The West is the Best? The West is the Best?

Alright, there's simply no point in putting this off any longer. I have to talk about it. There's, gulp, um, gasp (grips chest), see, kind of, maybe, well (falls to knees), there's this chance...that we may have to move to L.A. It's crazy even writing a thing like that. Now it's just out there: L.A. Two little letters to encompass incomprehensibly endless black ribbons of highway, sprawling white houses with red tile rooftops and people I don't know. Two little letters to explain what I'm not sure I can.

My husband is much clearer on all of this. A month ago he flew out to Angel-Town on something of a lark. An opportunity to scale the western face of the acting business popped up unexpectedly (in the way these things seem to do) and he decided to leap on it. We knew the minute he booked his ticket that he'd begun to shift the tectonic plates of our east coast life. The thing is, we've suspected for some time that he needs to be there. Blah, blah, the market here is so limited, there's so much more work out there, he fits in a few little type-y niches that might actually work in his favor on the sunnier side (multi-ethnic!, yay!). But more than all of that, in a way we couldn't quite articulate to each other before he left, we were somehow ignited by the idea of our lives being turned upside down. I didn't tell him at the time but I felt strangely amenable to the notion of an undeniable shift. Translation, if something happened, I might be up for it.

He was gone for two weeks. We didn't talk much about anything concrete while he was away. But I knew the day he drove the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu for the first time that he might be seeing L.A. as a real possibility. In honor of all the difficult conversations beating down our door I went right out, drank a night's worth of jumbo margaritas and went home sobbing in a cab at 3:00 a.m. The next morning I woke up resolved that he should go there and I should take some time to figure out what the hell I want to do.

I've never felt more sure that now is the time for him. It's partially cosmic, partially timing. Either way, he needs to be able to say he really went for it and I appreciate the value of that. It's more complicated for me. I haven't yet been able to romanticize L.A. to myself. Now, don't get me wrong. I can more than imagine Friday nights at Santa Monica pier and weekends hiking the hills. But my husband's got a hook, an angle, a reason to be there. I don't. Except for him. And while he's a big, important reason, he can't be my only reason or we'll be fucked. We just will.

So for the moment, we've decided he's gonna go. He'll spend the bulk of the summer there trying to rustle something up. We've also made a few other decisions. 1.) Nothing, nothing, NOTHING will ever be New York. We're accepting that and moving forward with the idea that everything we do will be in an effort to get back to our grubby, glittering gray goddess. 2.) The idea of never seeing what else is out there for us is way scarier than facing a world we don't understand.

I'm trying to be open to all the ways this could happen. If nothing else, my view of our current reality has begun to shift. I can't believe how immovable I've become. Thinking for a moment about living in a world where people wear shorts in March and meet each other through panes of car window glass, shop in shiny suburban grocery stores and eat avocados year round has gotten me pondering what is trash and treasure to me here. And that has to be a good thing.

So, onward and...westward? Well, at least I've started going blonde.

Away Message

This post is an homage to my beloved London, which I will visit for the last time as my company's on-staff whipping girl next week.

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My bizarre foray into the world of on-air spokesrepresentation at QVC has come to a close, which means the next time I wander through the gentle, perfect greenness of The Regents Park I will be a mere civilian.

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Sadly this does not mean I am finished for good. I continue to drift along aimlessly at this job, which is by now my own personal version of the embarassing co-dependent relationship I've had countless friends try and explain to me. It's a sandpit I can't seem to extricate myself from--one that has made me bitter and ungrateful for even such a splendid thing as weeks at a time spent in the glory of London's company. Well, if I can't yet figure out how I'm going to make the transition that validates this blog's existence, I'll at least take London back from the oily grip of obligation and make it mine again.

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See, my job has been sold off, along with anything and everything having to do with QVC, to another company. I've trained my replacement (a Midwestern-er Nora Dunn), and I'll actually be doing an official "hand off" to her on air, as if we were Couric and Viera. Naturally, I didn't plan for it to go at all this way. I'd planned a clean break, giving plenty of notice when I started school. But immediately after I began classes the company got a huge sales opportunity and, as the ink was not yet dry on the contract for the buyout, there was nobody else to do it but the ol' workhorse, the ol' lipstick queen, slinger of shellac, wheeler-dealer, buyout-broad...me. Translation, they kinda made me do it. I hemmed and hawed, I even went home and cried. It was one of the worst weeks of my life. Made worse by the fact that I utterly hated myself for agreeing to do it, for having so little backbone, for not liquidating that pathetic little 401k and walking the fuck out the door. But somehow I said yes. It's a complex web involving the fact that the people I work for are extremely maniupulative, I'm easily swayed when I feel obligated to something and, well, dammit I spent nearly three years building a molehill into a blessed mountain and wanted to see it through to the bitter end. Bitter, indeed.

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Even writing out the minutiae of this situation makes me feel slick with that oily residue. I mean, who gives a shit about sales opportunities? The bottom line is I don't want to spend the rest of my life making other people money. Period. So, I'm doing this trip and then...I don't know what. There is nothing left of my job except me answering phones here. Oh, and making coffee. I forgot the making coffee part.

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I haven't seen a street in London in the last three years. Not really. And lemme tell ya, I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere. But I have missed out on the delicate details: the shimmering green blades of grass in Hyde Park, the perfect edges of a box of Bond No. 9, the musty elegance of the Courtald collection, lacy spines of Parliament, coriander and chutney, Times at rush hour, clotted cream and brown sauce, all of it so rich with tradition and so hard to hold on to tightly because I was there on someone else's time.

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I've decided to make a trip this summer that is just for me. When I arrive I will not immediately unpack my straightening iron and line up all of my high heeled boots. I will not make a taxi reservation to take me to the studio. I will not sit on the edge of my bed and practice my "sell" to my reflection in the darkened tv screen. I will not call the office, check email, or look at any numbers. I will instead pack a bag with nothing in it. I will buy a scotch egg from Paul Rothe and Sons on Marlyebone Lane and eat it as I walk to The Barrow Boy and Banker pub at the end of the London Bridge, where I will spend an entire day drinking Chiswick Brown and watching everything thing I've missed.

I Will Have This Hair

Just as Germany wanted France in the first world war (I'm learning this!), I want this multi-dimensional, layered flaxen confection to be mine. I'm about to take a mid-term on the international levels of analysis for world conflict and instead of studying Paul Kennedy's "power perspective" I can't stop running my fingers over the mouse, urging it toward the Google icon to search for photos of Kate.

I've reached the part in the school year where I a.) think I am an ass-sucking dumb dumb who can't internalize concepts or structure a decent essay, b.) think all my professors think I am an ass-sucking dumb dumb who can't internalize concepts or structure a decent essay, and c.) fear that my academic pursuits will not be transformative but rather fruitless and (I can't think of a good word to go here. See? It's true!).

Since it's only noon and I'm sitting in an office in Midtown, I can't have a glass of wine. Even in this laissez-faire, ethics-free work environment a liquid lunch would be considered untoward. So, in times like these there is no better salve for the uncertain soul than perusing glossy photos of "newly curvy" models with my dream haircolor. I'm feeling like a decent grade might be elusive so instead I'll aspire to follicular light-headedness. I'll strive to be blonde.

I actually wrote an essay for class on this very subject last week: hair as a canvas, a place to make discoveries and declarations. It came back last night with the following comment: the piece was fun but the material uninspired. Well, shit. Back to Kate.

Uninspired, perhaps. Escapist, absolutely.

The endless reinvention continues.

What Recession?

R.I.P.

Money Tree (June 2008-February 2009)

This is actually our second-generation money tree. The first one officially killed itself when we moved into our new apartment. Who could blame it? What with the major rent increase, it just couldn't self-motivate to promote prosperity any longer.

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I bought this money tree immediately after because I'm totally superstitious and believe in shit like money trees. This one was lush and full, reaching and striving out if its little pot toward greatness. And then in January, as I was fretting my way through the Christmas holiday, preparing for school, obsessing over adult acne and downsizing, a little brown border slowly began to develop around its leaves. At first I came home to one, then two rigid crusty leaf remnants on the floor under the TV cabinet. I ignored it. I continued to play a relentless stream of morning NPR with its elevated recession talk and analysis. I poured more and more coffee. I applied more and more Retin-A. And then my face began to dry up too, peeling away, layer after layer, revealing a rippling map of arid wrinkles on either side of my brow. I eyed the money tree. Dry. Me. Dry. NPR. Dry.

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With each passing day the money tree surrendered another leaf or two. I found one on top of my American Poetry Anthology and yet another in a little crystal bowl of seashells. And each morning I'd wake up and gaze in the mirror to see myself peering out from under an onion skin, recessing too. The money tree must've shed its last leaf the same morning I woke up to NPR as my alarm, declaring, "Good morning. Nissan lays off 20,000, posting a loss of $8billion." The radiator steamed and clanged, sucking moisture out of the air. As I rose in the dark and stumbled into the living room, I saw the tree's skeletal, spiny trunk and branches laid bare on top of my bookshelf. I felt a short wave of despair rise and wash over me. 'This is it', I thought. The vapors of the recession had finally made their way up through our vents and floorboards that morning. It was really true. We had another suicidal money tree.

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I let it sit on top of the bookshelf for nearly a week, partly as a reminder of how dry we really were, partly because I hoped it could be revived. Finally, I stuffed the entire tree in its pot into the kitchen trashcan where it was kept company by Ramen wrappers and other evidence of the drought. In its place I now have a little rose plant featuring two delicate miniature red blooms. Its tag declares it a "love rose" plant. I've been nearly drowning it in water.

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I can deal with two suicidal money trees. But a love plant with a death wish would finish me off.

Learning Curve

Hola Chrysalis Comrades,

I've been thinking of you all over the last few weeks and missing my little blank Blogger box with all its fancy do-dads and formatting tricks. I've wanted nothing more than to fill the box full of bon mots in the small Georgia font I adore and tell you everything that occured to me as I sat in desks, in classrooms, in buildings, behind strangers.

But I've been filling notebooks instead.

I can't believe all the business involved in being a student. I have a packing list that now guides my morning preparations. Highlighter? Check. Student ID? Check. Homework? Homework? Did I actually ask myself that? Check. My husband has my class schedule and what nights he's responsible for dinner written out on a sticky note posted above the stove. We promised we'd never post those kinds of couple-y notes anywhere in our kitchen. Well, the days of verbal kitchen communication are over. Sticky notes and take-out abound.

I've made a couple of acquaintances. The sad news is that absolutely nothing about making friends is different at age thirty th...from the experience at age thirteen. You walk in, scan the room for empty chairs, try to make a minimal scene with your coat and its clanging belt buckle as you unload into your seat and...pull out your cellphone? This is an adjustment I haven't yet made. Getting used to a room full of students typing away on BlackBerrys before class will never seem normal to me. It's so isolationist. It keeps you from ever having to ask, "what was your name again?" or "did you do all the reading?", those crucial inquiries that bond strangers in a classroom to each other forever.

I'm looking for kindred spirits. I know for sure the VOGUE intern in my Writing for Women's Magazines class isn't gonna be my girl. She didn't respond when I asked if someone was sitting next to her and then sent text messages through the whole class. The young woman who walked with me to get books after my Writer as Traveler/Explorer class was another story. She lit a cigarette outside the building, asked where I was going and I liked her right away. I've spent the week deciding how I'll address her when I see her tonight. Mix this concern about social ineptitude with an obsession over learning the difference between Shi'a and Sunni Muslims and you'll pretty much be inside my head after two weeks of classes.

I've at least survived all of the "hi my name is__and I hope to get __out of this class" requirements. I now know what my professors look like and have turned in homework. It's all happening. I'm taking my cues from my fellow students. Oh, cool, yeah, I'll bring coffee to class. Everyone does that. Funky glasses are mandatory. Pea coats and combat boots, iphones, messenger bags--all part of the uniform. The learning experience is a broad one, no? And boy, I've got a lot of learning to do.

Yours,
OneKate

Orienterror

Tonight marks the beginning of my new life as a student. I'm totally terrified.

I'll be attending orientation at Wollman Hall. It just sounds like an orientation hall, doesn't it? Wollman. Wollman Hall. Scholarship practically bounces off of its sturdy syllables. I've officially changed my preferred method of carting items to and fro from patent chic to utilitarian Jansport. I loaded up a chunky black two-strapper last night with an apple (yes), sandwich and pretzels. This morning I slipped in my brand new spiral notebook, an ice blue Meade beauty with a textured matte cover eagerly awaiting my class notes. When I hoisted the padded straps over my shoulders the awkward new weight tested my balance, pulling back as I pitched forward--two different agendas in conflict. On my way to the train I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window: a studious-looking Quasimoto.

Choosing a first-night-at-school outfit posed another challenge. I wanted to look young and Village-y, to somehow pull off magenta tights and an extra long scarf. I thought I'd even anchor a French twist with a pencil. Casual student-next-door meets foreign supermodel. In the end, the best I could come up with was a wide satin headband, some black glitter hoop earrings and a pair of lace-upVans. A David-Lynch-re-imagines-Lily-Allen-with-an-office-job kind of costume. The only salvation was my ipod and the Beasties circa the last time I was actually in a classroom. Hopefully nobody remembers Ill Communication's release date.

Talking with my sister, who begins her master's program tonight, we realized we have no idea how to be students in 2009. "Should I bring a laptop to my first class?", I asked. "That's kind of Harvard-y", she replied. Right. I'm nobody's Elle Woods. Except for the fuzzy pencil topper part. "Don't we just need Pee Chees and Trapper Keepers?", she squeaked. Golly, I thought so. The last time I was in an academic classroom we used computers to play The Oregon Trail. This is gonna be bananas.

My biggest fear is that I'll become a shrinking violet, somehow defaulting to my high school self--alienated and silent. Or that I'll find I'm out of touch, bringing my Bics to a Blackberry convention. Or that it won't change my life. Or that it will.

I suppose no matter what happens it's too late to turn back now. Every day will be an exercise in avoiding a self-imposed complex about my age, status, accomplishments. I've spent much of my life running from the way I felt in high school but maybe there was more to learn from that time.

I can only hope that nobody will be egging my car in the parking lot this time around.

Fingers crossed,
OneKate

The ChrysaLIST

I can't stop looking at this image. After a lengthy search, it's the one I finally selected to represent the close of the first Chrysalis Year. I'm just thrilled with it. It's so perfectly demonstrative. Except, as I was living it it seemed a whole lot messier. This photo makes the evolution process appear so clear cut and defined. But what's a true evolution without a little oozing from pod to gluey pod, thinking you've broken free from one, only to find you've gotta spend yet more time incubating in the same oppressive embrace you were positive you'd outgrown? I'm still trying to identify which of the five stages I'm at. I'm pretty sure I'm no longer opaque and green, but neither am I touching the tips of razor-thin wings to my four walls, plotting an escape. In time, right?

I've just re-read my launch post where I promised to chronicle the good, bad and ugly bits of my massive overhaul while peppering it all with a little cultural commentary and a few witty asides. What sort of amazes me is that while I was on board for a year of change, I had no idea which massive icebergs would actually shift and how quickly the river would rush in as soon as I'd made enough space. Some things are forever altered, some remain agonizingly unchanged, but this is for certain, one Chrysalis Year after my initial post I'm still walking upright...in a country I've never visited.

In honor of end-of-year list cliches, I will raise my glass of chompers and offer mine, a simple ChrysaLIST of hard-earned truths at the end of this year of change. After all, I love champagne...and I am not above cliches. Not at all.

1.) It's just a simple truth that finding a New York apartment will nearly kill you. And when you find a good one, you won't leave it until a.) you're married, b.) a baby runs you out or c.) all of your pictures have left 8' x 10', permanent smoky indentations on the wall you painted gray...or peach...or sage...

2.) It's just a simple truth that every piece of journalism and commentary you see, hear or read will tell you that getting student loans will now be much harder the year you decide to go back to school. The same will be true the year you finally decide to buy a house or car.

3.) It's just a simple truth that the word "change" is as powerful as the force of high tide. It draws you in, thrusts you forward and scatters you in pieces at the shore. It's hard to remember when you're caught in the undertow that that's the point. Even the tender utterance is considered action. The only condition? You gotta take change on its terms, not on yours. Yeah, that's a hard one to swallow.

4.) It's just a simple truth that leaving the country is the only antidote to our poisoned, sleepy urban blood. This funky Vermont mom I met in Honduras told me over Cuba Libres that travel "rights" her. God, I love that. A good trip is like burning sage inside our heads, restoring us to factory condition.

5.) It's just a simple truth that drinking apple vodka sangria, wearing a furry hat and Russian military jacket in a "subzero" drinking room while dancing to all manner of gypsy stars will make it so that you no longer feel "in your thirties". It's a moral imperative that this is done every few months while wearing that de rigeur Pepto pink lipstick that makes you feel really self conscious.

And perhaps the greatest Chrysalis truth of all? No matter how profound the feat, sacred the moment, or solid the win, the devil's advocate, flip friend and self-involved boss will just never get you. Hey, enigmatic is good--you don't have to share. So, my new answer to the disinterest of the oppressive, frivolous masses? In the words of my immortal beloved, Gogol Bordello, "Well, fuck them! We don't give up."

The fact is, I believe in the power of reinvention. The Chrysalis Year began as a tiny aspiration I was almost too afraid to nurture and unfolded into a story about letting go so that I had room to receive. Nah, I'm still not out of my job and I'm definintely out of my skinny jeans but hey, if I'd done it all in one year this would be a goodbye post.

Thanks for taking the walk with me. If you stick around for more I promise I won't stay the same for long. Please keep me posted on your own Chrysalis experiments. Rest assured, I'll be right there with ya.

Now, let's go finish that champagne.
Happy New Year,
OneKate