the week my electric blanket busted.

The heat in my apartment’s not working. Hasn’t been for about a week, but I suppose that’s not the whole truth. The heat kicks on if we jack the thermostat up to just past 80 degrees, but even then the heat is patchy, poorly circulated, and more expensive than anything I own. I voted to shutoff the heat altogether, but should the pipes freeze and burst (which is likely in sub 20 degree temperatures), it’s on the renters. What this means is that we must keep the heat on without any actual heat. In short, we’re each paying hundreds of dollars to freeze.

The landlord is slow to act, as a professional assessment of the heating system will cost her money; and also because “if you can’t see you breath, it’s not that cold.” Last night when the temperature dropped to minus 7, I saw my breath. And then said the F word.

My hopes that this gorgeous, snow-packed city would warm up have been smothered. By more snow, in fact.

When I left the house today it was three degrees below zero. I opened my front door, and my first breath choked me. I hacked and gasped for a few seconds on my porch worried that my lung may collapse. That’s what three below will do to ya.

My wussy .3 mile walk to the T numbed my face, hands, and legs, despite the long underwear Mom got me for Christmas. Tiny stars crystallized on my scarf just below my mouth. This cold, it’s a whole different kind of beating.

My teeth are still ringing.

PS: thanks Heidi and Meg for reading this gibberish. Though, me in person is much worse.

a nighthawk throwback. or, why i’m a pathetic human being.

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. My early drafts usually involve grand plans to drastically change my lifestyle and financial state with a better body and more time to travel. A once-over forces me to eliminate “volunteer in Nepal” and “backpack through Europe.” Later, Whitney. Later. A third look drops the goal “save 2,000 dollars”, as it’s a significant percentage of my overall income, most of which goes to paying rent. So this year, I’ve narrowed my scope.

As I sat by the fire tonight watching River Monsters and talking to my siblings, they began listing their own resolutions. M wants to “treat people better. Maybe. If they deserve it.” K is setting a goal she believes to be impossible: to “relax and quit taking responsibility for everyone’s actions and feelings.” True, it’ll be a doozy. S wants to finish school with a 4.0., to which he quickly added, “and get my leg press over 1000 pounds again.”

This sparked a landslide of goals committed to physical excellence, a realm I can’t very well understand. I think that’s a problem. I can hop on the elliptical machine for 30 minutes or play a (semi) competitive game of soccer, but when it comes to basic physical fitness, I’m embarrassingly out of shape.

Two days ago, as I rooted through old boxes of pictures, yearbooks (which I threw out), and old board games, I found my Presidential Physical Fitness award from the sixth grade. The Presidential award was the highest (and most meaningless) award given, and it required specific times and numbers for pushups, pull-ups, the mile run, and sprints. I can’t imagine my soft, tricep-less, 26-year-old body taking that test today. In fact, I haven’t attempted a pull-up since the sixth grade, a realization I confessed to S, after which we both descended into giggles.

So this year, I will. And I will succeed. I will complete a pull-up. That is my resolution.

orem landing.

I’m sleeping in my old room but without the comfort of handmade bookshelves, a 17-year-old desk, or the navy banana chair I gifted to my brother S before I left. No pictures, trinkets, ticket stubs, and no change on floor. The whole setup feels austere and deserted, except for my luggage in the corner. My duffle bag looks like a murder victim: deflated and gutted, the contents spilling over onto the carpet; and my scarves make for a convincing likeness of the 20+ feet of intestines once neatly coiled in my bag.

I’ve lived out of a bag before. After my parents split, we all packed up every week to cross the boundary between Lindon and Orem, different towns for each parent. Still, I can’t get used to the chaos of scattered and piled clothes, or the mingling of dirty shirts and clean jeans.

But I like my yellow room, and I’ve liked visiting Utah. I like long lunches with friends that demand a tip that almost matches the bill because, really, we sat there for three hours. I like dancing with my family to songs synonymous with seedy stripper joints. I like buckets of good food, and violent indoor soccer games that leave me winded, sweaty, and bruised. I like reading Blankets in bed until 4 a.m. I like the general warmth of people, even at 1 a.m. in the grocery store. Utah people’s good people.

But just as Utah has reminded me what I miss, it has reminded me why I left. Explaining why I’m 26 and not married has proven to be just as irritating as it was five months ago, as are the assumptions that I’m both politically conservative and an active member of the dominant faith.

They’re honest mistakes, I suppose, I hope, and though I’d never claim that Utah people are homogenous, there’s definitely a commanding mindset, and I doubt it will change much. But it’s my home, a place with a vacant room waiting for me to drop my luggage. And even in moments of sheer frustration, I can skip over to Ridley’s and get a six-pack of Apple Beer and watch The Mighty Ducks with my siblings. And that makes all the difference.

maybe i'll ask Freud.

I’m not home sick. The past two weeks and impending finals have kept my focus from everything except J.M. Coetzee, post-apartheid South Africa, rape, lesson plans, and how to convince my professor that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is worthy of academic inquiry. Evidently the landslide of scholarship isn’t an effective sell.

It’s not that I don’t miss my family and friends. I do. Dearly. But location wise, my brain’s in charming Boston with the rest of my freezing body.

Last Thursday, the freezing bodies of my classmates and I convened in our classroom located in the sinking, mold-infested humanities building, just as we’ve done every Thursday night for four months. We sit at a rectangular table in a room that doubles as some kind of banquet hall. We know this because of the crumbs and empty water pitchers.

I brushed the proof of earlier meetings from my chair and settled in for an evening of presentations. I gave mine the week before, which was kind of a disaster. Maybe “disaster” is a little dramatic. My classmates were interested in Buffy, but my professor was disconnected and critical. And I, poor public speaker that I am, sat hunched and angular and digging at my palms like a meth addict, trying to explain Spike’s gender as performance. And we know it’s not just Spike, right? It’s everyone. But Spike’s fascinating. And sexy.

But I’d paid my dues, so I sat back and listened to my classmates discuss Willa Cather, Edith Wharton, and James Joyce. J began his presentation on architecture and its role in literature. His handout circulated while I dug through my bag for a working pen.

Then in J’s very gravely, very Boston voice, he said, “Whitney, I put Salt Lake City as a shout-out to you.”

Next to maps of Dublin, London, and Denver was Salt Lake City in all its grid-like, Mormon landscape glory. I ran my finger from one landmark to the next. Temple Square, Pioneer Park, the Salt Flats, and the Delta Center. Redwood Road. Places I’ve been; places rich with texture and steeped in memory. I wanted to grab B’s hand and sit on the floor with my legs crossed and tell him about my first Jazz game, or about taking a nasty spill in Temple Square while racing to Meghan’s wedding.

I haven’t been able to shake the strangeness of Salt Lake City in a Boston classroom. It’s a collision I hadn’t expected, and I still can’t make sense of why I got so sentimental and a little protective. And why, for a moment, I wanted to tell someone, anyone, about my Utah narrative.

J and I hopped the same elevator after class where we both expressed general relief that class is over. “And hey," I said, "thanks for the shout-out."

“Little bit a home, huh?”

Little bit of home.

sorta like Leonid Afremov

My neighborhood houses some gorgeous triple-deckers. Admittedly, I was easily seduced by their structure and stained glass windows. By their colors. And Boston’s city landscape didn’t offer much by way of color.

I miss Utah landscape every day: green and gray mountains, red rock, even Utah Lake in all its filth. But in the few years before I left, Utah County’s affinity for all things beige was on the rise. Neutral brick, stucco, moldings, shutters, the works. All the same. Antique Beige. Whispering Wheat. Navajo Sand. Golden Coast. The housing developments west of 1-15 near the point of the mountain are proof of the worship of the subdued.

The older homes or bolder owners still use color. My favorite house back home boasts peeling turquoise trim and burnt orange brick. There’s a wheelbarrow leaning against the north wall, and I’ve never seen anyone go in or out.

On the days I take the train to school, I pass my favorite house on the block. It’s deep teal with white trim and a red brick staircase. Tiny, stained glass diamonds accent the corners of every window; they glimmer like fish scales in the sun. The house to the left ranks in my top ten: royal and light blue with open, welcoming windows and white pillars. It looks a bit overdone with its double porch, but I’d take my tea out there if they’d let me. The house two doors to the right is burgundy and has a broad porch that wraps around the house like folded arms. In my brain, the burgundy home has authority, is somehow in-the-know about the rest of the neighborhood. I wonder if it knows what the hell is up with the house across the street.

The house in mourning. It may have been blue once, but now it’s only a suggestion of its former color. It’s impossible to see anything inside. Pillows, clothes, hangers, dressers, sofas, and boxes press against its windows. My roommate says she’s seen a Vietnamese family hustling their kids off to school, but I haven’t witnessed any movement. It’s always still.

I wonder how they live. Where they sleep. Why the clutter. I think about how many Hefty garbage bags it would take to clean the house. How long it would take to paint it rusty orange with turquoise trim.

When the sun’s out, the paint still looks wet. But when it’s overcast and the ocean reflects the gray skies, Boston reminds me of Utah housing—Granite. Charcoal. Stone.—and the colorful houses are the fluorescent hang gliders soaring from the point of the mountain, airborne over the muted neutral.

striking the match

I don’t care for grocery stores. Crowds of list-driven shoppers stress me out, and the plastic shopping cart handles are slick with germs. Plus, my first trip to a Boston market resulted in confrontation. When I reached around a woman’s son for a cup of yogurt, she turned and shouted, “Just tell us to move! You don’t gotta reach over us!” I rarely buy yogurt anymore.

Because I’m more or less alone in Boston, I’m spending Thanksgiving more or less alone. Grandma phoned me a few days ago. She’d ordered a “Dinner for Two” at the local Stop & Shop that would be ready for pickup on Wednesday afternoon. Sweet, generous Grandma, the woman who wants to get matching tattoos this December.

The Stop & Shop is located near Andrew Station where I wait 22 minutes for the 17 bus. The wind’s been frigid and suffocating, coming in hard and horizontal. Instead of reading on the bench, I stand huddled against the wall, my chin buried in my scarf.

The store’s yellow lights are warm and inviting, and after I jam my gloves into my bag, a security guard directs me to Deli for food pickup. The shoppers have full carts, carts brimming with spices and turkey and bread and beer. A dozen people wait at the Deli to be helped. I don’t make a move to the ticket machine. I don’t do anything. Just stare.

“Hon, you got a ticket?” asks the woman next to me. She’s got light brown eyes and a green headband keeps her curly hair from her face.

“Oh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Well take mine. I didn’t need it.” She smiles. “They’re at 181 now, so you’re next.”

My refusal to take the ticket doesn’t work, so I thank her, take the ticket, and wait.

When the man in an apron calls number 181 I give him my name. He returns with a green tote carrying turkey, mashed potatoes, butternut squash, and a pumpkin pie. We exchange smiles and he says “Happy Holidays.”

The checkout lines don’t call for much assessment: they’re all long, all crammed, and all backed up into isles of food, making the boxes of Kix impossible to reach. So I set my food at my feet and nudge it an inch or two every couple of minutes.

The time on my phone reads 5:36, and before I drop it into my purse, it buzzes with a text message from my sister. It’s a picture of us. The image is blurry, a cheap phone’s picture of a picture, but I can make out the two of us: me 5, K 2. The long half of my mullet us pulled into a ponytail, and K is wearing a white shirt with black sweats. Holding her tight, five-year-old me is giving K a big, sisterly kiss. The caption reads, “That’s us! Hahaha!”

My body suggests emotion not appropriate for grocery store lines: misty eyes, mouth pursed tight. I catch a glimpse of US Weekly and laugh at my own stupid sentimentality and slip the phone into my pocket. When I look up, the woman ahead of me waves me forward and says, “Come ahead of me.”

I thank her and tell her I’m happy to wait.

“Don’t worry a bit. You come right ahead. I’m waiting for my daughter anyway.”

She moves her flour, sugar, and celery to make room for my goods, and I’m through the checkout line in a blink.

I can’t attribute these women’s kindness to the holiday season. It would disregard the general character of a person. I think the women I encountered at the Stop & Shop are likely good, solid people. And I got lucky.

So thanks to these four ladies.

next to the peas.

I had a roommate once who wore my shoes without asking. When I found them in the corner of the common room and heavy with mud, I set a few guidelines. She quit wearing my shoes but later took to seizing my DVDs. It was a rough semester. I suppose this experienced has heightened my possession paranoia. That and the fact that I, too, am something of a bandit.

I don’t buy clothes or shoes. Ever, really. My siblings might call my method of accumulating these necessities as “klepto-like.” They’re dead right, but here’s where we separate people like me from people like my former roommate: I have rules, and they are as follows:

1. Don’t take what they love (except in the case of K’s red shorts—but I manipulated her into giving them to me, so advantage Whitney).

2. Take what they won’t miss, like T-shirts that have gone unclaimed in the laundry room for at least one month, or two weeks, depending on how much I want it.

3. Choose something you can integrate into your wardrobe, something that is very convincingly yours. If it matches the rest of your wardrobe and it looks like it could be yours, maybe it is. Pieces that so obviously collide with the rest of your clothing call attention to thievery, which is a bad. It’s memorable.

4. Denial never works. If confronted about a piece, own up to “borrowing” them. It alleviates the “lost” panic.

A huge portion of my clothing was acquired this way. The downside is that, dressed in soccer or baseball t-shirts and sweatshirts, I look like a high school gym teacher all the time. I guess we choose the trades me make.

This back story is unnecessary, but I had to give it before admitting that I’ve purchased exactly one pair of shoes in four years: my Adidas Sambas, a partnership that’s outlasted my most serious romantic relationship by six months. I wear them just about every day. After four years, even the most attentive shoe owner notices the wear, tear, and, uh, smell. SMELL? I was horrified.

I hit up Google for some cheap remedies. Buying a shoe-shaped UV light to kill bacteria was out of the question, as was simple baking soda because that would have required me to leave at 2 am and buy baking soda. No. And then there was the freezer. “Storing your shoes in a Ziploc bag and leaving them in the freezer will kill germs. Your shoes will be good as new.” Why the hell not.

I woke up today, got ready for school and work, threw my hair in a ponytail, pulled on a sweatshirt (not thieved, btw), and opened my closet door. I stared at my shoe rack for a good thirty seconds before muttering, “What the piss. Where are my shoes?”

And so began the destruction of my very organized room. Bins were emptied, shelves were cleared, a mess was made. Afraid that I’d miss my train, I settled on some grey Nikes (thieved) and headed to school.

Twelve hours later and academically zapped, I sat slumped in a chair discussing an upcoming assignment with my classmate J. She rubbed her forehead and pulled her hair out of her face and said, “I can’t wait to go home and microwave a frozen burrito. That's all I wanna do.”

I don't like frozen burritos, but I decided to be agreeable. “Frozen burritos are actually…”

And then it hit me. I’d forgotten to buy frozen burritos.

Kidding.

Chalk it up to different priorities? Lesson plans, postcolonial literature, and managing my daily, crushing anxiety?

Sorry, shoes. Today you don’t rank.