Ikea

Dear Lisette,

I love Ikea with a burning, endless passion, the way only a recent college graduate can love a bargain home goods store. 

Ikea makes me feel like a functioning human adult. When I buy a desk chair for $20, I know that I am becoming a more mature person. Likewise, the presence of six tiny spoons (purchased for the low, low price of $2.99) is a symbol of my newfound responsibility. It doesn’t matter that the desk chair is bright green and made of plastic, or that I’ve never used the tiny spoons. Their mere existence in my apartment makes me a grownup, goddammit!

Ikea seduces me with organization. When I’m in the store, I truly believe that a bookshelf/desk combo (only $100!) will drastically improve my life. Like having a place to put all my shit will magically solve all my problems. I will no longer forget homework assignments, flake on my friends, or avoid doing my laundry and cleaning a bathtub.  As a sit on the floor, assembling my beloved bookshelf/desk combo with only my trusty Allen wrench, I know, deep in my heart that this one piece of furniture holds the power to transform me from a lazy, unmotivated dog walker into an efficient productive graduate student. 

Ha. Like any of this is ever going to happen. But while I’m wandering the circuitous paths through bedrooms, kitchens, and offices, I can help but feel this way. I keep going back for the rush.

Plus those meatballs are fucking delicious.

Love,

Gena

My Favorite Scent

Dear Leta,

One of my favorite smells is cigarette smoke. I know this sounds weird, but hear me out. 

The smell reminds me of my grandpa, who died when I was in high school. We’d go visit him and my grandma at their cabin in northern Wisconsin, where the smell of cigarettes mixed with those of sunscreen, ferns, and fireworks.  I remember standing near him while he poured lighter fluid on an unlit campfire and telling my cousins and me to back up and not tell Grandma about this before lighting a match and throwing it on the pyre. His smile would wink at us as he offered fifty cents to any child who could use the same plastic cup for the entire weekend. (Make sure you write your name on it in Sharpie and put it somewhere safe so the grown-up don’t throw it away). We would lie face down on the deck trying to catch crayfish with a net while he smoked and cast for bluegills, fish and smoke and moss and water.

It reminds me of London, where I studied abroad in college. Coming out of a theater at night, buzzed from the performance, making my way through the crowd of smokers on the way to the Tube. Or lying on the grass in Kensington Gardens, dozing over my homework, listening to teenagers play rugby and smelling the cigarettes of the businessmen on the bench across the path.

I’ve read that smell is the sense most associated with memory.  Being transported to a favorite time and place just by catching a whiff of a hipster’s American Spirit is one of the best things about the human brain that I can think of. Now I’ve never been a smoker, and I don’t plan on ever picking up the habit, but when I walk by someone smoking a cigarette I breathe in deep to remember lakes and cities.

Love,

Gena

Mothers and Daughters

Dear Felipe,

Whenever I think about the mother/daughter relationship, two songs always pop into my head. The first is “Passive Manipulation” by The White Stripes. If your not familiar with the song, the pertinent lyrics are:

 Women, listen to your mothers
Don't just succumb to the wishes of your brothers
Take a step back, take a look at one another
You need to know the difference...
Between a father and a lover

 The other is “Daughters” by John Mayer. A more embarrassing choice, but these things happen. Again, the relevant lyrics:

Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too

Both of these songs assume that the main topic of conversation between mothers and daughters is men. Because what is more important than finding a husband and becoming a mother? Lots of things. This pisses me off so much because of its inherent sexism, but mostly because of it is a filthy lie. Yes, I occasionally talk about men with my mom, it would be impossible not to. But there is more to our relationship than that.

I call her when I’ve had a bad day at work, when I’ve had a good day at work, when I need to know how much money it is acceptable to spend on a bridal shower gift, when I’ve watched a movie she’ll like, when I’ve watched a movie she’ll hate, when I’ve had a fight with my roommate, when I’ve thought of a pun that’s particularly clever, when I’ve done something awesome, when I’ve done something shitty, when I’m happy, when I’m angry, when I’m sad, when I’m bored.

I talk to my mom a lot, and rarely do we discuss men. Imagine how boring that relationship would be, if you could only talk about one thing. I wish the media would stop portraying us this way. It makes me so mad I want to call my mom to tell her about it.

Love,

Gena

Motivation

Dear Self,

It’s been a while since you posted. I know you were busy moving, and that is a terrible and stressful accomplishment, especially when it’s over 90 degrees out, but you told yourself you would post at least once a week, and that just hasn’t been happening.

I often find that the promises I make myself are the hardest ones to keep. I promise I’ll stop snacking after 10pm, throw away my worn out socks, watch less TV, and remember to call my friends more. Yet here I am eating Cheez-Its at midnight, watching True Blood in socks I’ve owned since high school. I’ve collapsed under the weight of all these promises, stuck in a land of not unpacking my dishes or even going outside for that matter.

I’m going to try and change, though. I know that just one more promise to myself thrown on to the small mountain of them I keep in my room, right beside my dirty clothes hamper. I just need a little motivation.

Motivation is a hard thing to come by. Life’s so much easier, if much emptier, without it. And once I get going, I find myself enjoying the task I’ve put off for so long. I just have to start.

So this is it.

I’m going to buy new socks, and throw away the old ones.

Turn off the TV.

Get up off my ass.

And write.

Love,

Gena

p.s. I make no guarantees about the snacking. Cheez-Its are delicious.

Zoos

Dear Stephanie,

My favorite part of a zoo is the reptile house, the part where they keep the nocturnal animals.  There are often mammals and birds and amphibians here as well, but it’s almost always in the reptile house. I love that you never know what’s going to be in those cages, even when they are labeled. 

The best part is looking into the cages, all full of anticipation and trepidation. I’m always terrified that some grotesque hairless mammal or many-legged amphibian will burst from its hiding place to smash up against the glass like the alien from Independence Day. Of course this never happens.

But the mystery of the nocturnal animals always draws me to that dim and deserted part of the zoo. The few people there speak in hushed tones and move slowly from display to display, murmuring to their companions and sometimes tentatively pointing to something at the back of a cage, always wondering how these creatures can live without the sun.

I can’t remember the last time I actually saw a nocturnal animal at the zoo, but I prefer it that way. The real thing can’t be better than the mystery.

Love, 

Gena

Jacqueline Kennedy

Dear Mark,

Whenever I think about Jackie Kennedy, I always think about that pink Chanel suit. It’s such an iconic image that it’s hard to picture her in any other outfit.

I always wonder what she thought about as she put on that suit in Dallas.

As she pulled on her stockings, did she have a twinge of doubt?

When she slid on the pink wool skirt, did she wonder if this parade was a bad idea?

 

Did she sense there was something wrong as she slowly did up the buttons on her jacket?

I can imagine her putting her fears aside as she carefully places her pillbox hat on her perfectly styled hair, telling herself that it’s nothing. She fixes a smile on her face, carefully smoothes the wrinkles from her suit and goes to join her husband for the parade.

Love,

Gena