember, let me know and I’ll find the link. In short: A worry doll is a little doll you put under your pillow who you tell your stressors to and supposedly it will take them from you so you can sleep better.

Serendipitously, as I was on the at trip last year, writer Kelly Oxford sent out her newsletter, Permanent Retrograde, and in it was an essay about her own trip and it mentioned a worry doll. I found it noteworthy, because, coincidentally, a few years before while on vacation in Vegas I had her book of essays with me and while at the pool worried about securing the perfect lounge chair, I came across her essay about her being in Vegas and worrying about the same. She said, “Towels equal power”, explaining that at any resort the more towels you have, the more power you have to save good seats.

Anyway, this trip there was no Kelly Oxford continuity, although she did send out a newsletter.

But what did happen that I found noteworthy in involved my pool float, which I bring with me on every trip. This particularly float, a lime-shaped and colored one, you may remember reading about in my essay about my trip two years ago to Turks and Caicos called, When Life Hands you a Lemon Float… (again if you don’t remember and want to read it, let me know and I’ll find the link). In short, that T&C cabana was magical and a portal to hell. The year prior an old man literally slept in it so no one else could have it. I went out day after day trying to snag it because it is the best one on the resort, and I was always too late. One night I went out at 4am and he was literally sleeping in it. The next year that same cabana was mine the whole trip but someone had left two floats in it: a lime one and a lemon one. The lemon one mysteriously disappeared and I was left wondering if I had imagined it, if it was stolen, or if the Universe gifted me with it to fuck with me. Anyway, the lime one remained and I took it home with me. It now comes on every trip with me.

This vacation I used it to float alone in the huge and empty resort pool. One of my fave things about the Viceroy is with just 40 villas it is never crowded.

I am always anxious on trips (thankfully a worry doll was once again left under my pillow), left alone to have too much time in my head. I was floating around, using my hands as paddles, wondering what weird and noteworthy thing would happen this trip. I thought back to 2011 while on a trip to the Hamptons and how that was the trip I got the tick bite that changed my life for the worse. I got Lyme and have never been the same and live in constant pain. Then a few years ago, back to the Hamptons, I got a mosquito bite that lead to me getting West Nile Virus, spending over a week in the hospital with meningitis. Why was nature always trying to harm me?

As I was thinking this and floating around aimlessly, I felt this excruciating pain in my hand. At first I thought I somehow got a splinter from touching the edge of the pool, but when I looked there was a black, winged insect sticking out of my hand. It didn’t look like a bee and the pain was so searing, it was much worse than what I imagined a bee sting would be like. I had never gotten a bee sting in all my 52+ years and always wondered if I would be allergic. Would my throat close? Would this be where I die? I love this place so much I was almost ok with that.

I got out of the pool, stinger still in my hand, and showed the bar staff. They said they believed it was a small bee because lately there were a bunch by the edge of the pool because some of the flowers there had nectar they seemed to love. I got the stinger out with my nail and my hand quickly swelled like a balloon. They brought me ice and I told them if for some reason I did have an allergy, that I had an epi-pen in my room so to please run there before calling the ambulance.

Thankfully, I was not allergic. I sat with ice on my hand the rest of the day and by the following all was fine.

I saw the insect I had killed floating in the pool and staff identified it as a tiny bee. Later while recovering on my lounge chair by the ocean, I saw another, bigger bee, by my foot. I took my shoe and killed it just to alert all others not to even try it. I wanted all bees to know who the real pod boss (hive boss? queen bee?) was in this place.

For 52 years bees and I have had a truce, but now that one made the first move, it was ON!

[youmightaswell]

LIVE

Found the perfect silk Versace pillow to sit upon my Versace couch (formerly owned by Mike Tyson): 

[youmightaswell]

Die

PROLON: The PRO-lons and CON-lons of doing the 5-day fast

At the beginning of this week [Ginger Snap] and I started on our five-day Prolon medical fast journey. She has done it before and detailed it on her diary recently. Go there to learn more about her previous experiences with Prolon.

Basically it is a five-day fast consisting of soups, teas, crackers, olives and bars. It is supposed to reset your system, detox and hopefully make you lose a few pounds. Because she did it post-chemo and felt it lift her brainfog, I thought it might be good for me. I suffer from a post-Lyme immune disorder. The auto-immune disease I have is very painful; my own body attacks my body - mostly my nerves and brain.

The first day actually gives you a lot of food. There are bars, olives, amazing kale crackers, etc. I felt fine. The second day drastically reduces the amount you consume. It is replaced by a liquid supplement you add to water or tea.

A bit about the food: The bars – chocolate and breakfast bars – are tasty. The teas are regular herbal varieties: spearmint, spearmint lemon and hibiscus. The soups in the original version are: Minestrone, Minestrone Quinoa, Tomato and Vegetable. I found the taste of the Minestrone good, but the ones with quinoa were difficult. They required 15 minutes of cooking to soften the quinoa but then the soup would get thick and pasty. The quinoa remained sort of hard. These soups are very artificial tasting – basically like old-school Cup o’Soup. I hated the tomato because it tasted like watery tomato sauce. I also disliked the Vegetable because the freeze-dried veggies never got soft.

However, my kit gave me four bonus soups so I could switch out any I didn’t like and try new flavors. Out of those the black bean was amazing. It also came with mushroom soup and squash. The squash was the blandest.

[Ginger Snap] had said she found all the soups rather flavorless so she spiced them up with Old Bay Seasoning (this is allowed). I didn’t feel the need to spice any up except the squash. I used Togarashi.

You are allowed one large iced decaf or hot coffee per day. I put my Prolon liquid supplement in my iced decaf. That comes in two flavors: Berry or Orange. Both were fine but tasted fake. The coffee helped drown out the flavor.

By the end of the second day I was weak and ditzy. It didn’t help that I chose that day to clean out a closet, which sounds like it wouldn’t be taxing, but was. It took me nearly eight hours to take everything out, try everything on, get rid of two huge pages of stuff and then replace and fold things into the closet. I was exhausted and couldn’t get my thoughts together properly. (I still have piles of stuff in my living room that do not fit in the closest. I needed to order more hangers and also need to clean out the next closet in the hopes I can find room in there for the errant clothing. Sadly, I did not have the energy to tackle that while on the fast.)

By that night I had massive cravings. All I could think about was things I love: Indian Curry, chocolate cake, and pasta. Oddly, I began craving things I don’t even like: McDonald’s (I don’t eat this), grilled cheese…

My body was in so much pain – every joint and muscle hurt and I felt inflammation everywhere – that I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t really hungry. I was just in pain. I think this is unusual. [Ginger Snap] never experienced any pain at all. So I think this is specific to my own immune issues.

By Day 3 – your food is even more drastically reduced – I was confused, weak and in even more pain. I am stubborn though. I researched and it said if you are really starving you can have a cucumber or stalk of celery. I had celery with salt. On this day [Ginger Snap] said all her brain fog lifted, she had energy and clarity. I didn’t.

By the end of the third day I was no longer hungry. I was obsessed with watching food on IG, tv and reading cookbooks, but really had no appetite. I was super depressed. Food is one of the things that makes me the happiest and without it I was sad. My body felt a bit better but still hurt.

On the fourth day I laid low. I wished I could have olives on the kale crackers but you only get both the first day. I was fine, but still sad and achy.

[Ginger Snap] was working, standing on her feet for four hours and seemed fine.

By this time what I noticed is my face looked GREAT. My face looked thin and angular. My stomach was totally debloated. I’m relatively thin, but all my weight is in my mid-section. It was still not thin but definitely not poofy.

I was still the same size but my clothing felt better.

I went to visit a friend and we happened upon an Auntie Anne’s in a mall. It’s one of my favorite things and something I only get access to at the airport on certain flights. I always load up on pretzel bites dipped in caramel sauce and an almond pretzel. It’s one of the thrills of flying!

Anyway, I was shocked there was one in the WTC mall and was so sad I could not have any. I nearly cried thinking of the watery pasty soup that awaited me. It also didn’t help that NYC got a cold front and I was freezing 24/7. All I could do was obsess over Auntie Anne’s. (I still am.)

Yesterday was the last day. I had a big writing assignment and couldn’t get my thoughts together. I also had to go out in the cold and walk a long way to do an errand. I was miserable. Every step hurt. My joints were on fire.

By last night I was in so much pain – not hungry at all though– I ate a small tin of octopus. It was 150 calories with no sugar or carbs so I knew I’d still be in ketosis and it wouldn’t disrupt the 800 calories for that day that much. It took a while but I felt a bit better.

The fast advises the day you break your fast – Day 6 today – to eat light and clean to ease back into normal eating. I ordered an egg white veggie omelette and added half and half to my iced decaf. About an hour after eating I started feeling a bit more rejuvenated. I am still achy but definitely more animated. I plan on eating a spaghetti squash with tomato sauce for lunch and probably more eggs and veggies for dinner. I was craving protein all day yesterday so assume my body needs it.

Prolon suggests doing it once a month for three months. I was planning on doing it the first week of December before my trip to Mexico in mid-Dec because I want to be thin in my bikini and will eat a ton of amazing things on that trip. I also wanted to detox after Thanksgiving gluttony. However, now I’m unsure I can do that so soon.

I’ll see how I feel eating normally for the next week before I decide.

[Ginger Snap] didn’t even feel the need to break the fast this morning. She just headed out with a fast bar and was fine. So I think everyone will have vastly different experiences. Or maybe I’m just completely defective.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

It’s All Glitchy 

This month everything seems to be glitchy.

My Nespresso machine stopped working so I assumed it was time to descale it. It had been over a year and I dread the descaling process. I did it once before and it was a nightmare. No matter how many times I tried the instructions it wouldn’t descale back in 2021. This time was no better. It would NOT descale. Finally I called the Nespress tech line and after a lengthy process they concluded it was wonky not because it even needed to be descaled, but because it was broken. This was a machine Yale gave me to me about three years ago when he upgraded. I had never had a machine to make coffee before but it fit perfectly in the tiny space in my kitchen. I am very, very opposed to change of any kind. So when they offered me 35% off a new machine, but alerted me they no longer made this version, I balked. So they said if I paid $65 they’d send me a box and I could mail it back and they’d fix it. Within a week it was back on my counter working perfectly. I know I am on borrowed time with it and just postponing the inevitable.

Likewise my landline (another relic) keeps dying. I just changed the battery last month so not sure why it isn’t working. I changed the battery again and it seems to have resuscitated it, but again, I know I’m on borrowed time. They no longer make this type of landline anymore either.

I changed my printer cartridge yet it keeps saying low ink and printing spotty pages. UGHHHHH!

It’s not even like Mercury is in Retrograde, so this is like my own personal retrograde hell.

And speaking of hell and being on borrowed time, the WORST thing happened this week. As you know I use a Blackberry Key2LE phone, because I like the keyboard. I cannot use a touchscreen and hate Apple products. This is like a Frakenphone in that it is on a Droid operatizing system and works exactly like a Droid, but has a Blackberry keyboard. I knew Blackberry would be ending so I bought two. They are quite expensive. Anyway, I’ve been using the same one for the last three years and quite happily. Lately it has been getting glitchy and stallingn but i figured it’s because Blackberry is defunct. Still, because it is on a Droid operating system, it still gets system updates; it just has no customer or tech service. I have (had) a GREAT cell phone store by me that sold and did service for all old Blackberry phones so I figured when this device died I just take my brand new in box on and have them transfer old to new.

However, I found out this week that store closed during the pandemic. After a long Google search there are no other dedicated cell stores that deal with older phones.

I lived in fear of what would happen when this one died. How would I get the new one turned on and all the stuff from my old one transferred? I am NOT tech savvy so googling did not help.

Anyway, the reason why Is started to care about all this is because this week I was at Marshall’s and found Pumpkin Spice Febreze (linen spray/refresher). I absolutely HATE fall and anything pumpkin spice scented but had never seen it so bought it. I stuck it in my huge tote with some candles, conditioner and epsom salt. AND MY PHONE. When I got home I realized everything smelled like Pumpkin Spice. The cap loosened and leaked all over the bag. My phone seemed okay until I started typing. Not only did it smell super strongly of Pumpkin Spice but three keys no longer worked: The K, I and R. This makes it nearly impossible to text or type.

Well, no one seems to know how to fix a Blackberry keyboard. I assume I can’t just pour alcohol on it to get under the keys and dissipate the stickness. I can’t risk fucking up the phone entirely and losing everything. At least the phone works. I just can’t type well on it. SoI set about trying to find someone, anyone to transfer the old phone’s date to the brand new-in-box version I had to no avail. I am in constant panic over this and am unsure what to do. Even if I wanted to get an iPhone I don’t know anyone who could transfer all my address contacts, pics, etc from the Blackberry to it.

And it certainly adds insult to injury that not only am I dealing with this tech-related stress, but I can’t stop smelling the cloying Pumpkin Spice scent. Every time I pick up my phone it wafts out of it.

I am truly in hell. Autumnal-scented hell. I’d say please shoot me, but the gun would probably stick and end up shooting my dog instead.

Oh, and my body is also glitchy. Saturday I woke with a migraine and by noon I had a fever and diarrhea, aches and no appetite. I’ve been sick for days. All Covid rapid tests are negative, although this morning I went to the kiosk on my block – did you know that in NYC there are free Covid PCR and rapid test kiosks on pretty much every other corner on major streets? – to get a PCR test. BECAUSE for the second time this month, I find out that I had dinner with someone with Covid. A few weeks ago a friend and I had dinner, sharing food, etc. He said he took a rapid test prior to coming because he knows I’m immunocompromised and it was negative. The next morning he was at urgent care super sick and tested pos for Covid. I assumed there’d be no way I would not catch it. But I did not. Yay! So I told this story to my lunch partner last week. Thankfully we had eaten outside together, but I regaled him with that story about how maybe I’m impervious to Covid. He said he has had it the year before so he wasn’t worried and didn’t get the new bivalent vax. (I did.) Anyway, after this weekend of feeling sick, he called me last night to tell me him and his wife tested pos and apparently he had had Covid when we ate lunch. So I assumed this weekend sickness I ‘ve had and all the weird bodily glitches these last few days was because I caught Covid from him. But again, all my tests are coming back negative. I just got a PCR which seems far more accurate so I’ll know in about 12 hours.

[youmightaswell]

LIVE

Another Kelly Oxford Parallel

You may remember that I wrote previously about how while in vacation in Vegas a few years ago I was sitting at the pool obsessing about getting enough towels to save good pool seats and was simultaneously reading Kelly Oxford’s first book of essays. I was shocked at the serendipity when I came across an essay about her sitting at a Vegas pool and coming to the epiphany that “TOWELS EQUAL POWER”. Two neurotic Kellys think alike!

Then more recently I was on a vacation in Mexico. I had just gotten a worry doll placed under my pillow by my tony resort and was thinking about how magical they seemed, while sitting at the pool. Just then a new Kelly Oxford essay dropped, this time in her newsletter Permanent Retrograde. In it she details that she is currently on vacation and it ends with her thinking about worry dolls. She had gotten one as a kid.

Again, serendipity!

So a few months ago Kelly put out a question on her Instagram. She wanted weird themes for her to create music playlists for. She does this often and makes playlists like: Playlist for getting my wisdom teeth extracted or playlist for finding out your dog has fleas.

I was in the throes of buying Mike Tyson’s Motherfucking Giraffe-Print Versace Couch so noted her: Playlist to buy Mike Tyson’s Giraffe-print Couch that doesn’t fit in your building’s elevator.

She didn’t respond, but I started thinking about songs that would go on it for me: Love in an Elevator, Momma Says Knock You Out…

Then yesterday Kelly posted a pic on IG of her own very odd couch, adding that it was so odd that when she bought it two years ago she had to ask her interior designer friends what type of rug would go with it. They said: Green shag. However she couldn’t find one – until now! Two years later!

Anyway, so two neurotic Kellys obsess over having enough hotel towels to put on chairs at the pool or beach to save a good spot, worry dolls and now extremely unusual couches.

HERS

MINE

BONUS:  Here’s a comment from Kelly to me about a lipstick she recommended that I bought: