an extraordinary theory.

I am currently reading: An Extraordinary Theory of Objects by Stephanie LaCava and a couple of the quotes from the first few pages really resonated with me:

"What saved me, in the end, was my fear of change transforming into raw wonder and wanderlust."

"Intense sensitivity can be debilitating, or it can increase the upside of chance and the power of whimsy - a need for storytelling, strangers, and odd encounters."

I also recently saw one of the short films featured at Sundance called The Arm, which was this funny, sweet, earnest account of a high school kid freeing himself from total text message entrapment.

So now I have this inclination to throw my iPhone out a window and go stomping through mud puddles, study archeology in Egypt, plan a trip to Rio, run up a mountain, etc.

At the very least, I'm putting my phone away when I'm interacting with real live humans: because, despite it being addicting and convenient, there is nothing more rude or self-involved.
(I may be the only person who liked this mom's iPhone contract with her 13-year-old son.)

Other stuff:

I am currently loving: the subscription to New York Magazine my boyfriend got me for Christmas. A few gems:

Why You Truly Never Leave High School.

How I Turned Instagram Into A Dating Service.

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Checking things off of my Oklahoma bucket list, I finally ate at Meers after a hike: #friedpeaches #friedgreentomatoes #breadandbutterfriedpickles #burger  #RCCola #teapartymemorabilia

And I've come to the conclusion that I love hikes as long as they are motivated by treats/a light at the end of the tunnel: see Machu Picchu, see my mom's promise of root beer floats when we were little, see the aforementioned fried peaches.

This may be a good way to approach life. Motivation via treats. For me, this usually comes in the form of coffee: I lie in my bed marveling at the day I have ahead of me and promise myself coffee if I can get out of bed instead of hitting snooze.

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I want to go to Maui now, thanks a lot fashion blog.

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Beyonce reads Joan Didion via my subscription to The Beyhive. Girl's got great taste. Duh.

Don't worry, I also subscribed to Goop.

patron saints of snail mail.

So rarely do we get to hear a great mail story (especially with the financial straits of the post office these days), that when two occurred over the holiday season I figured I just had to share:

First: this summer I sent my aunt a postcard from Petra, Jordan addressed only to "Aunt Barb" and accidentally sent to her work address, which happens to be the very big University of California San Diego.

While most university mail directors/interceptors would have balked, this kind soul attached a note to the postcard reading "We are trying to find the right Aunt Barb, if it's not you, please forward to the next Barbara in the campus directory."
Well, my little postcard went through over thirty "Barbaras" documented via the university mailing system before finally finding the right one just before Christmas break. Which means over thirty people took the time to find another Barbara on campus and forward it to them.

And then: I received this email from my cousin Sandra when I asked for a return address in reply to the sweet postcard she'd sent me while studying abroad...

Cousin! So glad you got your post! You won't believe the story behind its arrival. I had a little paper bag full of posted postcards that I had written to friends all over the world and somehow, I still don't quite understand how because I was being so careful, I lost it while I was roaming around London one day very near Christmas. As you can imagine, I was absolutely heartbroken that all of my written treasures had been lost and that I would have no way of knowing where I had left the bag. I hate losing things and I hate that feeling of not knowing where. But as soon as I got home I started to receive emails and voicemails from friends and family thanking me for the good wishes! Some lovely person must have found the bag in London and popped them in the post box for me! Hurrah!

...I like to think these thoughtful moments to take time for written correspondence inspired strangers to magically rally around it.
From Wikipedia: A patron saint is a saint who, in Eastern Orthodox, Oriental Orthodox, Anglican, Roman Catholic, and Eastern Catholic Christian practice, is regarded as the intercessor and advocate in heaven of a nation, place, craft, activity, class, clan, family, or person. Patron saints, because they have already transcended to the metaphysical, are believed to be able to intercede effectively for the needs of their special charges.

also for the new year: no fear.

story of the year.

So, first read this news story.

I never watch local news, but randomly saw this "EDMOND MAN ACCUSED OF COMMANDING PITT BULL TO ATTACK GIRLFRIEND" story come on after a television show and thought about it a longtime afterward: like wait, hold on, a random driver just picked this woman up? Wow, that's really lucky.

Then I go get coffee with one of my best friends Beth (who just got married this August), and she's like, "Kate, the craziest thing happened to me the other day."

She and her sister were just driving in a neighborhood when they saw a shirtless, bloody man and woman being attacked by a pit bull.
They stopped the car to call 911 when suddenly the woman started running towards them with the pit bull at her heels. Beth said she didn't even have to think about it, the look in the woman's eyes made her automatically open the car door.

Once inside, the woman begged them to drive away, because her boyfriend was trying to kill her. She then thought she saw him getting in his car to come after them.
The 911 dispatcher asked if the boyfriend had any weapons on him, to which the woman (barely conscious at this point, Beth said she must have been operating on pure adrenaline because she was so badly injured) answered that he had a gun, but also always carried a knife. Needless to say they were scared out of their wits.

When they safely met the police, firefighters, and paramedics at a nearby bank parking lot - having to carry the woman out of the car - none of the responders could believe that Beth and her sister weren't related to the woman in some capacity, instead absolute strangers.
Later, investigators told Beth that she had basically saved the woman's life.
Apparently she'd been beaten for hours before - maybe even days (facts are still fuzzy - also, please note that this is a story based on my own remembrances from a conversation Beth telling me over coffee and is in no way conclusive of the man's actual guilt).

Moral of the story is:
Of all the news stories to catch, I caught this one and dwelled on that random driver and the mysteries of fate well after the 60 second sound bite
& then the random driver turns out to be one of the most kind, loving, and selfless people I know:
heroes/random acts/courage/fortune/providence/etc are real! So take that into your new year.

so thank full.

...post-Thanksgiving breakfast.

a little career inspiration.

WHEN YOU FIND SOMETHING THAT FEELS RIGHT, CONCENTRATE ON REFINING YOUR SKILLS AND EDUCATING YOURSELF ABOUT YOUR CHOSEN FIELD. COMMIT TO IT.

when you don't win npr's three minute fiction, you post your entry on your blog.

The Guidelines: Must be 600 words or less and revolve around a U.S. President real or imagined.

Just Desserts

Pale fingers clutch at the silk tablecloth, dragging everything off in a single ripple as the dining room chair lurches backward, a limp body now prone on the ground. There is the sudden smash of crystal-cut stemware, chandelier light glints off flying cutlery, and a thousand gasps suck the air out of the room.

Secret service agents in penguin tuxedos appear from behind curtains and palm trees to descend upon the scene. They push the elegantly dressed crowd back, whisking me away to an underground bunker before I can take stock of the situation.

Moments ago I was staring down a slice of chocolate cake. I had managed to avoid food all night, but now I was starving.

I debated with myself, “Would it be so far out-of-line to require a food taster?” Just to take a few nibbles of my food and drink in order to confirm it contained no poison?

“Snap out of it,” I reasoned back. You are not a Roman emperor or Henry the Eighth. There are no velvet robes and golden goblets here, no turkey legs, no slaves, nor court jesters.

In fact, in my slim navy suit and powder blue tie I stand for quite the opposite.

I flew jets in the Air Force just like my father and grandfather before me. I graduated top of my class from an Ivy League college. I debated the fate of democracy on live television. I’ve looked tyrannical dictators – the kind who should have their food tasted – dead in the eye.

I am the very definition of adept, agile, and adroit while handling any situation thrown at me as the President of the United States. Some have even called me cool.

But then there is this matter of the dessert. A drop of sweat threatens to slide down my forehead.

I never thought my Achilles heel would be paranoia, but I’ve become obsessed with the possibility of an assassination attempt on my life.

It all started last year when a kid, not even twenty-one, shot a couple rounds of ammunition in the direction of the Oval Office. They later caught him in pajamas, filling up his Volvo at a gas station outside of Pennsylvania. He claimed to be Jesus in cahoots with Oprah via Twitter, and that I was the anti-Christ that had to be stopped.

I wasn’t even in town, in China for the economic summit. But later an agent pointed out a knick in the thick, bulletproof glass of the window situated just behind the Resolute Desk. That’s when the threat became palpable: there are people out there who want me dead.

I now imagine my neck snapped in half like a twig by a karate-kid operative with hooded eyes, lying in wait among a crowd of supporters at a re-opened industrial plant in Indiana.

Visions of Jackie O in her pink pillbox hat, of gaunt Lincoln in box seats at the theatre, of young Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver; they run through my head in a loop as I stoop down to kiss the baby that has been thrust at me expectantly. Adorable cooing and rosy cheeks aside, I see a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

The Vice President is smiling at me now; his perfect rows of teeth are Shark white. I eye him warily. The very definition of his job is wanting my job. The slice in front of him is carrot cake.

 “Hey Phil,” I ask with a strained smile, “Would you mind trying the chocolate out for me to see if it has peanuts in it? I can’t stand peanuts.”

p.s. i had a lot of fun with this.

p.p.s. the winner can be read here.