Today was just your average Monday

CallieCat made friends with a hornet.

And then couldn't understand why I pulverized it with a flip flop.

Work was a blur. Something like this:

from netglos.com

Then off to Portsmouth for dinner and a little light reading.

And finally to the Portsmouth Music Hall Loft. This place is fantastically small.

The guest? This guy: 

Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr.

Funny, smart, sincere, and over the top at the same time. They didn't let him speak nearly long enough.

Price of admission includes a beverage, his newest book, and a meet & greet. He said this book was a work "that Daddy could read." A departure from academic publish-or-perish pressure, this book is 500 pages of pictures and text of the history of African Americans. A book he hoped his father would flip through while watching baseball on TV.

Africans first came to the Americas in 1513--almost 100 years before Jamestown. Say what?! And I bet they didn't eat their shoes or neighbors (ahem).

Of course I fumbled my words when I met him and nervously talked about finding passion and being an inspiration blah blah blah. Oy. But I also asked if I could get in on the dinner they had been discussing (Indian, no less!). Professor Gates and UNH Professor Wilburn laughed--and while they didn't say yes, they didn't say no. I can only imagine what a great conversation they're having right now over pakoras. Boys, I think we've only just begun this dialogue.

And just imagine how cool it will be when I'm on PBS getting all kinds of Frenchie history thrown at me after a DNA check. Sigh...

Mill Girl goes native (in, you know, a mill)

If you've talked to me regularly over the years, you know how much I loved my mill apartment in Somersworth, NH, even if I wasn't exactly thrilled with the town itself. Damn, that was a nice apartment.

And if you've talked to me regularly over the past six months, you know how excited I've been about the mill in downtown Newmarket, NH, coming back to life. I've watched it raise its weary head, stretch its limbs, and become home. I've crushed on it and taken far too many pictures along the way. And after promising repeatedly to blog about it, here she goes. Gertrude, run the tape.

Early on, she was just a drawing.

I totally geek out over floor plans.

I combed over the apartments, excitedly, and settled on a little one with a river view and one adjacent neighbor. Unit 427 was supposed to be a 1-br, but it ended up being a 744 sq ft studio. Having been spatially spoiled for so many years, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to fit my whole life into a studio. But I liked the challenge of living a more minimalistic lifestyle. 

And then the landlord kindly let me visit repeatedly to check in on my girl as she took shape.

I spent a lot of time measuring and wondering
whether I could fit everything.

I admired the view as the seasons changed.

The tall shaft in the center is the freight elevator.
I'm the top three windows to the right of it.

I signed the lease in February.

And I moved in March 2nd.

 

I still have organizing to do. The closets are packed with things I'm unsure of. And it's weird to sit up in the morning and see everything I own in one room. But it's also really nice. The view of the sun coming up over the river while I'm reading in bed in the morning can't be beat. And I'm hopeful about the community feel being established in the building.

Sorry for the Halloween pic in April...

A while back, someone told me I couldn't be a city girl--I was too much of a country girl, wouldn't adapt well, etc. I don't know if I agree with that. What I do know is that it's a new-found freedom to walk to everything. Live music, brunch, chocolate croissants, used books, fish and chips, beer, library, Chinese food, yoga, art space, water--it's all right here, mostly across the street. I adore my adopted hometown. And Mill Girl is spectacularly happy to be back in her natural habitat.

Ta-daaa!

I can't imagine many things that would be more cool than getting an unexpected visit from me. And with some scheming on Ligia's part, I was able to do just that to my little brother this past weekend down in Charlotte. When I rang the doorbell, he expected someone who would be checking the AC. Instead, he got ME.

Priceless!

Some of my adventures:

1. Ate Colombian food. Yummy fruit juice, yucca fries, plantains, beans, rice, steak, and a scary pork product. And I love how other cultures always set a fried egg on top of a meal. I approve.

2. Explored World Market. My inner hippie girl was enthralled by some of the trinkets and decor offerings. But then we took part in a wine tasting. All the wine quickly reduced me to an infantile level of humor, during which I wandered around taking random pictures.

Microwaveable!

3. Ate chocolate. My brother has a chocolate shelf. Let that sink in: an entire shelf of chocolate. Please note that this doesn't stop him from acquiring more every time he goes out, and he's not quick to share.

While we don't look alike, his love of chocolate assures me
that we're related. Behold the famous chocolate shelf.

*sigh* We sampled dark chocolate with bacon and milk chocolate
with bacon. Both were gross. Such sadness.

4. Almost was sent packing. I opened the back door to let a cat in. I accidentally also let in a hornet. At 9 p.m. In March. Doh. Totally didn't expect that. Little brother was none too happy.

Sorry, Michael

5. Saw mummies. The mummy exhibit was much cooler than I expected. The exhibit was jam-packed with people, and they all kept to a strict line formation. That part was weird. I, as you might guess, could not keep to the line formation. I pissed people off and hated humanity pretty quickly. But the mummies kicked ass.

The Tattooed Woman

6. Realized I want seahorses. We killed time by checking out the aquarium in the lower level of Discovery Place. Look at how cute these things are! I love how they hitch up to the plants and each other when they take a nap.

7. Petted many cats. And a dog. Having just put down my little girl, it was fantastic to spend time with little furry friends.

Seth

Stanley makes serious biscuits.

Sorry, Roxy. Hope you're feeling better.

8. Had good quality time with people I love. Michael was pulled into some work stuff on Sunday. And that was too bad, but it was great to spend time alone with Ligia. We shared a lot of stories and a nice glass of wine late in the afternoon. We didn't manage to get a pic of her. Very sly, Ligia. Next time.

See you in June, buddy.

xo

Today Queens has lost a king

A one-act play, one year ago in Queens, NY--

Jose (thick accent): Kelly, you come back to New York City soon. I show you de good, de bad, de oggly!
Me: Slow down, Jose. I don't need to see the ugly side of New York City. But I'll take you up on the first two.

Jose passed away this morning. I won't pretend that I knew him well. But one didn't need to know him well to love him much. He treated me like family from the moment we met. Alex, Ligia, and Mama Ligia, my heart is with you tonight.

Jose Hernandez 1938-2012

xoxo

Dear Jo-Ann Fabric,

It was tough being a crafter at a young age in the '80s. While other suburban kids were perfecting a flimsy moonwalk in their driveway or enticing members of the opposite sex with mall coat*, I secretly was learning to cross stitch from my mom. My behavior was decidedly uncool, but I enjoyed it.

Cut to the '90s. The college years. I don't recall much stitching during the earlier years. Actually, I don't remember much of anything from those years. Funny, Jo-Ann, to owe so much money for years I'm not sure even existed.

Sometime around '96-97, I moved into a notorious off-campus apartment: The Farmhouse. Yes. Capital letters, Jo-Ann! Not to worry. There were only a few arrests during my time there.

So perhaps this is Jaya the Cat playing in the living room...

Somewhere between bottles of blush wine (Jo-Ann, it's so embarrassing to admit that; I'm glad to report that I drink boxed red now), the old crafting bug started to itch me. I decided to make a quilt. And I turned to you, Jo-Ann. I came to you for materials and advice. And then I sat in that damn party house, a glass of shite wine by my side, and I stitched the saddest damn around-the-world quilt ever known. Cute boys would stop by, and I would sit in that chair we picked up by the side of the road, look up at them through my Sally Jesse Raphael reading glasses, and have to explain, "I'm making a quilt." Surprisingly, some of them were stoned enough to think it was cool. Hello, I'm Kelly. I compost, read Byron, and quilt.

Let's move on to the new millennium, shall we?

Now, as a fully functioning, totally-have-my-shit-together-most-days adult, I am a proud crafter. Oh, Jo-Ann, I'm still not a very good quilter (seriously, don't look too closely at any of my quilts), but I think I'm a pretty damn good stitcher. But I worry that when people hear about cross stitch, they picture this:

*shudder*

I work hard to break that image. Very hard, Jo-Ann. Because I think crafting has come a long way over the years.

Blackbird Designs

Classy! www.subversivecrossstitch.com

My current work in progress...

And this brings me to my point.

Jo-Ann, I beg you to explain this recent flyer:

Did this sad poncho picture increase sales? Or just seizures?

I have endured a lot of flack over the years for crafting. And I have defended these arts. And there you go, in one fell swoop, shitting all over my hard work. Who the hell wants to craft after seeing this? Across the nation, well-meaning crafters are telling loved ones that they're almost done knitting them something. And this, Jo-Ann, is what those recipients are picturing. How could you? Screw the feminist movement; you have pushed the crafting movement back 30 years! And you had help:

1. Someone had to knit this ugly fucking thing.
2. It was then chosen for a photo shoot.
3. The poor woman in the picture adorned it. Is she trying to stifle a giggle in that picture?
4. Someone on the set had to dry the tears from the little girl's eyes when forced to stand closer to this hideous monstrosity.
5. Who the hell took the picture?
6. Someone picked this photo out of, surely, a collection of knitted goods photos. Did they do it as a joke one Friday night, and then, come Monday, find it had gone to the printer?

The list goes on.

At any point, did someone raise a hand and meekly ask whether another picture might be better? Anyone? Were they shot down? Is everyone on the design, graphics, layout, and marketing team over the age of 86?

You owe it to the hip crafting world, Jo-Ann, to explain yourself.

Yours in needle and thread,

Mill Girl

*In the '80s, there was an affliction called "mall coat." Girls in malls across the country would shrug their coats off their shoulders, but not take them completely off. They wore them kind of like Victorian ladies might wear a shawl. I think it was a self esteem thing, trying to keep their bodies bundled up and out of view. Surely, I never took part in this practice.

Smell ya later, 2011

I love this time of year! Quiet pondering of what has passed and confidence in what is to come. 

In 2011, I picnicked below the Eiffel Tower, watched bears in Virginia, and ate curry gravy fries in Montreal. My first real surgery taught me about pain and what it means to be fully vulnerable. I had a moment of ultimate honesty with someone, and it made for a positive turning point in that relationship. I freed myself of back pain after 11 years, and all it took was some gentle yoga poses and stretching. I spent a lot of time with all of my dear Masshole friends. I laughed a lot.

I love these broads.

 

I went public with this silly blog! It was more terrifying than I expected, and also more rewarding. I appreciate the positive reinforcement I received from you online and in person. It makes up for all the time spent biting my nails at home alone thinking, You’ve gone too far, Ahlquist. 

It was a difficult year for many people close to me. I have watched a lot of people hurt and process that hurt. It tugs at me and puts all of my own pains in perspective. But I believe in new beginnings. I believe that January is a magic resetting of the clock. And when I’m frustrated with the crap going on around me, or how I allow myself to be swallowed up in that crap, I always think of a quote from Love Actually (no snickering). After years of harboring a secret love for Juliet, Mark bares his soul at her doorstep. Like an exorcism. And as he walks away, he straightens up and, with resolve, says, “Enough. Enough now.” There’s no better time than NYE to stand up straight and acknowledge you’ve had enough. And that the future, with all of the complications it’s bound to bring, holds a lot of promise.

2012 is going to be fantastic.

 xoxo

You didn't really want ANOTHER piece of pie, did you?

Day 472 of turkey. Shoot me.

I'm in detox mode so that I can get on with life and still fit through my apartment door. I made a raw soup yesterday that was incredible. I know. "Raw soup" sounded like shit to me too. Fuck the raw soup. Bring on . . . something, anything, cooked. But it rocked and I can already feel my ass shrinking to its normal ample size. I'll share the recipe another time.

Because right now, I'm here to help you step away from the pie. Kids, gather 'round. Auntie Kiki is going to share a chapter out of history.

***

I've been reading a lot about Jamestown lately. The Virginia settlement that started in 1607. It's fascinating. If you are every curious, my two cents are as follows:

 

The Jamestown Experiment, by Tony Williams, is a good primer. Williams is a high school teacher, and his book is highly readable.

After cutting your teeth on that, Love and Hate in Jamestown, by David Price, is a more indepth look at the same story. Written by a journalist, the difference between the two books is striking.

But whatever you do, don't EVER put yourself through this terrible experience. Not even for Colin Farrell. What a terrible waste of time--I blame the screenplay. Dull and confusing if you don't know the story; frustratingly FACTLESS if you've just read two books about the topic. Books that quote journals and letters. Seriously disappointing.

I digress.

Since reading the books, I've asked people what they remember about the Jamestown Settlement. A bartender asked if it was a true story. Someone else said, "Didn't they eat shoes?" Oh, it's better than that. So. Much. Better.

***

So, picture it: It's winter 1610. You've been a lazy fuck all year and didn't store up food like you should have. What food you DO have is crawling with worms. You've pissed off the natives, and they've surrounded your little fort so that you can't leave without *pew* *pew* arrows flying very accurately at you and killing you. But damn it, you're hungry. So maybe you shrug and eat all the horses. And then maybe you look around and realize that the cats and dogs are competing with you to catch rats and mice, so you eat the cats and dogs. *burp* Some time passes, and you are back to eating a half-cup of wormy gruel each day. It's protein, right?

For a little switch up, you begin to chew on the leather of your shoes. Ugg, can you even imagine?

Even I'm disappointed at that joke.

You might become a tad delirious when the shoe thing doesn't work out for you. You watch your fellow colonist lose his everloving mind and leave the fort to forage for snakes or roots or SOMETHING to eat. *pew* *pew* Goner. Shit. What are you going to eat? Wait--shit! You'll try eating excrement! *cough* *spit* Nope. That stuff tastes like shit.

Don't do it, dude. Seriously. I'm shit.

After some time goes by, you begin to have those cartoon daydreams where people start to look like food:

Waikiki Wabbit, 1943

So your ethics loosen a little and you think maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to eat your neighbor, the one who died this morning of hunger. Hey, not bad! Raw is tough chewing, and he's a little lean, but who can be picky at a time like this?

Eating the dead becomes the new "black" there at the settlement, but there aren't always dead bodies lying around . . . wait--there are!! We just need to DIG UP THEIR GRAVES! This guy's only been dead three days, how bad can he taste? Well, pretty bad, but no matter. *Mmmm, full tummy*

It's gotten pretty bad at this point; you're actually looking feverishly at people, hoping they kick soon--and hoping it won't be you. But what if you're a seriously screwed up fuck who can't stop thinking about food? And what if you have this . . . idea . . . one night while your pregnant wife is asleep in your arms.

You might convince yourself that it's okay to kill your wife. The baby, of course, you remove from the womb and toss into the river--because, shit, you're not THAT crazy. But back to wifey. Mmmm. Wifey. Perhaps dismembering her body is easier if you dwell on every time she bitched at you for not polishing your boot buckles. Or for that time she was making eyes with Ebenezer over a fresh body last week. Yeah, that'll learn ya, bitch! *shakes salt on body part* *eats*

But you get caught. *wah wahhh* You try to deny it. But people are pissed and hang you by your thumb nails until you confess. After they begin adding weight to your ankles, you do confess. "Yes, I ate that bitch! With a fine Chianti. *ffffff* You're greatly relieved to be put to death. Finally, you are dead. Funny, no one eats your body. 'Cause some people have standards, jerk.

THIS IS ALL TRUE.

Oddly, another faction of colonists upriver did great that same winter, The Starving Time, as it's called. They ate pigs and berries and had no idea what unfortunate things their fellow colonists were up to. Another shipload of colonists had crashed into Bermuda that year and were living the dream all winter. Bet they were a little sad to eventually arrive in Jamestown. The point: It didn't have to happen.

*Auntie Kiki closes book*

***

Go ahead. Have a snack now. Yeah, you don't want any, do you? And I bet raw soup doesn't sound so bad now, does it?

You're welcome.