The Weeklies: July 14 - 21

Back in 2010, while working as a receptionist, I met a girl named Susan. She came right off the elevator to my desk and introduced herself. She was there for an interview but instead of sitting on the couch she stood by my desk and chatted with me. I learned she'd just been laid off of a previous job. 

"Oh my gosh that's awful," I said. 

"It's OK," she said. "I just called everyone I knew and started going out to coffee with people and now I'm here." 

A few weeks later she appeared again at nine am.

"Did you get the job!?" I said, feeling fully invested in her journey

"I got the job!" she exclaimed and did a little dance. I was promoted and became her counterpart on the corporate side, which meant we worked closely together for the next three years. We learned to help each other out, picking up tasks for each other where we could. 

In the winter of 2012 I was having a tough time in my personal life and work was stressful. One evening the office emptied early for the company Christmas party so I hid in a bathroom stall, crying. I heard the door swing open and peeked out, it was Susan, she could see I had been crying so we talked for almost an hour. She was so nurturing and kind. Her advice made me feel better. 

"But I'm not going to go to the Christmas party," I said. 

"I'll go with you, we can walk in together," she said. "Come on, you deserve it! You worked so hard, please come." 

So we went. 

Eventually, Susan got a job at another publication. A year later I saw her at a birthday party. We started talking about our passions vs. our day jobs. She was writing a pilot for a TV show. I told her about how silly I felt about my blog.

"It's really nothing at all," I said. 

"But it's your art," Susan said. "don't ever feel bad about your art." 

I remember that conversation every time I sit down to write, and at cocktail parties where people ask me if I consider myself a writer, whenever I feel bad about sharing my posts on social media. It's the one thing that's kept me going. 

Last Tuesday I found out that Susan died of cancer. She was in her thirties. 


I was up and down this week, obviously. I had happiness: laughing with my friends, walking down the street holding Alistairs hand. I also had the opposite: a death of a former coworker, crying during a spa facial, lots of tears.

Earlier in the week I did a Google hangout with my two friends Philippa and Suni (who both now live in different cities) -- always a treat and always too short. I spent Tuesday night seeing "Sorry to Bother You" with Alistair. I don't want to say too much because half the brilliance of the film is in the surprise, but it was amazing. It was so refreshing to see all my worries about society reflected in an entertaining way. I still can't stop thinking about it. 

On Wednesday I booked a facial at a spa. At 6:30 pm nervously fumbled my way from work to midtown. I don't feel completely safe being half clothed and poked and prodded. In two separate countries two separate masseuses told me: "you shouldn't get massages, you don't know how to let go and relax." 

A receptionist at the spa led me to the changing rooms. There was a fresh robe and slippers for me, and she handed me a towel for my facial. I looked at the robe and wrinkled my brow and the attendant assured me I didn't need it. She led me down the hall, of a common area and we passed four sets of blonde girls in their robes who looked at me in disapproval. I felt naked and ran back to the changing room to get my robe. When I rounded the corner to the locker room, I heard them laughing. 

"Did you see that girl without a robe?" 

It grew quiet when they saw me, I opened my locker and grabbed mine, and heard them snickering as I left. I was mortified.

I sat in a chair in the waiting room before my appointment and started to cry. I felt like I did in elementary school, and middle school, and high school. I couldn't manage to do the socially acceptable thing. I was always misstepping innocently but with much consequence. 

The masseuses were right: I don't know how to let go. 

After my treatment I shuffled slowly through midtown with a frown on my face. I passed two women in Times Square. They looked to be in their 60s.

"That's the thing about being in New York. I can't even remember what was going on at home..." said one woman. 

"You know, I can't even recall what was going on at home," said the other. 

I imagine that they were just like me, distracted? Hypnotized? When I descended into the subway station I too had forgotten the girls at the spa. All it took was a walk with new faces and big buildings. I sat down on the train and quickly jotted down what they were saying in my Evernote app. 

Philippa was coming for a weekend stay and arrived Thursday evening. On Friday after work I met up with her and Kennedy for drinks on the roof of the Arlo Hotel Hudson. We arrived right before sundown and everyone wanted a photo of the sky turning pink. We ordered a pitcher of froze and gabbed excitedly about the rest of summer. That night Philippa and I watched bad reality TV and ate cookies and chocolate. I woke up Saturday with a hangover. I spent the day at home. 

The Weeklies: July 6 - 14

Remember that week I had in spring? The week when New York was exactly the way I imagined? Last week, was much of the same in all the best ways. 

Wednesday Alistair and I planned drinks with a friend. 

"Where should we meet her?" he texted. 

"Top of the Standard?" I wrote back.

"That's a good one," he wrote. 

I took him there for the first time last year, on a whim (we needed to kill time before dinner and it was on the way). He loved it. If you've never been just imagine an indoor rooftop with glass windows looking downtown, and gold, jazz age inspired decor. 


We met our friend, ordered a round and laughed for a few hours. It was just so nice to be somewhere I know. Our friend asked us what we had planned for the rest of summer, and I realized that my July and August were going to be packed: a few trips out to the North Fork and Montauk (my favorite spot), my Australian pen-pal from high school was visiting and we would meet for the first time, Philippa was coming to stay, and a trip to Switzerland, among other things.

The following day Alistair and I had dinner at Hanjan with his friends from out of town. After another night of laughter, Alistair walked me to my train through Chelsea. As always, when we parted and said goodnight, I didn't want to leave him. 



For Friday night, Alistair bought tickets to a Bastille Day Ball hosted by the French Consulate. After work Friday we went to Times Square and met a line wrapped nearly around the block. There an hour long wait just to get in and I started to melt through my new white cotton dress. We complained with the people in front of us in line and decided that maybe it wasn't worth it, but suddenly, finally, we were inside. After checking in we were given French flag ribbons to wear on our wrists and guided to a basement room with a small stage and dance floor. There was a live jazz band and free champagne. We sang the French and American national anthems and everyone danced. We left after an hour to grab burgers nearby. 


After dinner we walked hand in hand down Eighth Avenue toward 42nd Street to wait for a cab. The whole week felt very romantic, very alive. For the first time in awhile I was looking forward.

The Weeklies: June 30 - July 7

Last week a New York heat wave continued. I stayed in my apartment all of last weekend, and on Wednesday had the day off for the Fourth of July. I watched TV all day and went to bed wearing ear plugs. Kids and families blew off fireworks until around 4 am. 

On Thursday morning I boarded a 1 train bound downtown. As I expected, it was empty. Everyone was still on holiday. There was a man pacing the train, yelling in monologue style to himself. He was angry at the world, his life situation. He was unemployed, recently released from prison, homeless. A woman switched cars and he lunged at her angrily. A man bumped him getting on another stop and he yelled at him.

"Look at me one more time and I'll kill you," he said, kicking in the air close to his face. A woman sitting down shook her head and he yelled at her, too. "Why do you look at me like that instead of trying to help me?"

"Because you have so much anger in you, you have to learn to control some of that anger to get where you want to be," she said. 

"No one here wants to help me!"

"I want to help you," she said, "if you'll calm down." 

"Get me a job!" he screamed. 

"You are a smart man," she said. "I'm sure if you go out and look you'll find one. We're all going through something. We're all worried about our jobs and our lives. We're all trying to make money." 

"How! How!" he screamed. 

"You should help me find a job," she said. "I'm too old, that's what they tell me." 

"I don't have skills!"

The argument escalated. He said that woman should hire men to do sexual favors (he actually said something worse than that but I'm feeling conservative today). I got out at 96 street to transfer, and a wave of people all went with me. On the other train, without him, everyone shook their heads. We all looked at each other as if we had escaped unscathed. 

I've had a much easier life than he does, but a lot of the time I write because I need to have that emotional outpouring that he was having on the train. I felt bad for him. He has needs that fall on deaf ears, and makes appeals to faces that are interested in their cell phones. 


Thursday Alistair returned to town. We ordered in dinner and he told me about his trip to Switzerland. We had a lovely Saturday wandering around and having a long brunch at a peaceful restaurant (Otway). 

I have spent the last month resting and the month before that complaining about not resting. Things are picking up again. 

The Weeklies: June 23 - 30

I'm coming out of a bad week like a boxer maimed in a fight. I fought my lingering cough (the one that woke me up from my sleep all week), I defended myself for everything, simple statements like "The sky is blue" came with an argument. Is that what life is? Telling your side of the story till you're tired? 

With Alistair away on business I used my evenings this week to watch trash TV and Instagram stories. The toilet was broken, the oven still smoking despite cleaning it four times. The neighbors shuffled in their rooms every time I coughed. Nothing worse than feeling like a diseased vampire when you're well. 

On Friday I'd had enough. After work I went straight to Williamsburg to check out a sale on my way back, I walked down the stairs to the L train, a woman blocking my path at one point. I tried to go around her, but every step she took was in my direction. I finally squeezed past her, and she angrily pushed me hard with her hand. I was steady enough not to fall down the stairs.

"Sorry," I said flatly over my shoulder and kept going without looking back. I didn't even see her face, or try to. On the platform I kept my eyes on the arriving train for fear she'd follow me and try to fight. I've seen it happen before. 

I sat down on the L and she wasn't on my car. I could only look at the ceiling and shake my head. "This is exactly how I've felt all week," I said to myself. 

I was wearing a sleeveless shirt and the warmth of the woman's hand on my arm still felt present. I ran through my past ten years in my memory. I've only had a similar experience once on my twenty-sixth birthday. A woman pushed me down in a Zara just for walking by her while she had a disagreement with the staff. When I stood up, after being pushed so hard I was laying flat on my back, I decided to leave. On my walk back through the store. All the store workers were looking at me, whispering, "That's the girl that got pushed," and a bystander tapped me on the shoulder, "Are you OK?" I said I was. I walked to the corner of 59th and Lexington and cried. 

You can only have so many of those instances before you snap. I'm a doormat. I always tell people I want to be "assertive." But I've realized that I'd like to be aggressive

I got home near 8 pm, ordered sushi and watched television. Today the temperature reached 90-something. Shades drawn, AC off, I sat in the cave of my own making. 

The Weeklies: June 16 - 23

As much as I try to differentiate them, my New York summers always turn out the same: they open with a Williamsburg barbecue on a roof or terrace, by some magic, an invitation always materializes. Mid-summer I end up on a Rockaway Beach and Montauk with a few last-minute trips to Boston. 

I laughed about this when I landed in Boston on Friday. Alistair met me at the gate in our rental car, and we had a beautiful, busy weekend. He took me to Harvard, where we walked hand in hand through the yard to make stops at all his old dorm rooms. After dinner we went to Hamilton to stay the night with his relatives. In the morning Alistairs little throat irritation on Thursday and Friday turned into a full blown cold. I didn't see it coming, but by the middle of the week, I would also become ill. 

We drove down to Boston to meet with Natalie and her friends at a brewery. At a big table we knocked back beers and played Jenga before departing for Lexington. We hopped back in the car, checked in at our hotel in Lexington and dressed for Alistair's work event. I had a fun time there, his coworkers were so nice and the food was delicious. The hostess even made creme brûlée for desert.

By Sunday, as we boarded an Amtrak train back to New York, Alistair was at the peak of his illness. He busied himself with work and I stayed glued to the window. My ride home was sadder than my bus ride to LaGuardia. Homes with backyards and pools and toys went by. I thought about everyone I know without those things, my handful of extended family who lived in trailers and HUD homes. Something in the economic disparity of the world depresses me. Enough sometimes, to make me feel suicidal. What is the point of hanging around, I asked myself. Life feels like a bunch of unsolved problems that will become other unsolved problems, and a lot of the times I just don't feel like being here. I would say, half of the year, I don't feel like being here.

We trudged out of Penn Station and took the subway to Alistairs apartment. I ran out to buy him bone broth and made him chug it to get well. By Tuesday, I was feeling sick myself. I couldn't make it to work Wednesday and left early on Thursday. I fought a fever and felt so miserable I called a tele-doctor on the phone (it's the new in thing). 

"You should get a flu test," he urged. It was 10:55 pm. looked up the nearest Urgent Care center and called a Lyft. Street closures forced my driver to take the long way. Waze kept giving him dead ends. He put the car in reverse once, for a three point turn, and sighed. 

"Just take Broadway," I said, looking at my watch. The Urgent Care facility closed at midnight. It was already 11:15. 

"Are you going to work?" he asked. 

"No, the doctor. I'm feeling unwell." 

The three front desk attendants looked ashen when I walked in at 11:45, putting a dent in their plan to leave on time. There was a man in his 60s in the waiting room, a couple with a snoring kid, and another man on the phone. I sunk into my red pleather chair and covered my eyes with my hands. My cough was enough to make me gag (in public this made me look like I was choking on something, my shoulders up leaning forward, closing my eyes). My head was pounding, my eyes watery and red from the fever.

My flu test was negative, but the doctor directed me to take a three over the counter medications before wishing me good luck. I took another Lyft home and slid into bed at 1 am, feeling like I'd accomplished nothing except spending $100 bucks on medical care in two hours. 

I went to work on Friday but was in bed by 9 pm. The cough woke me up, and perhaps the neighbors, too.  On Saturday I crossed through the apartment in my pajamas. Nothing to do but eat, sleep and watch TV. A prison of my coughs and groans.

The Weeklies: June 9 - 16

Last week was a week of rushing. Alistair was in Boston, I was planning to join him at the end of the week. I would be having a houseguest at my place while I was away. I cleaned, I had groceries delivered, I shopped, I dropped of keys with a friend-of-a-friend. I packed an overnight bag. 

I was exhausted by Friday morning when I threw my bag on my shoulder and took the 1 train downtown and to the M60 bus across town to LaGuardia Airport. I got a window seat, put my bag in my lap. I lamented everything I saw out the window. At the stops on 125th Street I thought about my early New York memories with my aunt who lived about 20 blocks north. We would go to the street sellers for coco butter and incense and "Harlem" shirts. Now I can't even afford the neighborhood, the Whole Foods on Lenox seems threatening. What the fuck are we doing?  I ask myself as I see the glass and concrete modern floor-to-ceiling window luxury towers sprout up, mostly empty. I want to tell them what its like to be like me, to hold your ailments in while you wait for enough paychecks to go to the doctor and finally get that test. But then I say, maybe they did all that. But please don't let them forget. 

I think about everyone around me. Most of my friends have more. I remember one of them a few years back, drunkenly suggesting a movie to me because I reminded her of the lead character. "You'd love it, it's about girls failing." Then I realized that among them all, yes, I was the least successful. They had an ivy sheen you could smell from far off and the confidence that comes with it. That knowing what you know whereas I exude, I'm faking it god damnit give me a chance.

We're now in Queens. Faster than my last M60 ride, we're at the airport terminal. I remind myself that I'm the only person I know that thinks LaGuardia is an OK airport despite ending up in a dead looking terminal with only stale sandwich shop and a grim crowd. I find a seat. 

I always ask myself the same question when I'm brooding alone: what kind of life are we meant to live? I always, quickly, in a half a second later, remember that there is no such thing as the "right kind of life." I decide I'm going to draw up a list of things I hate and never do them again for the sake of personal happiness. Then I got on a plane and went to Boston. 

The Weeklies: June 2 - 9

It was July 2001. My Aunt B. was showing my family around New York City. One morning after breakfast, she proposed we go to Chinatown. We took the bus from Harlem and had lunch in a Burger King on Canal Street. Then she she walked us down an alley into a purse store. 

"What kind of bag do you want?" the woman behind the counter asked. Louis Vuitton's and Chanel quilted shoulder bags hung from the ceiling in bunches like fruit. This concept of "knock-off bags" was completely foreign to us. We didn't even know buying them was illegal. 

"Kate Spade," we said. We knew exactly the model, slim, multicolored shoulder bag that could fit our wallet, keys and Lip Smackers. The woman sold my sister and I nearly identical types. We came back to Mobile, Alabama and showed them off to all our friends. 

"But where's the tag?" one of them asked. These knock-offs were so bad there wasn't even the signature white and black "Kate Spade" tag. 

"You can get them with tags?" I asked, embarrassed that I'd missed the key part of the sale. 

"Yeah," said our New York savvy friend. "you just ask for one and they glue it on with a hot glue gun." 

Despite it's blatant tackiness, I carried that purse everywhere. Eight years later I'd move to New York City and have a house full of Kate Spade stationary, dishtowels and jewelry. My favorite piece was a wide, red gold bangle that read, "London Calling" bought in honor of my last-minute trip there in 2011. Walking into her stores was like being understood. The hemlines were modest, the styles a little 1950s with the right amount of color and quirk. I saw an interior design article with photographs of her home. I pinned them as inspiration. 


Unfortunately I can't write about death with the same fluidity that I write about my life. My words feel really insignificant and staring at a cursor makes me feel debilitated. I could never write enough. I could write for 20 years and it would never be enough.

When I started writing this Weekly post, I realized how everything that happened was clouded by the shock I felt about Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain's passing.

In brief: Saturday and Sunday went by in a blur. I cooked Alistair a homemade bolognese and we watched a film. Sunday I took him to the Cloisters and on a walk through Fort Tyron Park. Monday I had my bi-weekly writers group, preceded by an al fresco snack at Chanson (I had a Paris Brest eclair. Alistair, who is half French, scoffed at this, but it was delicious.) 

Friday morning I got messages from everyone asking me if I'd heard the news. I looked at my Twitter for confirmation because it was the only app that would load fast enough. The first Tweet I saw was from Samantha Brown, a travel show host that had a feud with him for laughs. She had written "Dear God no." That was all the confirmation I needed. 

When I think about Anthony Bourdain I remember how much I wanted to be him. Before every trip I take I watch his show (either "No Reservations" or "The Layover") for inspiration. Before heading to Las Vegas I watched his "Fear and Loathing" episode and was introduced to my muse: Hunter S. Thompson. (Most people don't know this, but I cure writers block by reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." Its the only thing that can open me up and get me out of my box.) In that way, Bourdain and Thompson occupied the same space in my mind. I saw them as aspirational characters, on another level of self-awareness and irreverence and honesty. By some odd coincidence, they ended their lives in the same way. 

Friday evening I cried a little. 

Saturday morning I woke up at 8:30. The super and his assistant arrived at 10, and began work on the dead electrical outlet and the damage from the leak. The super pointed at a photo from my sisters deb ball (my dad in costume de rigueur, everyone else in ball gowns). 

"Family?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said sheepishly. 

"You have a beautiful apartment," he said. It was all Alistair's doing, he'd come by a few times and revamped the place. "You have baby?" 

"Oh no," I said. Then touched my stomach, maybe I was bloated. I asked if he had a kid and he took out his phone to show me a picture of his daughter in a white dress, presumably as a flower girl, smiling. 

They couldn't finish that day, because all supers take a lifetime to make a small repair. I took a nap, then dressed and hopped the train downtown. My sister was doing standup comedy and this was her biggest gig to date. I sat alone at a back table with a family of strangers. My sister was hilarious, the crowd really loved her. She made a joke about Kanye that almost brought them to their feet. I heard a table of bros in the back say, "this girl is good." 

I left and walked south on Eighth Avenue just a block west of Times Square. The area is part of the usual tourist footpath, lined with chain restaurants, slow walkers, corporate hotels. I thought to myself, New York is best in the summer

Pumpkin Seeds


It started with the banana.

In my mid-twenties, I wait for a flight at the gate. Five guys at the gate are laughing and joking, and have been trying to get my attention from afar. 

"There go your girl," one of them said to the other. I ignore them and pull out my breakfast: a banana. The laughter erupted even more loudly than before and then, I turned it upside down and began to peel it. With each peel the men scoffed louder and louder. I ate the whole banana, tossed the peel in a garbage can and boarded my flight. It wasn't until I was sat down on the plane that I realized the joke. 

"Oh! Is it because a banana looks like a... ah I see." I never realized my naivety before. 

On my second day of high school, two blonde upperclassmen boys walked past me on campus.  

“There’s the Freshman girl who doesn’t shave her legs,” one says. They are pointing at me. They snicker and laugh as they pass in the crowd. This became my marker, my curse. I was known only for that fact. 

By the time I started high school, all the uniform rules had been heavily enforced and reformed. It had to "touch the ground when kneeling" which we did a lot of, in front of the heavenly host and in confessionals and weekly mass. 

Imagine then, my skirt. I wore it so long to avoid the hassle of skirt checks. My socks past my ankles, two peanut-butter-colored hairy legs sticking out. Ankle socks were really "in" back then. As was rolling the cuffs of your shirt. 

During lunch, myself and a friend fill our trays. Fries and chicken nuggets for me. A hamburger, fries, a hot dog, and a side salad for her. One of the lunch ladies ringing us up said to my friend, "You been eating a pumpkin seed?” We have a discussion about this at lunch, we can’t figure out what she meant. (She later has contractions in the second floor girls bathroom, and that afternoon the principal and the disciplinarian are seen dramatically running to their cars and going straight to the hospital. It was a girl.)

Southerners have a euphemism for everything. It's a restrained world made wholesome and cute. I realize that if no ones going to really tell you, and Google doesn't yet exist, then you live in a world of inferences and assumptions. 

One of the nice, blonde, popular classmates pulls me aside after math but just before history. 

"Ariel, are you on your period?" she asks. 

"No... I don't," I look down, there's a blotch of red. 

"Maybe you can take your skirt and twist it," she says. 

A week before the first day of high school, a friend came over to hang out. We'd run out of things to do, so I walked her to my bedroom closet. 

"We can play shoe store," I say. I could be the seller, she could be the buyer. I didn't realize that high school meant that we weren't allowed to "play" these games anymore. If there was a memo, I never got any of them. 

A sibling in the hospital talks to me from the bed. It's 4 am, and neither of us can sleep. 

"I saw 'Ladybird' but I didn't get it. Everyone was crying but me," I say to her. 

"Of course you didn't get it. We never get 'coming of age' movies because we didn't have a normal 'coming of age,'" she says. 

I take a summer geology class where we're shown a film about molten lava. I get up from my seat and feel, again, the wetness of blood. 

I wait in the bathroom for the building to empty. I pass through a thick forest of pine between the building door and the parking lot. I feel protected in the trees above me. I sit on my green pillow in the drivers seat and soil it with my own blood. The blood reaches through my pants, the jacket around my waist, the pillow and eventually, the car seat.

I don't know anyone who wears tampons because their parents wouldn't let them. 

The movies make it seem like everything happens overnight. 

I once dated a clever start-up owner in New York. Your friend runs into him at a party. 

"Ariel was too angelic," he says while drunk. 

I saw nudity in film for the first time during an English class viewing of "Romeo and Juliet." One of the students hadn't finished reading the play, and after Romeo's suicide shouted at the TV.

"She ain't dead! She just playing possum." 

In middle school we do a question and answer with a priest. It's my favorite time of the year, we get to write anonymous questions on a slip of paper. Someone asks, "Why can't women become priests?" and our parish priest, a hilarious Irish man who always makes me laugh, answers. The teacher then stands up and holds up both her hands to pause the conversation. 

"And, you know, I just like to remind everyone that while men get to be priests, women get to experience the pleasure of childbirth and motherhood that men don't get to experience. So...just remember that right?"

My top lip has curled up distastefully. My eyes narrow. 

My mom's friend picks you up from school one day and drives you through the city. I see teenagers on the corners with their friends. A girl sitting in a boys lap. 

"Trashy," your mother’s friend says. "pretty soon she'll be droppin' her drawers." 

Another southern euphemism for "having sex."

At a middle school party some of the girls go into an alley to smoke. 

“We’re all staying over tonight,” they say and invite me. My parents tell me I can’t go, which leads to a firery journal entry and a bunch of tears. 

“Those girls are ‘fast,’” my dad keeps saying. He’s talking about one in particular who has free-range parents, boobs, and a boyfriend before anyone else. 

About seven years later they spot her, the girl with the free-range parents, at a McDonalds Drive-In with a pregnant stomach, working the last of two windows, the one where they hand you the food. 

This is their: “I told ya so” moment. 

Parent's don't admit it, but they love that "I told ya so" moment.

I make a mistake in a term paper, and accidentally use "loose" when I mean to use "lose." My professor walks into class and writes both words on the chalkboard. 

"Loose girls lose their virginity. OK? That's how you remember it." 

My only advice to my high school self would be to care less. 

Of course that's not what happened. I cared so much I eventually shaved my legs. I've felt like that person ever since, the stalwart who makes a show of it and eventually crumbles.