Dear Me,
(This salutation reads 2 ways: as a letter to myself, and as an exclamation of surprise and disappointment, i.e. dear me! You’ll see why.)
This morning, I thought to myself, I haven’t left the house yet today (10:46 am). Then I thought, this isn’t unusual.
Then I thought, and this is where it gets weird, It’s ok. I have windows.
Right. So it’s time for me to either get a cat or go outside more often.
…I don’t really like cats.
MM
Dear Seeing a Movie Alone,
Well. Another adventure in the life of being a single, living-alone adult. Or maybe just in being an adult. Or maybe just in being a human. Other adventures to be found here, here, aaaaaaand here. Oddly enough, all seem to have to do with eating alone. We’ll explore that later.
But today! Today, I decided to go see a movie alone. It was a gray day this morning, and a holiday, and so nothing was open: and by nothing I don’t know what I mean, plenty of things actually were open today. But I decided it was a movie day. And I decided that I would go see An Education because nothing else looked good and it is playing at the little indie arthouse theater next to me which is actually just the second floor of a very pink bourgeois shopping center that mostly struggles to contain a massive 24 Hour Fitness. I did not want to see An Education. But the reviews are so good and ugh.
Anyway, both of all of the 2 people I could think of to call were busy. So I decided to do it. I am going to do this, I thought. I am going to go see a movie alone today. It was a brave move, considering. It’s been an empty couple of days here, a bad week last week, a lonely run of nights watching VHS’s in my apartment alone. (Yes! I still have a VHS player! Yes! The thrift store down the street sells VHS tapes for $2. Yes! I did buy Top Gun and Hook and A League of Their Own and The People vs. Larry Flynt.)
So I put on the one dress I own from Paris, because I thought that might help– isn’t going to see movies alone something people do in Paris? Possibly Parisians? Well, David Sedaris does it in Me Talk Pretty One Day and I stand by my choice of dress. And I put on my red boots (you know, the ones that make everything better). I made myself a chicken sandwich with garlic mayonnaise and I put on the radio and I listened to Aretha Franklin sing RESPECT because that was on the radio and I did the dishes and I put on my favorite cozy gray sweater over my one dress from Paris and I tapped my red boots and I almost went back for my raincoat because it was a rather gray day but I left without it (this will become important).
To tell you the truth, I almost didn’t go. I almost turned around and went back inside my little apartment and put another VHS in and curled up in the armchair I had been in all morning. The only reason I went, to be honest, is because I had already started writing this letter in my head, and if I didn’t go, I did not feel I could rightfully write this letter.
There was a long line, and a little theater with a little screen, and it slowly filled up with people as the previews ran their artsy indie preview-selves, as in keeping with the movie I was about to see. And the movie I saw was good and deserved its good reviews and I highly recommend it.
I am not, however, going to tell you to go see a movie alone. It’s a personal choice. And, personally, I like to talk during movies (I know; I know). This is frowned upon in theaters no matter what, but especially so if you are alone. In fact, talking when you are alone is generally frowned upon in most places. And the fact of the matter is, while I still cringed and hid my eyes in the awkward places, there wasn’t a shoulder there next to me to hid my eyes behind (I’m a very interactive movie watcher. Deal with it).
No. You know what? I am going to tell you to do it. Go see a movie by yourself. Whether or not you have someone to go with you. Because, like eating dinner alone, and living alone, and moving to a new city, or learning how to cook, or learning how to play an instrument, there is power in the knowing that it can be done. Perhaps not always with great joy or ease, but it can be done and what’s more, I am a person who can do it (you can too).
And if, by chance, the slightly gray day has turned into a monsoon (the way that only Southern California in an El Nino year can monsoon) by the time you come out of the movie, and you did not take your raincoat with you at the last minute, and you have to run the three blocks home, literally jumping over puddles because they are actually rivers not puddles, while some man watches you and laughs as he smokes a cigarette under dry cover, and you are so wet by the time you arrive home there is nothing to do but take off everything you are wearing and swap it for PJs and a cup of tea and bless the fact that your windows were already closed— well then, all the better.
Have a cookie while you’re at it, to reward yourself.
Bless,
MM
PS– Look! I didn’t make some lame joke about how seeing the movie An Education was an education in and of itself. Ha! …..Oh wait….damn. So close.
Dear Thanksgiving,
I would like to give thanks for:
1. Ok, well, guys, let’s start here– I am in school. I am a student. This means I LEARN THINGS all the time! And it’s what I’m supposed to be doing! I show up, I learn some things, I go home, I think about some things. I do not make coffee or sit in a cubicle all day or dig ditches. And for that, I am grateful. I mean, I don’t know, maybe you love your job digging ditches, and for that I thank you. I need ditches in my life probably. For culverts and stuff. Those seem useful, even if I can’t think of exactly why.
2. …FOR POETRY. I am in SCHOOL for POETRY. This means not only do I live the life of a student– and seriously guys, in case you’ve forgotten, that means like 2-3 hours of class a day and then….umm….drinking coffee and playing board games, mostly– but as a student, my main jobs are to read some things and then to write some things. This is what I do with my life. In fact, this is what I get to do with three years of my life. I would like to thank whoever thought up MFA programs, and whoever decided they were a legitimate way for people to spend their time, and my parents for supporting my dreams, and my heart for dreaming, and “last but not least, the wonderful crew from McDonalds who spend hours making those egg McMuffins without which I’d never be tardy” (Clueless? Anyone?). Ok. Well. Seriously. Thanks. I will be in my armchair reading some more words on a page. And writing some other words down sometimes.
3. Cookies. Baking. Dancing while baking. (DANCE-BAKE.) That doesn’t link to a definition of Dance-Bake. It links to my friend Kristen. Who is the definition of Dance-Bake. Anyway, Dance-Bake is pretty self-explanatory. You dance and you bake. Or you dance while you bake. Whatever. Put on some music, make some cookies, see what happens.
4. New Friends. Including ones that like to talk about poetry. And dance. And bake. And tease. And go to the beach. And sometimes play board games with me: bananagrams, chess, cribbage, Jenga. Yeah ok, it’s an odd list, but it’s what we’ve got. Next on the list: backgammon. Also: actually learn how to play chess, not just memorize (mostly) which pieces can move where. I’m working on it, ok?! It’s hard. Cut me some slack.
5. A seafood taco truck. You heard me. I’m not going to even tell you where it is. But I will say this: $1 fish tacos.
6. Bagels. I have a lot of bagels in my life. I love it.
7. Hillcrest. I have a lot of drag queens in my life. I love it.
8. My apartment. I love it.
9. The restaurants around my apartment. This really counts under both “Hillcrest” and “my apartment.” But the restaurants! So wonderful! Deserve their own listing.
10. The Dog. She’s my parent’s, but I get to see her sometimes, and she’s soft and cuddly and will let you haul her around with you like a stuffed animal (a really, really big, patient one).
11. Family. Hi guys!
12. Books. Who came up with books? High five.
13. Food.
14. Doughnuts. The real ones, not the vegan ones. Or Donettes. Not real but I am grateful for them anyway.
15. Health. HEAR ME, WORLD? I am grateful for my health! After four years of illness, sickness, ailments, infections, whooping cough, I am HEALTHY. And I appreciate it every day that I wake up feeling like I can tackle whatever comes along, that I can commit to plans whether they be today, tomorrow, or a month from now, that I can take on an extra class or extra work hours or sign up for yoga and not worry that it will go to waste. I appreciate every day that I can walk around breathing easily and thinking clearly, every day my body moves, jumps, stretches, breathes without pain.
16. The ocean. I live near the ocean. I try to remember to go see it at least once a week. Just to sit with it. It makes me happy.
So Thanksgiving, happy you to you.
Another year, another turkey (it’s such a boring meat! what is UP with having the most boring meat the centerpiece of the biggest food holiday of the year?)
With thanks and blessings and yams with marshmallows (of course that is my favorite part, obviously),
MM
Dear Dinner,
You and I, we haven’t always been on the best of terms. When I was a kid, I loved simple foods: aka toaster waffles, rice krispies, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Sometimes I could be talked into eating ham on whole wheat with mayonnaise. No mustard. No lettuce. No cheese. Dinner was hard, for both the chef and I– would I eat it or not? Would my mom cave and make me something else if I didn’t like what everyone else was eating? Could I get away with pushing my food around on my plate, loudly proclaiming, I’m Not Hungry….and then suddenly, mysteriously, be starving just before bed and eat toaster waffles (again)? Or would I get yelled at?
I had patient parents. And yes, my mom often made me something else to eat. And I was never sent to bed without eating, even if I had refused to eat at the time or prepared meal of dinner.
Now in college, just about anyone can tell you the worst dorm food of the day is dinner. And when you live in an apartment or a house for the first time, it’s pretty easy to get yourself a bowl of cereal in the morning, a sandwich or bagel for lunch and then….then you have to COOK. Or be really, really wise in your choice of roommates and really fond of doing the dishes.
I love doing the dishes. If you want to cook me dinner, I will do the dishes. I will do the dishes so well you will want to cook me dinner all the time. I will clean up the whole kitchen. Unless you’re my mom, then I probably abuse the system (hi, mom, I’m sorry).
So last year, out of college, I lived with a roommate who was a fabulous cook. I was dating someone who can look at a refrigerator and make a meal. My sister and her roommate made dinner almost every night. Plus I had Wednesday Night Dinner, where a group of friends gathered at my sister’s house every Wednesday and took turns making dinner. Not potluck! –we all took turns each week making dinner for one another. Then we played games or sang karaoke in the safety of their living room. You know you’re jealous, don’t try to pretend to be too cool for school.
And, ok, I know how to cook a few things at this point. But I knew, when moving to a new city and living completely, entirely alone for the first time, that the hardest part was going to be eating dinner alone. There’s just something about it. I grew up in a family where we all ate dinner together every night. Dinner, despite my best efforts to avoid it as a child, is a meal. You set the table, you serve food, you sit, you eat, you talk, you catch up on your days, you take a break from doing homework. My eyes are tired from looking at a computer screen all day, dinner is when I want to take a break and focus on the mid-range points of my plate and whoever is sitting across from me.
Eating dinner alone makes me feel lonely. What can I say? We all have our moments.
Also, I HATE grocery shopping. It’s confusing and nothing is ever sold in the amounts that I need it for and there are so many choices. Finding recipes for one person, by the way, is just not possible. They don’t exist. Recipes are made for four. And some are indivisible. Like when a recipe for four calls for one egg. And ok, once I open a can of something– tomatoes, pumpkin, coconut milk, chipotle peppers, chicken stock– if I don’t use it all, chances are it’s not going to get used. Unfortunate but true. I tend to decide what I want to eat, then find the ingredients, make that. I am not a refrigerator chef. I can’t just look at what I have and create something delicious. It’s a skill, a talent, one I greatly admire, but I’m not there yet. And don’t get me started on leftovers again.
So, now I am here, living alone, in the new city of San Diego, and eating dinner alone. Often. It helps that I really enjoy being in my kitchen. My kitchen is lovely. It has pretty little painted knobs on the cupboards and display cabinets at the end of the counters. I have a little table that sits just 2, or me with a couple of stacks of books, and a window that looks at my banana tree and out over a brick wall to more trees and buildings in the distance. And my kitchen has a plant, now, that sits against the wall and is green with reaching white flowers, and a map of Paris up over the stove, and the refrigerator has pictures of people I love on it. It’s a nice kitchen. I like to be in it.
Also, I have some tricks up my sleeve. When I really don’t want to cook and eat dinner alone, I go across the street and get a wood-fired Italian pizza. I sit in the warm skinny restaurant while I wait and people-watch. Or last week I knocked on my neighbor’s door, and carried my food into their kitchen and ate with them. Then we played cribbage. Sometimes, when I first got here, I would talk to my mom on the phone while I cooked and ate.
But I’m writing this letter, now, dinner, because I feel like you and I have healed some of our rift. In the last two-three weeks, I made dinner most nights. I made delicious, good-smelling food. I turned on music, and I looked up a recipe, and I halved it or not, and I cooked. I sat at my little table and I ate. I made good food and I had good dinners and I did not hate the process.
Like anything else, it took practice. But I’m practicing, and I’m learning, and hey– who doesn’t love learning something new? And I really, actually like cooking. And I like being able to choose what I will eat for dinner. Turns out I’m hungry at dinner time more often now, and therefore not so desperate for toaster waffles just before bed. All picky eaters should just be forced to learn how to cook.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m going to Seattle in a week, and I could not be more excited to have somebody else decide what to make, go grocery shopping, and cook. It is going to be heavenly. HEAVENLY.
And if you would like to have me over for dinner, I will do the dishes.
And, actually, if you live where I do and would like to come over for dinner– my table only fits 2, but picnics are always fun and I have a lovely circle of floor that would do. I can roast a mean chicken. And after tomorrow night, I’ll be able to make a butternut squash and potato pie with tomato, mint, and sheep’s milk cheese (thanks to The Wednesday Chef). Yep, when I’m trolling for ideas, I go to the food blogs.
What can I say? I’m a girl who likes a little narrative and some pictures with her recipes. I hope, dinner, that you and I will continue to grow in fondness and familiarity.
But first– today– something I will always love making and eating more than dinner: chocolate chip cookies.
xoxo,
MM
Dear Living Alone,
So. We finally meet. You’re not that bad. In fact, I kind of like you.
Except for two days ago, when I dropped a lightbulb and there was no one to say, “Careful! Watch your bare feet. I’ll get the vaccuum!” (I said it to myself) and today, when I couldn’t open my olive oil. This was my punishment for buying Ralph’s brand olive oil: thirteen minutes hacking at a plastic top that kept spinning in place with a steak knife, pulling at the one hacked-off edge with a wrench, wrestling with the whole things with a kitchen towel, going back to the wrench, then the knife, then the towel, and then (obviously!) spilling olive oil all over the counter when the damn thing just popped itself right off! And now it won’t go back on.
Except for those things (and more I’m sure to come) I think you and I will get along quite nicely. I like my little armchair by the window, where I can hear but not see the bus, and I like using the bathroom whenever I want to without realizing that somebody’s already in there and I will have to wait. The ceiling fans keep me nice company, and I never come home to surprise-dirty-dishes. In fact, I never come home to surprise anything. My little studio apartment with the big kitchen and difficult olive oil is always just the way I left it.
I would take a picture and show it, but it’s mine all mine for the moment and I like it like that. Maybe later I will feel like sharing. And there are still some boxes (!) which is just intolerable for a first public viewing. Or maybe I will never share and everyone will just have to imagine the books lining the walls along the floor because I have no bookcases and the cheerful red-and-white-floral lamp that presides over my bed and the sun slanting in across open poetry notes on the kitchen table.
Yes, I think we’ll do just fine, me and living alone. In fact, I think I’ll keep you for the time being. How’s that sound?
Love,
MM
