on: the girl

Happy Thanksgivukkah!

on: journalistic writing, on: the girl

CocoIt’s that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, when the blessed holiday of Hanukkah falls on the same day as Thanksgiving. And, like all good secular, suburban, last-minute Sara(h)s, I failed to delight in the sacrament.

I’ll blame it on circumstance – I just couldn’t find a menorah I liked enough, latkes require so much preparation, the Jewish deli down the block fed me lots of bagels and lox spread and matzo ball soup – but mostly I just couldn’t quite figure out what I wanted to do to recognize the holiday.

I’m in that age bracket where my sense of identity is constantly in flux, and spending another holiday away from home, newly domesticated, I’m forced to figure out which old traditions to adopt and which new ones to attempt. I haven’t been home to Atlanta in nearly two years, and I’ve been removed from the Keevan family Hanukkah rhythm for even longer, having spent a couple winters prior in San Francisco and Chicago. It’s a tradition I’d grown accustomed to – my mother’d make a big meal (usually spaghetti or pot roasts, my home-cooked Foom favorites), we’d settle in for some hot chocolate, light up the menorah and recite our version of the Hanukkah prayer.

To call it fondness is an understatement. I define my Jewish self based on those interactions at home: by my mother’s gentle and halfhearted adherence to spirituality, by the laughter, by the food I sometimes achingly crave, by the wax-stained countertops. And without the expectation of that celebration, I’m kind of lost.

B is a good sport; he tagged along on my hunt for a menorah and was supportive when I found the selections at multiple stores to be without. He tolerated my lighting of our 3-wick Bath & Body Works winter candle as I butchered the Keevan-version of the Hebrew prayer. And he partook in a breakfast or three of bagels and lox spread (though I think that was something he was happy to do). But it’s not the Hanukkah I’d so come to love.

It’s strange to feel even further removed from Judaism than I did in my youth. I’d drifted in and out of Jewish consciousness for most of college, vacillating between hyper-Heeb and apathetic agnostic. Religion didn’t need to be a part of my life once I left, as my core friendship groups weren’t centered around the campus Hillel. I abstained from High Holidays, regularly mixed milk with meat, ate bacon – yummy, yummy bacon. But I still felt Jew-ish.

I feel like the last bits of my Jewish identity are ebbing away to form something much more nebulous. I still get pangs of Jewish pride, but I feel that sense of self is being even more readily challenged. I don’t know who I am or, really, what I believe in. Not partaking in Thanksgivukkah felt, ultimately, like a loss. I couldn’t stand to settle for something less than perfection, and perhaps that was because I wasn’t yet ready to commit.

This has been a year of pretty serious commitment, marked by a series of firsts: My first big-girl job, my first apartment, my first steady relationship*. It’s certainly daunting, and I think I’m suffering from an existential crisis. Is it possible I’m enduring that ridiculous quarter-life crisis Buzzfeed seems so fixated on? Or is it as simple as knowing I don’t know anything about myself? Mostly, I think I’m just frightened to commit to something so intangible – jobs can be changed, homes can be relocated, boyfriends can be replaced, but beliefs are supposed to be more unrelenting. And I’m not sure what I believe in.

I do, however, believe in being grateful for the opportunities and experiences that shape us, so I can take a moment to celebrate that spirit of Thanksgiving. It’s been a huge year for me, and I have so very much to be grateful for. I’m too often one for schmaltz, so I will try and keep it short n’ simple this time around. Here’s what I am thankful for:

  • Employment. I realize I am exceptionally lucky to be gainfully employed in my career field. I stumbled into a journalism job, and it allows me to write everyday. Self-expression, y’all. I also have the unique pleasure of serving and occasionally managing in a delightful little restaurant with people I can stand to be around. Can’t ask for much more.
  • Family. I couldn’t have expected two years ago, hell, even last year, that this would make my list, but I’ve been changing my tune as of late. Between a relationship with my family that can only be described as “under construction” and a relationship with B’s family that can be categorized as “complicated,” family remains a strange conceit. But it’s wonderful to have a place to go to for holidays, to spend Sunday night spaghetti dinners with, to call for rides home and to begin to understand familial love again.
  • The Bear. Of all the things to be thankful for, this guy, he tops my list. I tell him sometimes that he saved my life, and while it’s trite, it’s also true. I don’t want to air all of our lovey-doviness on this forum, but suffice to say, I love him.
  • Freedom and flexibility. My full-time j-gig allows me to work with a great deal of flexibility, both from home and with a great deal of say over content. I’m awful young to have that sort of agency, and I’m creating opportunities to write about the things I’m passionate about, even if it’s not from the most ideal perspective.
  • Friendship. The opportunities for friendship lessen as I grow older, so the ones I still get are nice reprieves. Trivia Tuesday, Hangouts with Hanna and the like remind me of all the good in the world.
  • The Barenaked Ladies. Because.
  • Coca Cola. Some things never change.
  • Financial freedom. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, wealthy. But I finally make enough to live comfortably within my means. And that’s enough for now.
  • The future. And the fact that I still have one.

Finally, I am thankful to you, the reader, the friend, the World Wide Web visitor. A long post, I know, and great kudos to you if you read ’til the end. If you did, please also check out this story I wrote for the magazine on the proliferation of Molly. I’ll owe you one. And a Keevan always repays her debts.

Happy Thanksgiving, folks, and happy Hanukkah to you. Wishing you a happy and healthy holiday season.

*I couldn’t find quite the adjective to use here. For any longtime readers, you may recall I was in a serious relationship for the great majority of college, and the rest was marred by the devastation I felt after its demise. I consider this one different in a lot of ways, not the least of which that this is exceedingly healthier, happier and generally more mature.

The Domestication of the Dunce Cap

on: tap, on: the girl

BRockTHE BEAR, who I’ll henceforth just call B, is a bit shy and a lot private, so I’ve been reluctant to go into too much detail on our relationship. I will say this—we’re as happy as clams. Chubby, couch-lounging clams in blissful cohabitation.

We’ve become the picture of domestic perfection, settling into an easy pattern of slow-cooked dinners and casual Netflix binge watching, and it’s a strangely unexpected lapse into adulthood. B’s become something of a culinary artist – his tuna burgers are absolute masterpieces – and I’ve become an amateur housewife, culling home decor and design suggestions from the likes of Real Simple and Bon Appetit to fashion a real home in our cozy apartment. I’ve got myself an apron now, a cute Anthropologie number with Scotties adorning it, and a matching pot holder too, and I like to imagine a not-so-far-off-future where I don it with matching heels and a choker of pearls.

Our life is an interesting snapshot into suburban young adulthood. We’re not quite grown yet—B’s still got a semester and change left in his physics program, and I’m still settling into a professional workplace—but we’re trying on adulthood for size. We live a good distance from the city proper, and, although it’s readily accessible by public transit, it’s a hassle we avoid more often than not. Instead, we frequent the joints in close proximity, including a great taqueria, a fancy pantsy hip bar, an acceptable sushi place and an absolutely delectable Jewish deli, and we spend the large majority of our evenings on the oversized sofa laying claim to roughly 67 percent of our apartment. It’s not entirely surprising, as I still work too much, holding on to my restaurant job in addition to my daytime magazine gig, and B is commuting to school three+ times a week. We’re easily exhausted and particularly lame, but I’m finding myself enamored with our lifestyle. It’s a pretty simple happiness, and it’s lending itself well to growing up right.

Speaking of growing up right—the picture above at left is an homage to a photo I discovered tucked in an album from B’s youth. In the original, he’s barely a toddler, all towheaded and spectacular, straddling a hippopotamus statue. The best part is his face: He’s mimicking the hippo, his mouth wide, his eyes closed tight and crinkling in the corners, a hypnotic roar audible even in the decades-old photograph. It is the cutest photo I have ever seen, ever, even in a digital sea of corgi dedication sites and carefully choreographed Suri Cruise fan sites. We celebrated our anniversary recently and paid a visit to Starved Rock State Park, and, at my behest, he reenacted the pose. The result is here, ripe for all sorts of mocking and d’awwing and Photoshopping.

The simple fact is that we’re happy. I’ve had my doubts with lasting happiness in the past, and it’s remarkable how much brighter life becomes when there’s someone true to spend it with. Without dedicating too much time as of late to writing for fun, I’ve yet to determine how this newfound domestication will impact my writing here. I think it’ll likely be a lot more Instagrammy—I’m sure y’all love filtered photos of food as much as I do—but not really, though I expect there’ll really be some shared recipes, some fashion tips from the truly unfashionable and more than a few desperate requests for home design advice. But I’m still me, so I’ll still fangirl over Pretty Little Liars and fawn over Jess Day’s exquisite wardrobe and conduct an in-depth analysis of Miley’s newest music video, and I’ll not lose my gentle cynicism. I’m just happy to report I’m happy.

As always, thanks for reading.
Happy (almost) weekend.

The Girl

Birthday Cake Song

in: due time, on: the girl

Hey, folks and slowpokes.

I just logged into WordPress for the first time since April, and I found a draft lounging in my post queue. It wasn’t of particular length or substance, but I am admittedly so vain that the idea of any of my thoughts languishing in the blogosphere pains me greatly. Thus:

“This week marked a particular personal moment in my own Julian calendar, wherein I transitioned from Taylor Swift to Jimmy Eat World. Truth be told, I felt it necessary to mention both Swift’s “22” and Jimmy Eat World’s “23,” as if mere name-dropping would notify the audience of my name day last week. So, there, my return!, albeit one with a poor pair of cultural references to declare

Happy belated birthday to me!

And, as it turns out, Blink-182 was, by my cursory interactions, wrong, and people do sometimes like you when you’re 23. This comes as a bit of a relief, as I’ve seldom questioned the wisdom of Mark, Tom and Travis, and they’ve yet to lead me astray. There was little celebration, as per my request, lu -“

And that’s where it ends. I don’t find it all that surprising. Finishing any task remotely related to writing has proven quite a feat for me as of late. I’m killing myself to live, effectively, working like a madwoman so as to create a sense of financial stability. And it seems to be working. At 23, I’m struggling less with money, with identity, with sense of self, with boy problems, with the ins and outs of daily existence, than ever before. I have a stable relationship and a quasi-stable home life (distance truly does make the heart grow fonder), the potential for improvement, challenges, confidence and an unfettered optimism that change is a good thing. I’m finally feeling more like myself again. I’m gregarious and funny, personable and sharp, traits I haven’t seen in myself in years.

Last year, I promised the summer of my renaissance, but I repeated mistakes whose lessons I’d sworn I’d taken to heart, and I found so many new vices (cops. cops. cops.) I nearly declared myself a sinner. This summer, this has been the one. I pass the rare spare time I’m afforded with Bear – The Man of the Hour, The One, Mr. Wonderful – bettering myself and my circumstances, vowing to really begin my life as an ad-ult (am I putting the right em-phas-is on the right syll-ab-le?). And I’m actually doing a pretty good job, I think. It feels like things may turn around, and I’ll be able to retire my dunce cap once and for all.

Thanks for reading, y’all, and happy (re)birth-day to me.

About a Girl 2: Electric Bugaloo

on: the girl

They* say happiness writes white, but so, too, does depression. And in my particular case, depression has cast me less a writer and more as a glorified morning kicking post and coffee maven. I’ve spent the last six months in a state of hibernation, hiding a fluctuating girth behind a kelly green apron, losing my penchant for language to punctuated small talk and impatient throat-clearing.

As summer transitioned to fall, I found myself at an impasse, and I scampered fearful down the path of least resistance. I like to think I’m hesitating, suffering The Great Crisis of Conscience of Your Early Twenties, but mine seems to be lingering. I’m hiding, really, crippled by that nagging fear that I just can’t do it, the great intangible “It” that haunts my unupdated LinkedIn profile like the great white specter of failure. I graduated Northwestern, or sort of kind of finished up, and couldn’t summon the courage to move forward. I live in the same town I went to school in, working in and around town, my nametag stitched to my chest and my big, ever-so-egotistical mouth a reminder that I have yet to exceed expectations.

There’s a lot I’m still coming to terms with, my Identity and Self-Concept and Ideas of Forward Motion constantly percolating. I think I’ve finally realized I’m too old to blame my critical failures on anyone but myself, but I’ve long built my sense of self upon this victimized approach. I’ve blamed my circumstances on the shittiness of the last few years, but I suppose I’ve perpetuated so much of the heartache by consistently choosing the wrong path. I’ve made the wrong move and the laughably misguided choice at nearly every critical fork, and growing up has proven far more tenuous and distressing than I could have possibly anticipated. It should be easy to make the choice to progress, forward motion being the default mode for the human passing of time. And, yet, I practice regression, contenting myself with minimum wage paychecks, piling bills, encroaching creditors, far more afraid of the prospect of change than of the staid settlement of curtailing my dreams.

So, I guess, any state of continuance is contrived as a poor means of keeping you from your dreams. If you fall too comfortably into any sort of emotional stability, you’re bound to amble from one day to the next, unaroused to any higher or even changed level of affectation. I think that’s where I am: I’ve contented myself to an emotionality that reaches toward – but fails to grasp – happiness. Each day is relatively similar, excepting the bow arbitrarily chosen to hold my hair back. The bright spots in my week – the occasional customer compliment, the visits from The Bear, the solid and sweaty runs – do little to raise my overall demeanor, and so I stay, rooted to my inability to seize the day.

I suppose this, in my way, is a reintroduction, but it’s, as per usual, unstable and relatively undefined. Nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three, and nobody likes you much when you’re not fulfilling your potential and sloppily sliding from paycheck to paycheck, embittered by circumstances you’re too scared to change. And, yes, it’s been said before, here so many times before, but this, this has to be my year. There’s more potential here, now, than ever before, and I have this support system constructed by two of the greatest people I’ve ever known. So, here, I pray, happiness or unhappiness or boredom or exasperation won’t write white, but, instead, will write as something approaching progress. There’s got to be something better than this, a sequel of Electric Bugaloo proportions.

Welcome back, thank you for reading, and, as always, okay.

*90s alternative rock demigods Harvey Danger

About a Girl: The Gaslight Edition

in: viewing room, on: the girl

Happy summer, folks!, and greetings from Evanston.

It’s hot as hell out here, with even the breeze coming in from the lake doing little to abate the stifling heat. But it’s pretty, rull pretty, with mid-afternoon rainstorms and gorgeously encroaching sunsets and rippling tides. The coastline (can you call lakeside beaches “coastline”?) is astounding. I love summer ’round here. I’ve barely entered the city limits at all – hell, I haven’t gotten downtown but once this summer, surprisingly – but there’s so much to do in Evanston on a budget, so much to enjoy, even if the best of times are marred by itchy mosquito bites. My dear friend Jimmye and I have embarked on a grand old tradition to beat the summer heat. We delinquents are breaching the delicate Evanston-Wilmette divide and dragging our less-than-divine North Shore tourist butts to the Wilmette beaches. And it’s glorious. We trek up to Wilmette, biking along Sheridan, past the looming Bahai Temple and down through Gillson Park to the beach. The water is clear there, the sand fine and warm, the quasi-boardwalk pocked by generally well-behaved kids. It’s actually incredible, and it’s truly reminding me of why I love summer.

And, y’know, more than that, I think I’m loving the experience because it reminds me of a little movie I used to love called “Now and Then.” When it came out in ’95, critics called “Now and Then” the female “Stand By Me.” And while that’s hilariously untrue – one’s a classic, one’s a laughably admirable sleepover flick – it remains one of the most beloved films from my youth. And my little bike jaunts with Jimmye remind me a bit of this –


Clip from “Now and Then”

I like to think that, if we were to actually reenact “Now and Then,” I’d get to be the character of Roberta (Christina Ricci), the tomboy who tapes her breasts and flirts with and then (spoiler alert!) snogs dreamy Devon Sawa. But that would mean I grow up to be Rosie O’Donnell, and I’m not sure I’m on board with that if it can be helped. Regardless, last night, Jimmye and I caught a bit of an a capella group’s set live in the park amphitheater. Ac•Rock, “Chicago’s premier acappella rock ‘n roll singing group,” as per their website, played a few pretty fun songs, a number of which would have fit right in with the whole “Now and Then” thing. It was fairly perfect.

To you, all of you, happy summer! I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am. And be sure to enjoy tomorrow’s moderate temperatures. I, for one, will likely be beachside, bitten and buried in schoolwork. For now, I’m off to find out a little something about Dear Johnny.
Au revoir, Simone!

About a Girl: When Yer Twenty-Two

on: the girl

Over the last two years with this li’l blog, I’ve expended countless words attempting to define and redefine my identity. It’s a tough go for a nomadic college kid – post-adolescence, coupled with the particulars of my familial situation, makes for a murky sense of self. But I keep chugging away, rattling off facts, quirks and circumstances as if, compiled, they’ll be able to make some decoupaged mannequin of me.

Last week, I turned 22. I was to have a college degree tucked tight beneath my belt, able to change my Facebook education status to the past tense re: Northwestern. Things got in the way – I’ll claim responsibility enough to say it was me – and the steps to my future seem a bit more formidable than they did four months ago, but it’s important to keep a few things in mind. A friend of mine suggested recently that I were wallowing (an interesting juxtaposition, it should be noted, to the suggestion from another friend that I was superb at hiding emotions in mixed company), and the idea greatly unsettled me. I’ve long prided myself on my unbridled (public face) of optimism, and I’ve truly got so much to be grateful for. I’m 22, healthy, living in one of the greatest cities in the world and privy (mostly) to an exceptional education in the field of my choice. This is the time of my life in which I am expected to be most carefree and happy consciously. When it’s most permissible that I don’t give a damn about much else other than frolicking and sunshine and friendship. It’s not as if I can hide from my dilemmas. I still have bills to pay, countless accounts and debts to settle before I can sit contentedly, but I’m young, and I’m mostly free, and it’s high time I start acting like it.

For the blissful past few weeks, I’ve resided in a (rat-free) new sublet, this gorgeous little place just a block from where I used to live. Charlie Conway, that beautiful piece of modern machinery, is back in Chicago, rebuilt and repositioned as my iron horse. Spring break, when Charlie finally reappeared, brought the perfect weather for cycling, too; warm, sunny, with the tiniest hint of a lake-induced wind. Just gorgeous (though it should be noted that the gorgeous weather turned fickle and cold and has yet to dissipate. Alas). I have, at minimum, three months with some of the greatest people I have ever known, and those three months will be replete with memories. It’s hard to be pessimistic about what lies ahead; I made it through the winter, and not to perpetuate the cliche, but, truly, there’s sunshine ahead.

This particular post sat untouched in my draft folder on WordPress for a few weeks; Harvey Danger (boo-yah, The Sextarines, I owned that shit at trivia) crooned that “Happiness Writes White,” and it certainly seems to hold true for me. Here’s a snippet of what I’d written:

“This week was Spring Break for Northwestern students, and I was a bit wary of its approach. Work was to be closed, and many of my friends were to jetset to exotic locales (or, if not exotic, to something comfortable and welcoming), and I was to be stuck in an empty apartment with nothing but time. It turned out, though, to be kind of great. I kept myself occupied preparing for the move and, too, enjoying the weather. There was one truly perfect afternoon, taking a good book (the new Jonah Lehrer) to the lakefill, sporting flip flops and shorts, gorging myself on Chipotle and eying the incredible Chicago skyline to the south. This particular afternoon – one that reminded me of the sheer beauty of life – was followed by a rollicking trip downtown to catch “Bring It On: The Musical” – yes, really – a hilarious monstrosity it’s hard to believe actually exists. The week wasn’t through with me yet, though. There was a drinking game set to Mario Kart drenched in debauchery, trivia dominance and a week in heaven spent with a boy I’ve really grown to admire.”

A few things have changed since, sure – not my affection for the boy (The Teacher’s Pet), certainly – and the weather has failed to stabilize or even truly warm, but I’m still right where I want and need to be. Twenty-two started out swimmingly, with a midnight bassoon surprise serenade and a real adult-like night on the town, and it’s been fairly fantastic since. I’m thrilled for what lies ahead; check back for an exciting official announcement in the next few weeks. I’m ironing out the details now and am itching to make a more public statement*!

Happy (almost) May,
The Girl

*Like my blog is public or viral. Guffaw.

On Tap: New Year’s Resolutions for the Year the World Ends (Maybe)

in: due time, on: the girl


“Gonna Make It Through This Year” – Great Lake Swimmers

See also: “A Long December,” Counting Crows; “This Year,” The Mountain Goats; “This Will Be Our Year,” The Zombies (and Foo Fighters cover)(and OK Go cover); “This Will Be My Year,” Semisonic

Happy end of 2011, folks! I hope your year is wrapping up swimmingly, and while mine isn’t perfect, it’s fair, I suppose, to say that I am just grateful it is wrapping up at all.

I don’t want to harp too much on this year, but suffice it to say that 2012 will be different. Better, even, I am convinced. A lot of relationships, opportunities and experiences came together and fell apart this year, but I’m finding it’s unproductive to mourn too much for what I’ve lost (except some weight, hell yeah!). I will, instead, look to the future and to what, I am sure, will be an astounding and developmental year.

Last year, I made a list of 21 resolutions (to celebrate the arrival of my 21st birthday, no doubt), many of which I kept. This was a year of improvement, certainly, but it was also a year that often left me feeling powerless, impotent and generally overwhelmed. I’m finally stumbling into full-fledged adulthood, one mirrored affirmation at a time, and this’ll be the year I stick a landing.

(Resolution no. 1 seriously ought to be perfecting a metaphor/cutting down on cliched phrasings.)

So, for 2012, I’ve tried to narrow my resolutions down to five concise, clear directives.

1. “Don’t worry about the world coming to an end today. It’s already tomorrow in Australia.” – Charles M. Schulz

All of the Mayan predictions that the world is going to end are enough to give a girl a loose bladder. There are things within my control, and this is, somewhat unfortunately, not one of them. I’m a worrier by nature, but I’ve realized a lot of what I worry about actually inhibits functioning. I’m trying to cut down on worrying about the actions and thoughts of others, which current technology does not yet allow me to control. Hopefully, if the globe ceases its rotation and/or revolution (I didn’t do much reading on these end-of-world theories. And I didn’t even watch “2012,” despite the lure of Cusack.), my world’ll end in a blaze of glory. And, thanks to help from a few friends, with well-shaped eyebrows.

2. Embrace spontaneity. 

I admit it – I have some control issues. I try to steer outcomes in my favor by contriving scenarios and sowing metaphorical seeds, and I’ve got this pesky habit of always going after what I want – to a fault. I’m Miss Independent, or so I like to proclaim, but I have trouble letting situations play out. I’m often the pursuer, and I’m more often the pusher, and this tends to endanger healthy, natural friendships and relationships. There are surprises I love – the ones I expect – and unplanned adventures I live for, but I need to work a bit more on handing the reins over to someone else. Not Santa, though. We’re in a tiff.

3. Accept my circumstances.

Without going into too much detail, this last month was a cavalcade of disruption. I’m not a religious person, but I’ve long strove to remember the serenity prayer. Hearkening back to that whole control issue, I tend to envy the things others possess but don’t appreciate, and it frustrates me that I can’t choose their circumstances instead. And, much to my dismay, I’ve become one of those complain-y people. I like to think the charisma and optimism I’ve used to define myself are merely latent, and, if I can accept what it is without kicking and screaming too much, I hope to find that I am stronger, more capable and happier. I can’t very well lament my singledom (not as long as Mark Wahlberg remains married) simply because I am coveting what other people have, and, if I’m being honest, what I do not want.

4. Write.

Every day, I’m hustlin’. I succumbed to a fairly unpleasant writers’ block for a good chunk of the year, and I can’t let that happen again. I have many, many texts, essays and articles to compose this year, and, with a little luck, I’ll end the year doing it somewhere airy and calm. This won’t be The Year of My Great American Novel – I’ll save that for my jaded 23rd year – but, at the very least, I can start by letting more people read my work. I’ve tended recently to write and rewrite until I work myself into an editorial tizzy, never allowing anyone else to read even an unpolished copy. In some ways, it’s been a lack of confidence, but the whole purpose of my chosen career path is to have others read it. I figure this li’l blog is a good place to start. Plus, sharing is caring.

5. Cultivate the friendships and relationships I’d miss most if the world actually ended.

With turmoil comes clarity, in some ways, and, as such, I’ve become acutely aware of which relationships in my life are worth maintaining (and that hot pink extra-large Post-It noted list in my planner doesn’t hurt). The rest of you can suck it.

I define myself too often by the relationships I keep, and I am constantly amused and bemused by human interaction. I can feel utter contentment alone in a packed room but find a lack in my own intimate company. I have close friends I’ve yet to meet and good friends with whom years of silence can pass and things can stay exactly the same, and I am indescribably grateful to all. There are those, too, I hardly know but provide a sense of comfort and support I rarely dreamed of. There is something to be said for the kindness of strangers and for the capacity of others to show goodness, and I am amazed by that sort of raw selflessness. I want, this year, to meet in real life (even if it takes anthropomorphic penis drawings to get you here), to stay close even if we end the year knowing each other only digitally, to find a middle ground of home where you all exist together (in my heart), to keep California forever.

And, maybe most of all, I want to write the old-fashioned way. There’s something so eloquent in the tangible mementos of handwritten notes, and there is such childlike ingenuity in awaiting the arrival of the mail. I want that back, even if/when I’m living thousands upon thousands of miles away from those I’ve claimed as family.

This year, I significantly altered my lifestyle. I learned to ask for help (and, to some extent, accept it), embraced physical activity, found ways to channel stress, gained a greater sense of self, put down the Raspberry Newtons (I’ll miss you, old friends) and learned, a bit, to act my age. Plus, I lived in two of America’s drunkest cities this year, and that deserves a toast. I didn’t graduate, but there’s time for that yet, and I’m still learning how to prioritize. I fell in love this year, turning 21 years of foreplay into a torrid affair*, but it’s a relationship that will take time, effort and, likely, counseling to stabilize and solidify.

For now, happy new year, and good riddance, 2011. I’ll check in from Chicago in a few days.

Love,
The Girl (xo,co)

*with myself, bozo. you’re pervy.

About a Girl: West Coastin’

on: the girl

Hello, readers, stumblers, ex-spouses and prospective employers!

I’ve been blogging so sporadically that I fear I’ve lost even the small readership I’d managed to build (thanks in great part to all of the murmurings of a “Veronica Mars” movie – shame on you, Warner Bros.), and I think a reintroduction may be necessary.

I’ve been living on the West Coast for nearly three months, and I can’t begin to express the adoration I feel for this place. It really must be in the air here, for I can’t imagine being anywhere else. This experience, and the incredible internship I’ve had since I got out here, has been immensely transformative. I fell back in love with journalism, and I wrote nearly everyday, whether in short quips, Gchats, drafts or notes home. I now get compliments on my svelte-lier bod (#humblebrag) from passerby cyclists, and that’s because the Frisco hills have shaped my rockin’ calves. I think, in truth, I regained my swagger, and it’s been a pretty rollickin’ good time.

Next month, well, really, in a few short weeks, I’ll be headed back home to Atlanta for the holidays. My mother has promised a full-scale turkey dinner to repent for my solo status this Thanksgiving. And, soon after, I’ll head back to Evanston for what I truly hope will be my last Chicago winter. Then, it’s off on a new journalistic journey. I will hopefully be purchasing a brand spankin’ new laptop in the next month, so I plan to open 2012 with regular posting. For now, a bit about me; I wrote this during my freshman year of college, and it somehow still rings true:

Coco “President Dancefloor” Keevan (c.1990-present) comes from Georgia, where the peaches grow. She is an actual student at Northwestern University, studying, much to her chagrin, the fine art of journalism. Her focus is on nothing and everything at once, with a concentration in John Cusack, made- for-TV movies and dinosaurs. In 2000, Coco wowed an audience of ten with her dissertation on the sensual powers of marinara sauce. She has a penchant for appropriate musical handclaps and the Culkin brothers, but she abhors the New York Yankees and geographically-named bands. She is oft-compared to a raven-haired Paris Hilton, and she hopes to star in a film or television series with a one-dimensional, awkward Michael Cera. Coco’s verbose nature often gets her into trouble in academics and common society, as she occasionally loses control of her vowel movements and practices the terrible talent of word vomit. Coco has aspirations of one day claiming Mars in the name of Rock’n’Roll. If that doesn’t quite pan out, she’ll settle for a cushy cubicle job at Rolling Stone, eating green M & Ms from the riders of famous musicians and relishing the sweet free merchandise that comes as a perk.

Welcome back to what I hope will be the best incarnation of The Girl With the Dunce Cap yet; I think there may be a bit of a makeover and perhaps even a content overhaul. It should be back with some degree of regularity; I hope you’ll keep reading.

xo,co

About a Girl: Shiny, Shiny Pants and Bleach-Blonde Hair

on: tap, on: the girl

Unlock my body and move myself to dance
Moving warm liquid, flowing blowing glass

I miss the innocence I’ve known
Playing KISS covers, beautiful and stoned

Sometimes, y’know, I feel like there are things I’ve got to tell y’all. I have to wax poetic to my audience of me. Or not. Sometimes I just feel like talking.

It’s been a weird year. In some ways, I’ve had a maturity growth spurt, but mostly I just feel like I’m in middle school all over again. I’m thirteen but foolishly entrusted with a driver’s license and the legal ability to purchase alcohol. Some things don’t change; I’ve spent my summer biking around, gorging myself on chocolate, trying to read Vonnegut‘s entire bibliography (again, middle school flashback), pretending I am thinking about going to the gym, when I know all too well I’ll just watch another episode of “Mad Men” on Netflix Instant. I’ve listened to more Ben Kweller than I should likely admit, though the (very talented) musician hasn’t released a new album that I’ve heard in full since 2006.


Ben Kweller, “Thirteen”
(See also: “Sundress“)

But, some things have changed. Like, for the first time since Matt Hester*, I don’t want to be anyone’s girlfriend. Not Ducky’s. Not The Chemist’s (despite the insistence of everyone else, I really just want to keep being his best friend). Not the unnamed, straight San Francisco gentleman with no face who I occasionally fantasize will sweep me off my feet come fall. I don’t want the responsibility of caring for or about anyone else, and I don’t want the pleasure of shedding ten thousand tears over stupid arguments. And, yes. Right now, and for the foreseen future, being someone’s girlfriend would be a burden. I’m still (slowly but hopefully surely) getting me together again.

I’m not ready to buckle down to be anyone but me, as cheesy as that may sound. But seriously. Academically and professionally and socially, I’ve been a bit of a dolt, and I am desperately ready for a fresh (homeless, exciting and influential) start in San Francisco come fall. And Charlie Conway came back to me! I’m taking that as a major league sign that things are lookin’ up.

Here’s the long n’ short of it all: I’m exorcising all of the bitchiness from my life. That’s my major solution. I’m clipping my tongue and watching the sarcasm; I’m putting the stops on friendships that do little more than antagonize or patronize me; and I’m ridding myself of the habits, possessions and tendencies that propel me to behave like an egotistical, superficial, money-grubbing Queen Bee.

So, that’s that. I’m pleasingly moving forward. I’m listening to a lot of Sha Sha. I’m preparing for San Francisco. I’m refusing to be any man’s Robin. And I’m generally behavin’.

‘Cept when I wear my bikini to the Wal-Mart and they ask me to leave.

Happy August, friends.

*Matt Hester, if you’re reading this, thanks for coming to my cosmic bowling party in seventh grade. And for the brown and white stuffed dog from Kohl’s. He’s doing well.

Stolen Bike Alert!

on: tap, on: the girl

Hey, you guys. Charlie Conway’s been bikenapped!

It’s been such a sad few days, friends o’ the blogosphere. Charlie Conway, who I mentioned a few posts back, my beloved Bianchi Milano Citta, has been kidnapped by some big fat jerk! I am oh-so-sad. He was taken right out from under my nose, and I couldn’t even protect him.

I’ve been on a pretty heavy duty Veronica Mars mission to locate him and punish (through some vigilante justice) his captor. Shit’s going to get real.

I’m reposting a photo below, and you can find out more specifics about the circumstances of his disappearance at the Chicago Stolen Bike Registry and the Stolen Bike Registry (national). I’m offering an ample reward for his safe return, so please let me know if you hear anything. I’m devastated!

If you’re in Evanston, please keep your eyes peeled, and protect yourself and your wheels by registering it with the local police. I hope you don’t find yourself in this position, and know that, as soon as I get ‘im back, I’ll be taking the most severe of precautions.

Here’s Charlie: