The Help by Kathryn Stockett.

Because ain't that white people for you, wondering if they are happy enough.

you are what you eat.

I find this project cool.
Especially the descriptions at the bottom - you start to read so much into the beer selections, etc.

chinchilla.

Colby agreed to watch her cousin's pet Chinchilla, the aptly named Chilly, over at our house while their family is on vacation.



...a certain person had waaaaaay more energy and enthusiasm for this prospect than either Colby and I combined. And it's pretty darn cute.

half-begun writing attempts circa college freshmen kate.

Where Bay brushes her teeth. Fully relishing the act. Squeezing the tube with a carefully practiced technique for a generous, thick line of paste that balances perfectly upon the bristles. She brushes with zest and vigor; no pearly white surface left untouched, foam forming at the corners of her mouth. A swipe of the tongue added for good measure. And then she spits. Quickly swishing her mouth with a mug of tap water that had been prepared beforehand, waiting at the ready.

The view is a charming one. A small, white bathroom with inconvenient corners. A tall, honey-blond with her back to you. Cascading loose curls, tied up into a hasty bun at the top of her head. Oversized t-shirt advertising some sort of yearly jazz festival, ending at the very edge of light pink underwear and perfectly showcasing a pair of long legs. Finishing with bare feet on a butter yellow rug.

The lonesomeness that has loomed over the intricacies of Bay’s life explode in this quiet moment. That no one is here to take it in. The mundane chore of tooth brushing. The rug bought to simultaneously brighten a room and buffer the inevitable tile floor chill. Loneliness clings to every air particle.








***The names Bay and Nora are consistent favorites for characters.

half-begun writing attempts circa high school kate.

It’s summertime and Nora is speeding home from the Florissant, Missouri community swimming pool on her bike: a flash of classic red bathing suit, tanned, lithe limbs, a sheen of dark brown hair drying in the wind, and a blue beach towel fanning out behind her like a superhero.

She’s headed home to an apartment over an alterations business on Peachtree Street: cozy, with one bedroom for her mother and one for her, a shared bathroom, a living room, kitchenette, and balcony. She will spend the next few hours eating an apple while sprawled out on the couch reading, not even bothering to remove her swimsuit.

This lull in the middle of a hot July day would normally leave Nora feeling a little restless and empty, oppressed by an inescapable stretch of heat and boredom. But this summer was different. The last at home before leaving for college in Boston, Nora experienced random bursts of overflowing excitement enough to power her enjoyably through the day.












***I've been digging through a lot of half-begun writing attempts from high school and college on my computer, pretty entertaining stuff. An apartment over a business on Peachtree Street is so something I would have fantasized about at 17.

happy kate. can't wait.

sometimes i wonder what i'm gonna do/but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues.

A little food inspiration via Fashion Toast.

This happens to me at some point every summer,
Something about extreme heat makes me extra panicky...

We drive around in gas-guzzling cars. We're all obese. We eat Cheetos. We buy a lot of crap. We have hateful, spiteful politicians who make absolutely no progress. We have too much stuff to throw away, bags inside bags inside the box inside the bag. We have skewed priorities. We have journalists that hack into phones of murder victims. We have people that care an inordinate amount about the Casey Anthony trial. We have Christian fundamentalist terrorists who shoot kids at summer camp. Etc.

I don't want to spend my summers slugging from one air-conditioned building to the next. I want to hike in Wyoming, I want to bike the Palo Duro Canyon, I want to be able to walk outside at 2 in the afternoon...

At some point, I want to throw in the towel. Fall face down in the Walmart parking lot and melt into the black asphalt.

I think to fight this desire, I wake up at 5:30am and sleepwalk to a 6am spin class or make a beeline to the Y after work to run and run and run in place on the elliptical, because I've just absolutely, positively got to move.

If I keep moving, it can't get to me.

I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.

I run away from Oklahoma. Run, run, run to Iceland or Costa Rica or straight into the ocean. Sandy desert and grass fires receding behind me as I finally reach that last patch of proverbial green clover.

Sometimes, around 8pm and absolutely not a second earlier, I'll roam the interconnected Oklahoma City neighborhoods, hop on my rickety bike or lace-up my running shoes, for the reassurance that a ton of people are out and about as well: walking their dogs or running or holding hands or rollerblading.

It's a comforting communion. To know that, in some small way, other people are feeling the oppression of the heat too. We're finding shared relief in the freedom of the sunset.

I come home with a mood much-improved, and happily chug a bottle of water.