Loving the Apocalypse

For as long as I can remember, I've been obsessed with the end of the world. My interests run to the dystopian as well (think The Handmaid's Tale or Blade Runner), but stories about the apocalypse really get me going. And it's not about the gore, or even about terror at the idea of my own inevitable demise. In fact, I actually find some perverse, selfish comfort in the idea of it all ending at once. I won't miss anything, and I won't have to feel bad about the people I leave behind.

No, I think what fascinates me most is wondering: how will it happen, and---more importantly---how will people react?

Movie after movie has been inspired by this question, and, lately, they seem to be everywhere. I'm not sure if it's a subconscious (or deliberate) reaction to the chatter about the Mayan predictions for 2012, or just one of those moments of cultural synchronicity that come along every so often, but it's for real. Last year there was Melancholia, this year we're getting Seeking A Friend for the End of the World, and next year, The End of the World.

The typical film depiction of the apocalypse goes something like this:

1) Government discovers world-ending event (often a comet or an asteroid headed straight for Earth). 2) Government tries awfully hard---and fails even harder---to keep said event a secret. 3) Public freaks the eff out. 4) Super smart members of said public figure out awesome way to beat the world-ending event at its own game. 5) Event is eventually beaten in a show of human (or, let's face it, American) ability to triumph over all, but not without major casualties. Most central characters are spared, but a few are sacrificed on the altar of a two-hanky moment.

I like these movies, movies like Deep Impact, Armageddon, or Independence Day. I gobble them up like candy. And they do a decent job of showing the humanity in the midst of the set piece explosions. But, I have to say, the movie that's most satisfied my dual needs to a) see it all come crashing to a halt, and b) see how people might react to it is the aforementioned Melancholia.

There's no doubt at the beginning of the film that the world is going to end. He shows it to you right there in the dreamy opening sequence, alongside our heroine (played by Kirsten Dunst) aping Ophelia, birds falling from the sky, and a bush catching fire---all set to Wagner. (Manohla Dargis' rundown of the sequence is well worth a read.). A planet--- Melancholia---collides directly with Earth, destroying them both on impact. There's no escaping this end. (Spoiler alert, I guess?)

And I think that's why the movie has stuck with me. Yes, there's the incredible moment right at the end, when Melancholia bears down so hard on our cast that their hair blows sideways in its celestial breeze, and there's the breathtakingly gorgeous setting (an estate with incredible grounds in some unnamed European location)---not to mention the Wagner crashing in all over the place, chords hanging out. But watching a small group of people deal quietly with the end of the world? Talk dirty to me, von Trier.

Which is not to say that I'm not planning to see the next couple of world-ending-sky-falling movies. I am. But I know I'll be a little disappointed if Steve Carell and Keira Knightley both make it through.

(photo by mockstar on flickr)

YWRB: Genesis

We were young writer party girls in college.  At the time, creative nonfiction was the new, hot genre.  We were asked to write essays. We understood essays.  We learned that the word “essay” meant “attempt.”  We attempted constantly.  We attempted friendships and sophistication and reputations and all the things you can try on and discard while young and starting out.  Everything felt like rebellion: against parents, expectations, systems and growing up.  And it was.  We couldn’t articulate it at the time, but one thing I know now is this: the most rebellious thing you can do, at any age, is be yourself.

I remember the moment the title came to me.  I was sitting on a friend's black leather sofa, drinking vodka and fruit juice from an old flower vase.  I was wearing a ballgown.  We weren't going out that evening, but that's what we did when we stayed in.  Anyway, in the moment of garish getups and pride in our own ridiculous behavior, the quick thought came to me: The Young Women's Rebellion Bible.  I thought I knew something about rebellion.  Dressed up for a party, but lounging on a couch was a rebellious act in my twenty-one year old mind.

Later that week, I was in a bar with Amy before our creative nonfiction workshop.  I told Amy the title and before the words were completely out of my mouth, she screams, "Oh my God, we could totally do this!"  We immediately started brainstorming topics.  We took quick notes on napkins and then ran to class, high on possibility and buzzed on cheap beer.  Amy's enthusiasm made me believe we could do it.  We could write a book of instructions or stories or something that taught others about rebellion.

We liked pushing boundaries, walking edges.  Although the English building was designated non-smoking, on breaks we'd find an empty classroom and lean far out the window with our lit cigarettes.  We relished that rush.  A little rebellion made us bold.  Writing about rebellion made us rebel. Our process was born.

We enrolled others in our mission.  Our creative writing teachers, the head of the English department, the owner of the restaurant where Amy worked, the bartender at our favorite haunt.  Amy's enthusiasm made other people believe we could do it.  And before I knew it, we were.

For several months, we wrote essays about our behavior, our rebellion, our romances and our families.  We filled yellow legals pads full of ideas and ways to organize chapters.  We wrote in coffee shops, bars, the library when necessary.  We were relentless, but we weren't entirely clear about how it would look or what it should be.  In that way, the project mirrored our lives.

In June, we graduated, flew to Greece together, and split up to go our separate ways.  Amy stayed on the tiny Greek Island of Mykonos and I hopped a ferry to the mainland and spent a lot of time on trains.  When we returned, seperately, to the states, we lived in different cities.  We embarked on very different lives.  We drifted apart.  Fifteen years later, we reside in the same city, once again.  And the Young Women's Rebellion Bible was reborn.

We have very different notions of rebellion, as does every woman, I believe.  And our rebellion has looked very, very different from one another's over the years.  Amy is married, a mother, a writer and wood toy maker.  I am single, a dog owner and avid rescue supporter, a writer and part-time teacher.  Amy has put down roots and I've been a wanderer.  We've both embarked on creative endeavors, but nothing has had the same momentum, the same dizzy, blissful energy as the Young Women's Rebellion Bible.

A few years ago, I pulled the manuscript from the trunk where I keep sacred things and I photocopied it and sent it to Amy.  I've held on to it, maybe as a way to hold on to that time with Amy, to hold on to that enthusiasm and the belief that it is possible that we do this.  We're doing it now.  What we knew of rebellion at twenty-one is a very different knowledge than what we know of rebellion at thirty-six and thirty-eight.  With the fine partnership of The Equals Project, we'll explore that knowledge and examine its impact.  To do that, we need your help.

We want to explore rebellion with you.  Every week, we’ll prompt you to consider rebellion – and we challenge you to share it with us.  We’d love to feature your stories and experiences as part of our exploration.  Send responses and stories to Amanda at amanda@bold-types.com.

This week, we want to know:

If you had the chance today, what would you tell your teenage and/or college self about rebellion?

The Curves and Bits of Barcelona

I love Barcelona's curves and lines and organic forms. Flow and movement are ever-present, on every corner and up and down its avenues. And while Gaudi’s massive masterpieces are stunning to behold in their entirety, what moves me the most in this city are its details: the grooves between mosaic bits, the imperfect bumps in surfaces, the intricate wiring. I see and sense the world in fragments, beautiful or broken in their own ways, all contributing to create the setting and narrative of my life. The different steps, the various angles, the many possibilities. And so I appreciate Barcelona not just for its grandeur—for what we see when we stand back, for what we ultimately create—but for all the pieces I can touch up close, and all the tiny things that ostensibly don't matter, but really do.

Here, it’s about absorbing minutiae and magnificence at once, which is a wonderful way to experience a place.

[gallery link="file"]

A Summer Indulgence

By Marni Zarr Beginning with summer trips to the library, books have always been a best friend and a place of discovery---stacks of them brought home, the heat simmering and enhancing their musty familiar smell. Since childhood I connected this as summer’s signature scent. Even now as an adult, entering a library triggers memories of my dad taking my sister and me downtown to check out as many books as our library tote could carry. Sometimes it was so overweight we ended up dragging it down the sun scorched sidewalk until dad would pick it up, on his face a knowing smile of “I told you so.”

Only 5 miles from our house, the city library seemed hours away. Childhood memories are like that, everything stretched out like silly putty: rooms enlarged as if viewing them through a magnifying glass, situations enhanced to the millionth. I still remember the day I turned six. The required afternoon nap seemed to stretch into my next year of life.  A special occasion, nap time was spent in a royal way on my parent’s king-sized bed, the clock on their dresser ticking sluggishly while my heart pounded in double time, the excitement almost unbearable.

I felt that same excitement when entrenched in a good story. Once I'd devoured all of the “Little House on the Prairie” books---the series unwrapped itself in annual birthday gifts from my grandparents---mystery became my favorite genre. I ate up Nancy Drew in a day like a delicious dessert that demands to be finished. I remember lying on my bed, ceiling fan spinning above me, the flouncy bo-peepish butter yellow bedspread below me, my shag haircut propped up on a stack of pillows, and a big flip of dark brown curl in the back, my mind eating up the words.

One blistery day when my sister and I were elementary age, one of our favorite babysitters gave us a box of hand me downs, including a long wig, thick with blonde hair, that became the prop du jour. She and I fought over who would wear and who would style. Earlobes still unpierced, paper clips became hippie hoops or gypsy rings. With celebrities like Cher to emulate, we rocked and flicked that thick bushy blonde like no one’s business. With scarves tied around our heads and waist and 45’s and 78’s on the blue and white cased record player in my sister’s room, we danced the day away using our imaginations, at times sneaking our mom’s high heeled shoes and flashy accessories to switch it up to strutting runway star on the 70’s avocado green carpeting. I remember wearing the wig in a ponytail and paper clip earrings to Thrifty for an ice cream cone. I didn’t notice one hand-forged circle had fallen off until I got back in my dad’s truck and saw it lying on the floor. Unbeknownst to me, that one missing detail had transformed me from strutting model to swaggering pirate. I’m glad my parents were okay with things like that.

But there were many things they were not okay with. Books were a way to escape the rigidness that I felt kept me isolated and separate from the rest of my peers. My first glimpse of sex was found on a tubular spinning wire book rack dressed in paperbacks in my junior high school library. The covers were faded and edges slightly tattered, worn by groping teen-age fingers trying to find the juicy tidbits before the bell rang. I remember one book titled “Sunshine” or maybe that was the name of the main character; either way it was a welcome discovery.  She was a teenager and so was he and they made a baby.  While reading the innocent outwardly descriptive words I could feel the warm rays reaching deep down to the base of my belly---the feeling like tiny stars dancing inside me. I instinctively knew my parents wouldn't approve, which made the words taste that much better.

Original photo of the Biblioteca Pública de Pelotas in Brasil by Eugenio Hansen

What Are You Reading (Offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer. Drop us a line and let us know what’s blowing your mind. Amanda Page, Bold Types I’m moving, and just recently put all my books in boxes.  From my bedside table, I removed a short stack that I’d pulled to give me comfort through a fairly stressful time.

Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli On a whim, I asked the Twitterverse to send me reading recommendations.  I think I asked for “fiction that would change my game” or something like that.  One person responded, and this is what they suggested. I couldn’t shake this one for days.  There’s a sequel that I can’t bring myself to read because this one made such an impression.  It changed my game.  It broke my heart.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote Holly Golightly is an old friend.  This is the book I wish I’d written.  I found it in a used bookstore just a month or two before I left for graduate school.  I’d seen the film and wasn’t crazy about it, but something about the small, pale turquoise paperback with the bright yellow stars spoke to me.  I read it in just a couple of hours.  And then I read it again.  I read it sometimes to remind myself of the type of book I aspire to write.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro I saw the movie first.  Then, when asked to teach a novel in a freshman course, this immediately came to mind.  There are just so many layers!  I find the narration so interesting.  Plus, I’m fascinated by the author’s choice to use that particular character as the one who tells the story.  It was on my table because I recently met a man on a plane, a professor, and we talked about this book.  He didn’t like it.  I didn’t understand how anyone couldn’t like it.  When I got home, I pulled it from my shelf and started sifting through it slowly.  It still grips me.  Haunts me.  Maybe some people don’t like to be haunted.

Marni Zarr, Dream Day Musings Daily . . . Journey to the Heart by Melody Beattie Daily mediations that keep me moving forward and provide encouragement when I'm feeling stuck. Reading this book has taught me that pauses are as necessary to the journey as movement. I jot dated notes in the margins when something really speaks to the way I'm feeling at that time. It's interesting to read what I penciled in two years ago and compare it to now. I can see how my thoughts about the events in my life are gradually changing. I'm on my third read through after receiving this book from a dear friend three years ago this past May for my birthday. I love that it's showing its well loved wear with tattered edges and turned down corners.

Midway through . . . The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay My mom loaned this to me after she finished reading it for her book club. It's a story about a boy's journey through some humorous---while at the same time harsh---moments, beginning in the late 1930's growing up in South Africa. I love that the book begins in a young child's voice that brings me to both laughter and tears in it's innocence. A robust tale of how he is influenced through the lessons and words from the adults he meets through his multifarious experiences growing up. He has a quiet, sweet maturity about him that attracts their wisdom and protection. Even if only together for a day, they leave him with potent advice that stays with him for a lifetime. I am enjoying the colorful characters in the story as well as the historical material about life in South Africa as the story unfolds.

Recommended . . . The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman Each of the characters separate lives is intertwined into a cleverly layered story of their overlapping experiences and relationships while working for an English language newspaper in Rome. I loved how the author weaves the emotions and actions of one into all. A great read for the beach. Each chapter is a short story in itself.

Savala Nolan, Detroit Shimmy Cleopatra  by Stacy Schiff A writer taking on Cleopatra is like an actor taking on Jack Kennedy: what can she do that feels real when her audience is drunk on mythology?  I went into this book with neutral expectations, thinking a gifted scholar and an impossible subject would yield a decent book.  But it blew me away.  Schiff’s writing is lean, elegant, and sumptuous, like a ballet.  It ferries you across a familiar story in fresh and vivid vignettes, loaded with juicy tidbits about life in that ancient era, from statecraft to bloodlines to royal feasts to poisons. She acknowledges how much we can’t know about Cleopatra, yet her speculations ring true (maybe because she herself is woman).  And, of course, there’s plenty of lust and love, with Caesar and Mark Antony keeping wind in the sails.

The Good Soldiers  by David Finkel I read a lot about war and military history, and this is one of my favorite books in that genre.  A journalist follows soldiers on a fifteen month tour of Iraq during “the surge.”  The story is bracing, and detailed: the soda soldiers drank, the music playing, the fruit trees in yards of houses they searched, the deaths, the stomach aches, the letters to and from home. Finkel tells it with heart and a mirror’s clarity.  He has a genius for creating intimacy.  In fact, he disappears; you don’t feel you’re reading a reporter’s chronicle.  You feel you’re in your living room with the soldiers, and they are telling you what happened, and you understand.

Gun, with Occasional Music by Jonathan Lethem This is a mystery, both futuristic and noir.  It’s years from now on the California coast, and though the cities and ocean are the same, life is not.  Questions are forbidden,  everyone’s hooked on mega-pharmaceuticals, and animals are “evolved,” living, working, and making very-new-school families with people.  There’s murder, sex, and drugs.  Lethem’s protagonist is an acerbic and sly detective.  He’s defunct in some ways, but he’s got a big aching heart and an appetite for life that the future doesn’t abide.  This book is brilliant because its beautifully written and feels unnervingly prescient:  Lethem’s bizarre world is so real, and our real world is so bizarre, that his future seems, at times, only a few status updates away.

Blonde  by Joyce Carol Oates Arthur Schlesinger, Special Assistant in the Kennedy White House, described meeting Marilyn Monroe:  When he said something that pleased her, it created “a warm and spontaneous burst of affection---but then she receded into her own glittering mist.”  Glittering mist!  I love that image; she does seem to’ve been profoundly inviting and yet totally obscured, as if the dress in which she sang the President “Happy Birthday” dissolved and lingered around her body.  Oates’s novel---a sort of imagined Monroe autobiography---captures the glittering mist perfectly.  The sparkle-covered-cotton-candy element of Monroe endures.  You can’t take your eye off the page, just like you can’t take your eyes off her.  But the mist is there, too.  Monroe remains, as she must, in your peripheral vision, even as you read her story in her own (imagined) voice.  It’s a magical read.

Ode to House Hunters

I wouldn’t call myself particularly design-oriented. I appreciate good design and good aesthetics, but I’m not oft-inspired to do anything I would call “design” at my home beyond being sure that I can see my alarm clock from my side of the bed. That said, I love HGTV. That’s Home and Garden Television if you are not familiar. I came to HGTV slowly. As a teen, my mother occasionally watched their shows, but I was resistant to the appeal. I would never make my own headboard---why should I watch someone else do it? Never mind that I will never be a 1960s ad man nor a police detective and I happily watch shows about those enterprises.

At some point in the last decade, it all changed. Was it that I matured, became an adult, and suddenly had an interest in the aesthetics of my abode? Absolutely not. What changed was the introduction of House Hunters to the channel. House Hunters is addictive and infuriating. It has a simple rhythm, not unlike Law and Order, that is soothing and anesthetic.  House Hunters allows me, from the comfort of my couch, to judge the interiors of stranger’s homes.  I find this remarkably relaxing.

Each episode is structured in the exact same way. Viewers accompany potential house buyers on visits to three different potential homes. The prospective buyers walk around the homes, commenting on what they like and don’t like. Sometimes the prospective buyers affect the episode minimally. They want granite countertops and open concepts and are pretty bland. On other occasions the prospective buyers can be absurdly demanding, and it can be fun watching their dreams of finding a four-bedroom house for under two hundred thousand dollars dissolve. Schadenfreude is a key component of watching House Hunters. Aristotle said that good tragedy must have spectacle, and the best episodes include the spectacle of dreams dashed or the buyers being shown a short sale house that was clearly trashed by some combination of frat boys and rabid beavers.

On occasion, the prospective buyers are people I want to root for. They seem friendly and intelligent and just want a place where they can grow some plants or have a baby.  Or, they realize that they will have to pay more for the neighborhood they really want to live in and they accept it and take the plunge. This can be satisfying as well, but not necessarily cathartic for the viewer.

Often there’s a semi-manufactured conflict in the episode. It might be a conflict between spouses, an adult child house hunting with parents who aren’t ready for their child to grow up, or a newly-divorced middle aged woman looking to start over. I accompanied my wife to a professional conference once and we saw a gentleman there whom we recognized. We saw him from afar and couldn’t remember his name and then we realized, “Oh, right, it’s that guy from House Hunters who lived in Knoxville who mocked his wife’s interest in Feng Shui!”

Regardless of the manufactured conflict of the episode, the viewer is led through three homes. Sometimes there are murals. Sometimes there are dolls. Sometimes there are words on the wall (you know what I mean, things like “The food here is seasoned with love” in the kitchen. I loathe words on the wall).  On every third episode, there’s a man demanding space for a “man cave” where he can watch football and not have to interact with his family, and everyone around him treats him like this is appropriate, totally ignoring the fact that “man cave” is just “cave man” backwards. All of these are targets for disdain. I know that when I have stored up disdain from a rough week at work, I can simply spend twenty-two minutes with House Hunters to release it upon unwitting strangers.

There are HGTV purists who decry the fact that the network’s programming consists mainly of real estate-related shows, including many House Hunters copycats. They miss the emphasis on design and home improvement. I’ll admit, the joys of House Hunters are only tangentially related to the concepts of “home and garden.” Not unlike MTV forgoing music videos in favor of teen mothers, and the History Channel forgoing history in favor of pawn shop proprietors, HGTV knows where the ratings lie, and it’s with They Who Love to Judge (while often in pajama pants). I am not necessarily proud of being a part of that demographic, but at least I know I am not alone.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Meg Blocker, Queenie Takes Manhattan, and the brainpower behind The F WordsThe Likeness by Tana French I love an un-put-down-able mystery, but I chafe at cliched genre writing. (Love the cliches of the genre; hate the repetitive phrasing and language.) Enter Tana French, author of the Dublin Murder Squad series. Each novel can be read independently - and they work in any order - and this one is my favorite yet. It's told from the perspective of Cassie Maddox, a former murder and Undercover detective who's been working Domestic Violence cases. Cassie goes back undercover to solve the murder of a woman who adopted her old undercover identity, and winds up living in a house full of eccentric, too-close-for-comfort PhD candidates. Classic Agatha Christie estate-focused crime novel, with a twist. The Perks Of Being A Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky I just started this last night, and am already hooked. I love Young Adult fiction with a passion, and seeing the trailer for the movie version of this novel reminded me that I'd never quite gotten around to reading it. So far, so awesome. It's a classic coming-of-age story set in the early 1990s (Hello, awesome music and flannel shirts!), and it's written in an epistolary style, which I just love.

I Capture The Castle by Dodie Smith This is one of my all-time favorites. I read it (for the first time) in my mid-20s---and fell deeply in love. I re-read it every summer, and plan to bring it with me to Maine in July. It's about a family whose patriarch wrote one superlative novel, then stopped writing altogether after an altercation involving a cake knife, a hot temper, and a nosy neighbor. As a result, his family is living on next to nothing, but doing it in a drafty, rented castle in the middle of Sussex. Enter the Americans who've inherited the estate to which the castle belongs, and cue the adulthood-making culture clashes, romances and life lessons. The first line? "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink." It. Is. So. Deliciously. Good.

Michelle Edgemont, Designer I always wished I was one of those people who loves to read and constantly has great book recommendations. Ever since I launched my company last year, the pile of business books next to my bed has been growing taller and taller. A few I'm done with, a few I'm half way through, and some I'm saving for the beach. Nothing better than a nice big blanket on the sand with a few books to page through.

FINISHED: Launch: How to Propel Your Business Beyond the Competition by Michael Stelzner This was a fast, great read that I actually took notes on. I loved the simple language and easy to understand concepts. It's ideas can be applied to any type of business, especially ones that are online based and have a blog. My to-do list after finishing this book was a little overwhelming, but it gave me a good kick in the butt to get things in gear.

HALF WAY THROUGH: Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die by Chip Heath and Dan Heath Ok, honestly, this book is too thick to hold my patience level, hence why I'm only half way through, BUT, it's full of great information on why some stories are easy to remember and some are forgettable.

EXCITED TO START: Uncertainty: Turning Fear and Doubt Into Fuel for Brilliance by Jonathan Fields I got to get myself to the beach to start this baby. Being a small business owner, fear and doubt are the #1 and #2 things in my brain at all times. To use those as fuel to be awesome, I would be unstoppable.

MAGAZINE: Runner's World After only being able to run one block (not kidding), I started training in January and ran/walked two half marathons in the past two months. I was way towards the back of the pack during both, but I finished, and that's a big accomplishment. I wouldn't necessarily call myself a runner today, but leafing through an issue of Runner's World makes me feel a little but more legit.

Miya Hirabayashi, You + ME* I do a lot of sitting on the subway. I admit that I often am that girl who is passed out and drooling during her commute (don't judge, I have to sleep sometime), but I love to read magazines because of the short nature of each of the pieces. The three that I read religiously every month are:

The Atlantic I love the shorter snippets in the front that explore a wide range of topics. This month, I loved the piece by James Harkin about gallows humor in Syria. It followed a piece about the reintroduction of beavers into American streams and rivers (by parachute in the 1940's, and probably not by parachute starting shortly thereafter) by ecologists as a conservation effort. I love that these stories present stuff that is really interesting, and that I wouldn't otherwise be exposed to.

Garden and Gun My sister-in-law, Robyn, turned me on to Garden and Gun. I have neither a garden nor a gun, nor am I a southerner, nor do I live anywhere remotely close to the south, but this is a beautiful magazine with a lot of stories that I would never otherwise come across (fly fishing in Guyana, or a father-son barbeque road trip in Tennessee). I really believe in seeking out and letting in influences that don't match perfectly with your exact aesthetic, and Garden and Gun is just that for me (also, see above, the story about beavers). It's enjoyable because it's foreign, and still really beautiful. Plus, I may have purchased a subscription on Fab after having one too many glasses of wine. But who remembers these things, really.

Fast Company Fast Company is great for short, well-written articles that appeal to entrepreneurs. It's business-y and design-y, so it appeals to my aesthetic sensibilities but also makes me feel like I am actively cultivating my business sense. Plus, when I hold it while I'm passed out on the train, I look like a smart, design-y entrepreneur. And isn't that what magazines are for?

From London, England

Dearest Clara,

All the festivities for the Queen’s Jubilee this week have me thinking of London lately, and for as often as I have to go there, I can’t believe this week didn’t coincide with a trip! How grand everything must have been---but then again, sometimes these things are best viewed on TV where you can appreciate all of the details from a distance.

I always delight in a work trip to London---there seems to always be something to discover while preserving the very best of the classics.  It’s a nice mix of being exposed to the newest delights the world as a whole has to offer---I think there is no more global city right now---and being comforted by the tried and true.  Here’s what I’ve picked up over my trips there:

• Look twice before crossing – some might call it driving on the wrong side of the road, but cars and bicycles and busses and who knows what else come at me from any direction in London.  There’s a reason why “Look Left/Look Right” are printed on the road as a reminder.  And always look twice.
• Invest in a really good trench coat – it’s one of the most iconic pieces that is both functional and stylish and you’ll need both in London . . . and Paris . . . and New York . . . and almost everywhere else.  Assuming you don’t leave yours in the airport like your mother does, then a good trench coat will last you for years through jeans and dresses and suits.
• Mind the gap – it’s a little bit like looking twice before crossing in London.  These small perils of surprise always hit you when you’re least expecting it---take care to notice situations in life that need a little extra caution in your step. 
• Make time for the grandest hotels – My grandmother always had a passion for visiting grand hotels.  She would get dressed up and visit the lobby just to soak it all in.  When we were younger, staying in them was out of the question but she still wanted to be part of the experience.  Now that I’m older, I understand why she did that, and I do it too.  Sometimes we splurge and stay at nice hotels around the world, but in London, the grandest hotels offer the grandest settings for a glass of champagne.  Bubbles fit best here.  Take the time to appreciate the institutions that put care into the details that have survived nearly hundreds of years---hopefully you’ll come with me sometimes, and one day, hopefully you’ll come with your own children.  Those hotels will still be there.
• Everyone can use a little pomp and circumstance – If there is a gala or a jubilee or a wedding, no one stands on ceremony quite like the United Kingdom.  There is something to be said for the ability to motivate that many people with unifying occasions.  Sometimes, adding some ceremony and grandeur to an occasion really do make them more memorable---when something is really important, at least to you, it’s okay to enjoy the celebrations around it.

All my love,

Mom

The F Words: Nicole Cliffe

For our first non-navel-gazing edition of the F Words, I knew I needed to give you guys something really, truly, spectacularly great. To that end, I strong-armed my incredibly talented friend Nicole Cliffe into sharing her (always ridiculously entertaining) thoughts about cooking, gender roles, and parenthood. Nicole is one of the smartest, sanest, funniest and most wonderful women I know - and not only because we first bonded over our shared love of Sondheim. Some of you likely know Nicole from her work as the newly-minted Books Editor for The Hairpin---and if you haven't been reading along with her incredible Classic Trash series, posted over at The Awl, you should start catching up immediately. (Her take on Valley Of The Dolls is a personal favorite of mine.) But, before you dig out your copies of Peyton Place and Gone With The Wind - and your mom's copy of Clan Of The Cave Bear (Dirty!), let's hear what Nicole has to say about feminism and food - peach pie, in particular.

Tell us a bit about your day job. I'm the Books Editor for The Hairpin, which is so little effort and so much fun as to be almost embarrassing. I also write a biweekly/monthly column for The Awl, Classic Trash, in which I discuss noted works of gooey literature.

How did you learn to cook? Post-college, definitely. I went the "buy complicated cookbook, treat like a logic puzzle" route. Then, like most people, I relaxed into a little stable of reliable dishes and went from there. If you're not a cook, I recommend throwing a little dinner party for two friends, and cooking Thomas Keller's roast chicken recipe (it's on Epicurious) and making a green salad with a bit of goat cheese and sliced beets from a jar, plus this pie for dessert. When you're just starting out, the perfect formula is a) your main, b) a starter or side that need only be assembled, and c) a make-ahead dessert that can sit on your counter taunting your guests. And, obviously, a fancy vanilla-bean ice cream to serve with it. Keller's chicken is perfect, but deactivate your smoke alarm first.

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends or family? ALONE. Get the hell out of the kitchen. I have tremendous amounts of performance anxiety. My father-in-law kept hovering over me when I was making my first Thanksgiving dinner, and once he finally got to "you know you're using that cutting board upside down?" I had to bounce him formally. Of course, that was also the year I made the goose, and was using one of those awful single-use foil roasting pans. It snagged invisibly on the element coil, and about three cups of goose fat settled into the top of the stove. The goose, of course, was delicious, the experience of using a putty knife the day after to scrape congealed goose fat out of the stove, less so.

As long as you don't watch what I'm doing, you're welcome to stay and make me a gin and tonic and talk to me about Mad Men.

What’s your favorite thing to make? I do a two-day plan about once a week, where I bake too much mustard-y salmon for dinner with sauteed peppers and mushrooms or zucchini, then for dinner the next night I nestle my leftover fillets and vegetables in a frittata and liberally coat the whole thing in goat or feta cheese and a dash of cream. It's a little different every time, goofproof, and the frittata makes you look like a pro.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Indian. There's nothing so soothing to me as rice-and-sauce. A jar of ghee survives in my house for about two weeks.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? Mandolines. Mandolines. Mandolines. And anything that has to be flipped, poached, or, God-forbid, only gels correctly 80% of the time.

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? We're all eaters, and we all start thinking about what we'll have for lunch halfway through breakfast.  We never socialize in the living room, we're always in the kitchen.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women’s traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? I was extremely lucky, I think, to grow up with a male homemaker and a working mother. My mother is a great cook (the recipe I'm sharing is one of hers), but my father is a genius. He makes his own samosas, he has a clay baker, he makes his own pasta, he's never bought salad dressing. In my marriage, however, I'm the cook, and now I have a baby, so I'm a cook-balancing-a-baby, which is a visual I hadn't really internalized for myself. My husband is older than I am by over ten years, and I do notice a bit of a gender AND generational divide in domestic duties. Which doesn't bother me, mostly, as we have great communication around it, but I think that most women I know have husbands that are far more hands-on than their own fathers were, and, having had a male primary caregiver in my childhood, I'm having the opposite experience.

I think a larger factor is that my husband is fundamentally dis-interested in food, other than as fuel, which, for me, is like being an anthropologist every day. I stand there, making notes, watching him not obsess about food. When they eventually develop a pill you can take with a glass of water thrice daily to provide all of your nutritional needs, he'll be the first one in line.

I'm very ughhhhh about choice feminism, generally, but, like most of us, there are things I get really incensed by (name-changing, Brazilian waxing) and things I just merrily roll along with (doing 100% of the laundry and dishes and cooking). That being said, I think the fact that I choose to shoulder the domestic stuff is not a feminist choice, and doesn't occur in a vacuum. I would say I'm a feminist who, for various reasons, has made some choices I would consider un-feminist. I can make my peace with that, but I don't try to do a juggling game to justify it as furthering the course of equality: it doesn't.  As the mother of a baby daughter, I think I'll have to do more work than my mother did to raise a daughter who doesn't have static notions of gender. My family never looked like the breadwinner-dad, apron-mom pictures, so I never bought into them.

Like a lot of women with kids, I've been reading all the interminable pieces on Badinter and the attachment parenting backlash. There's something real there, of course. I planned to be an Attachment Parent, but gave birth, as some of us do, to a daughter who didn't want to sleep with us, lost weight constantly despite 24/7 nursing until she happily switched to Enfamil, and vastly prefers to sit and observe and play with her toys to being worn in a sling. You have to roll with it. And, of course, it makes you question other parts of the intense-parenting lifestyle. I thought I'd make my own baby food, because I had a "natural" birth (just because I skipped the epidural doesn't mean I like the way we create birthing hierarchies) and am generally an organic-seasonal food person, but I was at the supermarket one day and picked up a thirty-cent jar of Gerber's to glance at the ingredients: peas and water. Or, carrots and water. Who gives a shit, then? I bought about eighty jars. She likes them, and I'm not cleaning orange crud out of my food mill.  And now we give her bits of what we eat, and she loves it. You have to do what works for you, and I think you have to rigorously protect yourself from doing unnecessary things in order to compete with other women. Ask yourself every day: would I still do this if no one besides my baby and I ever knew? Sometimes the answer is yes: I cloth diaper, and I love it. Sometimes the answer is no: hence the little jars.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you’re sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? I will eat anything with peaches. If there was a peach-flavored anthrax, I'd be dead now. This is the pie my mother brings to church suppers, to family reunions, etc. I rarely bake, because I find it more stressful than cooking (it's a formula, not a painting) and because I tend towards a more cult-like primal/paleo diet. Because of that, I subscribe to a go-big-or-go-home attitude towards desserts and starches. 98% of the time, I eat meats and fish and eggs and cream and butter and vegetables and berries. But when I make a dessert, I make a DESSERT. Or, of course, I make mashed potatoes with cream cheese. Don't eat it, or do it right. Sometimes, when I make this pie, I think, oh, I could cut the sugar in half. And I've done it, but then the texture isn't quite right. Don't lie to your baking. Embrace it. On a related note, there's nothing I loathe more than those women's magazine articles on making healthier choices at Thanksgiving. It's one meal. Eat whatever you want. It will make zero different in your life or health to eat a single slice (or two, or three) of a wonderful pecan pie. I'm completely neurotic about maintaining a (for me) artificially low weight (which, again, is an active detriment to my feminism), but I will not go to Eleven Madison Park and ask if they can steam some fish for me. I'm going to eat the foie-gras-chocolate torte. And it's going to be delicious. As an atheist, I feel very strongly about the iniquity of attaching shame to our food desires and our sexual appetites. There are only two things that we actually KNOW we're on this planet to do: eat and fuck. Go forth and be glad.

Creamy Dreamy Peach Pie Nicole Cliffe

For the crust: 1 1/2 cups flour, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/2 cup butter

For the filling: 4 cups sliced fresh peaches, if in season. Canned work "just" as well. 1 cup sugar 2 1/2 tbsp flour 1 egg 1/4 tsp salt 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 cup sour cream (full-fat, please)

For the topping: 1/3 cup sugar 1/3 cup flour 1/4 cup butter

Prepare the crust: Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Combine flour and salt, cut in butter. Press into a nine-inch pie plate (deep dish is best). Set aside.

Prepare the filling: Place peaches in bowl, sprinkle with 1/4 cup of the sugar, set aside. In another bowl, combine remaining sugar, flour, egg, salt, and vanilla. Fold in the sour cream. Stir the mixture into the peaches.

Prepare the topping: Combine all three ingredients until crumbly.

Finish the pie: Pour the filling into the crust and bake for twenty minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and bake for 30-35 minutes more.Remove the pie from the oven and sprinkle the topping evenly over the filling. Set the oven back to 400 degrees Fahrenheit and bake for ten more minutes.

Allow pie to cool before slicing. Eat!

Makes one nine-inch pie.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer. Drop us a line and let us know what’s blowing your mind. Erin Boyle, Reading My Tea Leaves State of Wonder by Ann Patchett This week I finally dug into Ann Patchett's State of Wonder and somehow, miraculously, I've made the adult decision to tend to weekday obligations rather than holing up in my bed for the duration and gobbling each delicious morsel. It's the kind of book I don't mind dog-earing. Or rather, it's the kind of book I can't help dog-earing--there is so much I'd like to return to later. A taste of my favorite passage so far: "Had they not been so hopeful and guileless her birth would have been impossible. Marina reimagined her parents as a couple of practical cynics and suddenly the entire film of her life spooled backwards until at last the small heroine disappeared completely."

Kelly Beall, Design Crush The Wolf Gift by Anne Rice I've been a huge Anne Rice fan since college, and I always eagerly await her next book. Anne's explored so many genres throughout her career that I was thrilled when I heard she was going back to her roots with the supernatural. I think you get the idea behind the book from the title, and so far it has not disappointed. I'm about 75% finished with the book and only started Monday! A great summer read, for sure.

Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson Being not only a design blogger, but a graphic designer, Steve Jobs has played a massive role in my life through his creations at Apple. I was devastated when he passed away last year. This book is an all-revealing look at his life, not only the accomplishments and successes but also the mistakes and defeats. Biographies can tend to be slow-moving and dry, but I literally can't put this one down. A must for anyone who's life relies on the products he brought to life.

Shani Gilchrist, Camille Maurice Lately I find that the only way to plow through the books I want is to keep a few on my nightstand at a time. With work, kid,s and life it’s the best way to keep my reading momentum moving forward.

Birds of a Lesser Paradise by Megan Mayhew Bergman I connected with Megan via Twitter through another writer who was giving me advice about returning to school for my MFA (I haven’t applied yet, but it’s still in my mind). It turned out that we both attended the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts in the 1990s, and then I was delighted to find her piece, “Housewifely Arts” in the latest edition of Best American Short Stories, so I couldn’t wait to read her collection. Megan is a teacher and mother with an uncanny ability to understand the varied conditions life stages-- from loneliness to amusement with one’s own state of affairs. I’ve been taking my time reading this collection because I find myself needing to process the emotions of each main character.

Guide To South Carolina Vegetable Gardening by Walter Reeves & Felder Rushing I’m a South Carolinian with a decent sized yard and an irrigation system. Therefore I try to grow stuff. Last fall we had a storm with downdraft winds so strong that they left us trapped on our block with a pulsing and swollen creek on one side and fallen trees blocking street. The good news—the despised 100-foot pine behind our koi pond had to be removed as a result, leaving room for what will be a vegetable garden. The book is a great guide to when and how to plant various herbs, fruits and vegetables in our temperamental climate.

The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them by Elif Batuman I developed a huge girl crush on Elif Batuman when I read her New Yorker piece about traveling through eastern Turkey to observe a mysteriously intense orinthologist. A neighbor who is a friend from high school borrowed (stole) the book while housesitting for us a few months ago. I just got it back and am as smothered with the book’s fascination with Russian culture and literature as I am by the topics on their own. It is a fantastic testament to the timelessness of Russian storytelling and the lives of people who love books.

Who’s Afraid of Post-Blackness: What It Means To Be Black Now by Touré The introduction to this book is captivatingly true. We live in an age where people deprive themselves of experiences because of their racial identity, yet we live in an age where we believe that the election of the first president of color is supposed to liberate us from such behavior. Both attitudes are extreme in their own way, and Touré provides an unflinching look at the most recent complexities of race and culture.

The Fallacy of Gender Neutrality, or How I Womaned Up at My Local Bookstore

I'm standing stock-still in the children's picture book section of the Upper East Side Barnes & Noble, facing a decision rife with anxiety and laden with import. Will it be Madeline, or will it be Make Way For Ducklings? Let's back up.

My family has been procreating at an alarming rate recently, and I was there to choose two books (my traditional Yay, You're Pregnant! gift) for my cousin and his wife. Unlike the majority of my friends who've gone through this particular rite of passage of late, they aren't going to find out the sex of the baby ahead of time, and so I went to the store intending to purchase a couple of classic picture books.

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, one of the best books of all time, was sitting on a display table up front. One book down, one to go.

In The Night Kitchen is a favorite of mine, both since I loved it so much as a child, and since I plan to teach as many children as possible to make chocolate chip cookies from scratch in as horridly messy a fashion as possible. But they didn't have it in stock, and I was due at dinner---in Brooklyn---in two hours. I desperately scanned the shelves for Babar, but they only had a couple of the later books from the series, and I couldn't give this kid a sequel without the original. And then there's the Velveteen Rabbit, but the edition on offer was cheesy and unworthy of the tragedy held within. Plus, do I really want to be the one who makes the baby cry real tears for the first time? No. No, I do not.

They did have Make Way For Ducklings, which I understand is a seriously famous children's book, but I have no emotional connection to it whatsoever. And unfamiliarity doesn't seem right for the very first gift I'll ever bestow upon this new human being. But it was pretty, it was hardcover, and it wasn't spotted with drool or spitup, which, frankly, made it a rare find.

And then, I spotted it: yellow spine, Belemans' distinctive brush stroke font, and twelve little girls in two straight lines. Madeline.

But wait, I thought: what if this baby turns out to be a boy? And then I died a little inside. Because, honestly, it pisses me the hell off that the notion of gender neutral books even occurred to me. What makes a book gendered? When it features a female protagonist?

Well, yeah. In our culture, it does. I grew up reading books about boys and girls, romances and sci fi, Gone With The Wind and Star Trek novels (oh yes), but the vast majority of the books my brother read (with The True Adventures of Charlotte Doyle being a rare exception) were about boys and "boy" things.

And this is a pattern that continues into adulthood. Women gladly read books with male protagonists, but the reverse---especially if the book is written by a female novelist---is rare. Just last week, I was at my high school reunion. Dan Brown---who graduated 25 years before I did---gave a little talk, and one of the questions he got from the audience was whether he had any advice for a woman looking to write a mainstream (read: not romance) novel about a female protagonist. His response? That the success of his Robert Langdon novels with women prove that people will buy books featuring heroes of the opposite gender.

My high school prides itself on teaching critical thinking skills, but methinks they let Dan down that day. After all, male is the neutral gender in our culture. Large numbers of women buying books about men is nothing to write home about---the reverse, though---that would be remarkable.

All of this flashes through my mind in an instant, in the way that only righteous indignation can, and I spin on my heel, jog up to the cash register and pay---proudly---for Madeline and Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs before I lose my nerve. And I'm kind of hoping it's a boy, if only for the opportunity to buy him the Little House series when he's ready for chapter books.

Hometown, Homesick Heroes: Albert Pujols

After several years playing in a Fantasy league, I’ve learned why baseball lends itself so well to metaphor. We may strike out at the bar or hit it out of the ballpark in the boardroom, but we can’t escape the game. These are my love letters to the sport. Dear Albert,

I sort of feel like being the best baseball player of the last decade entitles you to a Mr. before your name, but to me you’re just a Missouri boy who has found himself a little lost, too far from home and aching for the comfort of family and a hefty plate of barbecued burnt ends.  Or maybe I’m just projecting.

You and I both said goodbye to the Midwest last fall. You set out for one coast, I for the other.  You had a katrillion-dollar contract awaiting you with the Los Angeles Angels. I had a couple of months unemployment and a glossy-eyed dream for something bigger.

Are you happy Albert?  I sincerely hope so because you seem like the nicest guy. Of course, we like to do that in Missouri. We project kind and wholesome images on those we embrace as our hometown heroes¹.  For all I really know, you shish kabob puppies while using dollar bills as kindling.

I remember you from high school. Local sports fans started talking almost as soon as you arrived, 16 years old, barely speaking English, and already hitting 400 ft home runs. In our neighboring towns just outside Kansas City, MO, simply being a kid from another country would have been enough to make you stand out².

You took Ft. Osage High School to the state championship your first year there and probably would have done it your second too, if pitchers hadn’t just refused to throw the ball to you.

When you left Kansas City, you didn’t go far. Like thousands of Missouri kids also shooting for the stars, you didn’t even make it out of the state.  Only you ended up at 1^st base as a rookie standout for the St. Louis Cardinals, turned multi-year MVP and two-time World Series Champion.  Most of those others seem to have ended up tending bar in their college town or getting pregnant in the back of a Sonic parking lot.

While other high-profile sports figures would swoop in for their football or baseball season, reality-star girlfriends in tow, and party it up before returning to California or Miami or wherever they had rooted their McMansion—this was your home. You married a single mother, adopted her daughter, and proceeded to build a life, a family, a charitable foundation, even a restaurant in St. Louis.

And in return, you were loved. Not just idolized, but really loved. Kansas City and St. Louis have a long rivalry³ but fans on both sides of the state could agree that your story was pretty magical.

Real life movies never end when they should though. More often than not there is another chapter at best and an awkward postscript at worst.

You are one year older than me⁴. I’d like to think that head start is responsible for your paycheck of 12 million per year and my paycheck of…not 12 million.

Would I rather be you right now? The money would be nice, sure, but I don’t know. At 31, my career is only just beginning. I moved to New York eight months ago because I had an opportunity to work in film and things have been roller-coastering, but moving in a generally upward trajectory ever since.  I miss my friends and my family. I miss living someplace where being kind and neighborly is a central tenet of life. But in New York I’m doing things I spent my life dreaming about and I have no idea what’s coming next. I like that.

Your career definitely has several years left to it, but it’s hard to deny that your pinnacle is probably behind you. You left St. Louis in a blaze of glory, winning the 2011 World Series and then signing a giant $250 million contract to move to the Los Angeles Angels. Unfortunately, 2012 is a different year and a different story.

You’ve been on my fantasy team for two seasons now—my first choice each time. This year, though, things are looking rough. A slow start has turned into a painful first half. Not only are you not hitting home runs, you’re not hitting much else either. When you do, your new team doesn’t have the ability to get you home.

When do I give up on you?  At one point do you stop being THE Albert Pujols and just become another player who isn’t delivering the fantasy points I need?

Maybe let’s just pretend for a minute. It’s just you and me, back in those Missouri towns where the city just gives way to the country. We’re taking my dad’s old stick shift out to that field in Grain Valley. You know the one, it’s not far from either of our high schools and all the kids go there on clear, starry nights. You bring some snacks from the 7/11. I’ll bring the cherry limeades. You’ll still be the jock, practicing your English, and I’ll still be the nerd who’s obsessed with show tunes and pie. But we can talk baseball and barbecue and all the good things that come out of the state we love.

Always,

Anna

^1. We even tried that tactic with Rush Limbaugh, but some things are just beyond hope and optimism.

^2. The demographics of small towns in the Midwest have changed dramatically in the last 20 years, as immigrants have moved in, often stabilizing towns that were previously losing industry and population.  This has predictably generated both increased conflict and greater understanding. I am not qualified to really talk at length on the subject, but it would be interesting to learn more about how local sports and sports fans are impacted by, and are perhaps an impact on, this change.

^3. ahem, 1985.

^4. Because of your size and strength as a teenager, many folks believed your birth certificate was a fake and you are actually several years older. I think your accomplishments are extraordinary whatever your age.

Artifacts

An exploration of the idea of artifacts by Emily Johnston Anderson [gallery link="file"]

On Culling Tweets and Curating My Own Universe

My online world is composed of sub-worlds—primarily the universes of Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Instagram, and Tumblr. Twitter is my favorite of these worlds, and the most carefully and heavily curated of all of them. For the past few years, I've followed less than 100 accounts, and my Following list is ever-changing, week to week—a flow of information, ideas, and chatter that mirrors my interests. Indeed, I could be less rigid about it all, follow more handles, and use Twitter lists to filter my feed. But I don't want to. And that's the wonderful but also odd and fascinating thing about Twitter, or really anything else on my Internet: I am the creator of this world.

On Twitter, I talk to friends, and also strangers who have become friends, as well as strangers who remain strangers—avatars kept at a distance because, well, that's how the Internet works. I use Twitter less as a social space and more as a network built on ideas, but there's a stream within Twitter, my Favorites, that I use in a specific way. While liking on Facebook, Instagram, and WordPress; favoriting on YouTube and Flickr; and clicking the ♥ on Tumblr are generally actions for someone else, favoriting tweets is a different process. I compile and save juicy, intriguing mental bits primarily from people I don't know, and personas whose identities are a mystery:

https://twitter.com/#!/TheBosha/status/176337455639830529

https://twitter.com/#!/DamienFahey/status/202211279191023616

https://twitter.com/#!/dreamersawake/status/201502841272143872

We all have different reasons for favoriting a tweet. It may be practical (saving a link to an article to read later), or swift and silent acknowledgement: you have nothing left to say to someone, but still want to nod.

For me, favoriting tweets is less about someone else and more about me. I don't view this list of favorites as a stagnant archive or Twitter backwater, but rather an active, evolving place that reveals my headspace. While some tweets I favorite are clear, complete thoughts, I notice most favorited tweets are fragmented and ambiguous, and I wonder if the people who write these tweets ponder why I favorited them, especially inside jokes and ones not meant to be understood. But that's the beauty of it: I sift through these mental bits, interpreting and appropriating them as I please. Plucking from this mind and that one, creating meaning and context, compiling a public list that only makes sense to me.

But as I peruse these favorited tweets, I notice many are negative, even contemptuous. And I wonder: Am I really the mean-spirited, pessimistic person reflected in these tweets? Where are the tweets about rainbows and unicorns, about love and hope, about the good in this world?

I *am* drawn to positive tweets, too:

https://twitter.com/#!/MosesHawk/status/191723185606107137

https://twitter.com/#!/forces2/status/202993566367227904

But a fair amount of my favorites are cynical or arrogant in tone, and ultimately depressing: bursts of bleakness, reminders of how harsh this world is. I'm not quite sure what this says about me, or the universe I have created by enmeshing the ideas, hopes, and flaws of others. Curating these tweets into one stream also feels like I'm molding a single being—each click of my mouse a divine action, a step further in shaping an übermind.

And this is why I have grown to love Twitter. In the beginning I ★ed  tweets, simply because I liked them, but the process has evolved into something personal, meaningful, and telling of something bigger—how I see the world, how I want it to be, what I accept about myself. I identify with a stranger's struggle, I accept his or her flaws, and in turn I embrace my own.

In a way, my favorited tweets reveal my own ups and downs and struggle to be a" better" person, whatever that may be: a list that somehow captures all of my successes and imperfections—a record of fleeting moments of empathy, of what it means to be human in a big, impersonal world.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer. Drop us a line and let us know what’s blowing your mind. Robyn Virball, Jackalope Brewery I'm a person who always has to be reading something. I cannot go to sleep without reading for about 20 minutes first. This constant need for material sometimes means I pick some really terrible books, but luckily I've had a string of good ones lately.

The Journal of Popular Culture---People Magazine This publication has to top the list; I read it every week. Now before you start putting your judgey pants on, People is very different then US Weekly (not that there's anything wrong with US Weekly). They're pretty reliable with their celebrity gossip and they have inspiring stories like about people who teach homeless children to play soccer and dogs that save their owners from being hit by on-coming trains. Other magazines that are must reads, Martha Stewart Living and Garden and Gun (seriously, go buy one, it's one of the most beautiful magazines you've seen, and there aren't really any guns).

The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach I bought this book in the airport in London a few weeks ago, I picked it because Jonathan Franzen had a quote on the front saying that is was amazing.  It follows a mid-western kid who's a baseball phenom as he goes to college, along with five other central characters whose lives he directly impacts.  All the characters so far are interesting and well rounded.  As far as I can tell, Franzen hasn't led me astray.

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me by Mindy Kaling Do yourself a favor and read this book.  Kalin's memoir---following her from growing up in Cambridge to Dartmouth to Off Broadway to The Office---is hilarious and left me thinking we should be best friends. It was another airport purchase for me and I ended up being that awkward person on the plane that was laughing out loud for the entire flight.  Mindy is smart, witty, and honest and I promise that you will not regret reading this, unless you hate fun and laughter.

All The Presidents Men by Robert Penn Warren I read this in high school and loved it and now my book club just picked it so I'm reading it again.   It follows a southern politician in the 1930s, watching as he goes from an idealistic politician to a dirty one.  It's just an impressive, really fantastic book, and reading it during an election season is particularly enlightening... and depressing.

What I want to read next---Seating Arrangements by Maggie Shipstead Full disclosure, my friend wrote this.  It comes out on June 12th and I while I haven't read it yet, I highly recommend that you buy it.  It's a social satire set on an island similar to Nantucket, where a family is preparing for the daughter's wedding.  Richard Russo calls it "by turns hilarious and deeply moving". Now you know what you're reading June 12th!

Zoe Rooney, Web Developer Like most people I know, I don't have a lot of time for reading actual books, but I have a couple I'm particularly excited about lined up right now.

Distance, Issue 01 I jumped on this journal series when I first heard about it via their Kickstarter project - it's a series of long, for-serious essays about design. It's text-heavy and theoretical and amazing.

Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self by Danielle Evans My mom just bought this for me from my Amazon wish list, which I thought was a fascinating choice on her part. It's a collection of short stories told in the first person that explore the experiences of young non-white people, which I can totally identify with. I'm pretty sure my mom didn't pick it because of the cover, but that is pretty awesome as well.

Heaven to Betsy by Maud Hart Lovelace Sometimes when I just need a mental break I like to reread books from my childhood, and the Betsy Tacy series is one of my absolute favorites. This particular book in the series introduces the archetypically dreamy character of Tony Markham and also makes me feel like I should probably throw a fudge party one of these days.

Javascript: The Good Parts by Douglas Crockford And because I'm at heart a humongous nerd, I've started reading Javascript: The Good Parts to try and expand my knowledge of that particular programming language.

Jora Vess, Domestic Reflections Simplicity Parenting by Kim John Payne I recently re-read Simplicity Parenting, which is becoming my go-to parenting book (I have read so many over the past 7 years it is somewhat embarrassing).  I love the less is more approach with most things in life, but it can by challenging for me when it comes to parenting.  This book helps keep me on track.

Bloom by Kelle Hampton I also just pored through Bloom in about a night and a half.  I have always felt so uplifted and inspired by Kelle's blog after I read her (now famous) birth story of her daughter Nella a couple of years ago.  Her book really delivered . . . lots of raw emotion and insight into how she sees the world.  Highly recommend (stock up on tissues and plan to not see your family for awhile since you won't be able to put it down).

This Life Is in Your Hands by Melissa Coleman I am about halfway through This Life Is in Your Hands.  I read an excerpt of it awhile back and knew I had to read the book.  It is a memoir by a woman whose family bought a piece of rural property in Maine in the 1970s and went "off the grid" (which is almost an understatement).  It reminds me very much of the upbringing my parents gave me (at least in my first few years).  It is also a great read for anyone interested in homesteading or rural farm life.

A Trio of Chairs in Granada

A trio of chairs against a gorgeous wall of colorful tiles and Arabic inscriptions at the Alhambra in Granada, Spain. I strolled through this lavish Moorish palace one hot day in August, and this shady spot was a lovely place to escape the sun and take in the architectural splendor and rich history of Andalusia.

The Quiet Moments in Between: Still & Solitary in Egypt

Egypt is a complex place: as a visitor, I found it beautiful but sad, and ever-evolving yet stagnant, post-revolution. I visited in November 2011 for three weeks and barely scratched its surface, but still got a taste of some of its layers and maneuvered parts of the country at varied paces: the street chaos of Cairo; the still, surreal landscape of the Sinai Peninsula, where the desert meets the sea; and the pharaonic temples in Luxor, where tourists and touts mingle among massive ruins under a hot sun. My first visit to the Middle East and first time navigating in a Muslim country, these weeks were challenging despite exploring with someone who called it home. While I never got used to the ceaseless cacophony of car horns and street noise of Cairo, by the final days I had become comfortable enough to weave through—and walk in front of—moving cars, as everyone else did: becoming one with the traffic, the movement of the city, the chaos itself.

Oddly, as I sift through my photographs six months later, I notice most of my shots capture the quiet moments in between—seconds of stillness and solitude, and of people alone, with their own thoughts, much like me as I wandered and tried to wrap my head around this new place. In this gallery, you'll find images from Cairo, the Sinai Peninsula, and Luxor.

[gallery link="file"]

Happy Mother's Day (to the whole damn village)

The conversation might begin with concerns about whether motherhood and feminism are incompatible (I mean if the newspaper of record positions motherhood and feminism on opposite ends of a spectrum, where does that leave all the mothers who happen to think women are full human beings). Maybe it turns to a question about what the “Mommy Wars” actually entail.  We’re all busy, is it that we missed the latest reality show? Are there actual weapons involved? Other than the condescension and self-righteousness we’re told we wield like daggers, of course. There may even be some mutterings about whether it's healthy for motherhood to be elevated to such an exalted status. After all, not everyone dragged into the conversation is in fact a mother and no one wants to be left out of a debate that makes the cover of Time. The problem is this is a fictional debate that serves no one well. When parenting is a battlefield, it’s difficult to use each other as resources and learn from one another’s stories. When we’re told to be on the lookout for other mothers who are judging us, it’s easy to miss all the people who are supporting us in our endeavors to strengthen our families and our communities. And when mothers are put into a special box, we lose the other parts of our identity that make us complete and well-rounded individuals.

It’s not a matter of mothers versus other mothers (this Babble piece rocks that point). We’re all doing our best with the resources and opportunities at our disposal. And it’s also not a matter of mothers versus non-mothers. In a thoughtful essay on why she hates mother’s day, Anne Lamott takes issue with the idea that mothers are somehow superior beings.  Mothering isn’t an individual experience; it isn’t even a purely female experience.

The mothering that helps my children thrive on a daily basis comes from their father, their aunt who lives next door, a phenomenal nanny, a family friend who is practically a part of our family, my dear friend and business partner, and numerous grandparents, not to mention the various teachers, doctors, etc who play significant roles in my children’s health and development. That list would grow exponentially if my husband and I added all the individuals who mothered us throughout a lifetime of experiences.

On this coming Mother’s Day, I’m going to spend less time thinking about mothers and more time thinking about mothering. I’ll still write thoughtful notes to my mom, my stepmom, my mother-in-law, and my grandmas, but I’ll also do my best to thank the other mothers in my life—the best friends, the family members, and the mentors—who mothered me into the person I am today.

There’s no war here; there are enough thank yous, kind words, and lessons to spread around.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer.  Drop us a line and let us know what's blowing your mind. Erin Loechner, Design for Mankind: I loooove reading offline - it's a ritual that I don't often get to indulge in. But when I do? I feel relaxed, invigorated and inspired all in one fell swoop. Right now I've been engrossed in an old copy of Elephant Magazine, a fantastic art publication. I've also got copies of Anthology, It's Nice That and Artichoke in regular rotation on my nightstand!

Joslyn Taylor, Simple Lovely: Blood, Bones & Butter by Garbrielle Hamilton I just finished Gabrielle Hamilton's brilliant account of her journey to becoming a chef and owning her own restaurant, and I can't get it out of my head. I'm love  a good food memoir (Ruth Reichl's books are among my favorites), and I think Hamilton's is one of the very best I've read. Her writing is lyrical, beautiful, honest. It is perfection.

Life by Keith Richards My husband and I never (ever) read the same thing, so I thought it would be fun to try it once so we could talk about books more often. We agonized over which book to kick things off with and ended up settled on Keith Richard's memoir Life, as it satisfies our mutual passion for music and our fascination with the rock and roll lifestyle (which we so do not live). I'm completely digging it so far.

Vogue Sometimes it takes me two months to get through a full issue, but I read every single article, religiously. It's just really smart...so much more than fashion. There's brilliant food and culture writing and excellent political interview. If I had to pick my dessert island reading material, it would be this.

Kathleen Shannon, Jeremy & Kathleen: A Guide to the Good Life: The Ancient Art of Stoic Joy by William B. Irvine I always had the idea that stoics were cold. Emotionally unavailable. Perhaps even a little asshole-ish. But reading this book has redefined what it is to be a stoic and has me as gung-ho for the philosophy of life as Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead had me on juicing. Though, I've yet to buy a juicer. Fortunately, no materials are required to practice being a stoic. Irvine takes a modern approach to sharing the history of stoicism (from back in the good ol' days), stoic psychological techniques (such as negative visualization - it's fascinating!), stoic advice on fame and money (a good kick in the pants for many of us blogging types), and finally ways to practically bring stoic way of living into our modern lives. If you're a fan of Leo Babauta's Zen Habits and Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project you might enjoy this book.

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho This book was gifted to me from a dear friend years and years ago. I only finally recently read it while on a long flight so I could look intellectual and deep to my fellow passengers. I had no idea what kind of metaphysical trip I was in for. This book follows a boy's fantastic journey through Spain and the Egyptian deserts as he finds the meaning of life. It's the kind of story fit for a Disney cartoon circa 1964 that you have to properly view with a joint in hand. Then just this past weekend I overheard a hipster with a beard (in Brooklyn, go figure) talking to a girl about reading The Alchemist. So clearly it's impressive and cool. But it might also change your life. So there's that.

The Writings of Florence Scovel Shinn including: The Game of Life and Your Word is Your Wand by Florence Scovel Shinn I almost left this off the list because ol' Florence gets a little too Jesus-y in her writings for my "atheist" tendencies but all that God talk aside this book was kind of a game-changer for me. Florence Scovel Shinn was a metaphysical feminist in the 1930s and spouts off some really radical stuff about universal laws, being meticulous with your words and the whole concept that everything (good and bad) starts with a single thought. And all in the 1930s! Which makes the whole book that much more intriguing to me.

K's maternity

[gallery link="file"] One photographer captures another's pregnancy through the lens of their friendship.