I love you guys. Day after day, through this weird winding project, I never cease to be amazed by the depth of warmth and compassion my readers radiate in the comments section. I was especially touched by some of the reactions to my experience sending birthday cards to inmates.

I was heartened by your thoughts on rehabilitation and the importance of reaching out to a demographic that is so routinely ignored or completely vilified by most of society. I was also distressed to see that so many of you — like me — had wanted to write to inmates but were stymied by the issue of giving out your personal information in order to write back. Honestly, it’s not a good idea to give out your home address to any stranger; right or wrong, it’s even scarier to disclose it within the prison milieu.

So, kittens, AN IDEA.

Many websites suggest renting a PO Box in order to correspond most safely within the prison system. However, if you don’t already have one (and who does, really?), it seems like a big annual expense to undertake for the soul purpose of doing a small, good thing. However.

I made a few calls and found that the fee for a small postbox in Boston is approximately $72/year. This is a significant expense for a dude who’s living paycheck to paycheck, but it occurs to me: split between five or six people, paying $5-6 more each for extra keys, a shared postbox would only cost a few lattes per person. And think of the good it could do.

So here’s what I’m proposing: a postbox rented at some convenient post office in Boston, for the purpose of letting anyone who wants to spend a few minutes a month reaching out to inmates. If you could help me subsidize it with a small donation strictly to the cause, that would be awesome; you could pick up a key and use it at your discretion.

And while it would be physically located here, there are many other things that just one postbox could do. Once I have access to the return address, I’ll post it here. Write or send birthday cards from Montana, from Maine, from Kathmandu, if you so choose.

If the only thing stopping you is fear of disclosing personal information, you’d now have a neutral and safe address block to fill out that upper left-hand corner of the envelope. (If you want to keep up an ongoing correspondence, I can forward you the mail. I’m a secretary, it’s what I do.)

Sites like Write A Prisoner make it incredibly easy to reach out to inmates who are searching for positive human contact to help them stay in touch with society during their period of incarceration. They list upcoming birthdays; they collect information in prisoners’ profiles.

They even let you write your letters via email, which are then printed out and mailed to the prisoners at no expense to you. You could spend just one lunch-break a month jotting short notes and, in that time, touch individual lives in a way that no charitable donation or hour or meditation could ever match.

The way I see it, if reaching out to prisoners is something you might be interested in, there is almost no reason not to do it. Almost no reason. And if lack of a safe return address is the one thing holding you back, then let’s pool together, damnit, and get rid of that one too.

What do you think, guys? You with me?

My apologies, but two posts today to keep us on schedule. For more correspondence-related thoughts, though, please do read today’s post proposing a communal PO Box for writing to inmates.

NTKOG #228: The kind of honestly-trying baby do-gooder who, having put her money where her mouth is, spends a little time for good measure.

I am: trying to do the right thing more often than not, but my attempts are often thwarted by my myriad personal failings. Laziness being chief among them.

I am not: even remotely happy about this.

The Scene: My imaginary Austen-style writing desk, on the heels of my week of sending birthday cards to various prisons. And if you, like I, are imagining one of those old-fashioned roll-top desk numbers with fancy scrolling and various cubbyholes, then may I let it be said: no cubbyhole was bursting more than the one filled with neglected correspondence from one source.

Save The Children.

After an inspiring encounter a few months ago, I started making monthly donations to this excellent charity. And while I’m always pleased to see my meager donation taken out of my monthly bank statement, I’ll admit, I’ve been an absolute beast about opening their correspondence.

Dudes send a lot of letters!

A few months ago, when I finally slashed open the dozens of envelopes they’d sent, it became apparent that they wanted more than my money. They wanted my time. Specifically, they had matched me to a specific donor recipient — an adorable fourth-grade boy in New Mexico — and wanted to make sure I was an active participant in their donor writing campaign.

Just think! they told me, With a letter or two a month, you could form a lasting, life-long relationship with a child who would truly appreciate it! A great idea. I’d get right on it. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

After two months, I’d still written nary a word to the little dude, and my normal routine would be to think, “Welp, I’m just an awful person” and recycle the whole reproachful pile of papers. Because after so many months, there were many great excuses not to continue.

Obviously the kid was doing just fine without me. How useful can I be to someone who doesn’t talk about Nabokov or Shakespeare? If I were a kid, I wouldn’t want the burden of writing to an aimless twenty-something. Since I’e waited so long, it would be awkward and maybe even offensive to start now.

But frig excuses and frig habitual self-loathing. Picked up one of the last few sheets of my extra-luxe resume paper and, in my best hand-writing, wrote a one-page note asking him about the desert and his favorite subjects in school, describing my first time seeing snow in Boston, telling him I hoped we could enjoy our future correspondence. Tucked in two sheets of stickers (jungle animals and anthropomorphized fruits & veggies) and, in twenty minutes, dispelled two months of guilt.

The Verdict: Isn’t it funny how simple and non-intimidating the things we fear are, once we actually get them done? And, in related news, I really need to invest in some sort of functional mail-sorter so I can stop inviting at least some of these endless excuses to my TKOG-is-an-awful-person party.\

Updates if and when I hear back from the little dude, though! Slash hopefully pictures of an adorably decorated envelope!

NTKOG #219: The kind of virtuous schedule guru who wastes nary a second in her busy schedule of work, fun-work, more work and, y’know, generally making people feel bad about themselves.

I am: lazy by nature. Oh god am I lazy. My only complaint about escalators is that you can’t sit down on them.

I am not: going to achieve my dreams that way, eh?

The Scene: Back in Boston after a lovely weekend in New York a few weeks ago. The trip was the occasion of the infamous twelve-mimosa brunch – an afternoon that, delightful as it was, served as something of a wake-up call to me: in a few days, I’ll be twenty-four, and officially out of the realm of “young rising superstar.” Doubly sucky because, uh, “young” was the only part of that phrase that ever described me.

If I am more or less a third of the way done with my life (no complaints here), it might be time to invest more prudently in setting a solid foundation for the last long, hard haul. And the problem with long mimosa days, it seems to me, is that you lose yourself.

And maybe now it’s just for a few hours at a time afterwards, but if I have enough of those days? I may just find myself waking up twenty years from now in someone else’s life, a life I never wanted.

Lately I’ve been consumed with the idea of living in a secular monastery. A safe, rigorously structured place where I would be forced to constantly aspire to virtue and maintain an exacting schedule.

Then it hit me: I’m 23 years old. I have no significant other, no kids, no pets, not even very many friends. I have (barely) enough money to sustain me, and a perfectly serviceable little cloister of an apartment, just waiting for me to give it order.

So, for the past few weeks, I’ve been trying.

There’s nothing too amusing about trying to live a virtuous life, so allow me to bore and appall you with my weekday schedule of the past few weeks:

6:30am: Wake up
6:45am: Exercise or clean (alternating days)
7:15am: Enjoy oatmeal while reading theology or Wodehouse (same thing)
7:45am: Shower
8:15am: Leave for work
9:00am – 5:00pm: Actually work at my job (novel concept, for me)
5:15pm: Dinner, while writing
5:45-9:00pm: Boston Public Library, writing
9:30pm: Get home and clean or read until sleep
10:30pm: Sleep that I’ve actually earned, for once in my life.

Saturdays follow a similar schedule, with an hour or two of Hulu time thrown in. Because of necessary social obligations (well, necessary if you don’t want to die alone – a commitment I’m not ready to make just yet), I’ve left some wiggle room on my Fridays and Sundays. But honestly? I kind of look forward to the other days more.

The Verdict: Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep this up forever, but oh man do I hope I try. It may not make me a more interesting person, and it certainly isn’t making me a more popular one, but I think it might be making me more worthwhile as a human being?

I think the monastery obsession comes from the pretty normal human fantasy of having discipline enforced on us by someone else, so we don’t have to dredge up the discipline to do it ourselves. But as I’ve always said in re: discipline, look, you don’t have to want to do it. You just have to do it. So here’s to many, many more years of doing precisely that.

Some Infrequently Asked friggin’ Questions! Part, like, five and a half, depending on how you count the announcement of last week’s giveaway winners! Click the “Shameless Self Promotion” category on the left sidebar to see the other entries from the series, if you’re so inclined.

From Jenn D.:

As a California born, East Coast transplant myself, I’d love to know what 3 things you miss the most about California life.

1. The weather. The weather the weather the weather. Call me an elitist West-Coast weather snob, but I have a little rule: if people in your hometown have to argue about which is worse, the summers or the winters, then maybe you should get a new hometown. (Personally, this desert rat can’t handle rain or extreme humidity. I don’t hate the snow, though.)
2. Amazing produce. Can’t beat a Northern California farmer’s market, complete with vegan spinach naan wraps, milk so fresh it’s sold unpasteurized, and champagne mangoes picked that very morning. ALL! YEAR! LONG!
3. People flying their dang freak flags. This might be Bay Area specific, but I love being able to go into San Francisco and see steampunks, anarchists, feminist goths, and super-fabulous transsexuals — all just, y’know, in their pajamas at the grocery store. Lots of the New England girls I’ve met are lovely creatures, but wear lots of fabrics with fussy little prints and never accidentally talk about sex dolls at job interviews and, y’know, actually care what people think about them. These are fine qualities, but I sometimes get sick of feeling like an incurable outsider.

Oh, and how do you feel about toe socks?

I live my life by an aggressively anti-sock agenda. Part of the rabid flipflop devotion.

From allypanda:

At the end of all this, do you feel like you don’t really like the girl you were before? Or have any regrets for living as you did before? Or is life all one big self improvement changing experience?

As thrilled as I am with the girl I’m rapidly becoming, I have no regrets or negative feelings for the life I led before. At the risk of sounding like a total doucher, I’m one of those people with a rare and annoying imperviousness to insecurity. Doubt, yes; angst, undoubtedly; but, not even too far from the surface, I love myself so much you can see it from space and have for many, many years — even at times when you would have had to be crazy to find much to love about me.

That said, I’ve never in my life felt so comfortable with other people. And every time I successfully test my limits or remind myself how much there is to adore about other people, I give myself more to love. If I could keep NTKOG-ing ’til the day I die — and what’s stopping me? — I think I’d be the happiest old crone ever lowered into this earth.

From Michael:

If you had grown up in England (God save the queen!), what would you say instead of dude?

Hmmm, “bloke” would serve well when I’m using “dude” to refer to dudes in the existential capacity of, y’know, dudeness, but what would be my ubiquitous go-to interjection?! I can’t tell you that, but what I can tell you is that a tired and distracted search for alternative slang interjections just led to me accidentally googling “British ejaculations”. At work. In front of my boss.

What’s the most unadventurous TKOG thing you do in your everyday life that makes you proud?

Most of the long-lasting NTKOG effects on my life are definitely subtle. The biggest one to me is that now I listen to more music in a single day than I used to in an entire month. And I’m being so literal when I say that. Now that I listen to 12-14 hours of music a day, it’s hard to believe that listening to music was once an NTKOG — but until a few months ago, I only had twelve songs in my iTunes library!

Other non-heroic changes that have made my life fuller and more beautiful: sending work out to literary journals (do it a few times a week); asking store-keepers for discounts for literally no reason (everyday occurrence now); having lengthy conversations with homeless people (multi-weekly). Plus, at least a few times a day, if I want something? I just ask someone. It usually works out well.

Is there a shameful secret weighing heavy on your mind that you’d like to share with your loyal blog readers?

There actually is, but I’m still working up the courage. It’s the answer to another “Ask Me Anything” question, though, so rest assured you’ll find out. For now, a bonus secret that I think a few readers don’t know: have you ever noticed the mouse-over text on every picture I post on here? It’s often my favorite line or two from any given entry!

From Dave:

If you won two matching $5.00 gift cards from a noted online book store, would you buy Wodehouse or Waugh (assuming quite correctly that you owned neither, but decided to give one of them a shot; Because after all it was costing you almost nothing)?

Oh my goodness, can we please talk about Wodehouse and Waugh? (“In fact, TKOG, it seems you can scarcely talk about anything else.”) They were contemporaneous — in fact, for a while they played on a cricket team with JM Barrie — and both of their oeuvres stand as the best existing studies of upper-crust British society (and its slang!) in the inter-war period. They’re also both laugh-out-loud funny and feature characters with bizarre names. These are some pretty big similarities, right?

The big difference: Wodehouse’s writing is light, drawing-room farce; Waugh’s early works are social satires so brutal they will singe your friggin’ skin. Which brings to my mind the excellent aphorism I once heard regarding the difference between comedy and satire: Comedy is light-hearted, but pessimistic; satire is mean-spirited, but still believes in change.

Anyway, I highly recommend both, but will always be a Wodehouse girl. And I’ll admit, I stay away from Waugh’s Very Serious Catholic Latter Works (including That Really Famous One).

From douchegirl (and several others via comment, tweet, and email):

Were you featured in the July issue of [a national magazine]?

Yes! It was! It was totally me! Sorry for editing all your comments, but I don’t want to go public with which magazine because I’m still attempting anonymity here. Also, I can’t BELIEVE how many of you recognized me! I don’t know whether that says more about me or about you…

From Erin, at The Fierce Beagle:

I’ll start with the obvious question: Are you, and also the folks you regularly feature in your tales, actually real human beings? And not, like, some 56-year-old dude coming up with all this while he’s supposed to be running spreadsheets at work?

Dude! Way to blow my big project reveal two months early! At least now I’ll save the cash and hassle of hiring a bunch of 20-something actors for the big blog wrap party in August. They totally wouldn’t have waded through all these dang archives to figure out their characters anyway.

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I’ll see you tomorrow, possums! And for those of you who wished Nich a happy birthday yesterday, on here or on Twitter, many thanks and peanuts!

You can check out the first, second and third (Ex-centric) installments by clicking the appropriate links.

From Kate, who was channeling James Lipton:

What sound or noise do you love?

I love all the little noises people make that you’re not supposed to notice them making. Like when someone first wakes up next to you and kind of snarls softly because they’re mad at the morning for coming, or the guy sitting next to you on the train with headphones on, muttering to himself, and you just know he’s been having the same phantom argument with his father for ten years. It’s unreal what a voyeur I am.

What sound or noise do you hate?

When people’s fork tines scrape across their teeth while they eat. Oh god, I can’t stand that. Get your lives together, guys! The Ex and I actually had serious Relationship Talks about this.

And, of course, what is your favorite curse word?

My favorite curse word is actually one that doesn’t get a lot of play these days. “Cocksucker.” I just love how round it sounds, and how you can sort of spit it out. But you can’t use it as a pejorative because it implies that there’s something wrong with oral sex and/or male homosexuality. Which, for the record, are two great things that I really, really like.

From clily22:

When you write on your friends’ Facebook walls do you make sure that your message is punctuated properly and the grammar is perfect? Do you use emoticons and <3s and LOLs and such?

How I write here is basically how I write everything except fiction: lots of “like”s and “dude”s, the occasional highbrow adjective, “who”s and “whom”s in order. But I rarely capitalize in emails, and tend to use lots of acronyms. Especially “omfg,” which I also say in real life with embarrassing frequency.

What place in the world do you want to visit the most (that you haven’t already been to)?

I’m not big on wanderlust. Between my homebody lifestyle and having been lucky enough to travel absurdly much in my teen years, I’m pretty set on travel dreams. But if I had to go somewhere, maybe Warsaw (which is the new Bucharest, which was the new Prague). Or maybe to Switzerland to get drunk and weep on Nabokov’s grave.

If you could only use five adjectives to describe yourself, what would they be?

The other day, I found a survey I took when I was 19 that asked me to describe myself in five words. My description: “Quite the inept dancer, eh?” I still stand by that. But if they all had to be adjectives, maybe: “creative, careless, loyal, prickly, and effusive.”

Norwegianette asked:

Are you team pie or team cake?

TEAM PIE! Last year, I declared an official Summer of Pie, and made about forty different kind of pie in two months. Brought ‘em to every social occasion. I gave all my friends Bingo cards so they could cross off every kind of pie they’d tried that summer. First person to bingo got — you guessed it — a pie of their choice.

Any tips for relating to people with whom you really don’t have very much in common at a place you’re interning and hoping to work some day?

Bring ‘em food. Is that shallow? People usually think I’m weird when they meet me (and they’re not wrong), so the first thing I do when I’m obligated to develop a relationship with someone is figure out how they take their coffee and what kind of treats they like. It shows that you’re thoughtful and they’ll feel obligated to talk to you. Once you get to talking, you’ll find some tiny thing you have in common and can build a relationship from that.

Do you have a really funny hair dresser disaster story to share?

Oh god. I get my hair cut like once a year, if that, but because I’ve always worn it long, it drives me crazy in the summer. Near the end of junior year of college, it was driving me so nuts that I just took scissors and hacked a few inches off the ends. It didn’t look great, but curly hair hides a multitude of sins, so I didn’t think about it ’til I got it cut a few months later. When the hairdresser looked at my hair, she immediately asked: “Did you just … switch to some new kind of medication or something? Your hair is really ragged.” I explained what had happened, and she immediately excused herself to go to the back room. Over the course of my visit, at least half a dozen different hairdressers came by to “help shampoo” or “borrow scissors.” Apparently my homemade haircut was such a mess that every stylist in Seattle had to come personally mock it.

Suppose a person enjoys reading good books, but somehow has never read any of the books you’ve read; Which three books would you recommend to them?

Ooooh. I think a book-loving person should email me to tell me what their other favorites are so I can make an informed recommendation! But off the top of my head: if you crave a laugh-out-loud, intricately farcical romp, PG Wodehouse’s Quick Service; if you want to despair of humanity but laugh quietly to yourself while you do it, Evelyn Waugh’s Handful Of Dust; if you like grim funny, dystopian stories that will change the way you think about the English language, I’d pick up Pastoralia or CivilWarLand in Bad Decline by George Saunders. As you can see, I have no time for books that don’t make me laugh out loud.

Would you ever want to be on TV?

Only if I’m getting interviewed. Or get to be a taster for a challenge on Top Chef.

A serious, blog-related question by sandyb, whom I adore:

I guess my question is: have you, throughout this process, ever fallen out of love with your blog for any reason?

I haven’t. I’ve gotten frustrated with the challenge at times (“Oh my god, how many of these bally things do I have to do? Why couldn’t I just do a 24 before 24 like everyone else?!”). Other times, I’ve been disappointed in myself because I’ve felt my writing wasn’t up to par for a few weeks, or people weren’t especially fond of entries I’d been very proud of. But whenever I’m feeling down on myself for my writing, I go back and read things I wrote a few months before. Inevitably I tell myself, “Dude, you were at the top of your form back then! Why can’t you write like that now?!” And the writing I’m so wistful for now is almost always something I beat myself up over when I first wrote it, which reminds me that self-doubt passes. I mean, sure, when it passes, it’s just replaced with more self-doubt, but at least there’s some movement to the cycle!

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Hey, look, I made words happen! And now I am done doing that! Hope y’all are having gorgeous days.

On Life As A Human, an open letter to my bus boyfriend, who doesn’t know we’re dating. Even though we’re totally, totally dating.

Part three in my Infrequently Asked Questions series. You guys asked about The Ex, so here it is. (Also, I know I promised to send out prizes today, but bear with me for a few days: I want to finish drafting answers to all the questions I’ve received before I choose a favorite, or else I’ll be biased to early responders. Winners by Wednesday-ish?)

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From The Ex:

Do you love me, now that I can dance?

Not to burst your bubble, darling, but your ability to dance was always tangential to my feelings about you. Which might be a good thing.

From Kathryn (which, ps, is one of my all-time favorite names):

Why did you and The Ex break up? You seem like you did, and still do, get along great, and he even vajazzled you post-break up. So I’m curious…why? What happened?

Okay. Let’s talk about The Ex.

He and I met in the spring of my freshman year of college, where we lived in the same dorm. (The actual story of how we met is a cute one that involves narcissism, Google searches and samurai swords. But I’m sure you can imagine it.) I’d spent the majority of my freshman year chasing after so many douchebags that I practically sweat straight vinegar; one day, not long after a hook-up so bad that it made me momentarily internet-famous, I decided I was done. I signed onto JDate and printed out a profile picture of a cute guy, taped it to my mirror, and declared to all and sundry that I wouldn’t even look at another dude until I met a brilliant Jewish engineer who knew how to respect a woman.

Three days later, I met The Ex.

Nine days after that, we were — er, involved. We spent the summer a-courtin’, all old-fashioned and epistolary, then met again and were wildly in love. We stayed together for four years, almost to the day, and as I remember it (but feel free to chime in, The Ex), we were very happy. In fact, during our whole four years together, I only remember one serious fight. Which was absolutely his fault. Obviously.

The year-long unraveling started shortly after I graduated. There were a couple of big problems.

Strike 1: The Ex, who is a brilliant and extremely talented man, ended up getting his dream job. I, on the other hand, had a mild break-down, realized I didn’t want to pursue a PhD in Russian literature, and decided to spend a year in part-time jobs so I could pursue writing. A good idea in theory, but I have no discipline. Over the course of an entire year, the only thing I ended up writing was one (very good) apple pie recipe.

Strike 2: Because we were both leaving the Ivory Tower for the first time, The Ex was concerned that if we lived alone together we would become too insular and he would lose touch with all of his friends. I was something of a social butterfly back home, so I wasn’t concerned for my own sake. Because of this, though, we ended up living in a converted 1920s mansion (swoon) with three of The Ex’s friends (decided un-swoon). Unfortunately, even living with the friends, he ended up spending most of his time with me, so living with his friends ironically detracted from his relationships with them.

Strike 3: In order to afford said mansion, The Ex (who was making about nine times as much money as me, not including benefits. I was below poverty level. No big deal.) offered to pay for a third of my rent. And, granted, were it not for him we would have been living in an apartment I could actually afford, it set up a weird money dynamic that we rarely talked about. I felt obligated to perform domestic tasks for him, and used that as an excuse to put off my writing even more; he bought me little presents all the time and bankrolled the elaborate cocktail parties I threw on a near-monthly basis. I felt, in short, like a kept woman.

So the basic swing of the situation: he worked extremely late hours all week; I worked mornings and weekends, during the parts of the day when he was gone; I stayed at home with housewife’s depression to clean and angst, then, when he got home, was so worked up that I immediately started sniping; on the weekends, we would talk a lot about compromise, but the things we talked about were never put in effect.

And the whole time, I felt guilty and useless because I wasn’t writing. Actually, one night, I walked into the bedroom while he was on the phone with his mother, finishing a sentence. “Well,” he’d said, “she talks about writing a lot, but…” — I left before he finished it. It was the most hurtful thing I’d ever heard anyone say about me. But I opened Microsoft Word that night and saw that it had been six months since I’d modified a file.

We really loved each other — as far as I know — but it was a bad situation for a couple of months. Then, on Christmas Eve of the year we moved in, I had the insane idea to go to Boston and work for AmeriCorps (in a position that ended up not working out). I called and told him I wanted to leave, to pack up and shoot myself across the country. All the distractions of our life had been a cancer in me, and I wanted to cut them out in one shot.

We tabled the conversation for a few months, because our lease ended in July 2009. And once we did realize we were definitely breaking up, our relationship dramatically improved. We talked very openly about all of the little issues, and realized the places where we couldn’t compromise and just looked past them because they were temporary.

In the end, I really think we broke up because we loved each other. He was right about me: I wasn’t working hard enough, and I wasn’t pursuing my passions seriously. And because he was working such long hours, I think he really needed time away from a consuming relationship in order to bond with his boys, get more dating experience, enjoy being a 20-something.

And now he’s the social butterfly, I’m a workaholic, and we’re still very, very close friends. (Yes, vajazzling close. Although, for the record, I suspect our co-vajazzling days will be over soon because he, unlike me, is making a real effort to start dating, and I’d expect a girl to snap him up immediately. Years of girlfriend training have made him a real catch.)

From Michelle:

Going along with the Ex questions…how many times would you say you’ve been “in love”–if at all.

The Ex and I were definitely in love. We were a whole ice cream sundae bar of in-love with all-you-can-eat premium toppings. As for other relationships — I don’t know. I do know I’ve had exactly two relationships (I use the term with appalling looseness) that have hugely changed who I am as a person. But the other one was more of an Abiding Personal Tragedy, because I’m the kind of douchebag who just eats stuff like that up.

From Kara:

The Ex. I want to know about The Ex, and why you’re not together/will you ever be together again.

Will we ever be together again? If we are, it won’t be any time soon. When we first broke up, I’d hoped we’d get back together after a year or two — take some time to grow alone, then join back up as new, improved people. And I’d say we’re both new, improved people now. But. I guess I don’t feel the same way anymore? I want to be alone for a few years, and if the universe has other plans for me, it’ll have to scream ‘em in my friggin’ ear.

Hey kittens, part two of my Infrequently Asked Questions post. Check out the first installment, if you missed it (highlights: The Ex and I break up in a sex motel; TKOMom has a crush on one of my commentators; I’m not-so-secretly stalking Ryan North.)

I’m working on an All About The Ex post to hit those questions in one go, but for now, a few more awesome questions.

From Kathryn:

What was/were your favorite book(s) when you were younger?

When I was a TKOToddler, my dad used to read us lots of Enid Blyton books and stories (holla atcha, Famous Five). In third grade, I devoured Louisa May Alcott, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and all that other Obedience Porn. The first book that really changed me, though, was Lois Lowry’s The Giver, which I read in the fifth grade and have reread a few times a year since. It sparked the passion for dystopian literature that was so instrumental in getting me bullied within an inch of my life all throughout middle school. And it was worth it.

What’s your favorite now? Your top five, desert island keeper?

Top five deserted island books now:

1. The World of Jeeves, PG Wodehouse, which is probably cheating because it’s an out-of-print omnibus of all the Jeeves stories.
2. The Playboy Book of Humor and Satire, which I really need you not to buy on Amazon, because it was printed in the ’60s and has a crappily glued spine that falls apart if you look at it funny. It’s my goal to gradually buy every existing copy of this book.
3. Catch-22, Joseph Heller. I’ve pretty much got this memorized.
4. Lolita, Nabokov. The great American modernist novel, and the most brilliant existing ode to America’s freeway system as the digestive tract of democracy.
5. The Confessions of Max Tivoli, Andrew Sean Greer. On the surface level, the intensity and beauty of his prose is almost Nabokovian. It’s also just an extremely poignant, heart-breaking reflection of getting a second chance at first love, a theme that I hold dear to my heart. Plus, the last scene makes me friggin’ WEEP.

Michelle asked:

I think you want to pursue a MFA program for creative writing, correct? What would be you DREAM grad program and why?

Applying this fall for programs starting in 2011! I’m applying to twenty or so programs (ugh), but my top two are Iowa City Writers Workshop (which needs no explanation) and Syracuse, where George Saunders teaches. Truly, if any man is worth living in Syracuse for, it’s George Saunders. In Persuasion Nation grated me down to a bloody, writhing pulp. I basically just want to stare at him all day and leave anonymous trays of cupcakes in his office. (Please god let me admit none of this in my personal statement.)

What is your most favorite of all baked goods?

Carrot cake, Rull Southern Style, with cream cheese frosting and coconut and pineapple and a picture of Wilford Brimley gazing at you reproachfully.

Have you read/do you like Harry Potter?

Read ‘em all and thought they were okay, but I think there are many modern YA series that are much more worthy of the attention. If you know any cool dudes in the tween set, you should introduce them to The Mysterious Benedict Society (Trenton Stewart), The Schwa Was Here (Neal Shusterman), The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau Banks (E. Lockwood), and the Kiki Strike series (Kirsten Miller). All recent YA books with a prominent spot on my shelf. They’ll give even the most reluctant reader their first experience reading until the sun comes up. (Plus, reading Kiki Strike will turn your favorite 12-year-old into a real-life Veronica Mars. Pinky swear.)

From Euphorilla:

Have you ever wanted to stop all of this, cancel your blog and such? If yes, what made you change your mind?

I’ve never wanted to cancel the blog, per se, but because I assigned myself so stupidly many NTKOGS (5x a week? Slave-driver!), I’ve definitely had tantrums and wanted to take a few weeks off. But even if it takes a few sub-par posts, I just keep chugging along for two reasons: 1) I genuinely love my readers, and if I quit posting, y’all will stop talking to me!; 2) I’ve always been a total Hindenburg. Great concept; shitty execution. The idea of accomplishing such an epic goal is intoxicating!

Have some “real life people” found out about this blog? What do they think?

My anonymity is only one-way; anyone who contacts me through my real-life Twitter, Facebook or gmail accounts definitely knows that the blog exists. It amazes me, though, how many people from my real life actually read the blog — people I totally forgot even existed. The other day, I got a, like, fanmail from a girl with whom literally the only interaction I’ve ever had was her being a total asshole to me in ninth-grade summer school PE. There’s really nothing you can even say to an email like that. “You’ll be happy to learn I figured out the secret of deodorant? So, um, keep reading?”

From Paula (who I am totally unsurprised is the one to ask this awesome question):

If you could only drink one type of drink for the rest of your life, what would you choose? (You can have one alcoholic choice, and one non-alcoholic choice if you like, because I am nice like that, and also you might not want to be drunk ALL the time . . .)

I might NOT want to be drunk all the time?! Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you just ask me for a CHALLENGE?! Perma-booze: gin & ginger ale. Non-alcoholic: assuming water is a freebie, I’d go for Fresca. But from the bottle, not the can, because aluminium aftertaste reminds me of licking dollar bills.

From Caitlin (who, if her bookstore is in Boston, should email me so I can come check it out):

If you could bake any cookie for Ryan Seacrest, what kind would they be?

My first instinct is to suggest Butterscotch Chip With Ex-Lax Shavings, but, honestly, I don’t know enough of the guy’s oeuvre to have anything against him. So I’d whip up a nice batch of Garlic Chip Cookies, in hopes that he’d hate ‘em and I could keep the leftovers.

Emma asked:

What’s your favorite kind of shoes?

On me: my men’s size-9 Rainbow flipflops, which I wear every single day that there isn’t active precipitation. On dudes: anything except white sneakers. On cute girls I see on the street: please not gladiator sandals. I don’t get it! If you care about fashion enough to wear ridiculous shoes — and obviously you do — why not just wear heels? They make your calves look gooood!

From clily22:

What is your personal style (fashion-wise)?

If you couldn’t tell by the men’s flipflops, I have literally no fashion sense. My daily uniform: floaty knee-length hippie skirt, flipflops, non-descript tank top under a Gap t-shirt. Glasses, no make-up, curly hair however it dries out of the shower. If you walked past me on the street, I guarantee you wouldn’t look twice. Unless I was doing some sort of NTKOG that involves acting like a crazy person, obviously…

–

Dudes. THESE ARE MY FRIGGIN’ THOUGHTS. Keep sending your questions, if you’re so inclined. $5 Amazon certificates on Monday to my two faves. Also, lest you fear I’ve lost control of the blog, I’m going to start interweaving these posts with regularly scheduled NTKOGs.

This post teaches you how not to treat first dates. For a secretary’s-eye view of how to bend administrative assistants to your will, check out my piece in Life As A Human.

NTKOG #193: The kind of girl who not only goes out with but lives to tell about a date procured on the sketchiest site on the internet, hands down. (Though if you’re actually on Craiglist now, I can’t vouch for what your hands are down…)

I am: skeptical of legitimate dating sites — let alone a website one of the normal and proven functions of which is to find a random stranger to mess around with in the last stall of an Arby’s bathroom.

I am not: too picky about any quality in a man except one: he needs to be exceptional. A trait that’s shockingly hard to find outside the ivory tower.

The Scene: Finally, the conclusion of my three-part saga about posting the most absurdly specific Craigslist ad ever.  When last we’d left, I’d requested a man who was brilliant, weird and wonderful; received some funny and charming replies, but didn’t see actual potential in any of the replies — except one.

Oh that one, though. The six-page email — entitled “You Had Me At Smoot-Hawley Tariff” — covered a range of topics: Craigslist Guy’s educational background (entirely acceptable), career aspirations, current pleasure reading, ’20s obsession, Amazon Prime membership. Everything, in short, required to pique a right-minded girl’s interest, plus impeccable grammar and a little panache. “I’m tempted to think you are some sort of illusory oasis in the desert of the internet,” the email ended. “I have never hoped for a hypothesis to be disproved so hard before.”

So I responded. A lengthy and interested response, in fact, after the sending of which, I allowed myself to get a little giddy. That was mistake number one.

Mistakes 2-7?

2. He signed his next email: “Longingly yours.” Creepy much? But I gave him a pass, until…
3. …all of his subsequent emails were riddled with so many typos they were almost literally unreadable. No spaces between seven or eight words at a time, near-homophones replacing the intended words every few sentences, creative capitalization. But perhaps he’s a fan of free-form poetry, I rationalized, or maybe dyslexic. Hell, Jordan Catalano couldn’t even read. But then…
4. …he started peppering every other sentence with a “lol” or “haha”. Funny people do not laugh at their own jokes in real life. Even moderately unfunny people should not be so hard-pressed for laughs that they feel the need to virtual-chuckle at their own non-jokes online.
5. Fortunately, this grew to be less and less of an issue, as it took him over six days to respond to any email I sent after the initial two. After a while, I began to hope I was done with him, but then, in my inbox, another typo-crawling missive, every week like clockwork. Which is how…
6. …it took us TWO MONTHS to schedule a date. Which I think even he couldn’t have wanted to go on, considering he scheduled it for:
7: SIX FRIGGIN’ PM. You know who schedules dates at 6pm? Ax murderers, retirement home hussies, and dudes who are too lazy to change out of their work clothes first.

So can I just come out and say, hey dudes, let’s maybe not be so much of dating guys from Craigslist? Or do you want to hear about the date as a little bit of back-up?

I showed up at the bar about ten minutes late, straight from work, after a twenty-minute pep talk with my mom about how much I didn’t want to see this guy. Finally dragged myself in and recognized him immediately. Because there was no one else in the bar. It being 6 fucking pm.

He was nursing a beer already, so I ordered a gin and ginger, prepared to slam it down and run home. Unfortunately, Craigslist Guy didn’t share my plan: he pantomimed sips of the beer, nursing it through my two gin and gingers and then, as I was signaling the bartender for a check, immediately requested another hour-and-a-half beer.

But surely, you’re saying, y’all must have been involved in some sort of conversation to make the booze flow so slowly? Half right. On his side of the date, the conversation flowed like oil into the gulf. Every word I managed to shoehorn into the spaces he took for breath seemed to remind him of another story that had happened to one of his friends — nothing, you see, ever happened to Craigslist Guy personally, a life void he filled by appointing himself professional historian and publicist to his very average crew of undergrad homies.

After a while, his conversational tyranny grew so patently ludicrous that I began to test him:

CG: It’s amazing how territorial hipsters get in Billyburg. Oh, that’s what we hipsters call Williamsburg, if you didn’t know.
TKOG: Tell me about it. Last time I was there, I got in a barfight. I had to punch someone.
CG: That’s cool.  Yeah, so when my friend was there, she was in line for the restroom and [five minute anecdote that reaches its climax with some frosty glances. about which i am hearing. third-hand. kill me.]

CG: So where’d you grow up?
TKOG: Vegas. It’s pretty crazy there.
CG: That’s cool.
TKOG:  Yeah, y’know, lots of coke-fueled orgies in high school. Friends working in strip clubs. But that was nothing compared to the thing that happened senior spring…
CG: Oh, okay. Did I mention I’m from Maryland? [five-minute rant about -- oh, who knows. I was busy discreetly rubbing gin in my eyes to try to feel feelings again.]

Finally, after three hours of frantically pursuing any possible out, managed to talk my way out and run to the T station. Although he offered to walk me there, I declined and he seemed happy to remain at the bar. He probably didn’t even notice I was gone.

The Verdict: Well, at least he wasn’t the Craigslist killer. Still, what an awful waste of an evening. Friggin’ dude was so consumed with trying to seem cool and interesting that he didn’t take a second to notice I’m easily twice as interesting as he is. Although I do owe him for one thing: he single-handedly convinced me that dating just can’t be worth it. Here’s to being single ’til grad school.

Hey loves, it’s Monday! That means it’s time for my weekly column at Life As A Human! Check out my harrowing tale of SLAPPING A DUDE IN THE FACE. Unlike the one other time I’ve done this, this time I didn’t end up with a palmful of popped pimple. (Oh high school.)

NTKOG #165: The kind of relentlessly demanding consumer who, if you don’t live up to her exacting standards, makes you try, try again.

I am: convinced it’s easier to accept myself that my perception of a situation is the problem, rather than accusing someone of shoddy workmanship.

I am not: extending this courtesy to sending back dishes in restaurants, obviously, at which I am a record-holder in my age bracket.

The Scene: The low-rent Cambridge nail salon across the street from my weekend office. So, remember that time I got a manicure and claimed it was an unnatural affront to my cuticles through which I’d never again willingly suffer? And also that time I promised to stop writing like Yoda? WRONG ON BOTH COUNTS.

Throughout the the reign of my last manicure, every time a flake of polish chipped off, my heart throbbed painfully. By the time two weeks had passed, I had already picked out fifty fantasy colors, and was at a Jonas-Brothers-world-tour pitch of girlish squee, awaiting my next appointment.

On Saturday morning, I skipped into the salon bright and early, elbowed my way through the weekend throng, and picked out a gorgeous shade of gold/coral. Waited a few minutes, then was ushered to the table by the male nail technician. Good news: this manicure only took about fifteen minutes; bad news: uh, it only took fifteen minutes?

By the time I’d stumbled to the crowded drying table, read two pages of Maxim, then been ushered to the street, I hadn’t had a moment to take a critical look at the job in good light. Held up my nail, anticipating slick high-gloss perfection and — ugh. Horrible. The polish didn’t reach the ends of the nailbeds, there were tiny smudges everywhere, and, worst of all, the polish had dried in a thick swirl of bubbles.

Maybe the guy was going for an under-the-sea theme to match the coral?

Post-do-over manicure. Much better but I still think I could do as good a job on my own. If I had the patience to paint my nails. Which I don't. I guess that's kind of the point.

For three hours I angsted, debating whether I should try to stick it out or just run to CVS for emergency nail polish removal. Then it hit me: dude, I paid for a service. I didn’t receive the service. Frig it, I was going to get a do-over.

When I went back to the salon, the dude’s face twisted into a mask of grotesque consternation the second he saw me. “Uh, hey, I was here a few hours ago. I got a manicure. And the thing is — it doesn’t look very good. I think it dried funny or the polish was too old?” Or you did kind of a crappy job.

He called over a cabal of manicurists to pore over my cuticles. After they barked to each other at great length in Vietnamese, the guy locked eyes with me. “You hit something and smudged them.” Oh, you got me, sir. I spent the afternoon at Home Depot playing with the sandpaper samples — is that not standard manicure maintenance?

I was ready to slink out, miffed and distressed, but without even a flicker of contrition, the dude told me to pick my color, then set me up at a table. Somehow, it took six different manicurists to remove the polish and repaint my nails — all of them shouting angrily to each other across the room at the time. I assume each of them wanted an up-close look at the ungrateful brat who demanded a second free manicure. But whatever, if I can’t understand your insults, then I am immune to them. A little tip I picked up from the international rubber/glue conference of aught-six.

The only major moment of awkwardness: just before the first coat of polish came on, I debated with myself at length as to whether to re-tip. On the one hand, why should I be financially responsible for someone else doing a horrible job? On the other, it wasn’t the replacement technician’s fault that he co-worker’s performance was less than stellar, and I was stealing her time away from real paying clients. Dilemma resolved when the technician immediately took said first hand and started varnishing it before I could reach for my wallet.

The Verdict: I got what I want, but at what price? In retrospect, I really shouldn’t have been afraid to slow the manicurist down the first time, examine the job, and tell him on the spot if I thought it needed redoing. But if trapped in this situation again, I’d get the money out to tip immediately, so the employee could at least see I had the most upright of intentions.

That, and I’m so never going back to this nail salon again. Who knows how many nicknames I’ve amassed there by now?!

Hey, cupcakes! Can I blow your minds, just a little? This entry marks my 200th post. Two hundred of these bally things! Spanning somewhere in the neighborhood of 150,000 words! And that’s without getting into guest posts, comments, and my absurdly over-long post tags.

For those of you who have read the whole archives, do you realize you could have read half of War And Peace instead? AND AREN’T YOU GLAD YOU DIDN’T?!

In order to commemorate this quasi-achievement (and because I’ve been looking for an excuse to follow up on some of my old entries), a little Not That Kind Of Girl: Where Are They Now? edition.

NTKOG #6: Buying a meal for dudes who are begging for cash. I still try to do this at least once a week. And at least twice a month, some homeless dude beans me in the back of the head with an unopened PowerBar. Maybe I should cut out the middle man and start giving out stocking-stuffer-size bottles of Jager instead.

NTKOG #9: Acing job interviews. Wait, did I tell you guys I got a job? It was official back in March. But don’t even bother asking in what industry — it’s so glamorous your head would explode. (Hint: I am a master of the mail merge and have a black belt in origami.)

NTKOG #11: Givin’ a stranger a big ol’ hug. Color me a thousand shades of shocked but I have somehow become (gulp) a hugger! I blame all you lovely readers for making me all gooey about humans in general. That said, my fave end-of-night move is still the exploding fistbump. Kapow!

NTKOG #20: Checkin’ out the fastballs at Fenway. I can’t believe I once said I’d never like baseball. Things would get awkward, fast, with my imaginary boyfriend Dustin Pedroia if that opinion hadn’t changed. (Go Sox!)

NTKOG #23: Drinkin’ beer. Uh, double-ditto to knocking back suds. Guess my career as a semi-pro Frasier impersonator is officially over, ’cause I drink the stuff on purpose now.

NTKOG #28: Requestin’ people on the T turn down their over-loud music. Another one that’s unbelievably strange to think once was true. I blame this on the fact that my favorite soundtrack used to be my. moody. thoughts. Now I listen to more music in a day than I used to in a fortnight.

NTKOG #32: Askin’ out a random dude right on the street. Then: awkward and horrifying; ended in disaster. Now: just an average Tuesday night; ends in disaster.

NTKOG #36: Not immediately facing a weird dude who hit on me out of nowhere. Well, the novelty of that wore off right quick. On the rare occasions this happens now, meet my good friend, Perfunctory Brush-Off. (My favorite of late: “Uh, this has been unique. I’ve gotta go reread The Great Gatsby now.”

NTKOG #40: Askin’ a band to sign my breasts. My cleavage still provides a less-than-adequate amount of reading material. BUMMER.

NTKOG #42: Requestin’ a discount in a store for no reason other than sheer ballsiness. YOU GUYS ARE DOING THIS, RIGHT?! I do this all the time now — at least five times a week. Lay on the charm and it works monstrously well.

NTKOG #46: Buttin’ in to strangers’ conversations with unsolicited advice. Although I’ve retired from offered luuuuurve advice (“Uh, keep a copy of The Great Gatsby on you? In case you need to shoot a dude down?”), I find myself frequently inserting myself in strangers’ conversations. Little things, like helping them find a street, offering gum, or warning that the store they seek is closed. No one’s ever yelled at me.

NTKOG #55: Vanity TMI erotica project. Turns out nobody else likes awkward erotica. MORE PIMPLE-POPPIN’ SEX AND FORGOTTEN TAMPONS FOR ME! (No, seriously, I gave up on this after like two weeks. You’re welcome, world.)

NTKOG #61: Meetin’ dudes on the internet. After several more months’ experience, I can say with educated candor: don’t meet dudes on the internet. Unless you’re really, really serious about finding a relationship and thus willing to put up with lots of unenviable bullshit.

NTKOG #69: Givin’ back the “Bank Error In Your Favor” card. Since this happened, I’ve had several bouts of undeserved good fortune that I, like a chump, tried to reverse. Hint taken, universe. I’m not saying the IRS made a little mistake with my tax return, but if they hadn’t, I would have stopped trying.

NTKOG #87: Meetin’ up with other bloggydudes. Wow, if I’d remained afraid of this one, I would have even less of a social life. (Which, admittedly, doesn’t sound so bad. But a girl’s gotta keep a few reasons to own cocktail dresses.)

NTKOG #88: Ridin’ the subway pantless. How did I start wearing pants more often after writing this?! Goddamnit anyway.

NTKOG #93: Spendin’ zero dollars on my food budget. I’m really sad that I didn’t stick with this particular experiment. Since this time, I’ve started spending all my evenings in Cambridge, writing, and subsequently living off of pizza and take-out. My body and budget are extremely peeved with me about this. My writerly-dudeliness isn’t.

NTKOG #107: Drinkin’ alone.  I … I do this not-infrequently now. Usually in the bath. But I: 1) bought a corkscrew, and 2) haven’t drowned myself yet, so I’m ruling it a fair decision.

NTKOG #113: Savin’ the goddamn children. Since that run-in with the Save The Help campaigner, I’ve maintained a monthly donation and also made small donations to other local charities, after researching them. That campaigner’s incredible attitude and warmth actually did light a little spark within me that, even if I don’t feed as much as I could, I keep burning. Hey non-profit dudes! The stuff you do really can make a small, good difference!

NTKOG #114: Sweatin’ out a hangover. Ha. This gin-soaked ass never makes it to the gym anymore. So hopefully you could drunken bathtub doggy-paddling as sufficient cardio.

NTKOG #117: Complimentin’ dudes on their aesthetic appeal. After y’alls’ comments, I checked my assumptions and got over the awkwardness of complimenting random guys. My motto: if you see something you like, say something. You might make someone’s day. Or, better, score free baked goods!

NTKOG #121: Poppin’ OTC pills. Guess who just finished a 14-day run of OTC Prilosec? (I know, this blog just gets sexier and sexier.) Seriously, though, I’ve chugged through a bottle each of Advil, Mucinex and benadryl after writing this post, and felt twenty times better in my day-to-day because of it.

NTKOG #150: Turnin’ to witchcraft to cure nightmares. Three months nightmare free. Thanks, High Priestess Doris!

NTKOG #154: Writin’ self-satisfaction surveys. I’m bummed that I’ve grown sporadic about this! I felt so balanced and happy when I was doing it. Plus, filling them out as a nightly routine weirdly reminded me to wash my face more often.

NTKOG #158: Gettin’ a Brazilian. OH MY GOD WHEN WILL THE ITCHING STOP.

Welllll. That was unwieldy and self-absorbed. And now I’m having the hardest time not ending this epic 1000+ word post with a your mom joke. Basically I win at everything ever. Thanks for reading, loves. Now I’m going to go pop a bottle of champers in the tub.