Babe soup

It was a women-only thing. A man got in only if they came accompanied by women, if I remember correctly, and even still, those women needed to know someone who knew the gate code to slip into the silver-laden backyard. Gurgling over to the left was the star of the show: a large wooden tub gurgling with hot, fresh water hotter than your average Jacuzzi. It was like sitting in a babe stew, each glistening, naked, and always young feminine frame melting, like dissolving bouillons. Protocols demanded a simple rinse-off before wading in, so I guess you could lap up the broth if you wanted to. 

I wondered then—in 2012, the period in which I visited Essex—if maybe the person paying the mortgage for the home attached to the yard ever did drink from the pool.

Ten years later I felt pretty positive he must have. 

I know I’m not allowed to say this, but I am so fucking sick of weddings. Now understanding that nature gifted me with a wrecking-intense case of social anxiety, after these highly social gatherings worsened by forced interactions fraught with various histories, an open bar, emotions cranked to 11, I feel so depleted. Like, lower than low. And in addition to the actual ceremonies, there’s countless awkward parties and bachelorette sojourns. I truly am thankful so many people I love love back enough they want me involved, but I feel like I need to nap for about three months at this point.

Lately, I feel so numb. Things that used to make me happy or excited barely inspire even a slight reaction. All I want to do is eat and drink and never leave my bed. I have the new, larger pants to prove it, too. Most of all, I want to sleep; to shut down. 

October tore onto the scene like a swell of foamy surf thudding through glass. I was in a low- to mid-grade hotel bed when the month officially turned, less than a yard from an old friend in a matching bed. The room’s plushness surprised me. I had a ceiling of about $150 for the last-minute detour, something I thought of as my Amtrak paused in D.C. en route to New York. About five texts and 20 minutes later, Rachael and I made plans in a few days for an overnight in the small college town, the same one recently ruptured with tragedy. And it was ruptured again after we parted the following afternoon. 

But as we lay in our respective beds, soft from the edibles she bought on H Street, temperatures dropped outside. We didn’t know, but the large sliding glass door frosted behind blackout curtains. Inside, we sipped from small plastic cups. I felt triumphant after, together, we forced the CostCo wine open with a pocket knife, its cork bobbing defeated just below the neck. Sure, it meant we had to dodge cork bits while sipping which also meant Rachael abandoned hers after a courtesy cheers and I had two more. 

IDK, either.

Days 13 and 14

Okay, let’s try this post again—now that power seems to be slightly more reliable and I have the best boyfriend on the planet who’s letting me drain his data plan by using his hot spot till Comcast gets its shit together.

Day 13 was unremarkable; I did my NYLON shift and picked up around the house a little. Met Natasha for an early birthday dinner at Bon Ton. I beat her, sidling up at the bar psyched for a Topo Chico. Not enough restaurants offer non-booze bottles, IMO; sadly, they were out so I drained a pint of seltzer before she arrived. I love that Natasha and I can not talk for months then meet and jump right back into it. We talked about work, planning her wedding, travel, sex, me getting on medication, her getting off medication, how excited we both are for her bachelorette trip to New Orleans in November, pettiness in friendships, nuanced dynamics, our respective and complicated relationships with alcohol, pets, the future, money. There isn’t really any off-limits topics, an aspect of our friendship I’m super thankful for.

We parted and she headed for a murder clown movie screening; I made a pit stop at a gas station for cigarettes and coconut water before home. It’s been about five years since I bought a pack and almost 10 since I smoked regularly. I stood for too long surveying my options when the cashier barked. I fumbled, selecting the kind I remember smoking with Kim in the mornings with coffee on the beach when we were still incredibly young: blue pack Camels. I chose a baby blue lighter to match.

I was wrapping a huge, long post about Days 13 and 14 when the power shut down. It was out for about two hours. I’ll... try again later with that. Till then, I’m enjoying some escape from screen time with my sons.

Day 12

Booooom, baby. Almost done.

Yesterday morning I worked a little then Rick and I power-walked a mile loop on the almost-done Westside BeltLine trail. It’s coming along nicely and I’m pretty amped for it to officially open—mostly because I feel like a dick driving less than a mile to ‘hood pals’ places at night. Would be dope to bike beneath lit street lamps, etc. After, we snuck in a quick shower and I did minimal work till heading to therapy where I felt like a smug superstar. I got report that not only was I succeeding with the scary, hard thing (booze ban), but I finally found a cool (so far) roommate (another huge stressor: making mortgage solo monthly; especially when one of my largest time-suck employers owed me almost $3000 for about three months. Lucky that’s changed, too) and our latest fundraiser was a wild success (I keep thinking about bringing Amy Dope Girls merch but it never feels quite right).

I love when Atlanta starts flirting with fall. It’s pleasant to open windows and burn white sage throughout the house. My cats are ecstatic to set up camp by the storm doors. The crisp air and rumblings of back-to-school vibes have always signaled new beginnings for me: an opportunity to let go of some bullshit and feel energized to tackle an updated to-do list. However, my inner core vacillates between hyper ambition and front porch lethargy. Surely there’s a balance, but I haven’t quite found it yet. My brain still feels slightly chaotic, a constant static of shifting priorities and concern. I’m certain that may be a constant; something to work to accept and learn to better manage.

Day 11

For as much progress as I’ve been making, yesterday was challenging—but challenging in a way different from Saturday (proof of me living through it above, with my two adult sons, Barry and Dustin).

I got a little work done in the morning, then mad-dashed to the Y with Rick again, barely making it back to my house before Gormley picked me up for yoga. Tyler showed up last minute, too, and it was a good, surprisingly hard class. The more I move, especially after just not if I didn’t have to for... a long time, the more I recognize areas of weakness. I’ve never had particularly strong wrists but all the inversions (and on my period! Sometimes I impress myself) and vinyasa heavy on the plank was tough. After, we grabbed some grub at Blue Dahlia downstairs, where we also had to sign waivers because of the camera crews and I had the extreme pleasure of explaining to Tyler actually, no, Little Women Atlanta has nothing to do with the book.

Day 10

After knocking out some mailing (more of which I gotta get on this morning. We are down to just two copies of Vol. 2! Everything else is sold out; I feel super humbled), I plugged away on stories and chasing interviews and such. It was my last day before Elise, the new roommate, moves in, so I wanted to be hella productive. Next, Rick and I ran some errands and grabbed Maria’s ramp from Asher before hitting the East Lake Y to rejoin. I’ve never had a gym membership with a partner before, and even though I’ve pushed exes to get matching tattoos while we were together, this felt like A Big Deal. But quick PSA: If you can find another adult human to share a Y membership with you, that shit is far more affordable. It’s something like $34/each per month for us, which is as dope as something as miserable as exercise can get. I’m ultimately doing it for anxiety management—and because I’m a huge fan of accountability (you’re on my blog, hi. You knew that), so since Rick was down, I had to jump in, as well.

I spent a half hour on the elliptical, the first time I’ve straight-up exercised (not something that’s exercise masquerading as fun, like a hike) in over a year. I jammed on Abbi Jacobson’s podcast and tried to zone out to an episode of Judge Judy with gibberish captions. Hopping off to mop up sweat, I got to experience that smugness again. Arriving home, I thought about how great a beer would be after that punishment, especially since I was gearing up to mow the lawn and was ravished. Instead, I had two sad slices of deli cheese and got a little stoned off a roach I found before while cleaning up at Ethan’s post-party (finders fees are real, don’t fight me). I did a medium-okay job on the back and front yards, mostly psyched Rick took over dinner duties. We had potatoes, oven-roasted buffalo tofu with gorgonzola, and garlicky kale. It was a goddamned delight.

Day 9

Yesterday made me face an annoying habit of mine: subbing a snack with a beer.

I knocked out a few chores in the morning before heading to the Whole Foods salad bar to have lunch with a new friend. She is dope in general but mentioned in passing through our Internet-based friendship courting she doesn’t drink. I asked about that, obvs. She says it started with a break similar to mine, except hers was three weeks—and after, she... just... didn’t feel like drinking again? That was six years ago and although I’m sure the ~dry lifestyle~ isn’t the sole culprit, this woman’s skin looks AMAZING. It sounds silly, but it was kinda inspiring, especially because so much of her job deals with shmoozing, an activity I find best executed nice and lubey with IDK, seven? glasses of a table red wine. She says she usually gets Coke in a rocks glass with a lime, a delicious-sounding deviation from my typical seltz.

Here yah go.

Day 8

Had a lazy morning in Tucker with Mexican leftovers, Leo, Game Of Thrones, and that dude Rick or whatever. Walking Leo after we ate breakfast (which was bagels. The leftovers came later), I felt good. Since even before Stella (a foster dog I had about a month and a half in late spring. I don’t think I was Tumbling much during that time), I’ve had the dog itch. I WANT ONE. Sure, it’s time-intensive and objectively more expensive than cat ownership, but I love that it forces you to move. Kinda pet/plant ownership in general is great in that regard, especially for people suffering depression. It’s easy to sink into your bed and atrophy; to feel numb and allow yourself to stick. But! If a living thing is depending on you to survive, it’s rather quite selfish. I’m not saying mental illness is ever a choice, but I like blending in responsibilities to help regularly hoist myself out of problematic, stationary behaviors. If that makes sense.

Anyway! Retired home for a low-medium productive afternoon, sprinkled with helping Rebekah empty her room, passing along a print from Saturday’s show to Mina, then hitting Ingrid Goes West with Caroline. While editing CL’s culture section, I got tons of movie screening passes and over time, Caroline became a go-to plus-one. We’ve carried on the tradition, even now that we have to pay. Usually we sneak beers in or, if we’re at Midtown Art Cinema like we were last night, we grab tall boys at the front counter to bring with. Last night we stuck with seltzer and I honestly didn’t much miss dropping the extra $8 bucks on an already-(IMO-)steep $11 movie admission. I totally recommend the film, too. It’s haunting and uncomfortable and extremely real. I’m psyched to finally read all the think pieces on it. It’s so important—and hard! For me, at least—to hold yourself accountable for burying your head so deep in your phone and the pixelated fabric of online pettiness and deception.

Day 7

One week done and done, woo. As mentioned yesterday, I woke feeling very smug, albeit exhausted. While cleaning Ethan’s, I still felt great and with it. A mostly-clear memory of the night before—while hosting such a rager. I’d guess at least 200 people came and went while I was there from 8 p.m. till 2ish a.m.—was a refreshing experience; one I celebrated by texting every person I remember seeing there, thanking them. 

After we cleared all the cans, Rachel, Katie, Martin, and I grabbed lunch at Estoria and caught up some on zine stuff (Martin mostly pleasantly smiled). Back home, I cleaned up then met Matt at ParkGrounds. We talked about growing up religious, how he decided to stop drinking, how I did not-drinking the night before (he was there, but it didn’t seem super ideal to discuss in real time surrounded by a bunch of people I didn’t know well), anxiety, depression, death, dogs—all of my favorite topics! I left feeling really empowered, which was unexpected.

Met Rick in Tucker to housesit and watch his drummer’s amazing dog, Leo (above). We had Mexican food and I passed out within an hour. An extremely chill day during which I never felt inclined to drink—not even Estoria, which, trust me, is pretty big.

Day 6

I did it!!!!!!!!!! The part I was most dreading during this drinking sabbatical has come, gone, and I survived both parts without a single drop of alcohol. I’m sure that’s NBD for many people, but, honestly, it was the first event I’ve thrown in recent memory not lubed up with some serious sauce.

Before my Lyft came to take me to Ethan’s, I considered the Alto’s in the freezer and how a quick swig wouldn’t hurt anyone. And! You know, it wouldn’t, but it would be a bummer to have gone so far (again, five consecutive dry days just... doesn’t really happen in my life) only to say uncle to the substance that’s held power over me for too long.

We had an insane turn-out. I don’t know how numbers shook out considering Venmo and paying certain percentages back to artists, but I counted over $600 in the cash box last night when I arrived home. That’s gotta mean something!