youmightaswell

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Bad Taste in My Mouth

An attempted palate cleaner:

Not sure if I ever mentioned this but I have an aversion to mint toothpastes. I find them distasteful. Now, yes, they tend to make your mouth feel clean and tingly which some non-mint types don’t – particularly children’s toothpaste brands boasting “Silly Strawberry” or “Beautiful Blueberry”. I tend to default to cinnamony ones like Close Up, pink Aim when I can find it, Dr. Bronner’s Cinnamon or Tom’s of Maine (but now every time I think of Maine I think of how they voted for Trump) Cinnamint.

But what I really like are unusual flavors. I recall years ago I found a bunch of interesting ones like Yogurt and Mocha for toothpaste that I loved. And more recently I have been LOVING the Rose Mint by Moon from Kendall Jenner but it is hard to find and goes for a whopping $15 online. It seems most non-mint flavors of adult toothpaste are extremely costly. I have a cilantro one and a lavendar mint one in bathroom cabinet waiting to be taken off the bench and get into the game as soon as the rose tube finishes.

Another amazing brand is Marvis. They have a slew of classic flavors including Jasmine (so good!), cinnamon, licorice and ginger mint.

But each year they make specialty flavors. Sometimes these come in really artsy boxes.

A limited edition flavor I got last year for Xmas was Black Forest. Yum! For example, they did a Wonders of the World collection a few years back which tickled me:

So flash forward to election night. I was ill at ease. I kept the tv off and as the night progressed I couldn’t settle into reading. It was also 80 degrees in NYC in November which foreshadowed living in a soon-to-be-hell. I texted with a few friends about my anxiety. I went in to prepared for bed and brushed my teeth with the Kendall Jenner rose toothpaste and thought it’d get my mind off the possible impending horror to see if any tubes were being sold on Ebay for a reasonable price. There weren’t so I googled to see if another brand had Rose toothpaste.

Up came Marvis! Apparently this year they launched six new flavors, including Rose. I started to go down an internet rabbit hole, but was so thankful to get my mind occupied on something pink instead of orange.

I also found out that Marvis had always launched a flower flavor collection. Unfortunately none were sold anywhere online easily and cheaply. These collections sell out fast and you can often find them on Ebay but for double or triple markup.

An hour in I had found a site that sold about half of them and I put $60 worth of toothpaste in my cart: Lily, Rose, Osmanthus (who even knew this was a word – more Google searching, with election results still gnawing at another area of my brain…) I also found Anise! Sweet and Sour Rhubarb!

I felt bad about spending so much money on something so frivolous. I do not NEED $15 toothpaste. I could be just as happy a $4 tube. But I rationalized at least I would definitely use it. I wouldn’t need to buy toothpaste for at least a year or two. And then my mind wandered to where I’d be in two years? Would I be spitting out my new Orange Mint toothpaste down the literal drain the way something else orange would be spitting women’s reproductive rights down a figurative one?

These overwhelmingly upsetting thoughts made me seek out yet another pricey site that promised to send me two extremely hard-to-find-flavors and even offered pricey corresponding mouth wash.

As the night rolled on my friends had all put themselves to bed, pretty much staving off the heartbreak they’d wake to. I have gum recession from brushing my teeth so much because I have OCD, but I brushed again for good measure. As I sensed there was no way Harris could win, I couldn’t feel clean.

When it hit me in the end of my doom buying I had spent $85 on tooth care products I was horrified, but chalked it up to self care. If I am going to be the most uncomfortable I’ve been, for at least four straight years, at least I could try the mask the bad taste left in my mouth.

I so wanted to keep pursuing the ever-elusive tea-flavored Marvis toothpastes like Tea Blossom, Matcha and Earl Grey, but I needed to leave something to look forward to when it now appears there won’t be much.

I recently read an article about how half the country wanted a conman, rapist in power. Well let them have it. “Let them eat cake!” the frustrated journalist wrote.

I guess that’s the sort of fuck-it-all-burn-it-all-to-the-ground-attitude I have right now about spending frivolously on overpriced dental accoutrements. Let me brush my teeth with cake-flavored toothpaste, Goddammit! Fuck it all. If the new Commander in Chief can get elected by lying through his teeth, I can let mine luxuriate in royalty.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

OUT WITH THE MOLD...

Here’s the NY Post article about my MOLD plight, subsequent homelessness for the last six weeks and loss of my health and property. I had Housing Court today which was interesting and like a tv show. I will write more later but I’m too busy lately just trying to survive.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

MOLD

As many of you know since Nov. I've had extreme and mysterious neuro issues. After multiple MRIs, CT Scans, spinal taps, bloodwork, etc. finally my doctor - who specializes in my immune disorder - found mold in my urine. After testing my hvacs and vents the mold - sometimes at 1000X what is safe even for a normal person - was found. In March I notified my mgmt. who sent their own "mold" guy who said the air was fine but did find mold in the bathroom. The mgmt. only wanted the super to clean the bathroom. I wouldn't allow that because that is the surest way to spread mold and make matters worse. My dr. wrote a letter of medical necessity to my mgmt. co and urged me to move immediately. I can't afford to. I am disabled and in a rent stabilized, doorman, elevator, laundry building on the UES for $2100. Losing it would be devastating. However, the doctor said he can't treat me for mold illness until I am out of mold.

In May I got an attorney (personal injury) who had been battling with mgmt. since then. But on 6/21 the problematic hvac I had been complaining about since March, flooded my bedroom. I woke to inches of water throughout my whole bedroom. If there wasn't bad mold before, there certainly is now.

I moved to a hotel and then an Airbnb. Starting Sat. I have nowhere to go.

I, along with my personal injury attorney implored mgmt to put in new hvacs, new flooring and have a certified mold assessor analyze and treat the whole apartment. It's been two weeks and mgmt. is refusing, simply saying they will take out the hvacs entirely and only replace them in winter when the heat comes on. I'd have no access to air. I refused. HPD came and issued a violation for the floor damage and mgmt. is eager to fix that to clear the violation but that is cosmetic. They do not care that the mold and hvacs are preventing me from living in the apartment.

THEN today I went back to the moldy apartment to get something for a new hotel stay. I opened the closet between my bedroom and bathroom to pull out a skirt and it was soaking wet! Turns out every thing in that closet is soaked and covered in green mold. SIX PAIRS OF leather pants are totally ruined, one with a price tag still on them! Every pair of pants I own (except jeans which are in another area) are soaked and destroyed.

When I removed all the wet damaged stuff from the closet there is black mold all over the closet.

No one is on staff today so the super was called back. He screamed at me saying I was taking time from his family and then tried to gaslight me and say the closet wasn't wet. Meanwhile I have the porter, doorman, two tenants and a friend all who documented this on video and pictures long before the super got here.

He left in a huff and I am at a loss of what to do. Even if I get a new apartment (I can't afford!) I'd be signing a year-long lease, have to pay for a broker's fee, movers, packers, people to put up shelves, put my tv together, computer set up. I am disabled and exhausted. I suspect a moving company would not agree to move anything with mold on it and I wouldn't want to infect the new place, so I basically have no couch, no bed, no pants/skirts/sweaters...

I've lost everything in the last few months - my health first - and now more recently bed, bedding, clothing, etc.

Here are some pictures:

[youmightaswell]

Die!

CB2B or Not CB2B

<— Read Part One first.

Where we last left off is that I have been couchhunting. But as with all my relationships, couches always seem problematic.

To wit: A simple visit to CB2 to check out the only black and white pattern fabric they offer and sit on six styles of sofa in a size that would fit in my apartment turned into a mess.

I headed to the 58th and Third CB2 showroom with Biggie. I entered and it was empty. I walked up to a salesperson and showed him my list and asked for him to show me these 6 named sofas. I explained I wanted to buy a sofa but needed to sit on the 6 I narrowed it down to first. He said he didn’t know the sofas by name. Seemed odd, as there aren’t that many sofas and I would think the primary objective of a salesperson is to sell. But ok…

I said that’s ok, can you point me to where your 84inch and under sofas are and I can then just look at the tags. He said he had no idea what sizes or names their sofas are.

I have a chronic illness so the last thing I wanted to do was walk around a maze of furniture looking at tickets to ascertain names and sizes - with a dog in tow. This is specifically why I spent an hour printing out names and dimensions.

Finally the manager came over and introduced himself. He looked disheveled and frankly, a bit off. Dazed, confused… In fact after seeing everyone employed there it gave less established furniture brand and more prison work-release program.

But I soldiered on. I explained my goal and said, actually I’ll make it easier: There’s only one black and white pattern fabric you offer on ANY sofa. So if you could just give me a swatch of that or point me to that fabric I can see if it would work for my needs. If not, there’s no need to even sit on the 6 sofa styles. He said CB2 definitely did not offer a black and white print. I said, they did and not only that but it was in all the online ads and featured prominently on the website. He said all he could do was walk me to the fabric area. I quickly saw the pattern was not hanging there.

I asked if their other Manhattan store might have a swatch or a piece of furniture covered in it and he said he had trouble knowing what his own store had so he definitely couldn’t know what the other location had. I asked if he could just call them and he said no. I could or just look online. I explained I HAD looked online and that both his store and the 14th St. store has the fabric. EVERYONE CB2 does. He was so lazy he wouldn’t even look at it online or make a call.

Thankfully another salesperson walked up and introduced himself (was I being Punked?) and said his name was Zach, that he is autistic and visually focused. I said great! He also overheard our talk and yes, they DID have the fabric. It was what the brand was pushing this season. He handed me a swatch. Yay! Progress. The manager just stared into space.

The swatch was tiny so I asked Zach if they had a larger piece so I could see how the pattern repeats or if there was any piece of furniture covered in it. The manager spoke up out of his K-hole and said they definitely did not have larger pieces of fabric. I once again asked him if he could just call 14th Street and by that time Zach came back with a huge piece of the black and white patterned fabric - the hero I wanted and needed!

At this point I just sort of smirked at the manager and hoped he’d go away. Everyone else how worked there was just milling about in some sort of a haze, doing nothing. The original salesperson came back to tell Zach there was a customer that needed help. BUT ZACH WAS HELPING ME! No one else was doing anything.

I showed Zach my list of 6 sofa names and asked if they had these. He informed me he knows every sofa name and size they carry. I said awesome I DO TOO! Samesies!

He found one for me and explained that even though it was in the larger size, the cushions would be the same firmness and the height is the same. He then accompanied me to another model on my list and this one was way too short. He explained the third model was downstairs in the cellar with a bunch of stuff covering it and he was no allowed to take me down there. I asked why it would not be on the floor and he said he didn’t know why but everyone asks for it. Again, baffling! He did explain, though, it was the same short height as the one I didn’t like so it would likely not work. The other three models were not in the store at all. He double-checked but they simply weren’t there.

So there was really only 1 model that would work with that fabric. I had him price it out and it was amazingly cheap. Under $2K!

This way by far the most baffling shopping experience. The manager didn’t want to sell, he and the whole team was bossing the autistic, amazingly knowledgeable salesperson around so rudely and offered literally nothing. It enraged me. I wanted so badly to fire the manager and retrain the staff in very basic customer service.

The only thing the manager said in leaving what that I was no allowed to have my dog on the couch – Biggie had jumped into my lap for a second when I sat on the only model they had in my size. I put her on the floor immediately, but the manager’s time would be better spent learning the names and sizes of his wares and making a simple phonecall if it lead to a $3K+ sale.

Needless to say CB2 is out.

Next entry: I want a custom sofa I cannot afford

[youmightaswell]

Die!

THE COUCHHUNTER

This could easily be a 10-part essay series. I could do several TED Talks about couch hunting.

That couch lasted me nearly 10 years. It was perfect in that it was black and white and fit perfectly in with my highly specific design aesthetic.

Then about three years ago I wanted to replace it. It was old and I wanted a change. But still a black and white patterned sofa. This sounds simple but it is not. There aren’t many black and white patterned sofas and there are even less that will fit in this apartment building.

If you recall three years ago, on this COUCH HUNT, I settled on a vintage Versace custom couch formerly owned by boxer Mike Tyson. I initially didn’t even know it had some celeb cachet. I simply was thrilled it was a black and white giraffe print in velvet. It was up for auction and when I talked with the seller I found out it was actually being sold by Mike Tyson’s ex-wife. She had just sold their estate and the furniture was sent to the auction house for sale.

Anyway, I learned the hard way about my building’s size constraint when the couch arrived after a costly shipment from MD. I coined this whole experience COUCHGATE for the struggle and scandal that ensured. It didn’t fit in the elevator or up the stairs. It had to be driven all the way back to MD. You probably remember that over the course of that next month I negotiated it a bit cheaper, re-paid for it to be shipped up again and this time had the Couch Doctor at the ready to hack it apart in my lobby, carry up the pieces and then seamlessly reconstruct it in my apt. It worked, but not without tears. The couch doctor wanetd $4,000 to do this. WTF? I negotiated down to $1300 for the surgery, but in retrospect it was way too much. I could have gone with another place for $700. Anyway, live and learn.

After months of hassle I was finally victorious and had the behemoth safely ensconced in my living room. But did I really win? Nah. Turns out the couch is problematic like all my relationship. It is the most uncomfortable couch in the world. It’s stiff like sitting on a park bench. So while it is sturdy – I had a sagging couch – it it not conducive to vegging and watching a long movie or binge-watching a show. More so, the fabric bleeds. So it cannot be spot cleaned as the dye runs from the black to the white areas, discoloring them. I knew there was some bleeding and water damage on the back of the couch, but it is up against my wall so I didn’t care. But recently the dog threw up on it and I had to clean it and now the front has dye marks too. Ugh.

When it first came to me the first point of business was to have it cleaned. But cleaners turned it down saying the fabric could not be cleaned by the normal methods. What should cost $200 would start at $2000 for a dry cleaning. I opted not to throw more money into the couch as I already hated it. But after such a costly mistake I kept it more as an art piece than as a utilitarian piece of furniture.

Another issue: When the couch originally had to go back into storage at the auction site in MD they stored it in a musty warehouse and it came back to me smelling of mold. I originally thought to myself that I hoped some how much apartment wouldn’t be infected with mold from it. The couch itself has no signs of mold, but the musty smell bothered me. Febreeze fixed it but still, what invisible horror lurked without. Two years later I am suffering from mold illness. I’m not saying it’s from the couch. I had my hvacs analyzed and there are four types of mold and mycotoxins in them. I live in an old NYC apartment building so of course there’s some mold/mycotoxins. Most people with healthy immune systems would not have any reaction, but a chronic Lyme sufferer with a severe immune disorder is strongly affected.

Logically I don’t think the couch caused any of that, but the association between it and mold and those original thoughts causes me stress.

This a long-winded way of saying it’s time for Mike Tyson’s Versace couch to go .

It’s not an easy process. I have to order a new couch – and the hunt for a black and white patterned couch is still a challenge – and then figure out the least costly way of hacking this thing apart and getting it out of here. It’s super heavy so it’s going to take more than one man to do this. I don’t want to pay another $1300 and won’t. I don’t need it reconstructed, just deconstructed. I’m hoping staff in my building can do it, but it will still cost a few hundred for them to spend a few hours taking it apart and carrying it to the garbage area in the basement or outside if scheduled on garbage day.

But I have to time things correctly so that I’m not left couchless for months waiting for a new one to arrive.

So I systematically have searched for the least month and know every.single.black and white-patterned fabric offered on couches that could fit in the apartment.

There are only a few candidates and most have been ruled out.

A plain black couch would work but black is too dark for my tiny space. An off-white couch would be ideal and super easy to find, but I have a dog and it would get dirty in a minute. A red couch is impossible as I have a red 1960s coffee table and not only would it be impossible to match that specific red, it’d be too much red.

So, the only way to go is a black and white pattern.

There are only three placed I’ve found with the right fabric offered on a couch under 83 inches.

This is where Season Two of COUCHGATE debuted. [For anyone who follows me on IG, you have seen my IG stories. Each day I post a different episode in the COUCHGATE series.]

The first was THE INSIDE. They have a great black and white stripe material (Ink Cabana). The issue is their couch styles I love that are modern and cool are all too big to fit in my elevator. They do have ONE style that would fit perfect. But it’s a boring English Roll Arm couch. Still, to have the black and white stripe that matches my wallpaper and curtains exactly would be great. I’m willing to sacrifice couch style for the right fabric. However, while that fabric is offered on every other couch style they sell, it’s not for the English Roll Arm. They have no customer service number and their only bots were not helpful. I reached out the their PR team explaining I am a reporter covering NYC living topics (totally true!) and they responded quickly. They said this fabric should be available for that sofa style by mid-July. They even sent me a swatch and it was great. Also it’s easily spot cleaned with a water-based cleaner and also can be professionally steam cleaned cheaply. WIN! In June they are running a 20% off everything sale! The couch that would come to $3000 would be around $2400! I asked if they’d honor the 20% off for me in July seeing I’m ready to place and pay for the order now but their site doesn’t yet allow that combo. As it is even when I place the order the actual couch wouldn’t be here till at least October. Their PR team said yes and their customer service team said no. I have the yes in writing so I’ll fight that battle when and if the combo really becomes available in mid-July.

I also saw that a brand owned by this same company, Interior Define, has a black and white stripe Cabana fabric as well! Sadly it is only for outdoor furniture, but I’d consider an outdoor couch. They only have one model in a size that would work. But oddly even though this fabric says: FOR ALL OUTDOOR FURNITURE ONLY, when I tried to order the couch online it says the outdoor sofa isn’t offered in it. What circle hell is this? Again, I reached out - to PR - and they finally called me and said it turns out they jumped the gun putting that fabric style on their site and it won’t be offered on any outdoor furniture at all until mid-July. Again, they sent me the outdoor fabric and it’s great. It looks the same as the other but is more durable and even more easily cleaned. It’s pet-friendly as well. All great things. I need to visit the NYC showroom to see if I can sit on that style of outdoor couch to see if it’d be comfortable and not look too out of place indoors. They said it’s the same style as an indoor one offered so it should be fine. It’s quite pricey and will come to about $3100. alt text

It’s 84” and I’m scared that might be an inch too big to fit inside. Ugh. It’s an option but still leaning towards THE INSIDE one.

I saw a bunch of vintage ones online and one I loved - It’s the right size and black and white floral but has gold flowers too. Gold might disrupt the blk/wh/red theme and it’s too iffy to chance it without seeing it in person, but it’s in another state so it’s a no-go.

It’s 84” and I’m scared that might be an inch too big to fit inside. Ugh. It’s an option but still leaning towards THE INSIDE one.

I saw a bunch of vintage ones online and one I loved - It’s the right size and black and white floral but has gold flowers too. Gold might disrupt the blk/wh/red theme and it’s too iffy to chance it without seeing it in person, but it’s in another state so it’s a no-go.

I also saw a sofa online in plain off white but it has completely removable, washable covers so that could work, but the reviews said it is a very low back and more of a place to lay down – it opens to a bed–than to sit. I am going to visit that showroom this week but it seems unlikely I’d get it. It’s too low, the back is too low. I do like replacement covers can also be purchased for just $400. But probably a no.

[I also thought about getting a cheap Shein sofa in cream or black - these you can put together yourself so no size issue. They are about $650 and come within a week and are returnable. This isn’t a permanent solution, but would do for a season so I could work on getting rid of the Versace, and put in a cheap cream on as a placeholder till I found THE ONE. I am still thinking about doing this and even though sold on Shein, others places like Amazon and Bed Bath and Beyond have the same one for double the price. I have seen videos and pictures of it in people’s homes and everyone says it a good couch - comfortable, easy to put together. But more on this in a separate entry bc I got the GENIUS idea of buying two – one in black and one in cream and construction one from parts of each to MAKE A BLACK AND WHITE COUCH. Insane or brilliant? We shall see… TBC in a later entry.)

Which leads me to my last possibility that is an essay onto itself: CB2..

CB2 offers one black and white patterned fabric and six sofas in the size I need. The fabric is prominently highlighted on their site. All the prices and sizes of the 6 options were doable so I headed down to CB2 last week to go see the fabric in person and also sit on the 6 options. Seemed simple enough. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, everything.

(TBC)

Before I continue about my CB2 visit, what do you think? Thoughts? Which do you like if any?

[youmightaswell]

Die!

The Mystery of the Apple Pie Spice

As you know I just hate everything about fall, right down to things that one thinks fall smells like – like apples, cinnamon, pumpkin. Tonight, though, I just made a large cup of decaf coffee and had the impulse to put some apple pie spice in it. I wanted to rub salt (or in this case cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg) into my autumnal wound. But it reminded me of something weird. Probably too weird to try to explain in writing. So when you read things I write you might get the impression that I am really psycho, and maybe internally I am – my internal monologue which I sometimes share with you might seem off-kilter. However, in person, I promise you I come off as being normal, funny, some say attractive…

Anyway, this tiny apple pie spice jar was given to me by a friend a while ago – maybe like three years ago. (Now, typing that also makes me wonder how long dried spices are supposed to last. I probably have some in there for over 10 years. How embarrassing!) My friend was moving from his apartment to a tiny studio and didn’t want to have to pack anything. So he threw out literally everything he owns save for important papers like passports, etc. He gave everything else away. He only re-bought very basic things like a pot, a set of silverware, 7 pairs of socks, underwear, etc. He said it would be cheaper this way than paying for a move and also he wanted to become a minimalist.

When he was moving he had me come over and take anything I wanted. I took all his spices. All were pretty much never opened and brand new and by the brand Penzeys. I love that brand of spice. I had never had apple pie spice which makes sense bc I don’t make pies. But over the years I seem to use it all the time- to add to oatmeal, muffins, chia seed pudding, tea, cider, pancakes… I use it weekly BUT here is the very Twilight Zone thing about it: It never gets any less in the tiny container. I just looked at it when I put it in my coffee and it is still almost full – like maybe 20% used but I have been using it consistently for more than THREE YEARS. I always think about this every time I take it out of the cupboard. At least once or twice a week I think: This has to be a magic spice because it is never going to run out. It’s gotten to the point where I purposely try to use it – and use A LOT of it – to get it to finish just to prove that I am not insane and it is not magic. But lo! Tonight I used it for coffee and it seems like there is EVEN MORE OF IT IN THE CONTAINER. The tiny container is nearly completely full. WTF? Is something supernatural going on here or am I losing my mind? What a great short film this would make. I feel it is something that Miranda July would make – a short film or a vignette in a film about a magic spice jar and a woman who notices it never gets empty.

Jane Campion, an Australian filmmaker did this series of film vignettes that I saw years ago. One was about people remembering the words to songs wrong but then remembering them while they are doing odd things that they thought were depicted in the song. In it a man has always gotten the words of the Monkees song, Daydream Believer wrong. He has always sung it day jean cleaner for some reason, truly believing those were the words. Then one night he is bending over his tub washing his jeans and starts to sing what he believes are the words to Daydream Believer and stops and wonders why anyone would write a song about something as esoteric as washing jeans. And he wonders how the song got so popular.

Peel: An Exercise in Discipline was unveiled in 1982 as Campion was embarking on another short with Gerard Lee and Veronika Jenet called Passionless Moments. The black-and-white short chronicled a series of vignettes in which many people do mundane things throughout the course of the day. Some of these moments include a fat man doing yoga, a boy trying to get some food before a bomb goes off, a woman alone in her room, two neighbors eyeing each other, a man cleaning his jeans in a tub as he sings the Monkees’ Daydream Believer, and other stories.

Passionless Moments’ sense of style came from Campion’s desire to find something engaging in the mundane. She and Lee shot all of the vignettes in the course of a day and created images that were quite compelling. An example of this comes in the first segment where the fat man looks at words while turning doing his yoga. It’s among the many moments in the short that Campion wanted to show that even something mundane can be extraordinary. A series of vignettes make up this wry take on the mundane scenes of everyday life. Campion and Lee imbue the film with radical humor and artfulness. You’ll never hear the Monkees’ “Daydream Believer” the same way again.

I guess I like that art can be made about anything – the odder or more mundane the better.

[Related: Penzeys used to be like THE spice. The go-to good brand. And their stuff is still good. I love their paprikas – they have three: California, Smoked and regular. But now in the last year there is a new brand that is getting tons of attn. It’s called Burlap and Barrel. It’s quite expensive. Even more expensive than Penzeys. It’s like $10 for a tiny container. But I am dying to try it. I think you can only buy it online. Someone I watch on YouTube works for them writing their newsletters. She is a food writer and works in test kitchens. The more recently I saw them on Shark Tank. They didn’t get a deal but they are flourishing. It’s the hip spice co.]

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Less and Less "Yets"

I have been saying for this last year that nostalgia is a quicksand. Something about reaching my 50s changes everything - and I don’t just mean my neck.

The whole taking up with Marco was a very long, winding dance down memory lane. So bittersweet. Such loss and longing, but for what exactly? Not him, not someone specific, except maybe for the girl I once was. But also for this concept of “yet” being pretty much over.

This is hard to put into words. Not because I am having such deep, nuanced thoughts, but because, even at this advanced age, I have trouble finding the right combo of words to describe an overwhelming, but fleeting feeling. I can only equate it with trying to chase some floater on your eye. The minute you turn your eye, even ever-so-slightly, it is out of reach.

I find myself always thinking about dates - like if someone mentions 1996, I immediately think: Oh I was 26! I had just started a new job and moved into a new apartment. I was dating XYZ.

Yet, I also feel like things that happened in my 30s were just a few months or years ago, not two decades.

So in trying to pin down this deep feeling of sadness, a toothache, but in my heart and mind concurrently I can only clumsily explain it this way: As I sink further and further into my 50s there is less and less “yet”.

When I was in my 20s, 30s and even 40s I’d be able to gloss over upsetting things by thinking, “I don’t have XYZ, YET!” I’ve wanted a stable partnership for 35+ years and I pretty much seem silly if I say, “I don’t have one YET” as if it might just be happily around the corner and then everything will be fine. But there’s less and less hope in your mid-50s. For most things. It’s not that good or exciting things won’t happy, of course anything is possible, but chances are they won’t. If they haven’t happened by now, there’s not that much of a chance they will suddenly come to fruition. If you are in your 20s and say, “I don’t have my college degree YET” or “I don’t have a family YET.” You know you have some time. But in your mid-50s many options no longer exist. Sure, you could get a degree in your mid-50s, but it won’t have the same impact as it did in your 20s, changing the whole trajectory of your life.

But this isn’t about tangible things, really, that you can work for. It’s more about how things have aligned. In your mid-50s if you still haven’t been to Paris YET, you can still go, but it may not be the same as if you went in your 30s.

At this point, there’s not much to wish for without feeling foolish. There will still be “firsts” but they will just not be the same as if they happened in the sweet part of my life. It just so sad.

I, of course, could still walk down the aisle in an amazing dress, but the fantasy loses some of its luster, thinking about doing so with sagging skin and wrinkles. And I don’t just mean the external ones. But inside, I have much sagging and figurative wrinkles.

Chances are things aren’t going to take a huge upward swing. I am probably not going to become rich, or land an amazing partner, or suddenly have a washing machine, dryer, and fridge with an ice maker in it. An apartment one can tolerate saying, “It’s just a starter apartment, I just haven’t been able to upgrade YET”, becomes downright depressing when you realize nothing is a “starter” thing anymore. And there are less and less “yets” to be had.

Or maybe there are less and less GOOD yets. There will be be surprises and "yets" but most I can foresee will be bad ones. My legs haven't gone YET, my hearing or memory have not yet waned… But when I think of the future now, there are less exciting things focusing on fun growth and far more about not-so-fun decay.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

At least is is better than getting stabbed

I was just walking Biggs home from the library this morning when out of nowhere the royal-blue-wearing guy in the pic, who was pushing a stroller or cart, lunged at me and spit in my eye. No words were uttered. He then kept walking down York Avenue at an even pace. I turned, called 911 and snapped his photo.

Of course, not a priority, they showed up about 15 minutes later to take a report and said they'd drive down York, but he was probably long gone.

Now I'm scared I'll get pink eye or Covid, but I guess this should just be considered a very aggressive kiss from NYC.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Fade2Nada

Marco, my very first boyfriend, when I was 19 in 1989, was an artist. While in my college at an Amnesty International concert I organized, someone tapped me on the shoulder. A guy handed me a Kudos bar (remember those? My favorite was the chocolate chip one which was sold in my school’s vending machines) and said, “My friend likes you.” Interestingly, thinking back, how fitting he used that to convey his romantic intentions when the tagline was: “Kudos, I’m yours!” 

I looked across the room to see a motorcycle jacket-clad guy doing his best James Dean impression. When I mentioned this to my friend she said she knew him. They grew up together and he lived on her block. He got the seal of approval.

So it began. He had come to the show in his friend’s two-seater so I sat on his lap all the way home to my house. The music was blaring and every time I asked him his last name I heard “loud”, instead of his actual surname, “Lau”. 

From then we were an item. His sister went to my college so would sometimes pass me notes from him. (He attended school nearby and lived closer to my college than my home.) 

I did not have a phone because cell phones -- even AOL messenger -- hadn’t been invented and I didn’t have a landline at home because my schizophrenic mother had been convinced the government was listening to her calls. 

We made do. He would ride his bicycle miles to visit me unexpectedly. He is pretty much the only person who ever met my mother. I was embarrassed he did but he inserted himself into my life aggressively. What was done was done. 

Later we’d take long motorcycle rides, me hanging onto him for dear life, our helmets butting when we came to a short stop. 

He also aggressively campaigned for me to lose my virginity to him. While I had no specific reason for not doing so as yet, I have never been one to be pushed into anything. If someone tried to bully me into anything, I’d dig in my heels. 

He’d send me letters and postcards; I’d return the volley. I’d be at his house all the time and often would sleep at my friend’s house who lived on his block so we could be together. We went to the same clubs, concerts. 

Finally one night he aggressively lobbied for me to have sex with him (he was never rapey at all and I always felt totally safe with him. He was simply annoying, but not scary) and I started crying. 

I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t like his attitude. I felt anxiety. I also didn’t like that he was uncut and I never liked his smell. It’s not that he wasn’t clean; our pheremones just never jibed. 

Apparently I had sent Marco a letter afterwards saying I wanted to lose my virginity to him but I just wanted to feel I was in a safe and secure exclusive relationship with him. I wasn’t feeling seen or heard. (He saved this letter and still has it 34 years later. We reread it together recently.) 

At his house shortly later he left a polaroid on his bedside table that he had taken of a girl I came to know as Nadine. She was wearing a thong and fishnets. Clearly he wanted me to see it. I was very hurt, but also knew then to emotionally detach from him. 

A while after that he mailed me a card and letter. (I saved it for all these years and he and I recently reread it together. I’m glad he seemed horrified at his brutishness when he did.) In it he mocked my crying, ridiculed me for my “divine virginity” and had said I was ridiculous for making that request for him to be exclusive. It would only make him resentful of me. 

After that I sort of distanced myself. I got another boyfriend very quickly and lost my virginity to him. He never even knew I was a virgin and there was never any stressful conversation or prompting. It all was natural and organic and he and I ended up dating for five years. 

Marco didn’t initially know about Rick, my boyfriend, but sent me an card telling me he was sure I probably heard but he had a girlfriend now, Nadine. It has all worked out as it should. I was very hurt, but also knew I made the right decision peacing out on Marco. 

I coined a term then that I and friends still use to this day, “The Half-Eaten Sandwich Theory”. I told Marco that we were not fully done. I was putting a pin in this but that I was with him first and reserved the right to circle back around at any point. He agreed he was indeed my half-eaten sandwich and also felt he had the right to circle back around when/if he felt the urge. Who would ever think that would really happen 34 years later? The Universe is a tricky bitch with it’s foreshadowing and private jokes. 

We kept in touch sporadically and when I was going through a breakup with Rick years later, Marco visited and we almost had sex then. At the last minute I, once again, didn’t pull the trigger. I was still resentful of how Marco how treated me. 

That same summer we took acid together. I am anti-drug and so neurotic even an extra strength Tylenol could make me freak out. So why I thought it was a good idea to take the Superman acid with Marco in my tiny basement studio apartment is beyond me. He has always been a bad influence, I guess. Acid, marital affairs... for some reason he has a way of making me throw caution to the wind. Taking half a tab did nothing - or so I thought. So I finally took the other tab. 

Within minutes my rug was breathing and I was freaking out. Marco blew incense smoke in my face and I made him leave. I was overstimulated.  I got into the shower and obsessed over how the acid would finally know when to stop being, well, acidy. I cried my eyes out convinced I had ruined my life and everyone would think I was schizophrenic like my mother. No one would realize it was just because of the acid. The only solution I could think of to make the acid stop was killing myself. I had hoped Marco would have taken care of me, an acid pro.  But I had to fend for myself. 

I called the drug hotline and told him I am not a bad person. I have never taken any drugs before. But that I was having a space/time continuum issue. I remember the woman on the line laughing and saying it was apparent I had not taken drugs before. She talked me down, Marco came back for a few minutes with Burger King for me and I was left alone tripping for another 18 hours.

He ended up moving to my neighborhood  shortly after that, but I’d rarely see him. I finally moved to Manhattan. However his younger brother began seriously dating my best friend’s sister in law so I’d hear tons of stories about Marco. He was dating another woman, Edith, and my friend’s sister in law told us it seemed a mismatch. His girl was nice, but bland and not a creative. She didn’t see it working out and felt Marco wasn’t that nice to her. She felt Marco and I were way better suited. 

Then she said she was at a dinner with his family and Marco stood up and made the announcement he was marrying Edith. Everyone was shocked and my friend said the whole thing was rather embarrassing to all involved. Years later I heard they had split. The marriage never happened. 

I ran into him in the City and he now tells me I looked like I had seen a ghost. I don’t recall feeling that way, Although I believe him. My face doesn't lie. We made plans for him to visit me at my Hell’s Kitchen apartment. 

It was quick and polite. I was standoffish and I just recall thinking he had gained weight and looked less James Dean-ish. By now he had a very good job as a creative and seemed stable and had matured. We didn’t seem to have much to say and the air seemed heavy. 

I don’t recall seeing him again, but he now tells me he met a rich boyfriend I had around that time. 

I got married in 2004 and never thought to invite Marco although several other ex-boyfriends attended. 

When Facebook started he was one of the first people I tried to friend just became I had wondered what became of him. We had tons of mutual friends so I figured we’d all connect. He didn’t respond to my friend request so I assumed either he didn’t recognize my new married last name or simply didn’t like me enough to friend me on this new social media thing. 

I learned from a mutual friend shortly after Marco had married an Eastern European model. My friend quipped he only saw pictures on Facebook and that it looked like a “green card marriage”. I had no idea, although Marco has always loved fashion and photographing models so it seemed on the nose. I was happy for him. I was now going through a divorce so Marco and his marriage were the last things on my mind.

Then I got deathly sick with Lyme and battled horribly for three years. During this period Marco had friended me on Facebook, but we didn’t speak. It was all I could to to stay alive so I wasn’t really paying attention to Facebook or old friends. 

Apparently over the years Marco had reached out to friends of mine to ask them about my disease and resulting chronic illness and disability. I had no idea. I has no interest in him, especially romantically, so I didn’t go poking around. Every so often I’d notice he was still married, no kids.  I do recall for my 44th birthday (I was still very sick) friends took me to Zuma, a midtown restaurant. A day later Marco posted from there. I left a quick comment saying we missed each other by a day! He didn’t respond to me but his wife did. I forget what she noted but it was odd. A mutual friend of Marco’s and I DMd me saying it reeked of insecurity and apparently Marco was on a short leash. I didn’t think much about it. 

Several more years went by and one day Marco messaged me this amazing picture he took of me at 19. I was wearing a bra and looked ethereal. I asked if he could please print me out one so I could frame it. He said he’d do that but I should come meet him downtown at his job and pick it up. I had mentioned he could just drop it at my doorman. 

I never got that photo although he swears he printed it out and had it in an envelope for me. Now, more recently, he said he suspects his wife had found it and discarded it. 

Right before the pandemic struck he posted about his motorcycle. I recalled how as college kids he and I would ride on his motorcycle all over. I noted I’d love a ride for nostalgia’s sake. He replied via DM saying he’d love that but to please not leave notes on his page because his wife monitors it and he is prohibited from having female friends. 

I balked and made it clear: We had not dated for 30 years and I didn’t want him then and I don’t want him now. He said he knew this but his wife was insecure and would not see it that way. He knew he and I had no romantic interest in each other. 

Still, looking back, he is so thoroughly intertwined with my life. When I look back at my young adulthood, he was there. And now, at the near-end of our lives, he will be the most impactful thing that has happened. He has fashioned himself bookends on my existence. And I think I am that for him as well. 

Again, I put this out of my head. I even thought about simply unfriending him because I did not want his wife to get the wrong idea. I was dating someone and had no interest in him, married or otherwise. 

But then one day mid-pandemic we met up at a park by my house. It was lovely. We caught up -- he seemed sad and more pessimistic than I had ever seen him-- and he confessed he had slept with a friend of mine from college days. While this was long before he was married, his wife found out, hence his ban on being able to speak to female friends. This seemed abusive and restrictive and not something I’d personally tolerate, but it’s his life. 

We met again several months later and had pizza by my house. Again, so lovely. Just such a nice feeling of nostalgia. It  was so great tp see how successful he had become in his creative career. How far we had come. He was a videographer/photographer; I was a writer who owned a small PR firm. Both of our lives converged with a common theme of story telling - his visually and mine via written narrative. We would have made a great team. 

A few months later during a night of drinking in the city he messaged me late-night. This was odd because he rarely texted. When he was suddenly outwardly flirty I was shocked. But soon realized he was drunk and told him he’d feel stupid in the morning. I was worried, though, because he was clearly shitfaced and I didn’t want him to drive home to NJ in that state. I stated explicitly I was NOT flirting or trying to seduce him but to please take a cab across the park to my house to wait till he was sober. I’d give him water and coffee and stay up with him so he wouldn’t get into an accident. He continued to flirt and when I shut it down he opted to drive drunk instead. The next morning he called to let me know he was alive but he saw double the amount of lanes that he should have. He committed to not drinking like that again and also was scared I’d tell his wife he had been flirting with me. I assured him I had better things to do with my time. 

But then mid-pandemic he messaged me one day saying he was coming into the city on his motorcycle and was going to take me for the ride he promised. 

I figured, “What the hell!” 

Immediately it was as if time shifted and folded onto itself. I was both a 52-year old woman but also a 20-year old one. I was in the same Doc Martens Marco had gotten for me 30 years before. Levis/band t-shirt. It was as if time existed in two places at once with 25 years in the middle completely erased. Two different time periods spliced together as if by a skilled surgeon. 

He held my hand, had his hand on my leg. It was clear something was happening. Nostalgia is a quicksand. We were both feeling our age. Just ask my neck, which I had lifted just months before. Wrinkles, aches, pains. How mortal we were. There was such a bittersweet loss and longing for when we had been together the first time, the future laying out before us. Now there were no surprises. It’s hard to get into real trouble in your 50s. Also, the half -eaten sandwich was getting moldy. What were we waiting for? 

Clearly this was a man miserable in his marriage. A tale as old as the day is long. It is boring just typing about it. 

And then we kissed and I asked if he has ever cheated before. He replied that despite his wife falsely accusing him of it for the last 16 years he has indeed been an altar boy. 

I told him that he was surely going to feel awful guilt when he saw her that night. He said he wasn’t so sure.  YOLO. I told him to call me the following day simply to tell me how he felt. I was scared he’d hate me forever for indulging his indiscretion. 

Before he dropped me off at my house he brazenly said, “I don’t just want to kiss you; I want to do everything with you we didn’t get to do when we first dated.” I rolled my eyes. He ended with, “I want to have sex with you.”

Ballsy! 

I knew exactly what he was doing. I believed because I had denied him for years he knew I was a safe bet to say no now, especially seeing he was married. He wanted the fantasy of being able to have an illicit affair without the threat of really having one. I was going to call his bluff and teach him a lesson.

I said, “Ok. I’ll consider it.”

I figured the next day he’d call in horrible guilt. 

But no, he doubled down. 

Again, I called his bluff and said ok.

I didn’t want any of this. He, once again, thrust himself into my life, much like he did introducing himself to my mother years before.

He reminded me he was indeed my half-eaten sandwich. It was time to resume. 

I finally agreed, willing to bet all the money I had that he’d choke at the last minute. I was so excited about teaching him a lesson and having a good laugh about this. I will always have a soft spot for him. 

But now, over a year later, I was the one who got taught a lesson and no one is laughing. 

What initially I thought would be a non-starter at best, a one-time fling at worst turned into a full-fledged serious relationship, culminating with him taking me on vacation to NC to stay at his friend’s house while his wife was in Bulgaria. 

The year was generally blissful except for the same brick wall we hit over and over: I wanted him to tell his wife the truth. It never sat well with me he was lying. He would say she was getting suspicious: smelling me on him, seeing my name and birthday trip on their shared calendar by mistake, and even going so far as asking him point-blank. Each time he’d deflect. 

We’d go see art, eat, do creative projects. I’d come with him on work shoots and we watched just about every low-budget horror movie we could find. We message all day and all night, never mentally far from each other.

I don’t think either of us expected this to grow into what it did or last as long. At least I thought this was extremely meaningful to both of us. He’d tell me he’d only risk his marriage for me. 

But we had waited to just be together without the stress of his wife being around for over any year. The NC trip was so carefully planned It was to be the climax of our whole 34 years.

And climax we did. But after great heights can sometimes come a great fall. 

And I hate to say I TOLD YOU SO, but just like I told him at least 100 times that  his wife would eventually find out, she did. He always swore he’d tell her the full truth if she discovered our relationship. He just could never pull the trigger because he was tied to her and the marriage financially. 

But when she found out it appeared he still wasn’t giving her the full story.

And just like that the blurred lines were not just blurred but erased. 

***

I started looking back at all the foreshadowing. A writer and self-proclaimed Nancy Drew, I wanted to do forensics on our year together. Surely the Universe had given me signs he was the same old Marco from my youth. I had mistakenly thought how great it was he matured and evolved so much. I admired the man he grew into. I didn’t expect him to become so stable and caring and was so happily surprised. In our youth we both had very rough edges, but they had softened considerably over the years.  But at the end I realized it was all just an illusion. Ever the filmmaker, his careful planning of our year together was a script he carefully storyboarded and projected for my eyes only. We were each other’s confidants for a full year. 

I have kept the receipts before that term existed. Just like he and I both kept our old love letters and cards to and from each other for a whopping 34 years, pictures of us taken back in the late 80s, etc., I now kept our full Whatsapp transcripts, every porn video, series of sexy pictures, messages on IG/FB/Telegram (!) and text. 

I reread each one, looking carefully over ever picture he took and sent. Analyzing each video, no mater how vulgar as if looking over crime scene footage. I was a lovelorn, brokenhearted CSI detective. Where did this veer off the road? 

What I found super interesting is over the year he’d always take amazing pictures of me. But from one of the very first ones the only note I made was wondering why he cut off my legs. 

When I complained, he accused me of not thinking him talented. Which was totally untrue. The pictures he’s taken of me have been some of the best I’ve ever seen of myself.

BUT WHERE ARE MY LEGS? 

I had visited him downtown for lunch by his job. I was wearing these little black booties that have big silver stars on them. It seemed weird to cut me off at the knee just after my dress. 

He’s a professional, so this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe my legs looked weird? Did I look fat? 

Anyway, after that it became a running (see what I did there?) joke about how he needed to remember to keep my legs in the photo. 

But again, when I saw another portrait he took of me, I noticed my legs weren’t completely erased but were severely blurred. He knows how to edit photos and film. This wasn’t some amateur mistake. 

So now, after our upheaval post-trip, I began scouring all the pictures he took of me. While the first merely cut me off at the knees, some that followed blurred my legs. He has a foot fetish and would often ask me to send pictures of my feet, implore me to let him pick out my pedicure color, etc. So this wasn’t about him not liking my feet or legs. 

So why this mini-erasure? Was it a subconscious symbolism? Was he alluding to the blurred lines of our relationship? 

I went back and looked at one of the very first pictures ever taken of us together in 1990. He  had recently resent it, poring over all the archives of everything he kept from us for over three decades. 

And there is was, we were both blurred. As if ghosts existing in some purgatory or limbo. Did this 1990 photo foreshadow our relationship 34 years later. This feeling of waiting for something to happen?

He’d say he wanted his marriage to end organically. I questioned him about what he meant. A marriage ends organically if one of the spouses dies. Was he wishing that? Awful! And if he was the one to die, well then we did this for nothing! We wouldn’t get to be together after all this angst anyway. 

The only other way a marriage ends organically is if one partner requests a divorce. He didn’t have the gumption to do this, often citing financial issues. So was he hoping his wife would just one day ask for one? That seemed unlikely. She was so attached she was always very nervous he might cheat.That wasn’t the mark of someone who would wake up one morning and want the marriage to end with no catalyst. He said, “Well she might decide it’s better for her to be with a vegan, a yogi, someone who has more in common with her.” My meat-eating, anti-exercise paramour had a point. But it wasn’t likely. 

He came to my house and set up four cameras, to have multiple angles for a film we made. Interestingly, in reviewing the 11-minute footage of our film, again, even from the ceiling camera, the edges of me are blurred. Did he do this on purpose? I understood why he didn’t want the camera to focus on himself. If his wife every came upon all this footage she’d kill him. But why are all my lines blurred? Am I actually dead and is this all just a dream? Are we somehow in a simulation? A world Marco and I somehow created. Did we somehow die on that motorcycle ride back in April of 2022 and no one told us? Was our limbo being played out in Bayonne and the Upper East Side, this feeling of waiting for Godot never dissipating? 

On our trip to NC, finally free to do anything we wanted without the fear anyone finding out or being rushed, we made another video. This time, after careful planning and no rush, at the end we realized the cameras didn’t work. Only a side one seemed to capture us, but blurry.

While upstairs with his friend, I was downstairs reading. Apparently he was editing pictures we took. Again, they were beautiful, but again my legs were blurred. 

The next followed so were my hands. 

He jokingly commented, “Do you have hands or paws?” 

He was quite literally erasing me. 

It’s interesting to note his social media moniker is “Fade2Nada” a nod to his Cuban Chinese heritage. But also probably the biggest foreshadowing of all that we wouldn’t flame out, we’d just fade away. 

Once back in NYC, after his wife found out and he was in NJ waiting for her return from Bulgaria I messaged him that I was basically stuck in his own version of “Boxing Helena”. He and I love Lynch so it seems fitting he’d be recreating his heroine Sherilyn Fenn, in me. Photo by photo, film clip by film clip. 

So now here I am, the victim of someone’s mashup of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Boxing Helena, a pencil end and photo-editing software. 

If I felt unseen and unheard at 19, it’s much worse at 53. I mistakenly thought the sandwich was half - eaten but now realize it was cut into thirds, because this still doesn’t feel finished. 

I guess I will have to wait another 34 years to finish this story - a figurative After Midnight. 

[youmightaswell]

BABKAGATE

My latest article for Upper East Site blows the lid off Babkagate. Not since the iconic Seinfeld ep detailing the pastry have babkas been so controversial: 

https://www.uppereastsite.com/new-york-best-chocolate-babka-adir-michaeli-breads-bakery/

[youmightaswell]

Die!

An Interesting Letter from Serial Killer Michael Swango

He sent this letter for three reasons: First, he and I often discuss the New Yorker story, “Marathon Man” about famous a famous sociopathic dentist in the Midwest who faked running a marathon in every state. Also, he sent this because I am friends with the CNN producer who did the docu-series on Swango I appeared in and she is a marathon runner. Lastly, he trained for this long ago with his male best friend, who was never mentioned in the book about Swango and his murderous crimes.

I will be reaching out to this guy and showing him this letter and asking him how he feels about having been bff with a serial killer. This guy is a PHD in Psych, so it will be really interesting to hear his perspective on Swango and all that unfolded about him.

I find it interesting that Swango points out that homicides were being committed by him while he was friends with Orme.

[youmightaswell]

LIVE

Strawberry Soup

This year my goal was to try to make assorted recipes from the 1400-page-tome The NYT Essential Cooking cookbook. 

My first recipe is: Strawberry Soup

[youmightaswell]

The Similarities and Differences Between Michael Swango and Bryan Kohberger

I have been holding off on writing about this since my phone conversation with serial killer Michael Swango last week. While I have permission to write his thoughts, I have been waiting for a letter or email of his thought so I could take direct quotes from him. Mail is slow and Swango is not super fast about getting snail mail or emails out, so for now I will put my and his thoughts down here and then amend or add when I get his actual in-writing information.

And of course, we all know Swango was convicted of four murders and admits to more than 60, while Kohberger has said he hasn’t done anything wrong and has not had a trial yet. So for now this is just an exercise Swango and I did, based only on what we know about Kohberger so far, assuming that he is indeed the perpetrator of such murderous misdeeds. I’m not going to type in “alleged killer” over and over, so please keep “alleged” in mind when reading below. Also, please note when writing on my personal Tumblr I do not proof or edit, so there will be typos. 

Swango and I (and I think we can all agree) that anyone who can kill so callously, seemingly without reason, is a sociopath/psychopath. In order for that to make sense you’d need to understand the characteristics of one. https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/antisocial-personality-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20353928

A person with antisocial personality disorder does not need to have ALL the characteristics but would have many. I’m not a psychologist. 

When I first started my Letters from the Inside project one of my requirements was to only write to those who had high IQs. Both Swango and Kohberger had advanced degrees and were academics. While Swango was an actual doctor, Kohberger studied psychology and immersed himself in criminology, going so far as applying for a police internship before the murders, hoping to assist law enforcement in technological profiling. Swango immersed himself in both the EMT community and the medical one.

Both are remembered as being “odd” by other students.

Both Swango and Kohberger would seem to be glib – Swango is known for his (superficial) charm and while we haven’t heard Kohberger being charming, we did hear him say a few very glib things like when asked why he had gone into Idaho he said, “The shopping is better in Idaho.” He also allegedly used famed serial killer Gacy line when arrested, asking if anyone else was arrested.

Another characteristic is addiction or compulsive behavior – Kohberger was said to have once had a heroin addiction. Swango, had a mother with severe alcoholism and he even wrote to me about how this upset him while he was growing up. Another compulsion they both seemed to share is that Kohberger was a strict vegan and described by his relatives as requesting them buy new pans that never touched meet. Kohberger has reportedly been overweight and bullied and now appeared compulsive about staying slim and watching what he eats. Swango used to drop down and do exercise in class, becoming the butt of fellow students’ jokes. He was reportedly a food hoarder, keeping tons of rotting sandwiches under his bed.

Swango told me he had boundless energy throughout his killing days. He could work a 12-hour shift at the hospital or even a double and then stay up all night. It was reported Kohberger also was up all night, oftentimes vacuuming at 1am and going out all night driving.

I think a major difference between the two is that Swango was known to be very good looking and was quite a ladies man, juggling several women at a time. It appears, at least for now, that Kohberger did not have an significant others at the time of the murder and so far no one from his past has seemed to come forward discussing how he was in an intimate relationship. There have been jusa few friends, students and one Tinder date he had who came forward so far. 

Swango believes that he and Kohberger share a similar reason for their seemingly random killings: Both were narcissists who got an almost orgasmic (not necessarily a sexual charge) feeling of being the smartest person in the room for even a brief period of time. While Swango says very clearly he did not specifically target people he had feelings about – such as anger or jealously – he only killed or poisoned people out of opportunity. It was about the glee he felt being able to try to get away with someone under others’ noses. He believes Kohberger shared this sense of glee and overinflated sense of intelligence and cunning.

Swango was clearly a serial killer and he said his first inklings of it were at the start of college. While we have no idea if Kohberger has committed anything else and not gotten caught, I think it is pretty safe to say he may have done this again if not caught.

Swango entered the military prior to med school and Kohberger’s yearbook says he, “Wants to use his skills to become Army Ranger someday.”

Another difference is that Swango had trouble with the law prior to killing. He was arrested for poisoning EMTs long before he ever was arrested for murdering patients. It appears Kohberger had a clean arrest record. Swango also falsified documents to get his medical license, jobs, etc. So far we see no evidence of Kohberger ever lying, being deceptive, etc.

This is only the start. In the next year I’m sure more and more will be revealed about Kohberger leading to a trial. I’m interested in hearing what Swango has to say about himself and Kohberger as well.

Generally, l I feel it’s noteworthy that I am in a rather unique position to have direct access to an infamous serial killer to weigh in on this topic. It’s pretty unique to be able to call someone who had perpetrated diabolical crimes on the scale of Kohberger’s (obviously Swango’s were more numerous that Kohberger’s.)

***

This just came in from Swango:

The   IDAHO   suspect  MUST  begin  with  a  famous                quote   that   KNOW   you've   seen.  To  paraphrase:

                "He   who   stares   into   the   ABYSS   must   be   careful                     that   the   ABYSS  does   not   stare    into   him."

                 WHEN   you   find   the   exact   quotation   and   author                    PLEASE  send   it   to   me.  Thanks.

                   I   want   to   say   NIETZSCHE   but   not   sure.  John                   Douglas   used   it  in  one   of   his   FBI  BSU   profiler                    books.   I  believe   the   IDAHO   suspect  became  SO                    fasinated  by   criminology   that   he   FELL   INTO                     the   ABYSS.   Unfortunately,  he   apparently  forgot                     EVERYTHING   he   had   learned   about   DNA/  cameras/                      cars/ etc.     Will  try   to   write   more,   but   that   is   the                       gist.  

This just came in from Swango (updated: 1/10/23)

Few more points on the

“differences” you queried: After “falling into the abyss”, our young PhD student (Apparently) METICULOUSLY PLANNED the IDAHO crime. And as mentioned, DESPITE his knowledge and planning, made numerous fatal errors.

            With  a   few   notable   exceptions (i.e., the  dentist/              doctor),  DR.  X   [EDITOR NOTE: Swango calls himself Dr. X] acted  randomly   based  on   current              situation   and   conditions.   Blink   of   an   eye.              Permission   to   use   info   and/or   name.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

NBD, spent part of the afternoon talking on the phone to infamous serial killer Michael Swango about the difference/similarities between him and Bryan Kohberg.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

The Angelina of India

[NOTE: I decided to do a throwback travel story from 2008 when I spent three weeks in India, touring Goa on a scooter. Hilarity ensued.]

Aside from the fact that everywhere we went men wanted to take pictures of or with us and ask us about ourselves, a life-changing event occurred in India that made me feel like Angelina Jolie must at times.

I tell Stef that because of her idea to do this she will owe me money for at least 15 years of therapy.

I’ve traveled to many faraway places with Stef and the one thing that annoys the shit out of me is her idiosyncracies around food. For example, when we were on a small island off the coast of Venezuela, instead of ordering the common rice/beans/chicken she would terrorize unsuspecting waiters by asking for things like creme brulee and broccoli. And then look to me to convey what she wanted in Spanish. To them, I was a douchebag by association. Que buena!

So when we got to India we were in an area with rows of restaurants. Of course, Indian restaurants. We sat down and she complained saying she wants REAL Indian food. I replied, “Stef, an elephant just went walking by on its own. This is as real as it gets.” Then she insisted we go to the Italian restaurant. In INDIA! [She complained about the risotto there and was annoyed they didn’t understand what cappucino was.]

We were on the beach and she told me that when she was in Indonesia there were people who’d take you to their homes and prepare an authentic meal and teach you how to cook it. After the cooking lesson you sat down with them and ate it. Sounds fun, right?

So Stef got the brilliant idea that we could offer one of the poor women on the beach who hawked pens and did nails money to invite us to her house to cook us a dinner.

The plan seemed to work fine when Stef got the girl who did our nails on the beach to do it.

Her name is Kamla and she is 24 with 4 kids. She got married [arranged] at 15. The other women on the beach also have the same stories. Only one says she likes her husband. The rest—not so much.

So there was much to orchestrate to make this happen. First, Kamla leaves the beach daily at 6pm to take a bus to Mapusa which on scooter should be about 30 minutes. In the bus, about an hour and a half. We nixed the bus idea right quick and offered to pay to have someone take her on scooter and we’d follow on our own.

Keep in mind we were on our own rented two-dollar-per day motorbike. When I asked for a helmit they hemmed and hawed and finally gave me a football helmit—held together with duct tape. Did I mention the brakes on it worked only sometimes? And more so, Stef and I had gotten into a near-fatal motorcycle accident just a year before leaving Stef with two metal rods in her arms and me with a fucked up jaw.

 The sun began to set and we followed. And followed. And followed. Women there sit side sadle on the backs of bikes, saris flowing in the breeze. Even sitting properly and holding on for dear life I thought I was going to die.

Finally (!) we got there. But there was about to change my life. About 25 little kids ran out and surrounded us, some scared, some fascinated, so wanting to touch us. They had never seen a white person. These were poor kids from Karnaktka who came with parents to Goa for the tourist season so the families could make money to bring home during the rainy season. We were taken to Kamla’s “home”. It was a 9X9 room with a dirt floor, stone walls, rigged electricity to handle a small light and tv. No refrigerator, no running water. There was a small hot plate and just enough room for 4 people to squat on the floor. At night they slept, sans bed, all four (2 kids and parents) on the floor huddled together. Bugs crawled about. Rice was left on the floor. Dirt, bugs, squalor. Christ!

We could NOT eat here. Yet, we were.

In India I overpaid for everything. On purpose. I figured that as a good deed and holiday charity, I’d give to the poor. I offered to pay Kamla her month’s rent for the meal. She seemed pleased. My stomach did not.

As we sat on the floor tons of kids lined up at the door to get a glimpse. It was a bit overwhelming, but fascinating. There was mass chaos; Stef just sat on her Blackberry texting a friend, trying to remove herself from the situation. I had no option but to engage and so I sat teaching the mass of kids the ABC song and counting. They were really eager and smart.

When they got too loud and buzzed around us like bees, I turned up the music and got them all to dance. I’d scream “Dance Party” and show them and then everyone would start to wiggle. So fun!

Meanwhile Kamla was preparing the meal. Grinding vegetables into the dirty floor, putting rice bugs had crawled on into the pot.

I couldn’t meet Stef’s eyes. I could tell she was about to FREAK OUT!

I was glad I chose to wear pants and a shirt as opposed to a little summer dress. I knew they didn’t look kindly upon women who exposed skin and I was happy to be covered to avoid bites from malaria-ridden mosquitos.

Then she served the “chicken”. This is a word Stef and I promised to NEVER say to each other again. It was jet black and floated in a red water. This was NOT chicken. It was fiberous and had white strings in it. It was less appetizing than eating rat.

I could not put that in my mouth. Stef started chewing hers, all eyes on her and when no one was looking spit it out into her bread. Not a very good plan overall. I, instead, decided to appear selfless and feed the meat to the small boy who never gets it because the “chicken” is too expensive. He appreciated it and so did I. Not a morsel touched my lips.

I did eat the rice and couldn’t avoid eating the sauce. She made lentils with vegetables which tasted good but knowing where it all had been freaked me out. She made a salad too but we declined trying to explain that raw veggies were not good for Westerners.

Considering they had no running water and even the best running water in India was toxic, we declined drinks also when handed warm water. It was not from a bottle.

The biggest trauma of the night was after the dinner. My stomach was rumbling and it was all I could do to not throw up in their scant square. I asked to use the bathroom. What was I thinking. I was brought out in the pitch black to a gate. Out in the open it was a square area, mud and shit on the ground (HUMAN!), no hole. Two girls, no bathroom came to mind.

Basically I’d have to squat admidst other people’s shit in order to at least pee. Why had I worn pants again? I might have considered peeing had I been wearing a skirt. Better to pee on my own feet than to attempt a move of pulling down long pants, underwear and squatting in the dark trying to avoid flies, bugs and other’s shit.

She stood there with me watching. WTF?

Finally I told her I couldn’t do it.

The big problem was that I had to pee so badly and the thought of going on the scooter for a long bumpy journey was horrifying. We hightailed it out of there, very much worse for wear and tried to figure out how to get back to Candolim.

It was only then that we discovered our ghetto scooter pretty much had no headlight. So there we were, stomachs churning, my bladder about to burst, cows crossing our road paths in the dark, lost, far from anything even remotely touristy with no light.

At one point I think Stef and I were aboutready to stop and just cry.

But, we made it back, an hour later. We showered like ten times each, peed and I pretty much Purelled my whole body.

We couldn’t laugh about it yet. It was too new. Comedy is tragedy plus TIME. We needed TIME.

A few nights later we tried to tell new friends of our experience.

I still can’t say the word “chicken” without getting nauseous. Stef owes me BIG TIME! But I also owe Kamla and those kids for giving me a heartwarming experience that I will never forget. The joy these kids had in their faces, having so little else reminds me that each day is a gift. Although, the chicken, well, that is another story.

[youmightaswell]

Die!

Resort Karen

One of my favorite things about travel, aside from the organizing of a trip, is the stories one gets from being thrust into different places with random people. Airports and hotels are great peoplewatching spots and even something as seemingly benign as staying in one place for week, like at a resort, can be fascinating.

On vacation alone at a resort I typically get very into my own head. My thoughts seem magnified. I am more “me” while alone in a strange place, than anywhere else. And much like with reality tv, when in a strange place, not knowing anyone and having limited access to tv, sometimes one creates a narrative to keep themselves entertained or gets involved in conflict. I have the most fabulous and creative time with myself while traveling. 

I joked with friends before leaving to the Viceroy Riviera Maya  -- my fave resort ever -- that I was going on my The White Lotus trip. Both seasons of The White Lotus take place in tony, luxury resorts in tropical places. The Viceroy could easily be the set of one of these seasons. Extremely high end, with just 40 villas, it is a great peoplewatching spot because there are so few people you easily figure out what everyone’s deal is almost immediately.

And just like The White Lotus, I’ve come to realize over years of travel, every good vacation needs a nemesis. Every story needs a great antagonist. 

Enter: Resort Karen -- the most brilliant moniker I have ever coined.

###

A bit about resorts in general and the Viceroy in particular. Most resorts, even nice ones, tend to be crowded and guests tend to have to get up early to snag a lounge chair by the pool or beach in a good spot. Usually the way to “hold” a prime-spot chair is to put a towel on it. So not only is it a big pet peeve of mine to be staying at a hotel that only doles out a few beach towels per person and rations them, but an even bigger peeve is that on vacation, when one is meant to not have any chores at all and just relax, one would find themselves getting up at sunrise just to be sure to snag a good chair for the day.

I have written about this concept many times and writer Kelly Oxford said it best in her own vacation essay, explaining it by shouting: TOWELS EQUAL POWER. Towels are to cigarettes as resorts are to prison.

But one of the reasons I keep coming back to the Viceroy, year after year, even though it is the priciest place I ever stay, is because not only is the road paved with towels, but there are only a handful of guests at any given times and more than enough prime-area beach and pool chairs. Also there is no fee for a cabana like in most places. You can usually saunter onto the beach at any time, no matter how late, and get a cabana on the beach with no problem.

It truly is one of the only places in the world I can relax.

But, again, enter: Resort Karen

###

The first afternoon I got in late so quickly unpacked and headed to the pool for my first marg and guac. I looked around sizing up the other guests, but it was latish so not many people were around. 

The next morning I headed to the beach and the cabana boy set up two chairs on the lonely beach, just steps from the ocean. I always ask for one in the sun and one with an umbrella for shade so I can bounce between both all day. 

There are a row of really nice, shade-laden cabanas behind the row of beach chairs but I typically don’t take them because I like an unobstructed view of the beach and like to have both sun and shade. The regular lounge chairs can easily be moved to track the movement of the sun, but the cabanas are in a fixed state.

However, on that first day at the beach the cabana boy alerted me there were intense winds so no beach umbrellas could be put up. He asked if I wanted the cabana behind me set up and I said I’d wait to see just how sunny it’d be. 

Within two hours the sun was directly overhead and the manager came out and introduced himself to me. He said he was having the cabana set up behind me as a convenience seeing they could not use umbrellas that day. I thanked him profusely. He said to keep both my sunny beach chair and shady cabana. He mentioned the resort was only 50 percent full (That’s less than 35 people) so every guest could easily have one for shade.

I hadn’t yet gone into the cabana but was about to, when a very loud, fleshy blonde woman stomped down from a beachfront villa to the cabana and started throwing my towels on the sand. 

She started yelling for a cabana boy saying she wanted him to set up the cabana for her. 

Just a few feet from her and incredulous, I smiled and explained I would be sitting there - that the manager had just personally set it up for me, but that the empty cabana next to it was indeed free. She started yelling that it was HER cabana and that she had the villa behind it. (Note: This is not how things work. No one villa is attached to any specific cabana. There are more than enough to go around.)

I explained that the cabanas didn’t belong to specific villas, but the one next to her was totally free. The cabana boy explained I was already in that cabana but offered to set up the one two feet from it. She demanded a manager! (Now you can see how brilliant this moniker I came up with for her is!) I sat quietly in my cabana watching the “tv show” unfold before my eyes. I had found my vacay nemesis. I was indeed living The White Lotus life if you substitute “cabana” for the “Pineapple Suite”. Three different levels of management came to explain to Resort Karen (RK) that no cabana belonged to any specific villa or guest but there were currently five empty ones, one just two feet from the one she wanted. 

(Actual pic I snapped in real time of RK)

They set it up for her, she huffed, her very much old, rich boyfriend joined her with his laptop oblivious of her tantrum. 

She loudly begun telling him I took her cabana. Again I smiled and explained calmly I didn’t even want a cabana -- the manager merely offered it because they were not allowed to put up the beach umbrellas for safety reasons in such strong wind. She shouted she could not hear me and that she didn’t have time for me and this.

She stomped away in a big huff and she and the boyfriend left the cabana that was just made up for them. It sat empty the rest of the day.

It’s noteworthy to  mention: RK was staying in the most expensive villa at the resort to the tune of $2K per night -- and that didn’t include fees for all-inclusive food and drinks which would be another $350 per day for the couple. It came with it’s own beachfront pool and sun/shade area as well. 

That night the harsh wind continued. I went to the beach to eat at the casual restaurant (there is another fancier one that is fully indoors)  because they were hosting a Mexican street food night. I initially sat at a table on the sand but it was too windy. I opted to sit at the bar all the way to the far corner out of the wind and out of sight of all the couples dining at tables. I ordered a drink and waited for the street food tasting menu to begin. There was one empty seat to my right and the rest of were taken with those who had the same idea as me -- to take refuge from the wind. 

As my first course came out, so did Resort Karen, wearing an ill-fitting, tummy baring number. She sat at a table and immediately stood up screeching it was too windy. 

She went to the seat next to  me but there was no extra seat for her bf. She complained she wanted my seat so she could sit out of the wind with her boyfriend. The bartenders just stared at her. She was shown back to the windy table. 

Once again, RK was just a few minutes too late. 

I was tickled by observing RK. Just everything about her is exactly how you’d imagine a character by that name. The hairstyle, the heavy walk and fleshiness, the pitch of her voice...  I was fascinated.

Fun Fact: If you follow multi-tiered marketing maven from Rodan and Fields Sarah Robbins, RK looks like a less glam version of her. Funner Fact: I hate-follow Sarah Robbins for the exact reason I am so fascinated with RK. 

I love to hate-read and hate-watch (Lena Dunham, I’m looking at you!) so there is a certain pressing-of-a-bruise feeling I enjoy. There should be a German word for this feeling. A Schadenfreude, but the enjoyment of one’s own discomfort. A sort of masochistic schadenfreude.

As the night progressed, a few people left the bar area and this super nice British couple who had just arrived sat next to me at the bar and started asking me about the menu. I explained I had been to this resort many times and told them how it worked. They were so very nice. 

###

The next morning I was out to watch the sunrise and saw the coveted cabana RK wanted had already been set up and reserved with her stuff. Fair enough - she got up early to snag it or more likely paid the cabana boy to do so. 

But as the day progressed, she never used it. Other guests would come and try to find a cabana, but hers sat unused. She simply wanted no one else to have it. How fucking petty! 

Later, the woman of the British couple I had met the night before stopped to say hello and asked me if I had every seen The White Lotus. She explained her and her husband kept saying this resort was exactly like it and they felt thrust, somehow, into the third season. I laughed and said I had been saying  that to people all week! I added that there was indeed a super interesting White Lotus-esque character in our midst as well and quickly gave her the rundown of RK’s antic. Turns out the British woman had heard RK’s screech earlier.

So now it was on -- we were keeping tabs on RK and loving it. We were living for getting tipsy on spicy margs and even spicier resort gossip. 

Later I went to float in the pool and RK was at the bar yelling into her cellphone. She went over to a beach lounger by me and put down her HUGE leather Fendi bag. She never sat down on the lounger, but again, seemed to just want to claim it. She was ushered off to her spa appointment a few minutes later. 

That night the Brits and I didn’t see RK, but the next morning, once again, the coveted cabana was made up and reserved for her and again, I was angsty all day, watching it remain empty. At this point the Brits were all anxious as well. How could one woman be so entitled and spiteful? 

The following day was my time to leave but the Brits were staying on for several more. We bid our goodbyes and the British lady said she’d let me know if anything else happened involving RK. 

Sad to be leaving a “show” without seeing it’s finale, I hopped on my plane and began my post-vacay depression.

Imagine my surprised the next morning when I got a series of IG DMs from the lovely Brit. She explained RK put on quite a show that past night: She had showed up to the fancy restaurant with her quietly elegant boyfriend and loudly kept ordering rum and cokes until she had to be literally carried out by her boyfriend for creating a scene and knocking down tables! The following morning more drinks were delivered to RK’s villa and the cabana was again set up with her stuff but never used. 

She was last seen in the pricey gift shop buying a super expensive purse. 

###

We had speculated that if RK had a job, she’d be in HR. Work Karen could easily morph into Resort Karen on vacay. 

And as with The White Lotus, a vacation show is only as interesting as the locals. I have already written about Gume, a local who worked giving guests massages. 

One could only imagine that if my trip had been a season of The White Lotus, RK would have ended up dead. Perhaps she would have found out that Gume was the best masseuse and she’d have stomped over reserving her for the duration of her trip so no one else could benefit from her caring massages. But perhaps, RK would be just a little too demanding, screaming for Gume to rub harder and deeper and an unfortunate massage-related accident would happen, culminating in RK’s demise.

Not wanting anyone to find out, perhaps Gume would bury RK under her beloved cabana, never to be seen again...

[youmightaswell]

LIVE

Gume

Before I get to my “Resort Karen” – the most brilliant moniker I’ve ever coined -- I want to share another little tidbit from my recent resort vacay in Mexico.

Because I’ve been there so many times I have a distinct routine. For me, routine and planning and listmaking are all more exciting than a trip itself. I love ritual.

The minute I get to my resort I unpack, shower and put on a swimsuit to sit and have a marg and guac at the pool. I arrive latish – around 2:30pm so by the time I’m out there it’s nearly 4pm. I sit for about an hour taking in the atmosphere.

Then the next morning I’m up super early to watch the sun rise at the beach, drink an extra foamy decaf and size up the guests as they each hit the pool and beach areas for breakfast.

As soon as I have done that I always go on the hunt for the person who will be my massage person. The hotel’s massages are $220 for 50 minutes which is insane. And they aren’t done on the beach. So I go to one of several nearby, beach setups for one. They are usually $35 for an hour (this year it was $40). I have found that if I pick one person and tell them I will be there everyday for four or five days, they will reserve a spot for me and give me a discount or extra time. This time the first woman who approached me and handed me her card was Gume. She is an older woman (late 50s) than most of the workers. I told her I’d be there every day at 3pm and she agreed to give me the $60 deep tissue massage for 40 and tack on an extra 10 minutes each time. A great deal!

The first day her granddaughter did the massage. She was fine, but I wanted someone more seasoned. The consecutive days I got Gume herself. Little by little I heard her story. Her young and very pretty teen granddaughter had worked super heard and earned a scholarship to the premiere ballet school and school for performing arts in NYC. They were both leaving Mexico and moving to NYC in September. The granddaughter would be fine – she’d get a great dorm room in Greenwich Village, she speaks perfect English and would make friends/get a job, etc.

But Gume was super scared. She doesn’t speak English, will only have a tourist visa so needs to be super careful about finding work. She has no idea how to find a place to stay for four years in expensive NYC.

I can’t imagine how hard it would be to uproot my life in my late 50s and head to a new country where I didn’t speak the language and try to navigate such an expensive world. But her granddaughter’s mother is out of the pic so Gume is willing to do anything to ensure that she has a great life.

We talked about aging, money, etc. I told her I had no idea how an immigrant with a tourist visa navigates finding a job and apartment, but that there is a big Mexican and bigger hispanic community in NYC. I suggested she try to find some who are working here in restaurants, laundromats, salons and ask for advice. Perhaps some have a roommate situation or can help her navigate getting supplements from the City and State. I have her my email address and said right before she arrives I’d put her in touch with my Venezuelan housekeeper who did all this 23 years ago.

If the Viceroy is indeed The White Lotus, the narrative is only as strong as the locals’ stories. While hate-watching Resort Karen flitter about having tantrums and screaming into her cellphone, the really captivating part of my trip was learning about Gume’s personal story.