What Possessed Me

Get it here: Willard Scott's love child, drugstore junkies, and bloody stumps

Oh dear.

I have been very, very bad about my homework assignment. But I am really pleased to report that you have been very good about yours. Thank you for all of your questions – they were food for thought while I lay in bed sleepless this week.

Jen, a noble reader who dreams of Belize asks, One place, alone, for one year. Where? (And somehow, I knew she would.)

The first place that comes to mind is Istanbul. Istanbul is a city that makes me feel…deeply satisfied. The first time I visited, I saw a man on the street with a tiny sachet attached to a string. From time to time, he pulled it from behind his ear to allow its sweet smell to mask the odors from the street. It was a such a gorgeous, sensual gesture. I thought, “This is the place for me.”

Anon asks: K, question: if everyone exists on a continuum from red to purple, and also if everyone exists on a perpendicular axis from shiny to matte, and also, finally, if everyone exists on a perpendicular-to-both-other-axes (in other words, this is a 3-D thing) continuum from not knowing who Willard Scott is to wanting to have little Willard Scott babies with W.S. himself, what is the area created by the curve which graphs your position on these three axes over time? Just, like, approximately-like?

Miss Nick? Is that you? You’re the chair of the math department, right? You’re the one who told me I’d regret ditching calculus for ancient Greek in high school. Guess what? I never regretted it. Until now, I have never been called upon to graph my familiarity with Willard Scott (approaching zero) with my relative purpleness (I am fuschia) and matteness (mostly matte). I can’t plot this on a graph, but I can tell you all about Sappho. Oh, I forgot. You’re not interested in poetry, are you, because you’re all UP IN YOUR PROOFS, BITCH.

Fleur, a new voice on this blog, asks: What is one of your most haunting memories? Do you want to hold it or set it free?

That is a very, very difficult question.

I am in the most beautiful market I’ve ever seen, wandering the narrow alleys with my backpack. I admire the Ethiopian women and their swaddled babies. They spoon slushy mango juice into my mouth as I walk by; they smile and feed me from their plates. I stopped in this town on a whim and find myself in a paradise of vivid color and scent. As the rickshaw pulls me away, my heart nearly bursts with joy. I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to do. It’s a memory of happiness and exhilaration that haunts me. I want to hold onto it for as long as I can.

The wicked smaht Dianamuse asks:


Favorite facial beauty product?
I am a drugstore junkie and love me some cheap beauty products. My enduring favorite is St. Ives Apricot Facial Scrub (in the pot, not the tube).

In what literary setting would you most like to live?
This is a toss-up between E.M Forester’s Edwardian England (purely for the fashion, mind you) and Virginia Wolff’s Bloomsbury (for the conversation, the intrigue, Vita Sackville-West’s gardens, and Vanessa Bell’s interiors)

Have you ever broken a bone?
No. I’m a sturdy wench, I am.

Astaire or Kelly?
Kelly – hands down. He is the epitome of charm.

What tops the list of (your) obsessive behaviors?
1. Gnawing my fingers to bloody stumps (currently on hiatus, but will most likely resume gnawing before the next deadline at work)
2. Worrying (practically a full-time job)
3. Agonizing (vying for second place)
4. Blog stalking (yes, that's me who checked your blog 47 times last week)


Which Scorsese films have you seen?
Cape Fear, Goodfellas, The Color of Money, Raging Bull, The Last Waltz, Taxi Driver (still scarred)

Do you call it the Pan Am or MetLife (shudder) Building?
Funny, I call it MetLife but when I close my eyes, I see the building with the Pan Am logo on it.

What is your earliest memory?
Eating Sicilian pizza in my high chair and giving my brothers the “Double Whammy” – a stern look of disapproval. I think I was three.

A fellow Persephone asks:

What I'd really like to know is why your blog takes so darn long to load.

This is a really good question that I can’t answer. I’ve tried to remove elements that might be slowing it down. Is anyone else having this problem with my blog?

She also asks, Why is Fauxhawk called Fauxhawk? Is it because he really isn't a hawk?

Right before our first date, Fauxhawk told me he was having some “hair issues” that he needed to resolve. At that point, he had a fauxhawk, which is a hairstyle that sticks up in the middle and is short on the sides. Now he has a very nice, slightly rocked-out hairdo that requires less product.

Things took a more serious turn when Persephone asked, I've never understood what the phrase "the ghost in the machine" means. Can you explain it? So that I can actually understand it?

So, Gilbert Ryle had this idea that the human brain in its highly evolved state still shows vestiges of its former, primitive state. When sophisticated functions such as logical thinking give way to destructive inclinations such as rage, the “ghost in the machine” – the specter of the unevolved brain - manifests itself.

Who? What? I don't understand it either.

Thank you for asking.

Something is very, very wrong

P: (Sitting up in bed at 4am) Ugh. I just had a bad dream.

Fauxhawk: (Asleep, but clear) Motorcycle.

P: What?! Are you listening?

Fauxhawk: (Still asleep) Gingerbread needs shots.

P: Are you sleeping?!

Fauxhawk: (Silence)

P: So it was really weird. I’m at this camp for adults, and suddenly I’m taking part in a dance class with Merv Griffin. Or Merce Cunningham – I’m not sure which.

Fauxhawk: (Sleeping) That’s what I’m saying.

P: What?! So anyway, I’m at this dance class, and I’m completely NAKED. Everyone else has CLOTHES ON. But I am mostly okay with it, oddly enough, until someone pokes at my ‘nani with a stick.

Fauxhawk: (Silence)

P: What do you think it means?

Fauxhawk: (Muffled sounds)

P: Is it really hot in here?

Fauxhawk: (Muffled) Several species.

P: Oh God. I can’t sleep.

It’s been like this for days. Fauxhawk lays perpendicular in bed, sleeping fitfully and weaving fantasy elements into our early morning conversations. I have strange dreams about naked dance classes, bloggers I’ve never met, and strange goings-on involving foam outfits. I am awake at 3am, then 4am, then again at 5am. Neither of us has slept soundly since we got back from India, presumably because our pillows are not pre-fluffed nightly.

I am wilting from sleep deprivation. But I promise to answer your questions tomorrow, when I’m fresh. Keep ‘em coming.

In the meantime, everyone say "happy birthday" to Nina.

Balenciaga - Delphine by MM Paris via Maybe Maven.

A homework assignment

Someone I love and admire read this post last week and gave me a talking to.

“You have such a negative view of yourself. Aren’t you afraid that the negative things you say about your life will become a self-fulfilling prophesy?”

Silence. Hmmm.

“And what about the good things in your life? Why don’t you focus on them? Like the fact that you got back together with your boyfriend last year and things are going well?”

More silence. And then: “Maybe you’re right.”

It was one of those conversations you have in the dark, late at night. It was one of those conversations that sticks with you, invades your dreams, keeps you awake at night.

I didn’t realize. I didn’t know.

Later, I tell my shrink about it.

“And what do you think?” wise shrink asks.

“I think that there may be some truth to this, even though I often feel that writing and reading about triumphs is kind of nauseating. I respond more to self-flagellation.”

“Do you find it difficult to talk about your triumphs?”

“Umm…not sure I’ve had any in the past few years,” I say.

“Okay, what about things you like about yourself?”

“Uhhh…”

“What do you like about yourself?”

I pause for a long time, looking around the room at the nondescript, inoffensive mid-century office furniture. I am uninspired. Finally, I say, “I am good at making lasagna.” It's the first thing I can think of, and it's a bit weak.

“Good!” wise shrink says. “What else?”

Another minute passes. Again, I’m at a loss. “I don’t have dandruff,” I say. This is true, and I am very pleased with myself about this fact.

This game is difficult and boring. I'm struggling to do my part. Can’t we just play Uno and call it a day?

“Okay! We’ll come back to this some other time.”

Presumably, this is what people do in therapy. American people, that is. (If you're British, my understanding is that you don't go to therapy. Instead, you grind your teeth and drink pints in front of the rugby.) But as bullshit as it sounds, this woman is a brick, and I like her too much to let her down. So I am supposed to come up with a list of things that I like about myself. It’s my homework assignment for the week. Given a choice, I would rather hang by my nipples in hell. Is that an option? Sadly, no.

So while I suffer through this tedious task, I’m going to need your help. I’m going to ask you to distract me with questions.

Come out from the shadows and ask me any question you like, as long as it won't offend Jesus. I'll post the questions and responses, with links back to your site (if you have one).

Thank you for playing.


Beautiful silkscreen print by wondercabinet available on Etsy.