Things have been crazy since Bryn and Dave have been here, and it’s hard to reflect a moment while it’s happening. You may not hear about all the things we did for months, because what tends to happen is that I do something, and then as time passes, the words to be able to describe what happened previously will come to me. Some memories have to rise above the facts to make good writing. I am not talking about “enhancing” a memory. It’s just that it’s hard to describe feelings without much time to even know what they are.
It also depends on how I’m prompted. A lot of the things you learn in this web site are about me because a question (from a prompt, a reader, etc.) will jog a detail that I’d forgotten previously. I have been accused of lying by people saying “that’s not the same story you told last time.” No, it’s not, because it’s a different day and I always have three or four threads running in terms of processing something. Some blog entries are built on one and three. Some entries are built on two and four. But it’s not lying. It’s standing in front of a different part of the elephant.
The view is different when you’re standing at the trunk, but in the next entry, I’ll tell you about the view from the tail. It’s all one day, it’s all one story, but one entry does not cover a whole day. That does not mean if you read both entries, the first one is right and the second one is wrong….. Or vice versa. I am not trying to change a story, but to add additional details that my ADHD brain forgot to include the last time around. I can think in four strands at a time, but I can only write one of them down. That does not invalidate my other thoughts, or make them lies.
I have had to explain this many times, which I have the words for as an adult. I did not have the words for it in first grade, and I was in trouble for lying a lot of the time. Meanwhile, it’s akin to a game I played at the Spy Museum yesterday.
You had 10 seconds to memorize a photo and jot down the relevant details. So, I see that the exhibit is about the Culpeper Ring and the OG Spymaster (George Washington). So, I am trying to record all the details and think, “what’s the pertinent information here?” So, I figured the relevant details would be that there are 25 muskets and 10 cannons headed to Yorktown.
I am so proud of myself. I got the relevant details.
I was questioned over it and I was so fucking confident.
“What color was the pen?”
I failed miserably. But on that one, I got it wrong because I hit the incorrect button with my elbow.
I am probably overthinking this, but I am betting that weapons movement is more important than pen color, but I cannot assume that because I do not know the objective of the mission. My job was to memorize the picture, not to know why they needed the information.
The pen was white, by the way.
But that’s how CIA works. In effect, everyone has a tiny role to play and they all add up to a massive organization. As Jonna Mendez points out, you really don’t even know what operation you’re a part of all the time in terms of major historical events because you’re not read in high enough to see the big picture. You just have to trust that you’re working for the greater good.
I step out on that ledge a lot, because I’m an American. I can criticize CIA every single day all day long and no one is going to lock me up. That lets me love them even more because in a country with a government like China’s, painting their intelligence service’s portrait with more than one color would land me in prison……. Especially if they thought I was painting my feelings as fact.
(“Painting my feelings as fact” is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me in the history of anything, and Supergrover said it when she was angry. The reason it’s gorgeous is that I can’t think of a blog entry in which I didn’t think about using it. That phrase is ridden hard and put up wet around here because I can’t write anything better.)
My point, and I do have one, is that I can tell The Agency to fuck all the way off because of the negative things they’ve done over the years, AND they can be the paramilitary heroes we need- the only friends you’ve got when you’ve traveled and pissed off Putin instead of Biden. I would rather take my chances with Biden, because he might think I was irritating, but there is exactly Jack or shit he can do about it. If they put you in jail for being annoying, I promise I would already be locked up.
CIA is responsible for a lot of bad in the world, but my favorite character in the Marvel universe is Everett Ross (Martin Freeman, the Tolkien case officer in Black Panther). I cannot paint them with one color, because they’ve been adding different hues since 1947. It is important to me not to love them like a child, where everything mommy and daddy do is GREAT! I love them like an adult. I acknowledge the bad and the good. My first priority in intelligence has to be loving my agency because it’s my country, like rooting for DC United instead of the Portland Timbers……… But not at the exclusion of my international friends, whose experiences with CIA might not be as kind as mine. I also get the impression from John Le Carre that I can hate CIA all I want and I’ll still never hate it as much as the people who work there (that was a joke).
If my government is going to allow my intelligence agency (which I personalize because of taxes) to do stupid shit, I like that my government won’t throw me in jail for saying they just did something really stupid. This is always brought home to me by a trip to the museum, and we wandered around for a couple of hours last evening.
Because I’m such a Mendez fan, I went to the Canadian Caper and stopped to “talk” to Tony. I look at his pictures and notes and we have conversations in my head. All the things I would have asked him, etc. I told him that Jonna was AMAZING at her book talk and with the way my insides glowed, it was like he responded. I just figured he’d like to know how she’s doing from an outsider’s perspective. 😉
The museum is not personal to me because of my special interest now. Now, it’s personal to me because I know someone who helped found it. And, of course, because she’s my friend, I want the museum to succeed and sell her books all the time. Seriously. Several times people have asked me for recommendations because I look like I know my way around the book section, and for me, their book section has like seven books tops (that is also a joke- there are MANY intelligence authors I admire, I just don’t know their backstories well, if at all).
I wanted Zac to like the museum because he works in intelligence. I wanted to know whether he thought it was truly representative, what Intel wants people to know about them, etc. He did like the museum, and did love the “artifacts,” which made me feel good. I kind of think of it as his museum, too.
I always like to get a little something at the gift shop because the museum always needs money (they’re not a Smithsonian). This time, it was a small tin with the museum logo that says “DocuMINTS.” I didn’t buy it for the candy, I like the tin for odds and ends because it’s small enough to fit in my pocket and it looks too cool for me.
I am LOVING the retro collection they have now. I’ve already gotten the long sleeved t-shirt, but they’ve also added a hoodie that says “International Spy Museum” in the 1970’s font they used in Argo. As I was telling Zac, I love that the movie starts out like a 1979 movie. I love it because it just looks cool, but it’s also an inside nod to the movie for me.
Lord, I do love a font.
Also, hats off to the casting director on “Argo.” When Zac and I were standing in front of the exhibit, the cast photo and the real photo are nearly identical- to the point that it’s spooky. You really have to get close to tell the difference between Bob Anders and Tate Donovan.
Tate Donovan has been one of my favorite actors since “Space Camp.”
Which is probably why I bought some freeze-dried Skittles in the gift shop as well. Zac loves new and interesting candy, so I gave them to him for his sweets and snacks cabinet. It’s my favorite “room” in the house. 😉
What do space candy and CIA have in common?
Think seriously how we would have gotten to the moon before Russia without them.
It’s a large set of facts I’m painting with my feelings.
In 2012, when the movie “Argo” came out, Tony Mendez was asked to write a companion book to the movie. So many people wanted to know the real story, me being one of them. So, I read that book and then proceeded to inhale all Tony’s other’s….. which were co-written by his wife, Jonna. Tony passed away in 2019, so “In True Face” is Jonna’s first solo work.
My dad sent her a message asking her if she’d sign a book for me and give it to me at the talk, so now I know I will have something to read as I’m leaving. I am picturing a scene in which I cannot put it down and the museum guards are saying, “ma’am…. MA’AM! WE ARE CLOSED.” I hope I’ve managed to get some other people excited about it, too, because I’ve mentioned the book on reddit (over 500 upvotes) and at Zac’s parties (because that’s already an audience who’d be interested in going since they work in intelligence).
I could write about a hundred books I want to read in the future, but this one means more because I have such a personal connection to it. If you’ve read every single thing an author has ever written, it’s an unbreakable bond. Then, you meet the author and it’s a good experience and it adds to the excitement of reading what they do next.
I do for her what people do for me, essentially. I know I have some people that click on my links immediately, and it makes me feel incredible. So, I hope that promoting her makes her feel good, too. If you can’t be in the audience on Mar. 5th, again, at The International Spy Museum, it’s already on order at Amazon, but I don’t think it’s out already. I think you have to preorder. I’m not going to check because if I did, I’d have two copies.
I generally end up buying two copies, anyway, because my keepsakes are pristine (except for “The Moscow Rules.” I was on a plane, so there are pencil marks in the margins on that one. But for the rest, all my notes are digital and kept in my Kindle app and synced to Goodreads….. despite perfectly good hardbacks in my top dresser drawer (in which I don’t want pencil marks). “The Moscow Rules” autograph is too personalized to ever give away. Earlier in the evening, she said something about “maybe we should hire you” when I joked at her about having a sneaking suspicion she worked on “Atomic Blonde.” I said, “that part about ‘maybe we should hire you will live in my memory for the rest of my life.”
So, the book says, “Leslie….. Maybe we should hire you.”
When Jonna talks about an autobiography called “In True Face,” one of the special memories I have of her is that she showed it to me a long time ago.
She’s the real deal. You should go. We can sit together….. because I’m getting a book. 😉
If you’ve read me even twice, you probably know I love intelligence. I believe wholeheartedly that I could have been a spy based on my preacher’s kid upbringing (really, really not much different growing/maintaining a congregation and recruiting/handling assets), genetics (great uncle was C/DIA), and the fact that I’ve “done” news like cocaine since I was eight.
There is a direct correlation.
When I was eight years old, I came to Washington for the first time. It was love at first sight. A miracle dropped in my lap that the first offer Kathleen got out of school was from ExxonMobil, because we got to choose whether we lived in Houston or DC. Moving became a monotropic thought process in which I envisioned my life playing out much differently….. and it did. Absolutely none of the plans I made for myself materialized, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have a hell of a good time making them.
If you’re that kid, the one that grows up in a small town and travels so that they see how much bigger the world really is than 40 square miles, you become a “type.” By 10 I had been to Mexico, the UK, and The Bahamas. I noticed the highs and the lows, the looming cathedrals and the neighborhoods made with tin. Global issues become important early. News becomes important early. Politics become important early. You begin to see that working for the government might be a positive thing because instead of reading the news, you are helping create it.
Kids like me end up at State or at the Washington Post. Rarely do we want to be the story. We want to shape it, especially for writers who process “verbally” in stream-of-consciousness spaghetti code. Writing about my life in DC is learning how to say “Hello, World” in every language.
(Sometimes when I write, I imagine people’s faces as they’re reading and now I’m smiling to myself knowing my programmer friends. Just for them, that line should be “every language……….. except JavaScript. Fuck JavaScript.)
My autism and ADHD are why my plans haven’t come to fruition, and my bipolar disorder threw my first choice out the window. So, right now, I am trying to concentrate my energy where I feel it can manifest. I am a better writer than I am anything else, and I know that I’m not the best. What I do know is that by writing every single day, there’s no way to get worse. I am sure that this brings hope to many, many people. Living in DC is where I feel the most alive, because I’m tapped into The Source. The United States is a living, breathing entity, and I am deep within the carotid artery (or the vena cava, depending on administration).
When I go to The Spy Museum, it’s not about seeing the exhibits. I’ve done it 10 times, they don’t change it that much. I hardly ever go during the day anymore, because it’s more fun at night. After the museum closes, all the Bond mannequins…. kidding…. after the museum closes, that’s when they do book talks and record SpyCast, how I met Jonna Mendez and Tracy Walder.
Jonna is one of my writing heroes, because she writes about the stuff I like in the way I like to hear it. She’s got a very concise, no bullshit tone and the wit of someone like David Halberstam or Rachel Maddow, who have also written a wealth of political non-fiction thrillers. I should tell Jonna that if she sees an uptick in sales the next few days, merry Christmas. The post I talked about yesterday for reddit re: Spy Dust and Moscow Rules has had 471 upvotes in 23 hours. I hope I sold her a thousand copies, and I’m not even going to tell her about it because “Secret Santa” is a thing. Book sales are the best gift I could have picked.
A woman said her dad wouldn’t read a book about intelligence if it was written by a woman, and I think that if Jonna can’t convince him, he’s a misogynistic lost cause……. being Chief of Disguise at CIA isn’t impressive or anything (my eyes are rolling out of my head). I like Spy Dust better in terms of being able to pick out Tony’s voice from hers, but The Moscow Rules is my favorite of them all….. and I thought Argo was hard to beat. The book was made in reaction to the film, and it was still better.
I have a different relationship with/to Tracy than I do with/to Jonna because Tracy is so much younger, and in fact, is a bit younger than me (I think). Do you ever have a moment where someone says something and your heart just walks out of your body in empathy? I know it happens to people with their families, but Tracy was a complete stranger to me when she told the audience that she was born with hypotonia. I had never met another person who’d been born with it, she’d never met anyone outside her family. It was not just that kind of moment for me. The emotions we felt at seeing each other mattered. It is one of, if not the most intimate moment of my life. I wasn’t proposing or having a baby, and yet it was still that big because the chance of us connecting was so small, our affliction so rare. It’s one of the few times in a relatively unfamiliar situation in which I’ve been able to breathe that deeply.
However, there is a reason I chose Jonna over Tracy with the reddit comment. That dude is already predisposed to disliking female intelligence writers, so handing him a book with a sorority sister protagonist didn’t seem like the wisest choice. You get Jonna until you can handle pink coffee mugs without being an asshole about it. But make no mistake, he definitely needs to read it. There’s more dirt on scumbags like him inside FBI who don’t trust women in intelligence. To be clear, Tracy did not have problems at CIA. She had problems with FBI. Tracy has a problem with FBI, so they have a problem with me. It’s just that simple.
I am sure that Tracy appreciates the support in which I do legit nothing but talk shit about the FBI on my web site……… but hey, she has a great autobiography called The Unexpected Spy. It’s a thrill ride through her life having worked at both agencies, and thrilling to find out that CIA is actually as forward-thinking as I thought it was. Tracy also made an interesting style choice. When you write a book involving CIA (and I’m not sure if it applies to me, but it definitely applies to employees), it has to go through a publications review board. When Tracy got her manuscript back from the PRB, there were parts that were blacked out….. and she just left them in and published as is. Tracy’s is the one book I don’t have on my Kindle, and the one hardback I’m grateful to own, because the words come across the same on e-paper with Jonna and Tony, but the feel of the paper with its saturating amount of black ink looks official.
And in fact, I liked it so much that she signed my book after the lecture and as she was writing the inscription, I asked her if she would black out a word. Tracy understood the assignment. 😉 She blacks out one word, and you can still see what it is, so she asks around and finds a black Sharpie. She hands it back and it says:
To Leslie-
Go [redacted] the world.
Then she says, “there. Now no one knows what I told you to do to the world.”
We’ve (sort of) kept in touch- I should reach out and see what she’s up to these days. Last I heard she was in Dallas (went to SMU just like my dad, went back to teach at Hockaday). If she ever comes to DC, first coffee’s on me.
Here’s to hoping we can [redacted] the world together……..
because the Spy Museum is my favorite place in my city.
I am including the link to both book talks, and I’m in them at the Q&A. In the Walder video, I’m wearing my CIA baseball cap. In the Mendez video, I am “Sir Not Appearing in This Film,” because the video cuts off right when Jonna stops speaking.
Podcasts are so sophisticated that they’ve turned my attention away from music. I enjoy conversation, so interview shows are essential.
My friend Wade introduced me to my current favorite, a CBC show called “Writers and Company.” The host is retiring, so I don’t know if she’s going to be replaced or a new show is going to be made instead. Through that show, I’ve met so many people like me. I’m not the same level of writer that they are, particularly for people like le Carré, but I identify with the creative process. I like hearing how people work.
In the unedited version of “On Being,” Krista Tippett always starts with asking the guest what they had for breakfast, and I’m like, “Krista…. thank you for asking the real questions here.
Pete Holmes (You Made It Weird) and Marc Maron (WTF) compete for my attention week to week based on guest, and if I have time, I’ll get involved with the show more regularly because keeping up with every show is how you keep up with Marc and Pete. They both have what I call the “Craig Ferguson effect.” They can both talk for an hour and it will be fabulous. Craig could have hosted The Late, Late Show until he died, no guests, and I would have been glued. I was devastated when he didn’t want the job anymore, but genuinely hope for his happiness and success because he’s another person I feel is a kindred spirit. He’s an alcoholic and I’m bipolar. Both rabid Doctor Who fans. Same software, different case.
I don’t think Craig has a podcast, but I have genuinely enjoyed listening to him when he’s been a guest on others. Sometimes I just need to hear “it’s a great day for America, everybody.” And when I need to, I can hear him say it on YouTube.
I love “SpyCast” and have been on it a couple of times, because I’ve been in the audience and thus the recorded Q&A. I haven’t always asked questions, but when I laugh, you always know it’s me. I got into it because of the interviews with Tony and Jonna Mendez in the archives, but stayed because I really liked Vince Houghton’s interview style (and later Andrew Hammond’s).
It’s cool to hear people like John Brennan when they’ve got five minutes on Conan or whatever, but they’re amazing when they’ve got 45 or 60. Spies are personable, yet not trained for television, either. It takes more than five minutes to find the rhythm in which they’re comfortable opening up, and that’s true of everyone who doesn’t work in television. Hell, even people who do work in television. I love long-form interviews with actors as well.
It’s not technically a podcast, but The Hollywood Reporter funds roundtables where actors, directors, and writers interview each other. There is a moderator, but for the most part the actors talk amongst themselves. You learn more about the craft than you ever would by watching TV.
In terms of writing roundtables, my other favorite podcast is “The Writer’s Panel.” You’ll see a list of guests and not recognize a single name, turns out they were on a team that wrote five of your favorite shows this year. And it’s always a random assortment, like “Ace Ventura: Pet Detective” and “Schindler’s List.” Not a real example, but on brand. Work is work. I particularly want to hear from black writers, because their voices are more authentic to mine than whites given my sexual orientation. The Writer’s Panel is the first place where I’ve met a lot of black TV and movie writers at once, and even more importantly, all talking to each other. That’s the kind of “creatives talking about business” I need because they have the same limitations I do in working for a system that’s not built for them. Hearing multiple people come at the problem from different angles gives me solid information on which to reflect.
I have loved news since I was a child, so now I listen to it in Rachel Maddow’s voice whenever I can and Alex Wagner’s failing that. I listen to everything Rachel does, and I’m particularly wrapped up in her podcast series (multiple). I like how she weaves history into the present and I think that’s what makes me sound like her some days. I used to have a picture of Rachel sitting in her office as the background on my laptop, and my housemate asked me who had taken that picture of me. We look alike, we think alike, we have the same interests. I believe that I remind people more of her after we speak than before, and I’m her archetype everywhere in the world with my genderqueer schtick.
Before Maddow, people pegged me as kd lang. They probably connected me more easily to her because not only do I sing, she’s the lesbian who resembles me and other people know who she is. If I looked like Melissa Etheridge, people would have told me I looked like her on multiple levels….. and I know this because “you look like kd lang” has all sorts of connotations depending on tone of voice. Rachel and I probably both got called “kd lang” as a kid, because I can’t remember who’s older, but it’s not enough to be memorable if there’s an age difference. Therefore, I feel very tender toward her even though we’ve never met. Another person with whom I could set a date, step off a plane, give her a hug, and go for beers. On the surface, we are the same person, and not because we actually are. We are holding the same banner at the same parade. Rachel is one of those people that I think “I’d be happy with her.” It guides me as to who I actually want to date because not only do Rachel and I not live in the same city, she already has a partner and they’re so happy it’s impossible not to be happy for them. It is cool that she works here sometimes, though, because if we ran into each other I think we’d have fun. She could certainly introduce me to women I’d have never met otherwise, the reason I came to Washington in the first place. I didn’t want to be a Texas writer. I came here to play.
And with Rachel, it wouldn’t be about meeting women in terms of dating. It would be walking down the hallway and Hillary Clinton stopping us for a second. I wouldn’t have any business with Hillary and I wouldn’t care what their conversation contained. I would just be honored to hear something like that. It wouldn’t just be Hillary Clinton, either. Rachel knows everyone. She’s so powerful she probably knows we’re talking about her right now.
I am sometimes one of those women who likes murder podcasts, and always someone who likes “dark history.” Bailey Sarian covers both my bases with two shows available on YouTube and as a podcast. “Mystery, Makeup, and Murder” is a long form lecture on a murder while Bailey is applying her makeup. I love it because it’s so informal, and very much like reading one of my own blog posts because she just lays it all out there like we’re sitting there having a drink. She is also an outstanding makeup artist, and reminds me of Kevyn Aucoin with her style. I flip back and forth between MM&M on YouTube and audio because even though I am not into makeup as a general rule, she is so gorgeous that sometimes I just want to watch her in a not-creepy way for when I do decide to get “all nellied out.” The new foundations that are coming out are like magic. You can basically PhotoShop your whole face in 15 minutes flat. For the uninitiated, “all nellied out” is queer for someone looking extraordinarily femme and comes from Nellie Olson in “Little House on the Prairie.” I don’t do it much anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at it. But really, when it comes to Bailey, I’m more attracted to the murder. She is just the wrapping that comes with the murder. It’s an excellent package.
When MM&M became insanely popular, a company asked her to do a second podcast called “Dark History.” These are long-form lectures that translate just as well on audio because she’s not doing something else. There are obviously dark episodes, like Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, but also things that most people don’t think about, like the war over pineapples and sugar. The child labor in chocolate and coffee. It’s just fascinating and I recommend it both because it is interesting and so is Bailey.
Indirectly, Bailey changed the direction of my media-watching habits because for the last, I don’t know, year or so? I haven’t really watched TV. I’ve watched YouTube. Finding MM&M and Dark History led me to watching other long form lectures, which in effect, sent me back to college. I haven’t seen all the latest shows because I’ve been thinking about the Roman empire. 😉 No, seriously. I watch lectures by college professors on history- military and CIA particularly because that’s what I’m researching. Right now, it doesn’t matter what era of military history it is, as long as we’re talking about WWII forward.
That’s because before then, we didn’t have an official intelligence service (and my novel focuses on both defense and intel equally). We had “Wild Bill Donovan,” America’s one-man traveling Langley. He had few friends in this town. Any mystery and cool factor over CIA that exists today isn’t based on them, I assure you. Military hated intelligence at first because they weren’t helpful, they were a threat to their authority. Americans love CIA because Ian Fleming charmed them into it. George Tenet knows this better than anyone else. He knew that CIA needed a win, so he was the one that declassified the operation so that the story of the Canadian houseguests could be told.
That’s because he knew Britain was in love with James Bond, and so was America. What if it was provable that CIA has a spy who is just as lovable? It has to be a good movie if my heart goes a little squishy every time I see Ben Affleck and it’s not because of “Chasing Amy” (I do not know a single bisexual girl who didn’t become absolutely 100% obsessed with that movie….. maybe I’m less bi than I thought or something.)…. and honestly, it’s exciting thinking about who I’d like to play Jonna if “The Moscow Rules” is also optioned (and she’s told me that there’s interest, but nothing has come of it- no ink). Kristen Stewart might be a good choice because she and Jonna both have the same vibe- feminine and rough and tumble. Same for someone like Megan Fox, Mila Kunis, etc. It would have to be an actor about Friends-cast age because if I was Jonna, I’d want Ben to play Tony in TMR, too (I’m just thinking out loud. Jonna, you can stop me at any time…. kidding, I don’t know if she reads me, but it’s not impossible). I can’t think of anyone I would choose based on direct comparison in looks, because I don’t think that the best actors do imitations. For instance, I don’t think Peter Dinklage actually looks like Cyrano De Bergerac, but I do know he chewed the scenery. It wasn’t an imitation. Dinklage became him.
I would choose Taylor Schilling to play Jonna if she hadn’t already played Tony’s first wife in Argo. I don’t remember how many years it was post-Iran, but she died of cancer before Tony and Jonna started working together.
Here’s the most important scene in “The Moscow Rules” to me, and I will be seriously pissed if they leave it out of the movie. Tony and Jonna worked in disguises, right? So they were in charge of giving people their disguises and training them to detect when they were about to get made. They did this by taking the “kids” to Georgetown and letting them loose, a spy game. They all have different skills, like one’s a linguist, one’s got the map in their head, etc. However, all the spies have to be functional in everything. It’s all about leaning on each other’s strengths and being capable when you’re alone. I think it’s the part about spying that’s ignored the most- how fun the training is. God forbid you get a job where you actually enjoy yourself.
I am sure that in a lot of ways, The Farm is like boot camp. You get out and the real world bears no resemblance to anything you just learned. The courage to be a spy isn’t being fearless all the time. It’s letting go of the fear that you’re going to suck and acknowledging that it’s okay to suck until you know what you’re doing. However, if you’re going to be a spy, know that it’s not a movie. Err on the side of caution because other people’s lives are in your hands. You could get people killed by leaving a newspaper in a coffee shop. It was an accident, and assets still got made.
If I sound like a I know what I’m talking about, it’s exclusively because of podcasts. After seeing “Argo,” I began to look for other writers that did things like it- and then Tony and Jonna released the book in reaction to the movie. But by looking around for writers, that included listening to podcasts about intelligence. Everything I’ve said is something I’ve heard directly, or is my opinion based on something someone else said.
I notice things that people don’t say in audio, more clearly on video. For instance, when I first started dating Zac, Jonna Mendez scared the life out of me on YouTube. We’re friends in real life, it wasn’t directed at me in any way, and yet my stomach clenched. She said something about “when you work for an intelligence agency, it’s not your family that’s the problem. It’s your friends.” And yet, for her, it was the other way around because she did tell someone in her family that made it a huge deal all the time, causing her not to tell her best friend for 35 years… interesting.
In fact, I’m not sure that said best friend still doesn’t know, because I don’t know if the friend was still living when she said that to the audience. Betraying a boyfriend with infidelity is child’s play, and both Zac and I are clear on it. I don’t have a problem with saying I’m dating Zac Wood here because I say it on Facebook, his profile is public, and it would come to someone’s attention faster than it ever would here in terms of search results. That being said, I don’t say things like the specific name of his agency, either. When I say he went to Langley or whatever, it’s because they’re his clients, not the other way around. You could probably Google all that, but my friends/fans on Facebook could do the same thing because he follows me personally and professionally. In short, I don’t want his Facebook profile and his character here to be different, because I want his professional persona to only be what he projects, and for my reactions to him to be genuine without touching on anything too personal in a business sense.
For instance, he can’t discuss troop movements in Ukraine, but we can both geek out over “Folksoda,” “Burn After Reading,” and “Slow Horses.” Neither of us have seen that last one. It would be a cold day in hell before either of us had time to schedule a marathon, but if we did it, “Slow Horses” would be a good one. It’s not that we don’t like being lazy and sitting on the couch. It’s that our lives are too packed to make too much of it. As a result, we make plans to watch things with no recognition of the fact that it’s been a month or so since we’ve seen each other and end up talking for six hours in a row instead.
I want to be with someone like Zac, and I only say “someone like Zac,” because I can have him, but I can’t have all of him. That doesn’t bother me. I just need to find my own partner if I want to settle down. I made the commitment not to start looking until January, because I do not want to be the type of person that turns my back on “The War Daniel” at a time when he needs love the most. He was lost in a pit of despair, anger, and addiction that will only start to lift in January (at the earliest) because it will have been a year since his last drink and his brain will be in a totally different place. No one knows this more than a doctor, and that’s why I call him “The War Daniel.” John Hurt plays “The War Doctor” in the 50th anniversary special of Doctor Who, and Daniel (before he retired) was a medical Navy Corpsman embedded with a team in Afghanistan during Operation Enduring Freedom. If he’d done the same job as a civilian, he could be certified as both a medical and surgical nurse practitioner, and in some cases is, I believe, superior to an MD trauma surgeon on his best day. Most people who have been to medical school didn’t have to put a brain back together under cover fire.
That is why I am comfortable living with him like royalty or paupers, because he deserves to earn his fortune and he also deserves to kick back and just be poor, living off his retirement so that he doesn’t have to ever do anything he doesn’t want to do ever again.
Dana’s dad (my former father-in-law, high comedy) was a Marine, but he was in the JAG and went into private practice later. I think Daniel could do something like that if he wanted, because he has the mind that would make law incredibly easy for him. But that’s only if he wanted to change careers. If he went to school to become a nurse practitioner or a doctor for real, that’d be a good move, too. It’s just that I wouldn’t want to do something if it caused triggers in me, but Daniel is in the unique position of never being able to walk away at any time. He has a patient population that will never in a million years trust anyone else. They may not have physically seen each other for ten years, but he’ll still get calls in the middle of the night. Sometimes, it’s easy, like “I can’t tell anyone I have a rash there.” Sometimes, it’s talking someone down who literally has a gun to their heads because he’s the only psychiatrist they’ve got.
Daniel could become president of the United States and he’d still be a doctor. He’d still be The Doctor. And here’s the thing. Daniel is George W. Bush if George W. Bush was smart. That’s because he’s the W. version of Bill Clinton without the rabid infidelity….. and he’s a war hero, having won an award that most win posthumously. Daniel could become president of the United States, and I know it like the back of my hand. But I do not want him for that. I would hate every minute of it. I have more in common with Michelle Obama than I don’t. All I’m saying is that if he decided he wanted to be president, people would show up in droves.
That’s because he’s got a George W. demeanor and my political/historical/writer mind. If he did want to become president, I could help him do it. That’s because I’d be great at writing his speeches in the background.
“When did you write that last part?” “In the car.”
If he is Jed Bartlett, I would have to grow into the role of Abby….. but he already has his Sam, Toby, Josh, and Donna…… on multiple levels.
“Oh. This is bad on so many levels.”
Accidentally sleeping with a law student that also happens to be a prostitute is exactly the kind of trouble I’d be in all the time, too. This is because a prostitute, lawyer, and preacher’s kid (and spy, feeding my special interest) have one thing in common. They’re all the type of people that connect to other people immediately and have interesting stories because of it. With someone like Laurie, she would have set my brain on fire talking about SCOTUS cases before I ever realized she was a professional…… another thing I wouldn’t give a fuck about because I would care so much more that she set my brain on fire, which is I think how Sam Seaborn would have reacted if he wasn’t deputy chief of staff……… who also thought at first that his boss’s daughter was like, nine to disastrous effect. He has an archetype, and it is me….. incidentally, I am also the archetype for Toby Ziegler because I believe he is coded as autistic. I see it clearly now because of The West Wing Weekly, which has made me look at the series again after many years. Scenes play in my head.
Ziegler acts like us, even stimming when he throws a ball against the wall to think more clearly. Everyone I know in real life just went “ohhhhhhhh.” Light bulb.
I’ve realized I stim by walking everywhere and dictating my notes. Attaching a sensory memory like walking makes an idea move faster and retain longer….. for instance, not only do I retain a lot of what I read, I retain a lot of what I write because typing is stimming in and of itself…… and honestly, prevents a lot of burnout because I am emotionally distanced from people while I write so I’m not anticipating someone else’s needs. I am fluent in my own and asking for your input so I can change my mind if I think you’re right….. at the very least, explaining my dealbreakers in detail so that someone understands why I can compromise so easily with some things and am so rigid about others. It all revolves around my disability because that’s something I can’t change, and is just as valid as diabetes or COPD. A panic attack in your mind is just as valid as an attack in your heart, and it makes me angry when people admit themselves to the emergency room with a real psychiatric issue. That’s because most of the time, it’s treated like a “false alarm,” thereby ignoring the underlying problem and ensuring that if it happened today, it will also happen next week because Xanax isn’t important and surgeons have prepared for battle. You can smell disappointment in the air.
If you’ve ever watched Scrubs, it’s the most accurate medical show in the history of the world because Todd is for real. Surgical really does have a bigger complex than medical, even though medical is generally smarter because they don’t just pull it out and see it like a plumber. They’re detectives. In my opinion, House is superior to your basic cardiologist, if you are unclear on what I’m saying. It is absolutely the difference between medical science and medical art.
I say this because J.D. is another good archetype for me. In fact, I would say that I’m more like J.D. than I am most characters on television and not because I have experience in medicine myself. It’s that my ability to learn the jargon has been heightened an enormous amount by living with e medical detective.
Because we also lived in Houston and I went to a math and science magnet in middle school, I was fascinated by her being a doctor because I thought she should apply for the space program. She said, “but Leslie…. I already am a space doctor. I’m a “room atologist.” Here’s the serious part underneath the conversation. Going to space is all about improvisation because you don’t have any tools or materials you didn’t pack.
My stepmother’s second favorite stethoscope was from the medical bag of a Playskool set, and I’m passing this information to all my friends who are still field docs…. but check them out and if they’re not good anymore, try to find one on e-bay from the 90s if you can plan in advance. Retro toys are all the rage- it’s not impossible. It’s something that bar being in the space program, if you don’t have it you can find it at most big box stores on the fly….. provided Playskool hasn’t fixed something that wasn’t broken. It makes me laugh that a Playskool medical bag is as essential as a burner phone in some cases…….. and a tampon can save your life in two ways. It’s ironic that two male soldiers told me why I needed to carry tampons on me at all times even if I didn’t use them.
To pivot to that story, the first way is if you get injured. They’re a great addition to a Band-Aid if you’re bleeding profusely (and you can put it directly into a wound if it’s deep enough). The second way it’s absolutely crucial requires two more ingredients. In order to start an all-weather fire (not foolproof), you need a tampon, a way to start a fire, and some petroleum jelly, which is most useful to keep in your car if the temperature drops and you’re stranded. The reason that the tampon needs the petroleum jelly is that it makes the flame last longer, essentially turning the tampon into a candle. It’s not enough to last more than 5-10 minutes, but it is a better shot at catching kindling than using matches, sticks, and paper.
Another thing I’ve learned in terms of the whole field doc schtick is that multitools and “spy pens” are no joke. They’re not practical for everyday with things like mini-glassbreakers, so it’s kind of like having a truck. Alternately and absolutely the most useful and wasteful thing you’ve ever bought depending on the task at hand.
For instance, a parachute cord bracelet that unwinds is another thing it’s useful to keep on you for emergencies, but the reason it’s not useful is that it doesn’t go with every outfit; who knows if you’ll have it if said time where it’s necessary is absolute and wearing it is optional?
If you are a photographer, my attitude is extremely similar. The most important camera you’ll ever own is on your phone, not your Nikon “Turn it Up to Stupid o’Clock.” That’s because you don’t want to lug around all the equipment, and your smart phone that records in HD for video and takes 12 MP photographs (perfect for printing) is in your pocket. If you have a smart watch, you also have a remote. Anything you can do on the best Nikon can be done with an iPhone or an iPad, a Samsung tablet or phone. When you can carry something so heavy and aren’t required, you won’t.
That’s because most people don’t specialize in photography and filmmaking, therefore do not need the file size that most professional cameras have on photos and video. Even then, for pros it becomes about convenience and they’ll deal with lesser quality because of it.
Seriously, get a tablet and it will change your life because it’s so light you’re more likely to have it on you. The two tablets that accomplished this the best for me were the Nexus 7 and the iPad mini. There was enough real estate to be able to edit accurately, yet they were small enough that it felt like the same diameters in terms of height and width in portrait mode as a novel. Great for things like writing documents and would fit in the front pocket of a hoodie or my smallest bag. My problem with them has never been the form factor, but that they haven’t been able to fit better hardware than is currently available into that form factor. That’s because CPU power for 7-inch tablets is “budget” because they’re going off of price and not use case scenario.
For instance, I could build a marvelous tablet out of a Raspberry Pi Zero because it would fit into a tablet form factor. However, it does not have the power of a Raspberry Pi, which won’t unless you’re just talking about a laptop with a touchscreen on the front. There’s no way to get it small and cool. Pick a lane. It’s not that they can’t stay cool, it’s that laptop cases that don’t come with fans are more likely to overheat, and there’s currently no Raspberry Pi laptop case that’s immune to it. The best I could do with a Raspberry Pi Zero is a file server or a smart mirror, because a graphical interface would run like a three-legged dog. Clicking a menu, then being filled with rage because you’ve come back and it’s still not done, etc. Because of this, it would take a ton of work and the best performance I could get would come with an interface that looked like NASA in the 60s, with Bluetooth for a keyboard and wifi to access other devices on the network. That would indeed be useful, but not on the go. You’d be limited to a tablet where you had to carry the keyboard everywhere, the interface wouldn’t support a touch screen (it would, but you’d get tired of it quickly), bail to the command line, and be limited to the applications you can run using only text. Games like Pong. A text editor. A web browser that doesn’t really work anymore, lynx. An e-mail client so ancient that all college students my age have used it, pine- so old that when I use it, I feel nostalgic and put up with its limitations often. But we didn’t use it the whole time. We transitioned to Eudora at University of Houston. One of the funniest support calls I ever got was from a lady who asked me how to configure her “Endora” account. She asked me why I was laughing and I told her that Eudora was a mail client. Endora was the grandmother on “Bewitched……” Really, I wasn’t laughing at her. She reminded me of my mother’s mother, who made malapropisms standard operating procedure. She once told me she was going to lay down on the couch with an African (afghan). I doubted it, because losing certain words was so hard for her.
I’m not ashamed of being a Texan, but there’s always been a lot wrong with it.
After all, I did agree to marry George W….. if W. was smart. I’m not holding onto him forever, but I am holding onto him until I am sure that we’ve both had enough time to decide whether we made the right decision in the moment or not. I believe, like Meag and me, that it wasn’t that we aren’t good together. It’s that it was the wrong time and the wrong place, because with his addiction and both our mental illnesses/processing disorders, we were trying to find a secure environment in a hurry. But read “Blink” and then question whether I was wrong after you’ve had time to really take it in.
I blew Supergrover’s mind with two blinks in a row, but because of my autism, I could express my entire thought process in a way that came across clearly in text. She was excited for Daniel and me once I explained the ins and outs. That it wasn’t a snap decision like a wedding in Vegas. It was taking a leap toward a better life with a friend I’d known since I was seven and has a daughter I’m completely in love with as if I’d had her myself. It blows my mind that I’m old enough to be the stepmom of a 25-year-old. It was also good for me to have a partner, that polyamory meant he didn’t care if I fell in love with him or not because being friends trumped everything else, that having his back was more important than a wife. That whether I ended up being Leo or Abby it wasn’t a dealbreaker. I said the same thing to him. That even if I can’t be Abby, I’ll always be CJ.
This is better than, for instance, being with Meag and secretly pining for……. someone else. Being with anyone and pining for someone else, now a recurring theme I can’t ignore because it lends itself to cheating when you have ADHD and autism. Your brain makes you ruminate about someone who is not your partner and if they have ADHD, you won’t have to guess because they won’t keep their mouths shut for love for money.
Ask 50 neurodivergent people. We all agree.
That is why research suggests that poly behavior among neurodivergent people is sky high. They throw truth bombs whether you like it or not, which actually makes it easier to communicate because boundaries are secure. It’s especially common among couples where both halves are neurodivergent, because they understand the idea that obsession and complete disinterest are symptoms and there are times when both of us are going to tap out and come back together. It’s extreme because of the processing disorder, not because we’re mad at each other. There is also a complete and total difference between the love you have for a partner and the love you have in NRE (new relationship energy). The former is deeper, like drinking fine wine or looking at a Renoir. The latter is Jackson Pollack deep fried on a stick.
You can enjoy both environments depending on mood, but to be clear your partner is never going to be Jackson Pollack ever again…….. and not because they’re less valuable. It’s the nature of the dopamine when you first meet. Once it’s gone and lust isn’t the “forward note,” it is only really then that you find out where the rubber meets the road. I am neurodivergent and find it quickly. That is either because I am pastoral in nature and people spill things to me up front, or they are annoyed by my ADHD and Autism. There is no in between and my relationships tend to burn bright and flame out because of it, including at work.
I am not alone. I think something like 80% of autistic people are unemployed at any given time, because think of how hard work must be if you were bullied in school and teachers of “real” subjects looked down on special ed? Do you think that bosses and coworkers are in any way different when we graduate from high school? Teachers decided that you didn’t need it if you were smart, limiting anything we would have learned to help us later on. It makes for a hostile work environment because without special ed, we might have suffered in school and still made it through, but we didn’t learn any thought processes except social masking. Nothing even close to what’s available on autistic YouTube right now…… and lots of podcasts are just YouTube videos with the visuals cut, so the videos are the podcasts I listen to whether it’s on YouTube or not.
Everything I have said in this essay can be found in one podcast or another. I am so grateful that talk radio has expanded in this way…… but podcasts can only do so much when I want to see Rachel Maddow instead of just listening to her voice.
Bryn sometimes calls me on her way to work, which gives us about 15 minutes to talk (note to Bryn- let’s do this more). Today the notable news is that we’re both obsessed with Starbucks food. The coffee I can take or leave, but no one else has egg bites and Impossible sandwiches. Eggs and cheese are cheating on my vegan diet, but I only eat mostly plants, anyway. I’m living Michael Pollan’s advice…. “Eat food. Not a lot. Mostly plants.” I was also telling her that I liked Starbucks getting Trente cups because I’m a sucker for their iced tea. Just shut up and take my money. My favorite flavor is green because it’s a bit minty, but their black tea makes me smell numbers at that quantity. I get a breve, which is black iced tea, no extra water, Splenda, and soy or oat milk. It sounds weird, but you wouldn’t think so if it was a Thai restaurant, now would you? I think the’ve caught on to my idea, because now they’re selling iced London Fog lattes (Earl Grey and vanilla syrup).
We’re also working on bringing joy into our lives. That we are responsible for our own suffering because of our rejection sensitivity, but it’s something we can improve about ourselves by relating to each other. When I look at Bryn, my heart floods with gratitude. She’s the face I look to for love, because I can. She is also safe in loving me, because she’s getting me the me that has already made so many mistakes that I’m not so closed off to her because I see how that isolation affects her. I don’t want to make her think I’m doing anything that’s pushing her away, because when I feel sad, it’s not about her. I can’t ignore her needs, and sometimes they’re more important than mine….. like not encouraging her to believe that I’m being distant because of something she did. That’s more important to me than taking care of myself, because if I don’t make it more important than I will isolate based on what I’m going through when the situation isn’t even that bad….. I just think it is.
The story we’re telling ourselves is often skewed, because we’re so unkind to ourselves. We disconnect quickly out of embarrassment or self preservation, because it hurts to think about the ways we’re responsible for contributing to another’s behavior, or giving someone else negative consequences….. true whether you meant to or not.
We disconnect quickly because we’re so digitally oriented. Think back over the last 10 years. Are you quicker to anger because of the wall of separation between you and another person? That even though this person is close to you in real life, you have a desperate need to fight with people on the Internet, leading the charge into hell and forgetting that you are creating some awkward cocktail parties…….. because being right over whatever it is has become more important than empathy.
I don’t think this happened in any organized way. It is the nature of becoming digital. Too many relationships go up and down because of Facebook and Twitter, because everyone can see how you interact with everyone else. You’re not only taking into account how people treat you, but how you observe them treating everyone else. I don’t care if you have me a kidney 20 years ago. I will not let you get away with saying watching two men kiss gives you nausea….. and that’s why you’ll never go to a gay wedding.
Someone from my high school actually said that to me. He apologized and I’ve moved on permanently. I got an apology, but I want no future contact.
It’s the same kind of bullying I endured in high school, and it’s just noise. It’s chatter designed to make me feel awful about myself. Imagine being so certain that God is telling you that you need to tell queer people they’re going to hell. Imagine that message being preached to a church that has 40,000 members. Imagine that message going to all churches that have 40,000 members. Then imagine going to high school 15 minutes away from that church so its bitchy little mean girls all go there. I can’t think of anything more psychotic than getting into a performing arts high school and being homophobic….. especially if you were in theater. Even the straight kids are queer.
Probably because actors have to be two-spirited anyway. It’s the full range of human emotion.
I think it’s notable how fast I’m putting together what has happened to me over my life and how it is affecting me now. Being gay in Texas is a rough gig, and it always has been. I am not oppressed. WE are oppressed. We did not create the system that hates us, and we can’t really do anything about it due to the 80/20 rule…. That 20 percent of the population has to convince the 80% they’re right.
………over things that shouldn’t be legislated.
Thomas Jefferson is rolling over in his grave, because his ideas of conservativism was that the highest government in the land would be the equivalent of a school board. Just as little legislation as possible. He would be incensed that conservatives were trying to parent the whole nation. You don’t get individual freedoms if it’s perfectly acceptable to treat you as if your entire personality is a sin.
Sometimes I wish that the US had lost the Revolutionary war because the Commonwealth countries are so much more progressive than we are. I would deal with Boris Johnson a lot better than I’d deal with Ron DeSantis (I’m assuming he’ll be the nominee because more people are being convinced he’s an actual criminal every day. Hiding classified documents near water? Obviously he’s a genius….. we knew that when he looked directly at the sun during an eclipse. Don’t get me wrong. Hiding documents in your house is always wrong. But putting them near toilets and sinks is a special kind of stupid.
I also think it’s great he lost the E. Jean Carroll case, because that judicial standard says that it is more likely he’s guilty than not. This is different than a criminal trial, because “beyond a reasonable doubt” is a higher standard than a “preponderance of evidence.” The best example I can give of this is FBI and CIA. FBI collects data that has to stand up to scrutiny in a courtroom. CIA has no law enforcement capability. They collect data and return it to Congress and the president. Therefore, their information only has to be analyzed in percentage of sureties on outcomes. To me, that is the difference between judicial standards in American courts as well, because nothing in intelligence is beyond a reasonable doubt. Those issues change like a CNN stock ticker.
It’s too quiet in here. I put on the soundtrack to Argo The theme in the bass is about to drop, and that’s the best feeling I get with my headphones. The bass of the strings….. omg…. Fabulous. Although my favorite track is “Hotel Messages.” Hard to describe, just listen to it. I’ve been trying to learn the whispered rhythm for years.
Second favorite is The Mission, but Hotel Messages is all you get because I want you to actually watch the movie. 😛
I know the score intimately because I had to memorize it to get it out of the way while I’m writing. I don’t want to think about walking bass, suspended chords, etc. I had to do all that stuff independently, otherwise you’d just get an entry full of bad music theory with my third grade education on the subject. No open fourths. Rules are made to be broken. That’s kind of my limit.
I love movies about intelligence set in the Middle East, because that kind of music fills me up. The melodies are haunting because they’re not using a Western sense of chord structure. It’s also different hearing Middle Eastern music with a full orchestral arrangement vs. a couple of people.
Argo was all written by a composer named Alexandre Desplait, and he’s done a lot of movie scores…. But all middle eastern spy movies have that vibe. The music in Syriana, Beirut, Three Kings, etc. is just so complex. Speaking of which, there’s a great documentary on Amazon Prime called “The Sounds of Bond” or something like that, and it’s incredible. I like Bond music, too, but it is secondary to my love of strings moving to the notes you don’t expect.
The one thing you get with American music that’s not so prevalent in the East is a good Picardy Third. It’s the term for when a piece is written entirely in a minor key, but switches to major for the final chord of a line or piece. “Coventry Carol” is a great example of this.
Comparing Hotel Messages to Coventry Carol and the difference between how scales are used is apparent.
So, just another reason to love intelligence. The soundtrack to their lives is better than everyone else’s.
Here’s the link to the audio. You might have to download it into your own media player or the Mega app. SoundCloud wants me to pay because I “upload a lot,” and I get it. I just didn’t know the space limit was so incredibly low. I’m searching around for options, and most of them rely on using my desktop, of which I am not a fan… mostly because I’m not really using SoudCloud to increase the popularity of my blog. The audio is just a convenience.
High school is divided up for me in two segments. The first is that I spent my freshman and sophomore years at High School for Performing and Visual Arts as a trumpet player. The second is that my junior and senior years, I didn’t. I went to a regular American high school. I was still in the music program, though. My junior year I was in varsity choir and varsity band at the same time, the first in the history of the school to do so. I learned how to be in a marching band. My symphonic band was better than the one at ‘PVA (no judgment, it’s just true).
Then, my counselor suggested that I drop one of my music classes because if I took Microcomputer Applications, I could get what was called an “Advanced Diploma.” The band was gearing up to go on all these trips my family couldn’t afford, and it was an easy out to drop band because I knew I couldn’t sell enough fertilizer to pay my own way. Yes. Really. They asked us to sell shit to people.
I dropped choir because I didn’t like the new director coming in, because I knew other people that had her and it wasn’t my bag. I was not a “show choir” person. I do not think that if you can sing, you should automatically be capable of dance as well. I liked great repertory, and pop music wasn’t it (for me). If that sounds persnickety for a teenager, remember that I was a classically trained singer from being in an adult church choir since I was 13.
I didn’t care about Britney Spears. I loved Bach and it showed.
For the record, I care about Britney as a listener. She’s great. I just wouldn’t sing her stuff unless I was doing it as a joke, because I couldn’t pull it off where people would take it seriously. It’s a totally different type of training.
I think I’ve said before that Beyoncé left HSPVA because she didn’t want to be classically trained, and that I continue to be devastated that it did not work out for her. But same vibe, we’re just opposite. She didn’t want to learn everything I’d been taught about being able to blend into a choir, breath control specific to that kind of music, etc. It’s a lot. By the same token, I didn’t want to learn the proper breath control to sing whatever it is the Star Spangled Banner is now in professional football. Whitney Houston doing it in four was the high point. ::looks pointedly at other pop stars:: No one will ever be her, and I knew that I’d only be a cheap imitation. I don’t want that for me, or anyone else. Do what you do and make it count.
Since my dad had left the church, I also got a job in hopes of getting my own spending money. I was 16, so no one thought anything of screwing me over to save themselves, like making me pay things back when I was short on the register when they’d been stealing from the drawer. I’m bad at math, so of course it was all my fault when the drawer was missing $50 at the end of the night. Of course it should come out of my paycheck. It’s what a teenager owes a national corporation, right?
I would never sue them over lost wages, but I would get a kick out of it if they sent me a product and swag box if someone is reading who thinks such a thing could happen at the company. I once proposed to Zyrtec on Twitter and told them they were paying. Then, they later kidded me about forgetting our anniversary and I said, “how do you think I feel? You didn’t get me anything.” The proposal rocked, though….. that I had 99 problems but a itch ain’t one.
I worked for SuperCuts, and in this instance I am not talking about the company. I am talking about the sleight of hand with my own team, not every employee who ever worked there. I mean, I was great at my job in retrospect. They had me, so you’re definitely safe in giving them as much money as you want. I still look back on my time as magical because things that are commonplace today were introduced while I was an employee, most notably, American Crew (for which I am grateful… white people pomade). I think the Paul Mitchell Tea Tree line came out then, too, a total game changer. It was also amazing learning the jargon of how to tell people I want my hair cut so that there’s less room for a mistake.
It doesn’t always work, but it helps.
By the time I graduated from high school, I had set myself up for life in terms of my opinions on everything that is still true about me today. The only thing that’s changed is that I call myself out as I am, bisexual, instead of telling the world I’m a lesbian while not thinking that way, because that label wasn’t something I gave myself. I just have to be louder about being bisexual in a heterosexual relationship than I would if I was actively partnered with a woman, because you can see it with every kiss.
The one thing I didn’t see coming that I didn’t know I needed was dating a bisexual man. That way, we still have all the same cultural references, though I’m older and have more insurance. He doesn’t care whether I look high femme or butch because in one outing, we’d look depressingly heterosexual and in another, it’s a whole bear/twink mood without all the lights, drum & bass, and Ecstasy.
To stop joking, we’ve both been bullied for being queer. That trauma for him is a different playing field, because mine is rooted in embarrassment. I’m either gross and wrong or a plaything given to men, because why wouldn’t women being with women be nothing but a male fantasy? Why would women have agency in this society? Straight women don’t even have it.
Men harass me by seeing me with my then-wife (Kat, in this example) and asking us to kiss in front of them, or come home with us, or any number of things that hurt way more than they would have if it was original. Those examples aren’t all Kat, when it was 2000, or even Meag, when it was 1996. It’s all picking at the same scar every day of my life, because I heard about it before I experienced it. Being an empath made me experience that trauma before it was direct. I felt it on my skin when it happened to my friends.
For men, it’s horrible that they want to be female, their tormentors’ perception and not reality….. but seriously…. As if being female was the worst thing that could happen to a person…… hello…. All connected. Except men don’t stop with horrible comments with other men. It often leads to outright violence and death. I only say this because it happens to men more frequently, but violence against lesbians exists.
It’s a shared understanding, a shared library of images that create empathy. To me, it is especially important because the one thing I really hated about dating Matthew had nothing to do with him at all. It was gaining heterosexual privilege for the first time and rebelling against it hardcore. I remember one instance we’d gone to meet some of his friends, and someone did that thing where they looked around before they told a gay joke, and I wasn’t the picture of volatility you see here.
I said nothing, and just felt all of it. I know now that I should have ripped the dude a new one, but I didn’t want to upset the apple cart when I was meeting my boy’s friends the very first time. I was also like, 24, maybe 25. I was older than Matt, but still a child in my eyes now. I didn’t know what to do, and I was scared.
So now I can look at that and say I’m in a better place because Zac has probably been there. He’s just as out and proud as me. On Wednesday, I noticed right off that his nails were painted teal and he was wearing flowy pants. He’s the head of the queer group at his intelligence agency. I don’t know how he sees himself, but I see him as George Smiley if he had grown up like us. (Smiley is the protagonist in John Le Carre’s most famous series about MI-6.) I showed up in a black t-shirt, jeans, and tie-dyed pattern Crocs. I later put on a navy hoodie and my CIA baseball cap- some of you will remember that was a gift from Zac because he has the badge that allows you into Langley, but not the capability to escort visitors. I wear it almost every day like I’m pitching the afternoon game. Now do you see how we’ve inverted the binary? From the outside, I’m the butch and he’s the femme…. And no one would ever guess that we were into each other unless we weren’t holding hands or being cute to the point of nausea (our MO most of the time).
Editor’s Note: I learned that it was important on the train Thursday, when a young girl at the Franconia Springfield Metro said, “I want to be CIA, too.” I told her that I wasn’t CIA, I just had cool friends, and to call me when she got there. 😛
“Grown up like us” is emotional shorthand for Zac and I having to deal with the perils of being queer from a very, very young age. Zac entered the military under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” At the same time, I’m not dating a gay man and he’s not dating a lesbian just for kicks. We’re not playing at anything, just being the most authentic versions of ourselves.
I have always been that in some capacity, but I have graduated. You don’t learn that you are brave and unique until someone tells you. In the moment, you’re just doing what you have to do to survive.
In high school, I learned that I would HAVE TO be unique.
My freshman year, I told one person I was gay and by the end of the day, everyone knew. In retrospect, it was the best decision I ever made, because any bullying that came my way was tiresome. They couldn’t blackmail me anymore, and they couldn’t get away with anything more original because they weren’t that clever.
Because I was moving out of the gay neighborhood in Houston to a suburb where everyone knew each other, I went back in the closet…. To save my father’s job according to my mother. My father didn’t care. He knew me. We’d met. But guess which message I heard?
Being in the closet for a school year was amazing and gave me the worst panic attack of my life. Both of those things were true. I would not have wanted to miss the chance of being in marching band, would not have traded my conductors (Mr. Matysiak and Mrs. Bueller [really]) for anything in the world. I would never have wanted to miss learning that I was not only a singer, I was damn good at it. I stood on the shoulders of giants, and my mother accompanied me through it all, literally.
She played the piano for my solos no matter what she was doing, and in seventh and eighth grade, she played for all my friends, too. This was not a small feat, as most piano accompaniments for solos are orchestra reductions. So, my mom hurt me a lot, and she also came through in equal measure. Not only was the piano our lighthouse when we were ships passing in the night, she left it to me in her will. She didn’t give me a setting. She gave me the main character.
In terms of hurting me, all of the panic I’d been feeling that year came to a head when my senior best friend asked me to come with him to his prom. He was literally on the way to pick me up, my hair and makeup done to perfection, when I melted down physically. It caused a monster reaction, a rash, shortness of breath, everything- so the doc came over and gave me a shot of Depomedrol and off we went.
That was the first time that I learned everything can be fixed before school, you’re going. It only backfired once. I had the flu, and Tamiflu was YEARS ahead in the making. If it had, I would have been going to school without spreading it. To be perfectly fair, I’d woken up feeling a little miserable and bloomed at school. It wasn’t a big deal right up until it was.
Actually, that leads to a really funny story. One of our parishioners while I was at HSPVA was a Republican judge, so I went to their convention in like, ‘92, before they were complete nut jobs. While I was there, I bought a button down that was made of real American flag material, and the colors were very dark. It looked sharp…. Or so I thought. I was really sick on my birthday, and nothing would have stopped me from going to school that day in my new threads. I get there and first period was band…. And if Jack Lucas had been there, he would have been SO PROUD OF HIS STUDENTS.
Editor’s Note: I also went to St. Martin’s Episcopal as a teen, where I was unimpressed with President George H.W. Bush….. and thrilled to meet a former Director of CIA (of course). Therefore, it always thrills me that Jonna Mendez managed to fool him, because of course now I know we have mutual friends…. And I am laughing so hard that I can’t even breathe right now.
Those motherfuckers broke out in four part harmony, because they were musicians. They could sing their parts blind. Then, they get to “free,” and Dan Kovaly hits the fucking *cymbals.* I was just as self-deprecating then as I am now, so I thought it was absolutely hilarious while still mortifying. Later, my mom and dad brought me my favorite food, cherry chicken from Ruggles. We got to eat lunch together in the commons, and it was sad that there wasn’t a Happening that day.
Happenings at HSPVA are code for what would now be called a flash mob, probably. You never knew when they were coming, and it was always unique no matter which art area was on showcase. It’s one of the core memories that made me who I am.
This is another story that goes all the way back to my very first girlfriend ever. Her name is Meagan (I called her Nutmeag.), and she’s so Canadian there’s probably a moose in her driveway right now. The way we met is mildly interesting. My 11th grade best friend was friends with her, but I didn’t know Meag at all. I just knew of her.
My senior year of high school, she ended up in my English class. Her desk was diagonal to mine, and I cannot tell you how many hours I spent staring at the back of her head, wondering if she liked me.
I had to wonder because Dr. Hudel Steed, our English teacher, laid down the law. This class is going to be hard as shit, get someone’s number. I had an opening on the first day of school to meet her, so I knocked over three desks to get to her. Why wouldn’t I? My best friend had vouched for her character. She was already in.
I also didn’t know what kind of gift I was opening when I walked through my front door and the phone was already ringing that afternoon. She was desperate to ask a pointed question that she thought was veiled, and I knew it even then. She wanted to know if it was safe to come out to me, and the question was “why do you wear pride rings?” I could sense where she was going and said, “I’m gay. Do you have a problem with that?” She said, “no, I’m a Melissa Etheridge fan.” From that day forward, my life was never the same in too many ways to enumerate. Our first kiss rendered me absolutely helpless, the way a first kiss is supposed to feel. It was Princess Diaries all up in that shit.
Therefore, I love Canadian everything…. Including Roots, a clothing brand that offered to make the kit. One of the pieces was a pork pie hat, which Roots sold separately to customers. I bought it, and brought it with me on a cruise to Mexico years and years later.
The hat was for cold weather, but it was Spring Break in Enseñada. The Pacific Ocean is cold even when temperatures are three digits. I was standing on the deck looking down at the pool when a woman came up to me and pointed at some swimmers. She said, “see all those people down there? We’ve been wondering what kind of athlete you are for 20 minutes.”
So, of course I turned around and yelled “I’m a SKIIER!”
I also learned that while Meagan might not think my impression of her is dead on, no one noticed I wasn’t actually Canadian. I could have spoken in my own accent, but I didn’t. I played that character for all it was worth and oh my God that’s why Tony and Jonna Mendez are my favorite authors…. It’s all coming together now. THAT’s why I love the Argo script so much…. “Canadians don’t pronounce the second t.” “No one will know that.” “If you are caught, they will find someone who knows that.” OMFG. I wanted to know if my cover as Meag would hold up when when my constructive criticism thus far had been “it’s good you’re still trying.” For the record, it’s “Turrono,” frequently spoken so fast it sounds like “Tron-o.”
I just learned things that were deeper than mere mimicry, like when Canadians tend to say “eh” and when they don’t. It’s not just being able to imitate someone, but to understand the things that have informed why they do them. To understand how to say “house” and “mouse” like I was born in Alberta while also understanding that it is annoying as fuck when people ask if “y’all have Christmas on the same day.”
I just watched an exploratory criticism of “Vincent and the Doctor” that I really love. It talks about depression, because there’s who The Doctor thinks is an aggressive alien chasing after Vincent, because only he can see it. The Doctor has to use a gadget with a mirror so he can see the alien in reverse, and it’s not aggressive. It needs help.
Which the creator of the video calls the alien representative of depression itself. It’s a monster only you can see. Depression is also not feeling sad, necessarily, because there is no rhyme or reason to it. I could be panicky, I could be absolutely devastated regarding something, so that pain also mixes in…. But mostly, depression is the absence of emotions at all. People, places, and things don’t matter. You have to drag yourself everywhere, even into the shower or actually completing any task that would make you feel better…. Because of course, it’s what depression thinks you deserve. It knows the very best lies to use against you…. That you are worth nothing, that you are not deserving of being able to take care of yourself, because you don’t matter to anyone… and if you do matter, you think it’s just because other people are being nice to you.
Because who could ever love dumbasses like us?
If people do show that they care, genuinely, you still can’t accept that fact… because depression knows the very best lies to use against you. It is an alien who needs help, a foreign brain infection. Depression thinks that it’s saving you from pain, because you think you’re a burden on everyone, especially when they tell you that.
I’m Bipolar II, which is like regular manic depression but without caffeine or calories. Nothing to get you going at all. You’re just hanging in until you get just enough hypomania to function out in the world without being stuffed full of bravado and confidence that is unparalleled and leads to extremely poor impulse control. One of the worst thoughts I’ve had after an appointment with a psychiatrist. He said that he thought I was bipolar, not unipolar, and switched out my medication. I was over the moon that I’d found a really great doctor, and eventually learned once my protocol changed that a mood stabilizer was the right answer.
I called Dana in tears, the kind that threaten to swallow you up. I said, “I don’t want to be Sally Field in ER!” If you know, you know.
Bipolar I is so different from Bipolar II that there’s not really a direct comparison. You don’t go up in to true mania, where you’re buying ten cars in one day or putting yourself in more danger than is necessary because you like the thrill.
Bipolar II is a lot of depression without coming back up. My hypomania presents as insomnia. I don’t get it very much, but I wish I did. Depression is a complete shitshow, because it will rob you of thinking you deserve anything at all. You’ll pick the most toxic person in the room because you actually think that being treated poorly is almost necessary. You’re still getting some contact comfort, and still focused intensely on how bad you should feel for inconveniencing other people. If they’re crazy, too, you figure that taking on their pain so they can function is the one thing you can do to prevent them walking away. It generally doesn’t work for either party, because two people care about them to the point of losing ourselves. For unipolar and bipolar depression, this pattern occurs a lot… because again, you think your job is to take care of everyone else so that they see you actually have something valuable to contribute to the conversation, because if you’re dealing with your own pain, adding on someone else’s is a no-brainer. If they’re not a narcissist, you’ll get support and love because they may not be able to sympathize, but empathy goes a long way.
But that’s a healthy relationship, and we don’t find those, because it would show self worth and esteem, and we don’t do that either. Why would we? We don’t even like ourselves…. And from the Gospel of RuPaul Charles, “if you can’t love yourself, how in the HELL are you going to love someone else?”
I feel it’s time for a snarky reminder that RuPal is a drag queen. Get out of here with your bullshit. You’ve loved RuPaul since high school. “But I’m a Cheerleader,” “RuPaul’s Drag Race,” and the list goes on.
I didn’t think of it before, but I’m thinking of it now. Minorities are more adept at thinking they’re trash than the cis, straight, fits in everywhere sort of person…. And white people are awful. Full stop. It’s embarrassing. Even though I’m white, I use the queer card everywhere because I want to take people’s slurs and stupid comments because it makes me feel less like a traditional white person and more like the minority I really am.
Being queer is great if you keep to yourself, because no one can tell if you’re queer just by looking at you…. Even though I joke about it all the time. For instance, “are you pregnant?” “You can see me, right?” But the hard truth is that I am not having the same experience of the US as people of color. I could absolutely hide from it. I want to marry a man. To me that says bi pride flags everywhere and Daniel becoming a part of my community because Cora will also be there. Kidhausen and Lesliehausen are a team for life.
The suffix -hausen is used to represent the best of the best of the best. So of course my favorite movie is now “Argohausen.” Seriously, I love the dialogue.
“I should have brought some books for prison.” “Oh, they’ll kill you long before prison.” “If you get caught, The Agency cannot claim you.” “They barely claim me as is.” “What’s your demographic?” “People with eyes.”
And the list goes on. My favorite that runs through my head when cooking in a professional kitchen is “I’ve seen suicide missions that had better odds than this.”
In case you were wondering, I did type all of it without looking up. I have seen it so much that I’ve memorized most of it. The only part I cannot do is speak Farsi…. But don’t think I haven’t tried to learn it by transliteration.
Tony Mendez is literally in the Top 50 spies to ever work for CIA.
There is an Argo line or conversation for every occasion. This is “He (meaning President Carter) says you’re a great American.” “A great American what?” “He didn’t say.”
But my favorite has to be when they go to present their very best bad idea… by far. “Careful. It’s like talking to those two old fucks from The Muppets.”
Things that really make me laugh are important, because it lifts my mood overall. I have learned that I am not the sort of person that can go without listening to music for more than five minutes, because it silences “The Committee.” You didn’t show up knowing what that meant, but if you have depression or alcoholism, you know. It’s the tapes in your head that tell you you’re no value add.
It’s why most people die of depression, and I will say it exactly that way. It’s a disease in the sense that the brain is an organ, focused on survival. It will do anything to protect you, because to it, protecting you means isolating. It’s “obvious” no one likes you. They can’t get away from feeling that we don’t deserve to be alive at all.
Because it’s the monster in your head, and the ghost out to get you. For a lot of people, it does. The one that hurt the most was Tommy Raskin, son of Jamie, because Jamie is brilliant and I had to watch him on TV while bleeding out emotionally because I know what it’s like when someone close to you dies. Every neuron in your body is re-wired to accept the loss and move on. Losing a parent or a child fundamentally changes you in a way that people who haven’t lost parents or children will never understand.
They don’t realize you are literally a different person than you used to be, and you can’t go back… especially when they look at your method of grieving and decide it’s unacceptable, because they also don’t realize that grieving is as individual as a fingerprint. Everyone reacts differently. For Nora Ephron, it was keeping her husband’s shoes because she thought he might need them. She’s right. It’s at least a year of magical thinking. The brain fog is interminable, like putting whatever you’re holding in the freezer whether you meant to or not. I thought my notebook was missing for days. It was in the pantry.
For me, grief was being “show mode” in public and unable to function when I was alone. I’m not sure I got out of bed more than a few times in the first month my mother died suddenly. She broke her foot and developed an embolism. In one way and one way only, it helped a lot to know that there wasn’t a doctor on earth that could have done any better. They would have had to catch it early on. When it blows, it blows. Periodt.
The part that was terrible was that I had just come home from church, where I talked to Sam, my choir director. She asked me if I would do a solo, and I asked her if it was okay to invite my mom to play for me.
I was writing a blog entry about it when my sister called and told me that mom was in the hospital. I wasn’t even finished with it when Lindsay called to tell me that she died. She died and I was so far away, when I still had a car and was “threatening” to take a road trip home. She said she thought it was a bad idea, and I have been kicking myself ever since.
I went into complete shock mode, putting away my emotions because I knew that a crowd of people I didn’t know would be filing past me to give condolences, or coming up to me at the potluck afterwards, etc. The worst comment I got was that a woman said she knew how I felt, because her cat died. It’s not the same playing field, Karen.
No one saw me cry because I was incapable of doing so. Falling apart in front of strangers is not something I do, ever. I could cry in front of this audience because I was alone in my room, and it felt natural. I just left it that way, even though the moment I started telling the story of how I met Jonna Mendez, Tony’s widow, made my stomach clench and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop from showing grief.
Showing grief is uncomfortable, almost as uncomfortable as being depressed. People don’t know what to say about your loss, and you are mindful that people have no frame of reference for what you’re going through, because again, grief is as individual as a fingerprint. Sometimes people who are grieving are surprised that you’re not doing it the same way they did.
It felt like “you’re not doing it right, Leslie.”
I wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t turned on my inner sociopath (in terms of cutting off your emotions, not nefarious activity). It was the only way I would survive the onslaught of being thrown into public, akin to being dropped in the middle of Tehran without language skills, a map, or anything else that would have been helpful.
I felt like Marcus Brody in “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.”
“Marcus? Marcus would get lost in his own museum.”
Oh my God it’s just the truest thing ever. You only think you’re prepared, but you’re not, because you have no idea what your brain is going to do to protect you. It might be close to how you think you’d react, but it’s a sure bet it’s going to be absolutely nothing like what you thought you would feel. It’s also a different scenario when a parent dies suddenly at a young age rather than you getting to enjoy them until you’re both relatively ancient. I feel like I got robbed of at least a decade.
If someone is dying slowly, you have the opportunity to ask questions, get educated on what’s going to happen, make major life decisions for them, etc…. Most people think of it as a burden to become a carer. My response in my head is generally “fuck off,” and not because I’ve suddenly started to hate this person. It’s because they seem ungrateful that they get to watch their parents finish their lives instead of it being stolen.
My mother would have hated every minute of it, and would probably be grateful that she died suddenly. This is because she would literally rather die than let us take care of us. Depression is genetic, and she was never diagnosed or treated. You could just tell, because you think you’re good at hiding it until someone finally tells you they can see you and it’s astonishing how much you think you’re hiding it. If I had to take a guess, my mother was dysthymic, which is a low level of depression that presents all the time. You don’t feel bad enough to go to the doctor because you think it’s just a case of “the blues.” You’ll get over it soon. And then you don’t realize that ten years have gone by.
But it’s a bullshit diagnosis because I’m not an actual doctor. I just call ‘em like I see ‘em, and I’ve had enough experience with crazy people to see them. Acknowledge that they’re hurting and try to help. I have actually been to what poet Mary Karr calls “the mental Marriott.” It was great meeting my cohort because all of a sudden, I had seven people who understood me completely.
Because they too have a monster in their heads and a ghost out to get them.
I went to the pub earlier and stuffed myself with brunch. I got everyone sitting at the bar addicted to Crosswords With Friends™ as I gobbled up banana custard French toast, eggs, Irish bacon, coffee, and orange juice. I was pleased with myself because I just showed up and sat down, and by the end I was specifically invited back every weekend by “the brunch club.”
The way I got into the conversation is that they were having an argument over something and I asked the woman next to me what it was all about. They were arguing over the capital of Canada…. whether it was Montreal or Toronto (pregnant sigh). I said, “it’s Ottawa.” The woman next to me said, “I like how you said that without missing a beat.” I told her that I was 100% certain I was right unless they’d moved it in the last few years.
I had my Slumdog Millionaire moment of hearing the question and video of Meagan and me in the beer store buying a two four of Alexander Keith’s popping up because who can paint a living room without beer?
I was not invited to Ottawa just to paint Meagan’s living room. I was invited for Thanksgiving, and like the wingnut I am, didn’t look up the date for Canadian Thanksgiving because I thought I knew it.
I didn’t.
CDN Thanksgiving revolves. Who knew?
It ended up being a better trip that way, though, because I got Meag, her then-wife Deah, and her daughter to myself instead of having to share them with all their other friends and relatives.
When Meag and I were actually together, I thought seriously for a few months about immigrating to Canada, but I didn’t really get the concept of what an enormous change it would be until over a decade after we broke up, because believe it or not, I never made it there while we were dating…. and not because we only knew each other online. We were high school sweethearts and when Meagan graduated from high school, she went back to her home country while her parents stayed in Texas.
Seeing Canada for real was learning how European it is compared to the United States, and while I picked up the English dialect quickly having heard Meagan use Canadian slang “my whole life,” there was still a feeling of dissonance.
After a few days, though, I could totally see myself living there. Ottawa felt strikingly similar to DC and Portland, Oregon…. or rather, if the two cities got together and had a baby.
When I was looking for a change of scenery in 2015, Ottawa would have been a good choice for me if it hadn’t meant immigration and losing my US Citizenship (I would have wanted to be able to vote). Ultimately, I made the right choice. I’ve been in love with DC since I was eight. I feel the magic of Washington like most people feel the romance of Paris- it vibrates inside me.
Things happen here that would never happen anywhere else. For instance, I got to hear Jonna Mendez, former Chief of Disguise at CIA, talk about her latest (and her husband Tony‘s last) book. That was on 31 May, and this weekend I finally found a way to send her the blog entry I wrote after I came home that night. She told me it was wonderful and Tony would have loved it as well. It was a huge moment in my life, as it is for all authors when their favorite authors pay them a compliment.
Ok, I am being tame. It was hug from Jesus level awesome and my skin is still buzzing. I feel so good about it that my energy could jump start a car battery.
If I could, I would bottle that feeling and use it as hair product.
Being so high on a compliment is tempered by my anger at unfixable situations.
On September 10, I will be 42 years old. I will always remember 41 as The Year of Acceptance™ (pregnant sigh).
Because of medical malpractice in the delivery room, I have cerebral palsy. It’s a mild case, and my parents never agreed on how much to tell me about what happened. My mother didn’t want me to know anything at all, to pretend that my mental and physical health were just like everyone else’s. My dad was always on the side of truth, but as soon as he would start talking about it, my mother would either A) disagree loudly II) change the subject.
My mother always said that my dad’s memory was wrong or that he was just making a big deal out of nothing.
My sister found the report in which I was diagnosed, and for the first time, I saw my pediatric neurologist’s impressions of me. I was a little over a year old, and presented like I was only six months. I didn’t have the physical reactions of someone my age, and my muscles couldn’t support me. I have never caught up to my peers.
So basically I’ve just been living life thinking that I was perfectly able-bodied, to not so great results. I’ve done a lot of research, and CP doesn’t get worse as you age. It is what it is. However, its implications are bigger. For instance, I don’t fall more than I did when I was younger, but I do fall harder. And with monocular vision, it doesn’t matter how careful I think I’m being. There’s always something I’m not going to see and either I run into it or it runs into me. I spend a lot of time accidentally apologizing to inanimate objects.
Some of my muscles are way more developed than others, so while doing one physical thing I may look completely normal, and then during a different activity, you can immediately tell I’m struggling.
This year was about accepting why as fact. I stopped beating myself up that I wasn’t faster in the kitchen. I was never built for it in the first place.
You don’t come to acceptance of something as big as CP in one moment or even in one day. It’s too big, too complicated. It took me a long time to stop beating myself up that there was no such thing as being born with floppy muscles and being miraculously cured of it while still being more of a klutz than all of my friends put together.
It’s also confusing because my symptoms are so mild, because it’s taken a long time to figure out where I excel and where I, in a word, don’t. It’s a long haul from thinking that you can do anything you want to taking your physical limitations seriously…. that they aren’t a series of unfortunate events but consecutive verses to the same song.
I’m just trying to figure out where I excel so that I stop beating myself up. It’s not that I got a bad hand, I’ve just been playing blackjack while the rest of the world plays poker.
The archetype most people have of a spy, if we’re talking real vs. reel (seriously, James Bond is a spy and everyone in all his movies knows what he looks like, what he drives, and what he drinks?), can usually be summed up in two words. They are “aloof” and “inconspicuous.” I say “aloof,” because the more distant you are with people, the less they can get to know you…. also, many less lies to handle under cover in terms of what you told whom. Additionally, others won’t be able to identify you later, because they don’t have details to jog their memories. “Inconspicuous” has to do with being the person you’d never notice so that case officers can move more freely.
For instance, I would make a terrible spy in terms of having the right skills for the job, but perfect in my appearance. I am a white woman over 40, who, dressed correctly and wearing a baseball cap, can also pass for a teenage male; I could even embody a tween if I dyed my hair.
For the woman over forty cover, all I would need is a sweatshirt with appliquéd school buses, pencils, notebook paper, and perhaps a chalk board for good measure. The micro SD full of intel would, of course, be hidden in a tote bag full of kid-level math books and flash cards.
The International Spy Museum speaks to this with a t-shirt slogan- a lot of them say “I Was Never Here” (the link to this particular t-shirt is cool as hell, fyi).
As Chief of Disguise (ten years apart) it was Tony and Jonna Mendez’s job to create these personas (link is to my source material), including the tiniest details. For instance, a rock in your shoe or an ace bandage around one knee completely changes your walk. An artificial palate can change the way you talk- perhaps adding a lisp. During Jonna’s lecture last night, she talked about Tony’s first quick change to show his superiors it could be done. 45 seconds and he changed from a man in a business suit carrying an attaché case to an old woman pushing a small shopping cart (the briefcase expanded).
After hearing her speak, the characterization of aloof and inconspicuous was demystified. I still believe that case officers have to be that way under cover, but in person, as herself, she couldn’t have been more warm and gracious. Her talk was a little under an hour, but it could have been three hours and I wouldn’t have moved. Not only was she personable, she was quite funny.
She told a great story about Tony… that he was originally hired by the CIA as an artist, and thought, “what would the CIA want with an artist?” The answer was painstakingly recreating passports, both foreign and domestic. He was also a genius at copying, and did a demonstration at the Spy Museum years ago in which he taught an entire room of people how to forge Vladimir Putin’s signature.
There were many, many laugh lines over the evening… there were also a few stories that were quite scary.
American case officers are not known for those Bond moments where everyone in the room is shot. Their mission is to get in, get what they need, and leave… often more quickly than you would think an intelligence operation would take. In Moscow, this is not the case. If you are caught spying against Russia, you are tortured and executed…. because to simply execute someone would be too kind.
Aleksandr Ogorodnik (code name Trigon) was recruited by the CIA as an asset, and because he knew what would happen if he was caught, requested what is called an L pill (a cyanide capsule). He said that he would not work for them without it. This was debated by the directors for a long time (due to the psychological damage done to the carrier, and its predilection for premature use) before they ultimately agreed, and hid it in a pen.
Trigon was caught in 1977, and offered to write a full confession. He then bit down on his pen, and was dead before he even hit the floor.
Trigon’s death was a tragedy, and not just because he was a human who knew he was better off killing himself. He was known as the best asset the CIA had, providing an exponentially larger volume of intel than others. The reason he was so critically important is that Moscow got so dangerous for American case officers that they had to recruit Russian assets, because the risk was too high that they’d get caught, even in disguise.
The only person that managed it was a woman named Marti Peterson. Jonna explained that since the KGB never, ever used females as operatives, they assumed that the Americans wouldn’t, either. She was never under surveillance, and was able to get away with being Trigon’s contact for over a year before she was caught. The only reason she’s still alive is that the Russians declared her a Persona Non Grata with diplomatic immunity and sent her packing back to the US.
The story is a miracle because as she was being interrogated, she was sitting at a large table where all her spy gear that the KGB confiscated was laid out in front of her one by one. Though I don’t know why she was considered a PNG instead of a case officer is beyond me, but my first guess is misogyny… which is alive and well today, but even more prevalent in the late 1970s.
It was about that time that Jonna ended her talk and started a Q&A session. I was second in line, and my question was about Argo. “First of all, let me say that I am sorry for your loss [she thanks me]. When did you and Tony meet John Chambers (the Hollywood makeup guy), and have you worked on any other movies? The one that occurred to me today that you might have been involved in was Atomic Blonde.”
First, she told me that Tony had a lot of friends in both Hollywood and magic, but didn’t know how he was introduced (I forgot he didn’t meet Jonna until years later). Then, her personality seemed to flip. She became a total product of her training. She gave me The Look,™ a combination of a smile, a winky face, and “I can’t say.” She redirected to “perhaps we should hire you.” I thanked her for answering the question, and said “that bit about ‘perhaps we should hire you’ will live in my memory for the rest of my life.” The entire room broke up with laughter.
There were lots of people with questions, and my favorite was from a young woman who said, “it seems as if The Cold War is still going on, but yet our current administration seems to be pretty friendly with Russia. Could you speak to how one feeds the other?” Jonna said that if they were out and both had a drink in their hands, they could talk about it, but she didn’t want to get into politics. So, note to self. Invite her to have a drink.
I don’t know why it panned out this way, but I was a little annoyed that I was the only person in the room that said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Maybe other people were just afraid to acknowledge the spy in the room.
Before the lecture, I bought The Moscow Rules, and I also brought my copy of Argo, because she’s an uncredited author on it and I thought that was unfair.
I set “TMR” on the table and held Argo in my hands. I leaned in and said, “do you mind if I tell you a really quick story about this book?” She said, “about Argo? Sure.” I said, “at The Spy Museum’s old digs, they used to sell autographed copies. I didn’t have a job at the time, and I thought it was too much money to spend on a book. When Tony died, I realized that I had made a terrible mistake, and I wrote about it on my blog. My dad read it, and searched through every rare bookstore he could find. Two days later, it arrived at my house. I called him, crying hysterically, and he said, “don’t worry… that’s just what daddies do.” And that is the precise moment where my heart dropped into my stomach like a rock.
My story had made her start crying. I knew I’d pierced her public persona armor. Because my mother died in 2016, I knew it was the only thing holding her together. A string of profanities unleashed in my head, because I wish I had remembered other people had cried after that story and they didn’t even know Tony Mendez. She took the book from my hands and opened it lovingly, fingering Tony’s signature. She said, “I can really tell this was signed after the Parkinson’s had set in.” Under it, she added “+Jonna Mendez.” To redirect, she got serious and said, “so, are you looking for a job for real?” A shitstorm of pictures ran through my head as I pictured background checks that would put my family through the ringer and disclosing my Bipolar II diagnosis, getting rejected before I even got to talk to anyone that would take the time to know me. I said, “well, I am a professional cook.” She laughed and said, “well then, maybe I should hire you.” I don’t remember how it came up, but I also told her that I’d never gotten to see Tony before he announced he would no longer be doing public appearances. She said, “that’s such a shame. He would have really liked you.”
Then, she opened “TMR” and wrote, “For Leslie- Maybe we should hire you.” I shook her hand rather than asking if I could give her a hug, because I was feeling overly emotional and I knew she was, too. A hug would have undone us both. I told her it was such a pleasure to meet her, and the last thing she said to me as I walked away was, “I will remember you.” I walked very quickly to the women’s restroom, dropped my backpack, and cried my eyes out.
Feeling refreshed, I opened my Uber app and walked outside, desperately hoping that in some time, some place, we will meet again.
I am already dressed for the speaking engagement I am attending tonight. Jonna Mendez is going to present her newest (and Tony Mendez’ last) book, The Moscow Rules: The Secret CIA Tactics That Helped America Win the Cold War. The reason I am already dressed and ready to leave is that I am inexplicably anxious.
For those who are scratching their heads at why Jonna and Tony have the same last name, it’s because they were married for 28 years. Tony’s death this past January hit me extremely hard. Part of my anxiety is knowing in advance that I could be emotional, and because I’m going to be in front of his wife, I feel that they’re not really my emotions to have. I mean, I never met him (I wanted to, and I know for sure that if he was still alive and his Parkinson’s was under control, tonight would have been the night- he and Jonna were/are on the board at The International Spy Museum).
Even though he was not a personal friend and I can’t say I knew him, there are these authors that get under your skin to the point where you feel like you do. Tony is that author for me, and I am so glad that his stories did not die with him- that there are still more of his words for me to discover. After I finish The Moscow Rules, I’m going to read Spy Dust: Two Masters of Disguise Reveal the Tools and Operations that Helped Win the Cold War, which, according to Jonna’s web site, is often used as curriculum for new CIA recruits, and was the first book that the couple wrote together.
Attendees are encouraged to show up early, as Tony’s notes for this book will be on display. I will get to see his handwriting, his process, and hopefully some of his humor… which was always on display in real life. For instance, when Ben Affleck was cast as him in the movie adaptation of Argo, Tony said that he himself was much better looking.
It is in this portion of the evening, wandering around the glass cases, that I hope my emotions bubble up, because it will be more private. I’m not overly fond of emoting in front of a bunch of people, anyway. That being said, you cannot control feelings, and the more you try, the more they fight you to get out.
I am sure that I have mentioned this before, but one of the reasons that Tony’s books have become so precious is that my great uncle, Foster Fort, was in the military and later worked for both the C and DIA in different capacities.
He was killed in a helicopter crash when I was very, very young. I wasn’t old enough to have a real conversation with him after he retired, because he never got old enough to do so, and he couldn’t have told me anything while he was still working. In a way, he’s become a legend in our family, because when you work for either clandestine service, your family only gets to guess what you’re doing, and are often very, very wrong.
I mean, maybe he was just a helicopter pilot. I think that if you get tapped by the C and DIA, though, there’s probably more to it than that. When I think of Foster, I imagine him “putting on the last suit he’ll ever wear,” and I laugh to myself. I laugh even harder when I picture Agent O doing his funeral. But on a more serious note, it is comforting to feel as if our family has a connection to one of the stars on the wall at Langley.
I have no idea what kind of stories I would have heard, but I do know that I will hear some amazing ones tonight. You don’t get to be Chief of Disguise at CIA without living through a few. There are a TON of YouTube videos (this one’s my favorite– the Homeland gag KILLS me) of her talks and they’re all so interesting you wish they’d go on for three more hours. At the end of one video, the comment that literally sent tears and snot running down my face as I shook violently with laughter was, “who else was waiting for her to take off her disguise and find out it’s really a black dude?”
One of the best things she explains is “the quick change,” which is layering disguises so that you can take off clothing, glasses, etc. in 37 seconds, changing your appearance even while walking in the middle of a crowd. They have to be so precise that they are rehearsed beforehand, because as she says, you don’t want anyone to know you’ve escaped. You want them to think that they’ve lost you and it’s all their fault.
If Jonna doesn’t talk about it, I want to ask her if she was a consultant on Atomic Blonde, because for me, it personifies the Moscow rules. Even if she wasn’t, I still want to know if she’s seen it.
One of the Moscow rules that I learned from watching other videos (I’d give you a link, but I don’t remember which one) is that there was/is a shoelace code in the CIA. It’s to be able to pass messages to other agents without being noticeable. After I saw the video, I retied my Adidas Gazelles. I have no idea what they say, though. I hope I’m not telling other case officers that they’re being followed. Hey, in DC, you never know who’s next to you in a crowd.
Case in point: I once rode the Metro for four extra stops just because I got into a conversation with a female intelligence officer stationed in Germany during The Cold War. I don’t even remember how I got her to tell me that…. I just remember thinking in my head that she must be military or C/DIA because there aren’t that many black people in Germany.
My feet didn’t touch the ground for hours afterward, because even though I have no interest whatsoever in being a spy myself, I managed to engineer a conversation in which intimate details were spilled without her feeling as if a game was being played…. and there was. It was “how much can I get her to tell me in four extra stops?” It wasn’t like I was looking for secrets- she was retired and all her ops were UNCLASS. It felt like accidentally walking into Bletchley Circle.
Every time I think I would be a good case officer, I remember that I only speak English, I am often a little slow on the uptake, and more than likely I would trip, fall and die before I ever reached my contact…. which leads me to two scenes from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade:
Elsa: It’s perfectly obvious where the pages are. He’s given them to Marcus Brody.
Professor Henry Jones: Marcus? You didn’t drag poor Marcus along did you? He’s not up to the challenge.
Walter Donovan: He sticks out like a sore thumb. We’ll find him.
Indiana Jones: The hell you will. He’s got a two day head start on you, which is more than he needs. Brody’s got friends in every town and village from here to the Sudan, he speaks a dozen languages, knows every local custom, he’ll blend in, disappear, you’ll never see him again. With any luck, he’s got the grail already.
[Cut to middle of fair in the Middle East, Marcus Brody wearing bright suit and white hat, sticking out like sore thumb]
Marcus Brody: Uhhh, does anyone here speak English?
Then, later…………………
[Indiana and Henry are tied up]
Indiana Jones: Come on, dad. Help me get us out of here. We have to get to Marcus before the Nazis do.
Professor Henry Jones: But you said he had a two day head start. That he would blend in, disappear.
Indiana Jones: Are you kidding? I made all that up. You know Marcus. He once got lost in his own museum.
If this isn’t an accurate depiction of me as a spy, I don’t know what would be…. and I promise, it’s not that I’m short-selling myself. I just know myself too well. One of the overhead pieces of audio at The International Spy Museum talks about people “living by their wits,” and I thought to myself that if it were my wits, we were all gonna die….. accidentally, of course, but it’s not the sort of situation where you can say, “oops. My bad. Should I leave a note?” Being a good case officer is learning to think 50 moves ahead- knowing how to checkmate the king before you’ve even opened…. like Jonna and Tony.
I am honored to be an audience member for Jonna’s current book tour, and am looking forward to more. There are a few other cities in which she’s speaking, so if you’re close to any of them, I highly suggest you go.
I am so honored, in fact, that I have changed outfits four times…. just not in 37 seconds.
It’s amazing how two words can make your whole day.
It’s amazing how two words can destroy it.
The two words that lit me up like a Christmas tree were “someday perhaps?”
The two words that cratered me were “Mother’s Day.”
The words that made me smile were in reference to a future hangout with the aforementioned pen pal that I’d never actually met in real life, but had been writing to for years and years. When he/she (not giving anything away) comes to DC, it will be fun to laugh together, hug, and show them my version of my city.
My mother died in October of 2016, and as you can imagine, I’m not over it. Mother’s Day happens every single year, and I am sort of used to the onslaught of ads that pointedly ask if you’ve remembered to buy presents. The thing is, though, I’d forgotten Mother’s Day was coming up, and being reminded when I wasn’t thinking about it and wasn’t prepared was, in a word, awful.
So, like you do, I immediately bought a ticket to the opening of the new International Spy Museum that day. What I mean by this is that the museum itself is not new, they’ve just moved and expanded from F Street to L’Enfant Plaza. The only thing I will miss about their old digs is the Shake Shack around the corner. Because, of course, the thing you need after looking at espionage gadgets is a black and white malt. But get it to go. Every time I’ve been to a Shake Shack, seating was a nightmare.
I’m also saving some money for the gift shop. Last time I went, I got a t-shirt on clearance that says, “Argo @$#% Yourself” with the spy museum logo on the sleeve. It is brilliant, but I don’t wear it unless I’m hanging out with friends I feel comfortable with- not always a huge fan of meeting new people in a t-shirt that says “fuck,” even bleeped for child safety. Since I am such a huge fan of “Argo,” I found an old promotional t-shirt on Amazon for $10 that says, “the movie was fake. The op was real,” and has “Argo” in large letters with the skyline of Tehran cut into the bottom, plus the release date of the film. That one I wear all the time.
As I was telling a friend, I think I found the last piece of memorabilia available except the script, which I don’t need because I have the movie memorized, anyway. To say that I’ve seen it 25 times is an understatement by a large margin…. mostly because it is jaw-droppingly scary in some places and so damned funny I start laughing and can’t stop in others… especially every time Alan Arkin, John Goodman, and/or Bryan Cranston are on screen. To wit:
The setup is that O’Donnell (Bryan Cranston) is driving Mendez to an airport to get on the plane to Tehran.
O’Donnell: I’m required to remind you that if you’re detained, The Agency will
not claim you. Mendez: Barely claim me as it is. O’Donnell: Your ˜In Case Of’s’ good? Mendez: Just Christine (his son’s mother, they’re separated). Guess I should have brought some books to read in prison. O’Donnell: Nah. They’ll kill you long before prison.
For those of you who haven’t seen “Argo,” Ben Affleck both directed it and played Tony Mendez (emphatic fist shake at not casting a Hispanic actor), who rescued six diplomats who managed to escape from the embassy in Tehran and hide out in the Canadian ambassador’s house (the ambassador is brilliantly played by Victor Garber- also one of my favorite fictional spies as Jack Bristow in “Alias”).
I love how the movie is heartbreaking and hilarious in one breath. And no, I didn’t have to look up the lines, just can’t remember whether they’re at National or Dulles. And even though I’ve seen it more times than all my other favorites combined, I still cry at the end (not a spoiler, just the orchestral score).
My best wish for the new digs is that they have a huge Tony Mendez exhibit, because he died not too long ago and therefore, I would guess that even more of his ops are declassified. I am not totally clear on the rules, but I believe when you die you lose your covers, and the ops you’ve done can be made public… just not the ones that involve other people still alive and/or are still in progress. It’s possible some are still current, because I believe that after Tony left the CIA full time, he was still an occasional consultant. No one would want to lose all that experience permanently unless the person was really, really gone. I can’t imagine the grief inside The Agency, because he was a straight-up legend.
In a way, I think that subconsciously I picked going to the spy museum because Tony died to remind myself that I am not the only person in the world in grief.
I feel the same way about walking through cemeteries. To me, it is not morbid. It is an uplifting reminder that I am not alone in my sadness, situational depression, wondering what we’d be gabbing about if she were still here, etc. What I find is that as time goes on, the well of emotional injury gets more shallow, but there are triggers that pull me right back to her open casket, and how I felt completely disoriented, as if the world had started spinning the other direction and I could feel it.
One of those triggers was Tony’s death. I started crying and couldn’t stop, eventually realizing that it wasn’t all about him. Yes, it was devastating to lose a national treasure, but it was also a direct hit on how “gone” death truly means. And not to demean losing friends or extended family, but your reality doesn’t actually crack until you lose a parent. The entire universe seems different, and for a while, it loses all its color. You just wander around sort of half alive in grayscale.
I knew that I was getting better when I could make an effort to see friends, but at first, it was only other people who had also lost a parent. They were my people, the ones who I could confide in and share my rage at the dumb things people say when you lose a loved one, knowing innately that they mean no malice, so you can’t get mad at them directly. You can only get mad at the situation. Bad theology got on my nerves, didn’t measure up to one lady who compared the death of her cat to the death of my mother at church. It made my rage go to 11 and I had to excuse myself as not to emotionally rip her to shreds, because if I had waited even another three seconds, I would have taken her head off.
There’s only one other situation that makes me truly uncomfortable, and that’s the people who, upon hearing about your parent’s death, start crying because they can’t imagine what’s going to happen when their parents die, and that also happened to me in public (again, at church). The reason it’s tone deaf is because my natural reaction was “well, it’s a good thing I’m going through it and not you.” It’s just so egocentric that I cannot deal. It’s just another situation in which I just have to walk away, because I have not come up with an appropriate response, just a sarcastic one.
And that’s the thing. Because you know the people around you aren’t trying to hurt you, there’s just nothing that anyone can say that will make it better, you have no idea what to say in response to the awkward and often just stupid.
If you don’t know what to do, let me tell you. Grief is as individual as a fingerprint, and everyone processes differently, but this generally works across the board. Say “I’m sorry for your loss,” and offer to be present. And that’s it. The ones I loved the most during that time were people who showed up, but didn’t say much of anything. They just sat next to me as I stared off into space and were willing to listen if I could manage to talk. But they offered no advice on what to do, they just let me process verbally. It’s never a case of needing advice on what to do, especially if you haven’t lost a parent yourself. It’s giving the person room to breathe and never, ever comparing grief, even if you’ve been in the same situation. Because we’re not in the same boat, just the same ocean and trying to keep our heads above water. Suffering is universal, but we all have different ways of coping.
For instance, when I was actually in town for the funeral and with my sister and my dad, I hardly emoted at all because I was speaking at the funeral and I wanted to feel put together for it. I wanted to be able to be funny, because the eulogies I enjoy the most are the ones that offer real insight into the person. My mother was a church musician almost her entire life, starting at 12 or 13. So my opening line was, “this is the only funeral Carolyn Baker’s ever been to where she wasn’t working.” It had the desired effect. The entire congregation just broke up.
I am also quite socially anxious, and only three people I knew besides my family came to the funeral, so I had to put on a mask and a suit of armor to deal with being in a HUGE crowd where I knew practically no one. The mask and the armor are extroversion to an Oprah-like level, while inside I am shaking and counting the seconds until I can get home. In short, I didn’t look like someone in grief until I flew back to DC, where I only got out of bed sporadically for about three months. I allowed myself to completely fall apart, just not in front of anyone. I did once, and it was terrifying, so I never did it again. I gave lip service to letting people in, and then I completely isolated, only emoting through e-mail or crying into my pillows when no one was home. I couldn’t even bear crying that was loud enough for my housemates to come running, and they’re people I’d trust with my life.
In public, I became stoic and divorced from my emotions, because feeling even small emotions led to a flooding out I couldn’t stop. It was better not to start, because it would stop me from engaging in conversation. Even when I was with friends, there was a risk I wouldn’t take- being there, but not present….. people talking at my body while my soul was out there somewhere, unable to respond appropriately with laughter or empathy or whatever the situation needed…. as well as just nodding and smiling because I could hear people talking, but I couldn’t understand what was being said. It became background noise.
In essence, compartmentalization was necessary to have a fighting chance at moving on.
I thought I knew grief from bad breakups, and it was a wake-up call to realize how differently devastating this grief continues to be.
That’s because even though you gain and lose people to circumstances throughout your life, there’s still a small chance they’ll reappear. You apologize for being shitty people to each other and as long as the apology comes with changed behavior, it will generally stick…. or as I call it from a stolen line, “resurrection happening in the middle of the mess.”
As an aside, Easter is a very important holiday for me, because I don’t generally celebrate Jesus’ resurrection literally, but the way we resurrect ourselves, both individually and in community.
When a person dies, as opposed to a relationship, you lose hope. You lose the future. And if the person dies relatively young, you get angry at having the years stolen away in which you feel entitled. My mother was 65. She died just months after her retirement from teaching- she never even got to enjoy it. What I miss the most is that I thought we could go to church together more often, because she wasn’t working. Even when she took time off to come and visit me, she’d never take time off from church as well. When she died, she was completely free, because her church had so few members that they decided to close, and she hadn’t found a new church yet. I’d already started looking through solos because I thought I had my favorite accompanist back, and I’d already talked to my choir director about it.
My choir director and my mother were cut from the same cloth, and every time Sam played solo piano, if I closed my eyes I couldn’t tell the difference. When my mother died, it made me come unglued. I went to church for about six weeks after I came back from the funeral, and it was just long enough to realize that it was the biggest trigger of them all and I still can’t go back. I know I will; eventually I will get that trigger stamped back down to manageable, but today is not that day.
I do appreciate that Mike, the husband in the family I live with, keeps inviting me to his church, even though it’s relatively conservative United Methodist. I’d still take him up on it because I know the hymnal from front to back, as well as soprano descants for nearly everything. Singing would be the most important part of church for me no matter what the congregation believes.
In true introvert form, I want to be invited even if I don’t take you up on it.
Yesterday was both easy and difficult at the same time. I am not used to starting my day in the morning anymore. I go to work between 1500-1700, so I tend to wake up between 1100 and 1300, depending on how jazzed I am from the night before and what I have to do the next day. Flipping my schedule around for one day threw me into the “I got up on the wrong side of the bed and I’m very grumpy” set of feelings. I got two Rock Stars from 7-Eleven and I am not ashamed to say that I drank both of them. I did not sleep well the night before, and with prep, I have to be alert, because to not is to hurt oneself… badly. For instance, my first job was par cooking French Fries, so that the people on the line only have to drop them in the fryer for a minute or two before they’re ready. Therefore, I was standing in front of a 350 degree fryer for almost two and a half hours. Had I been sleepy, that could have ended with blisters, or waiting for them to bubble. Even when I’m at the top of my game, accidents happen. I think I burned off one of my fingerprints on Wednesday. I got some ice on it immediately, so no blister bubbled, but for the moment, at least, I have no feeling on the pad of my left index finger and part of my thumb.
I was proud of myself, because since I was able to get ice and extraordinarily cold water on the burns immediately, it allowed me to keep working steadily. It’s a long story, but we’ve changed lead line cooks again, and it was magical. The same give-and-take that was there with the last one is still there with him. I got the compliment of my life- “I’m going to put you on all my shifts, because you can keep up with me, and I’m fast.” Also, I was absolutely kidding, but I told my kitchen manager, “of all the line cooks in all the world, you had to pick a Yankees fan?” Turns out, he’s actually a Mets fan, but from Brooklyn, so as he said, “whaddya gonna do?” I’m not even that much of a baseball fan, though I will watch it more easily than anything else, save soccer, especially if the Giants or the Dodgers are playing…. especially against the Astros. I’ve spent too many years of my life rooting for the Dodgers and the Giants to give up now.
Here, I root for the Baltimore Orioles, for a nerdy reason specific only to me. I can’t get behind the “Walgreens W.” Come to find out, the W belonged to the Senators first, which makes me feel sort of bad about it. Still. Just. Can’t.
Fonts matter. Also love that they call the Os park “Birdland.”
I do like Bryce Harper and his ever changing hair, though. Believe it or don’t, the rumor is that the Nats are thinking of trading him to the Astros.
I am sure that I will eventually get on board with the Nationals, only because it’s so much easier to take the Metro to the park than it is to get on the Marc to Baltimore. When I was thinking about moving from Houston to the Mid-Atlantic, I actually thought about Baltimore in addition to DC, because as I said then, “I’m really more of a John Waters than a John Boehner.” But again, what changed my mind was the public transportation infrastructure, because I know how to drive, but don’t. The traffic and parking around here suck. DC barely has room for the cars that the people own who live there. Bringing them in from Maryland and Virginia is just a “goat-ropin’ clusterfuck,” my favorite Texas swear.
Plus, because of supply and demand, the cost of parking for even a couple of hours is outrageous. As long as I have the time, taking the train is is easy. If I have to get somewhere fast, the cost of an Uber is infinitely less expensive than even buying a cheap cash car and trying to maintain it, plus insurance, plus parking if I go anywhere near “the city….” I have proven over time that I need a lot of it. Such a stereotypical woman driver who gives my gender a bad name. I would much rather zone out in the back seat with a good book or podcast.
For instance, I got a Facebook direct message from Dan, who told me she wanted to watch Argo with me, because it seemed like it was my favorite movie. I told her it didn’t seem like that, it was that. So even though I just watched it last Saturday, we watched it again last night. It was perfect over a glass of wine and some Wheat Thins, of which I am very proud I did not eat the whole box.
For that reason alone, it was nice to be done with work by 1600. It was also nice that I still felt caffeinated, because otherwise, I would have fallen asleep five minutes into the movie, especially after a glass of wine.
Meeting Dan has been one of the great blessings of my life, because not only did she fold me into her own life, but introduced me to a great friend circle as well. She is the connector- every friend I’ve hung out with over the past two years has invariably come from a chance meeting at one of her parties. Jaime lives the closest to me, in Columbia Heights, a quick trip down 16th street or a short train ride away. But even going out to Alexandria is faster on the train than I could drive it, because the traffic between Silver Spring and anywhere in Virginia is atrocious.
Every time, I am thanked for making the trek out there, but it is really no sweat. The yellow line connects two stops from my house (at Ft. Totten), and I can take it all the way to Braddock, which is one stop past National (the day I call it Reagan will never come unless I’m senile- which, incidentally, objects in mirror are closer than they appear).
Slowly getting ready for my interview at University of Maryland on Tuesday, mostly surrounding what I should wear. Business casual has changed so much over the years. I have no idea what I’ll see when I show up. For some universities, a collared shirt will do. For others, everyone will be in jeans and t-shirts. Generally for an interview, I wear a suit, and I will probably do the same now. Although funny story- when I interviewed at Marylhurst, one of the things they said to me after I started was, “when you walked in wearing that suit, we thought, ‘she is going to eat us alive.'”
I, in fact, did not.
I am the Type B poster child, so by the time I actually started, I was in jeans and t-shirts and/or Polos just like everyone else…. and like in all offices, a coat or a hoodie for my constant battle against the air conditioner. I am always thirsty and cold, the temperature made worse by drinking cold water. As I joke with my friends, “I drink a lot.”
At Alert Logic, everyone could hear me coming because I put ice water and an energy drink packet in my Nalgene, so it sounded every day like I was shaking a martini on the way to my desk. I’m surprised no one asked to taste it just to make sure. 🙂
We also had a free Starbucks coffee machine, so there were many days in which I overdid it, because hey, free latte. It was amazing because it didn’t taste like hospital coffee. I spend most days wired for sound.
Last night, I got a promotion of sorts. I was moved from pantry station to sauté. That means instead of salads, chips & salsa, brussels sprouts, hummus, etc. I was doing sandwiches, mac & cheese, and flipping burgers. I was low-key worried it would be a disaster, because changing stations on Friday night seemed like a bad idea… too fast and furious for me to think, “I got this.”
At the end of the night, I was so euphoric I could have lit up a car battery. It was insane how fast I moved, how many pans I had going at once, how many burgers turned out gorgeous. It was amazing, because what I have with our lead line cook is special… it’s clear communication, calls and “heards” and “all-days” without missing a beat.
In terms of burgers, we’ve switched from the grill to the flat-top, which I think is so much more gorgeous. The burgers are allowed to confít, a French cooking term for “cooks in its own fat.” My own rule for burgers, which I can’t seem to get across to other cooks no matter where I’ve worked, is “respect first contact, and only flip once.” Continually flipping them interrupts the beautiful crust that develops on the outside, keeping the meat juicy on the inside. I got the phrase “respect first contact” from Ferran Adrià of elBulli fame. I can’t remember which interview I read with him where it says that, but I think it was in Vanity Fair…. or not. I’ve slept since then.
Anyway, flipping the burger before the crust has had time to develop rips it off and tears the burger to shreds if you’re not careful. If the crust is intact, it will lift on its own. This is especially true of an open flame. The contacts are much deeper and further between, so the crust sticks to the contacts and if you flip it early, you’ve got rare (if not raw) ground beef flying at you…. and it’s hot AF. Additionally, on an open flame, the extra fat drips off, which just doesn’t taste as good unless the seal of crust is tight on both sides and the juice is locked in…. the thing that is missing from most, if not all fast-food. A really great burger takes time. I would rather wait an extra couple of minutes for something fantastic. It is also my joy to provide that fantastic to others.
I would have made all my past chefs very, very proud. I wish they could have been there to see it. The key is just not to get flustered and keep cooking, no matter how many orders come at you at once. Nothing helps more than a little Klonopin and a lot of caffeine with B vitamins. It leads you into this easy-yet-fast existence, because you don’t have the ability to get physically worked up, like heart and brain race. Of course there’s a storm around you, but you don’t take it in. It must work for me really well, because I got a lot of attaboys and “good jobs” last night from our lead line cook.
When I got home, I didn’t deflate like a balloon as I normally do. I was jazzed beyond belief. Perhaps that Mexican cola at the end of the night was a bad idea. 😛
It was just so life-affirming that I was baptized by fire and ended up walking through it unharmed.
In other news, my interview with University of Maryland is confirmed for July 31st, and I think it will go well because I have nothing to lose. An interview with Conan O’Brien taught me that. When he got the job as host of Late Night, he already had a great job writing for The Simpsons. He was happy- this was just another step in a different direction, and if he didn’t get it, he was content with the job he already had. It feels good to be in the same boat.
The new job is stepping out on a limb, because it’s sort of out of my comfort zone… but great things don’t happen if you’re not ready to approach the edge, unafraid to fall because you’re pretty sure you can fly. The reason that I say “sort of” is because I’ve been in IT a long time. There’s little difference between being trained at one support job and trained for them all. The “outside my comfort zone” part is that I am ridiculously in love with having my days free so that I identify as a writer first, cook second. Stepping toward the ledge is losing time and just rolling with it.
Tonight I’m off, though, because my kitchen manager is great about not making me work late on Saturdays, because I come in very early as the dishwasher on Sunday. I get everything ready before service, cleaning bathrooms and wiping down tables, etc. On the weekends, we serve lunch, which is why my shift starts between 0900-1000.
Tonight I am meeting up with a friend for dinner and a movie- Argo. I’ve hyped it up so much I hope she loves it. I’ve thought it was one of the best movies ever made since the moment it came out. She argues that the best movie ever made is But I’m a Cheerleader. As far as queer movies go, I’m not convinced, but she’s entitled to her opinion.
The teenager that played Graham is also in Argo, so perhaps that will carry some weight. I just can’t get over John Goodman. He absolutely steals the show, as he does in most media…. and I bet you can guess which t-shirt I’m going to wear. I think it has street cred with the International Spy Museum logo on the sleeve. You can still get a t-shirt with that most famous line, but not from them. They’re out. I got one of the last ones on clearance.
To me, it’s going to be interesting to see which movie quotes stick between us as inside jokes, because with everyone I’ve talked to after seeing it, they’ve been different. The one I use the most often actually comes from Bryan Cranston, who says, “brace yourself. It’s like talking to those two old fucks from The Muppets.” But that’s just one out of a hundred that I’ll pick on any given day…. usually “this is the very best bad idea we’ve got” or “…we did suicide missions in the Army that had better odds than this.” There are few conversations that cannot be made better with a funny quote from this movie… but don’t let them distract you from the drama.
It’s intense, which is why the comic relief is so important…. as important as comic relief in the kitchen when drinking from a fire hose also has better odds of success.
My dad read my last blog post, about how I’d wanted a signed copy of Argo: How the CIA and Hollywood Pulled Off the Most Audacious Rescue in History from the International Spy Museum, and how disappointed I was that they were sold out, and how I’d searched the Internet for a copy and couldn’t find one, etc. Maybe everything IS bigger in Texas, because when he searched for a copy, he found one. It is on its way to my house right now. Because of the cover, I think it’s an early edition, and comes with a Certificate of Authenticity. For the record, though, it was not $20, and does not come with a coffee mug. I do not need the Argo coffee mug. I know this because I saw it at the Spy Museum and it only holds eight ounces of coffee. So, while cool, utterly useless to me. The screenshot of the signed copy of the book and the words “deliver date” made me cry so hard that my dad couldn’t even understand me on the phone. Just unintelligible sobs of “it’s not even my birthday.” I was going to meet Lindsay for dinner, so I was crying as I got into my Uber and retold the story to the whole carpool, and then they were crying, too. The driver, a big teddy bear of a guy, wiped off a tear and said, “that’s just what daddies do.”
Then, we switched subjects. He said, “so, you’re going to the Metro station?” I nodded and he said, “then you’re going to my day job. I sell them the rail cars.” I got really excited telling him how much I loved the new ones with the better signage and the electronic voices that are loud and clear, rather than muffled and/or give no fucks. Then he puts his Metro access pass on the dash and drives me RIGHT UP to the entrance. I think he was showing off, and it worked. I was very impressed.
Lindsay and I grabbed some ceviche for dinner and frozen yogurt for desert. Then, we went back to her hotel and watched Shark Tank. I left around 9:30 and started walking toward the Dupont Circle Metro, realized I was going the wrong way pretty quickly, and proceeded not to care. I just walked. It was a tiny bit rainy- Portland spitting- and perfectly comfortable outside. The street lights shone and music spilled into the streets. I stopped for a drink at a bar with an AMAZING jazz band that I wanted to hear- the trumpet player being the main draw, of course, but the entire house was packed. I couldn’t find a seat anywhere, so I just left without buying anything…. although would have taken the trumpet and run if I could’ve- it was a Monette, unlacquered, with a sound as viscous as motor oil. Even on fast licks, one note oozed into the other, a brass Southern drawl. I don’t know the name of the band, or even where the club is. I was just out walking, and happened to pass it. It’s a true testament to a local band when there are no tickets being sold, it’s just a regular Wednesday, and the house is packed. I would have waited for a table if I thought there was a chance in hell that anyone was leaving.
Eventually, I made it to the U Street/African American War Memorial/Cardozo Metro on the Yellow Line, and made my way to Ft. Totten, where I transferred to Red. The train was delayed for quite a while pulling into the station, so I sat somewhere between Takoma Park and Silver Spring playing Solitaire on my phone. By the time we actually arrived, my bus had stopped for the evening, so I Ubered back home.
I walked upstairs to the sound of a movie in Arabic, obviously coming from Abdel’s room because he’s the only one on my side of the house that speaks it (the layout is that the homeowners have one side of the house and the renters have the other, with separate kitchens, bathrooms, etc.). Though Hayat speaks Arabic as well, I don’t know if Lebanon and Morocco have the same dialect. My friend Anthony says that if I’m going to learn Arabic, learn the Lebanese dialect first, not because it’s the easiest, but the most beautiful.
I believe him. Listening to Hayat on the phone is one of my favorite pastimes. She knows I’m not eavesdropping, I’m listening to the lilt of her voice. I felt the same way about Nasim, whose Persian phone calls reminded me of Tehran. Literally every time she started speaking, Cleared Iranian Airspace would start playing in my head. It was apt, as her own escape from Tehran is much worse than being rescued by Tony Mendez.
We’ve lost touch, but that is the book I was going to write before Nasim moved to New York, and unfortunately hasn’t been back since.
they’ve just moved and expanded from F Street to L’Enfant Plaza. The only thing I will miss about their old digs is the 
Stories That Are All True 