mewsletter

Hi!

hello_catsHi, four of you who are still reading this blog!

I’ve been remiss. Or rather, I’ve been busy writing to sustain my Nutella habit and haven’t had time to write for “funsies,” unless you count my journal, which is honestly just a list of food I’ve consumed because I’m dealing with a terrible eczema outbreak, which you didn’t really need to know about and now you do and that is on my hands as well!

But I am writing weekly-ish newsletters that are also personal but not in a gross way (though probably a little gross, actually) and you should subscribe. Here’s an archive of a few of them to prove that they don’t mention any skin diseases:

If that doesn’t do it for you, there’s always Cat Font Generator.

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Mi pobre corazon

Illustration: Wendy MacNaughton

Illustration: Wendy MacNaughton

I wrote you another letter. I am trying to do this more. But I think it’s mostly going to people’s spam folders. Hopefully not. Here’s an excerpt to convince you to subscribe:

I filled in for Alexis Coe’s column, Read Local, this month. The vagina compliment comes from a girl I flew across the country to have a first date with. I did that kind of thing a lot in my mid-twenties. I was always in love with a girl who lived nowhere near me. It was a phenomenal first date — we hiked Runyon Canyon and I read her palm and we danced to the Spanish version of “Achy Breaky Heart.” Toward the end, when we were rolling around on the floor, my head somehow hit her stereo and turned it on and it took us a long time to realize that we were making out to “Carol of the Bells.” Wouldn’t you fly across the country for that?

I also can’t get the “Achy Breaky Heart” song out of my head. Can you believe that Miley Cyrus’s dad wrote that? I don’t know why that weirds me out.

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yoga clicks funny meme

I’m Not Napping

yoga-funny-savasanaI did a fun graphic design project for Yoga Clicks a little while ago, of which this is one example (slightly changed from my original, to include their logo and such). The aim was to come up with funny yoga slogans and turn the best ones into graphics for maximum content sharing and LULz-ing.

A few of the other yoga funnies I threw out there were:

Meditation: Because it sounds way better than “sitting around, doing nothing.”

Yoga – where the men are loose and the pants are tight.

Meditation never fails to bring me bliss and calm. Sorry, that was supposed to say “medication.”

It was fun for me to break out my Photoshop chops, which I haven’t done in a while, and to think about the ways and whys of viral content. I hope to do more of this stuff in the future. In the meantime, check out Yoga Clicks’ website and social media pages. It’s a pretty cool resource for fun, inspiration, practical help, and community goodness.

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Do Bisexuals Need a New Label?

van_dam-orgasm-faceI was on Dan Savage’s podcast this week, the Savage Lovecast, talking about whether bisexuals need a new label, per the Alternet/Salon piece I wrote about the subject.

My favorite part is when he says to read my advice columns if you want to cheat on his. Monogamish advice sharing, hooray! I’m thrilled. Van Damme is thrilled. Give it a listen below or buy the episode at the Lovecast link above for a buck.

Savage Lovecast, Episode 376

 

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Love Letters to San Francisco: Coit Tower

parking_meterOur second date was on your birthday, and it wasn’t really a date, but you got off work early and came to visit me in the wharf. I wanted to impress you, but not too much, and settled on Reese’s peanut butter cups and a limerick. We climbed halfway up the Coit Tower stairs so I could show you the world’s most random parking meter, tucked in a tangle of trees. On clear days you could see all the way to Oakland, but that day I didn’t look.

We talked about therapy and I told you I didn’t cry as often as I wanted to. I noticed the lines on your wrist then, about a dozen. There was no pattern to them. They looked like pen scratchings, like you were keeping score of an impossible game. I noticed another stray line on your upper arm. Later I would find them on your ankles and stomach too. Later you would tell me about the last time and the safety pin and how you’d never been scared for yourself until that moment.

But it was now and not then, and we sat on the bench and looked at the parking meter in the garden halfway up Coit Tower and I told myself, There’s a metaphor in here somewhere. In all that you are and all the lines that have crossed our skins so we could end up here together. The parking meter on our second date on your birthday offered, not promise exactly, or predictability, but a singular perfection because it was sweet and it was strange and it was you.

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Love Letters to San Francisco: Southern Detour

Photo: Anna Bonick

Photo: Anna Bonick

Remember how close we sat in Piedmont Park under the magnolia trees? We told ghost stories while the strap of your red bra fell from your shoulder, and I wanted nothing more than to touch you then, to hook my finger under the strap and return it to its proper place. I felt similarly out of place all weekend, like a weed growing out of the pavement, strangers spilling out from every room, all of them unknowable, but you.

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Love Letters to San Francisco: Bernal Heights

Sunset on Bernal Hill

Sunset on Bernal Hill

Some things we have only as long as they remain lost, some things are not lost only so long as they are distant. — Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

“Come home with me,” I said. “And tomorrow we’ll drink Mexican coffee and eat huaraches topped with squash blossoms from the farmer’s market. We’ll get pushed around by Asian grandmothers whose bags of dandelion greens are as big as they are. We’ll taste 20 kinds of pluots and stain our lips the color of abandon.”

“Come home with me and I’ll show you the not-so-secret slides and the weed that grows between cracks in the asphalt that smells like pineapple when crushed between your fingers.”

“Come home with me and we’ll climb Bernal Hill and from there you’ll see that distance looks like opportunity and not regret.”

“Come home with me and I’ll be the girl you always wanted.”

And you said, “If I hadn’t incinerated my first marriage in just this fashion, I’d happily go flinging myself over the cliff of our romance.”

You said, “You make me dream of lives that could never be mine.”

You said, “So thank you.”

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Love Letters to San Francisco: Twin Peaks

Photo: torbakhopper/Flickr

In 1972, two lesbian friends, Mary Ellen Cunha and Peggy Forster, bought Twin Peaks Tavern on the corner of Market and Castro streets. “The girls,” as they were known, didn’t realize that the act of opening a gay bar with windows would be a historic act. At the time of its unveiling, being gay was considered a disease and a criminal offense, and gay bars were subject to police raids. Four decades later, San Francisco made the bar a historic landmark. Four decades later, we had our first date there. We sat in the tiny balcony and drank too many gin gimlets and I didn’t realize at the time, perhaps like those first patrons of the Twin Peaks Tavern, how much I needed to be seen.

Now that a year has passed, I look back and see how everything about our meeting was perfect. The setting. The circuitous friendships. The story I read and the strange Minnesota coincidences. And yes, I have a tendency to romanticize, but how perfect even was the season? Past lovers and leavers be damned. It was time; time for the Fall.

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Love Letters to San Francisco: The Sunset

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I thought she was beautiful because she saw the world in close-up. We watched the sun set in the Outer Sunset and even though it was scarf weather, we ordered frozen hot chocolate and sat in the damp sand and played with the bleached crab carcasses. She didn’t marvel in contradiction like I did. The way the sky is both colorless and impossibly blue. Everything was beautiful to her. Joy and sadness were not opposites. Art was not distinct; it was in all we created. I loved her for that, because I was obsessed with finding meaning in beauty. Emotions, I thought, should serve a purpose. They should be stories, and they should be remarkable. And when she left I realized I’d mythologized her, like the sky, and that day on the beach, and the real story was not in the seeing but the looking.