Your Ill-fitting Overcoat

5 Things That Make Hard Conversations Less Hard

2012-01-24T20:49:00.000-06:00

I've had a lot of Hard Conversations lately. You know the kind. The kind you rehearse in your mirror a thousand times only to say something you never planned. The kind you lie awake dreading only to have it be a breeze. The kind you know are coming and the kind you never expect.

I've had a lot of these lately and the braver I get, the more I'm going to have, and today I was contemplating what worked in these conversations and what I wish had been different. I came up with a list of 5 Things That Make Hard Conversations Less Hard and I thought some of you might find it helpful - email me if you think of something to add.

Take a deep breath.

Center yourself. Organize your thoughts. No matter how anxious you are to get this off your chest, try to sleep on it if you can. It's hard to have a compassionate, emotionally mature conversation when you're pissed off. And believe me - that's a better kind to have.

Make it about the problem.

Instead of making the conversation about how much the other person sucks, make it about the problem you both are having. Because 9 times out of 10, you are both having a problem. And 10 times out of 10 there's a side to this story you haven't heard.

Instead of complaining about the problem they are causing for you, ask how you can brainstorm a solution to the problem you're having together. Even if they really do suck and the problem really is all their fault, by making the conversation about your team effort to solve it, you give them the chance to be awesome instead of backed into a corner of shame.

Talk about your feelings, not theirs.

Tell them how you feel - your actual emotions, not how much you feel they suck. Instead of saying, "When you exclude me, it seems like you think you're better than me," try, "When you exclude me, I feel hurt." No one likes being told what they think or how they feel - in fact, I can't think of anything that pisses me off more. It's an argument you'll never win because between you and me, only one of us is an expert on what I think and feel and it's never going to be you. Instead, make an argument you can win - tell them how you feel.

Share some context.

I always find it helpful to hear where someone's coming from. If when I do x, it reminds you of when your sister did y, tell me that. You don't have to go on and on, but sharing a little context on why you're feeling hurt or why this problem is such a problem gives me a chance to be compassionate instead of defensive.

Don't do it over email.

Don't do it over voicemail. Don't do it via post-it note or carrier pigeon or lipstick on the mirror. It always sounds easier but the problem is this - once you hit send? You will be thinking about it every. second. until you get a reply. Every time you see a new message, every time your phone rings, every time you get a text - your stomach will drop to your feet.

And worst of all? The reply you get is probably going to suck. Because your message probably sucked. Because it's way too easy to be an asshole when you're not looking someone in the eye. Look them in the eye.

A New Year

2012-01-03T19:35:00.003-06:00

I rung in the new year with a purple wig and a 5 a.m. curfew. I danced, I laughed, I kissed a strange boy at midnight and never got his name. I'll be 30 this year, for whatever that's worth, and I guess it's time to get real. It's been that time for awhile.

I don't have resolutions for 2012; just mantras I'll be singing every day.

{ helen isabel }

be vulnerable.

don't pretend to be aloof. don't pretend not to care. chin up, heart open.

be present.

stop compulsively checking my phone. stop living in the future and the past. stop distracting myself. when I'm reading a book, when I'm eating dinner, when I'm spending time with friends - be just where I am, and no place else.

be quiet.

I've learned how to tell people what I think; now I need to learn how to listen.

be compassionate.

stop being such a harsh judge of the people I love. stop being such a harsh judge of myself. we're all on a journey and what we need most is acceptance and love. plus: sometimes I'm wrong.

be brave.

talk to strangers. ask for what I want. remember that the best things in my life were the reward of the scariest things I've done.

I hope this year is everything you need it to be.

Copy of a Copy

2011-12-29T13:57:00.000-06:00

{ project mayhem }

ME: so my bank is still in tampa for various reasons that i promise make sense
ME: (long, boring story about a stupid thing at my bank)
ANNA: oh JEEEEZZZ
ANNA: also "my bank is still in tampa for various reasons that i promise make sense" = lol
ME: it's because every time i tell someone that, they spend 15 minutes trying to convince me why i should move to a bank in madison
ANNA: like, who am I to tell you where to bank
ME: right??
ME: why do people even care?
ME: there are only two things people care about
ME: me having a bank in madison
ME: and me seeing "fight club"
ANNA: I have stopped being like "WHAT OH MY GOD YOU'VE NEVER SEEN _______"
ANNA: because it's really fucking annoying
ME: it is super annoying!
ME: but i can't stop doing it
ME: every time someone tells me they didn't see something, i have this immediate reflex to be like "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THAT"
ME: even if it was just, like, an episode of Montel
ANNA: I think of it how my mom taught us to talk about other people's food
ANNA: like, never be like "OMG GROSSSSSSSSSSS"
ANNA: if they are literally eating it right there
ANNA: like, even marmite
ANNA: if someone was eating marmite in front of me I would be like "I don't care for that"
ANNA: though it is satan food
ANNA: so I try to make my reaction more like "oh, how interesting that you haven't seen Jurassic Park and I have seen it 100 times"
ANNA: while in my mind I am like 'ARE YOU HUMAN AT ALL'

The Fall

2011-11-27T20:31:00.000-06:00

Fall has been magical this year. The leaves hung on forever, red and yellow against the bluest sky.

I'm head over heels in love with this city, with this house, with these people in my life. I don't know how I got so lucky, but I'm thankful every day.

I've been listening to this album on repeat for months. For the rest of my life, when I hear these songs I'll think of this moment in time - a cozy house, laughter around the table, and more joy than I thought I could fit in my heart.

My first year here, I thought I knew where I was. Six and a half years later, this city is a different world to me; both bigger and smaller than I imagined it could be.

I bought a real coat this year. I bought salt for the sidewalk and an umbrella for the rain. I'm more here than I used to be.

Where I've Been

2011-10-30T14:50:00.001-05:00

It has been recommended that I tell you I'm not dead.

I'm not dead.

I've been writing so much my fingers nearly fell from my hands. I've been traveling and working and cooking and decorating our new place. I've been listening to this and this and this and not much else.

We're sliding into winter here and I'm ready. I don't know when I've ever been more content.

Things That Are Never a Good Idea, an Incomplete List

2011-07-28T21:41:00.000-05:00

{ little but big }

6 a.m. flights
the big carton of ice cream
balancing an open bottle of nail polish on your knee/laptop/comforter
not writing it down
trying to be friends with an ex you're not over
that fourth margarita
home bikini waxes
reading the comments
"just resting your eyes"
cheap trash bags
big soda, long movie
new shoes, long walk
not trusting your gut
putting it off
not hitting save
faking it
hitting send when you're mad
low batteries
loaning anything you really need back
glitter

The Bobbed-Haired Bandit

2011-06-29T05:51:00.007-05:00

So, you know my friend Anna, right? Anna is my only friend who has her own tag on my blog. She's also my only friend who writes a Star Trek: The Next Generation fashion blog and plays ukulele and is on a roller derby squad and sings backup in the cutest band ever. She is also my only friend who has appeared on both Judge Judy and The Tyra Show. Have I mentioned she also has a full-time job?

Just thinking about all of that makes me need to lie down for a nap, but Anna DOES NOT STOP THERE. No, on top of all of these insane endeavors, she is writing a MUSICAL that was just accepted to the FRINGE FESTIVAL in New York.

What?? How do I know this person??

The musical is called "The Bobbed-Haired Bandit" and is based on the true story of a flapper-turned-bank-robber from the 1920's. But apparently producing a musical costs money and Anna doesn't have a lot. If you have a few dollars to spare, you can send it their way and help a hard-working lady make her dreams come true.

If that didn't convince you, maybe this video will:

{ GIVE }

At the Drive-In

2011-06-19T12:18:00.000-05:00

Asking For It

2011-06-02T19:16:00.002-05:00

A man just screamed "GIVE IT TO ME" at me from his car. It was 6:00 PM, I was walking home from work, and just to give you a sense of the scandalous outfit I was wearing, it was a knee-length dress, leggings, flats, and a cardigan.

I wish I could say this was unusual, but it happens at least once a week. During peak periods, it might happen multiple times a day. It is a nonstop fucking onslaught and it never, ever ends. It doesn't matter what time it is. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing. It doesn't matter where I'm going or where I'm coming from. I don't know what I did in the past year to make men feel so goddamn threatened, but it is as palpable as it's ever been.

It's not flirting, it's aggression. It's not a compliment, it's a warning.

And I'm really, really over it.

You want me to "give it to you," bro? Well, here it fucking is:

The Hang Of It

2011-06-02T15:49:00.003-05:00

I had this whole post written in my head, but then I realized all I wanted to say was this:

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

2011-05-26T14:03:00.010-05:00

I have no real survival instinct.

If ever I was trapped in a rock slide on the Appalachian trail and had to saw off my own arm with a butter knife, you might as well start the funeral march now. I wouldn't leap from a 10-story building or crawl across the Sahara or kill a bear in the Alaskan wild. Sometimes just walking across a too-long parking lot, I'm tempted to collapse in a heap and give myself to the mercy of Jesus.

And so it is with some eye-rolling that I tell you of my plan to escape.

When other girls are listing baby names in the margins of their Five Star notebooks, I'm listing aliases: Eva, Sofia, Natasha. All the names I come up with make me sound like a Russian spy. I think more than anything I'm drawn to the drama-- waiting tables at a diner, sleeping in motels, bleaching my hair in the bathroom of a JC Penney. The truth is it'd be three days before I called my mother and the jig would be up. In addition to my supreme laziness, I haven't a drop of cunning.

My reasons for escape are the usual: debt, ennui, a complete sickness of myself. I've been down too long, and sometimes I think Eva, Sofia, Natasha might know the way back up.

This is all to say: I went on a road trip last week. Road trips are good for people who need a break and are bad for people who are broken. I gazed through the window at hillsides and farmland, rusted bridges and seaside cafes, and imagined myself in a new life. Passing through a rundown Kentucky town, I thought, "Maybe I could be happy here." A little shack behind the Church's Chicken, biscuits from the dumpster and sweet tea from the soda fountain. Something different.

Oh, who am I kidding. I wouldn't last through lunch.

{ ezu }

It was the last ferry of the night. We were tired and hungry and sick of being in a car. We sat in white wooden chairs at the dock and let the wind tangle our hair. The ferry arrived and we shuffled on, heavy bags, leaden feet. We sat in a small, dark room in the ferry's hull. I folded my arms on the cold, Formica table and lowered my head. The ferry swayed from side to side, rocking me to sleep.

The girls picked us up in a golf cart. I perched on the edge of the rear-facing seat, laden down with bags, nearly toppling out the back with every lurch and turn. It was nearly midnight and the island was shuttered tight, wind rustling the palms, big, empty houses looming up from the ground, dark against the moonlit sky. The road turned to sand and gravel, crunching under our wheels, and we were home.

The house was sprawling, an endless maze of halls and double doors. There was a plate made up for us in the kitchen: oranges, Cheez-Its, little muffins from a gas station.

My bedroom had french doors leading to a balcony that overlooked the Atlantic. I stepped outside and my breath caught in my throat. The whole world was a deep moonlit blue. The sky and sea went on forever, as far as my eyes could see. A full moon hung heavy in the sky and the ocean surged and swelled, waves crashing against the shore. The sound was enveloping, relentless. The air smelled like fish and my lips were salty from the ocean breeze. White wooden deck chairs gleamed in the moonlight like crooked ghosts.

Once inside, I burrowed under my quilt, but the sound of the waves and the howling wind felt like an army battering the doors to get in. I tossed and turned for hours until finally, exhausted, I fell into the deepest sleep.

{ hello, i love you }

In the morning, the waves had calmed. Pelicans dipped lazily in the sea and a gentle breeze rustled the paper-dry fronds of the palmettos. We set the long table for breakfast: hot coffee, orange juice, a plate of buttermilk pancakes. A ceramic bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs. We opened the french doors and the big bay windows and let in the cries of the gulls.

The days went on like this. We'd walk to the market, we'd swim in the sea, we'd bathe on the sand just beyond the dunes. We'd eat oranges in the ocean as the waves crashed against our backs, juice running sticky down our arms. We'd curl up in rockers on the porch and read until dinner when the smell of charcoal filled the air, a pitcher of sangria sweating on the counter top. We'd gather around the table until the ocean swallowed the sun.

A dull anxiety permeated my days. Each morning ran into the next, looping like a worn-out cassette. An endless, aching longing surged through my veins, like the last rush of blood before the sputtering cry of death. It’s a childlike feeling, it’s a feeling I had as a child. It’s a feeling I had two springs ago in a one-room house near the San Francisco Bay. It feels like running out of time.

We left on a Friday. We drove to the mountains where we slept on cots and woke to the sun rising over the Blue Ridge mountains. We drove to Nashville where we stopped at a taqueria for lunch. It was 95 degrees and we were the only gringos stupid enough to sit outside. We baked in the sun and sipped margaritas, too hot to order food.

It was the year of the 13-year cicadas and the buzz was deafening; a shrill, chorused hum that sang from every tree and flower. Ominously labeled The Great Southern Brood, they coated the city like a plague. They're born by the millions deep underground. They live in the soil for thirteen years until some spring evening when they all climb to the surface at once. They fly to the trees and the lamp posts, a teeming, screaming plague, and then they molt, they mate, and they die.

It seems like a lot of waiting for so little life. But maybe there's life in the waiting, too.

{ wikipedia }

We sat under an umbrella on the roof, our legs sticking to the hard plastic chairs, ice melting in our glasses. We sat in silence, bad Mexican pop blasting through a speaker just behind my head, cars honking on the street below, cicadas humming in the trees. I felt the sudden sting of missing something, or someone, but the feeling passed before I could place it. We were a day away from home and I suddenly felt so terribly alone.

The next morning we left early, piled into the car with hot coffees and sleepy limbs. We drove eleven hours. We stopped for sandwiches, but not much else. In Illinois, lightning lit up the sky like a pinball machine. We were pelted by hail the size of golf balls, bouncing off the windows like rocks. When we got home, the rain had stopped but the streets were wet and it was greener than I'd remembered. Spring had finally come.

I spent the next three days in the sun room, staring out the window at the tree-lined street. I woke at 10 and slept at 9. I drank three liters of water a day. I didn't go to work. I didn't change out of pajamas. I only cried once.

On the third day, my roommate came and sat beside me. She ate a sandwich and I drank a cup of tea. We sat there for awhile, not looking at each other.

"Do you ever," I asked suddenly, my voice louder than I'd meant it to be, "think about running away?" I was tipped forward in my seat, turned to her, embarrassingly earnest. I don't know why I wanted to know.

She laughed. "All the time."

Happy

2011-05-11T21:31:00.000-05:00

This weekend, I'm packing a car and driving to the coast with some of my favorite peeps. We're bringing books and popsicles and maybe my ukulele. I'm bringing a stack of New Yorkers I guarantee you I won't read. We're spending forty hours on the road and five days on the island and one night on a mountain with my grandparents. We're biking on the beach and honky-tonking in Nashville and I will most likely have a sunburn when I return.

There will be four of us in the car and twelve of us in the house and I have never been more excited about anything.

/ photo by emily mills /

I really just want you to see how happy I am. That's all.

Twenty-Nine

2011-05-10T01:08:00.001-05:00

When I turned twenty-seven, I knew it would be a good year, and it was. In so many ways, it was the best year of my life.

When I turned twenty-eight, I rang it in with a heavy heart. I knew it would be a terrible year, and it was.

Today, I turned twenty-nine. I wore a pretty dress, I drank dirty martinis, and I was surrounded by 30 or so of my favorite people in the whole, entire world. I haven't felt this loved in a long, long time.

This will be my favorite year. I can feel it.

Mi Papa

2011-04-17T17:57:00.000-05:00

Today's my daddy's birthday. I'm lucky to have him.

No Reason Not

2011-04-13T17:33:00.005-05:00

For so long, I was unhappy. Everything was no and never and couldn't be. I was punishing myself for fucking up, but the truth is two wrongs don't make a wrong thing right. The sun is bright, the breeze is cool, and I can throw away another year if I want to.

I don't want to.

This year's still mine if I want it. It won't be this warm forever.

At Least One of Us Is

2011-04-07T12:59:00.002-05:00

{ make use of }

ME: (texts something to Anna about 'ghosthubters')
ANNA: The way you spelled ghosthubters made me lol so hard on the bus
ME: The stupid thing is I actually fixed the spelling and then iPhone fixed it back
ANNA: F u phone
ME: Like when I typed "shiw" for "show" and it changed it to "dhow" which I do not think is a word?
ANNA: A dhow is some kind of Chinese* boat but WHY WOULD YOU TEXT THAT EVER
ME: It also just changed "byeeeeeee" to Nyerere. I think my spell check is on genius setting.

* Anna later wrote to correct herself, in one of the rare instances in which she is wrong: a 'dhow' is an Arab boat, not Chinese.

After A Rain

2011-03-17T19:08:00.000-05:00

I'm home sick today from work, sniffles and sneezes and aches and wheezes. My biggest accomplishment of the day was putting on socks and livetweeting the two-part pilot of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".

Around 6:00, I managed to go outside to check the mail and was startled to find the air hot and muggy, like Florida after a rain. I was barefoot and the ground was warm to the touch. I came inside and checked the temperature: 60 degrees.

One dose of Dayquil and a pair of boots later, I was taking a short walk, drinking in the sounds and smells of spring, knowing it might not last. It's only March after all. As I passed a squat gray house on a quiet street, a little boy skipped out the front door, stopped in the yard, threw back his arms and took a great gulp of air, then sighed. He looked at me and grinned.

I laughed. "That's how I feel, too."

Of All The Girls I've Loved Before

2011-02-18T00:14:00.002-06:00

I love Wisconsin.

Vintage Gchat

2011-02-16T13:29:00.001-06:00

Sometimes Anna will randomly email me excerpts from Gchats Past. The one she sent me today was particularly giggle-worthy.

One time I got a long-distance booty text from someone I barely knew. Okay, several times I've gotten long-distance booty texts from people I barely knew. But this one was particularly interesting. I'd gchatted Anna around 1am to discuss.

{ lets you enchant }

ANNA. wtf
ME. it's a little bizarre
ANNA. i think the "wtf" is more like "wtf am i supposed to do with this"
ANNA. like, something you say when you get a gift and you can't tell what it is
ANNA. like from the sharper image
ME. HAHAHA
ANNA. it's not that you don't want it
ME. "this looks like binoculars"
ANNA. you're just confused
ME. "but there are feathers attached"
ME. "and it vibrates"
ANNA. "it's bin...oculars... right?"
ANNA. "fashion binoculars"
ME. OMG
ME. next etsy shop
ANNA. "fashion shiatsu binoculars"
ME. slash sub etsy shop

* Anna of Ultra-Condensed Movies, Fashion It So (ST:TNG fashions), and Fashion Bible fame

Some Things

2011-02-11T15:40:00.006-06:00

{ folding paper figures }

This morning, I had an allergy test. The doctor stuck my arm with 18 drops of yellow liquid and waited to see if I died.

DOCTOR. This one's birch, this one's ragweed, this one's cockroach--
ME. Excuse me?

In addition to injecting me with cockroach, she also gave me an epi pen, which I am now required to carry with me at all times. I feel so tragic, like the kid in My Girl.

{ solly, mara, spam }

In the month of January, I went on five first dates. Have I mentioned that I hate dating? Have I mentioned that I hate dating more than anything on earth? Have I mentioned that I would rather be repeatedly injected with cockroach extract than ever go on a date with anyone again?

Have I mentioned that I have a second date with someone tonight?

Right.

And because I'm me, I couldn't just go on five dates like a normal person. I had to also write an article about it. You can read that article here, though the print version is much prettier. My name looks good in lights.

{ alaa abd el fattah }

COWORKER. Mubarak is so Brett Favre.
ME. Spoken like a true Wisconsinite.
COWORKER. Watch he's going to move to some other country and become president there.
ME. And then his first country's going to win the Superbowl.

Well, it basically kind of did.

Breaking It In

2011-02-06T23:26:00.004-06:00

Our first party was meant to be a quiet affair: dinner, board games, just a handful of our closest friends.

It was half an hour before we ran out of forks. And plates. And chairs.

We never did play any board games.

I think I'm going to like this place.

{ more }

Good For Me

2011-02-02T15:03:00.000-06:00

In the End, I Ordered a Muffin

2011-01-26T21:23:00.004-06:00

{ 234 }

"How are you" she asked, and I said I was well, and I said how are you, and she said she was well, and I stood half-asleep, pondered bagel or bread, "My face itches," she said, and I said what was that? "My face itches," she said, "you asked how I was." I'm sorry, I said, It could be your hat. She said, "It could be."

This Kid

2011-01-23T22:46:00.001-06:00

This kid is 17 and from my hometown and I'm pretty sure he's going to be famous.

Slowly

2011-01-21T15:05:00.003-06:00

My walk to work was cold and quiet. It was three degrees below zero and the wind cut straight through my coat. I crossed the bridge over the Yahara, the sun in my eyes and the cold stinging my too-pink cheeks. Cars whooshed past me on the street, their drivers toasty and warm.

I stopped on the bridge, as I always do, leaning over the ledge to the river below. Each day is a different scene hidden from the cars above: ducks preening, waves lapping, the sun rising from the lake like fire. But today was an image I'd never seen before. Steam rose from the river like swirling smoke, sunlit like a morning ghost.

Sometimes it pays to go slowly.