I'm Ready to Flat Some Swies

Dear Molly,

It's been a while again, huh? Thanks for the advice regarding Miss Jennie. I should call her, but tell her not to be offended if I don't. I have an awkward relationship with my phone. When it rings, I usually scream and throw it under the bed/couch/chair/whatever dark space happens to be nearest. And that's only when I actually hear it ring. Usually it's already hidden somewhere. So you can imagine the anxiety actually dialing a number would cause.

Moving on. Advice.

As you know, I'm moving into a new line of work. One which affords me summers off. Free time from the end of June until the beginning of September. For me, free time + summer = lazing. Hammock lazing. Lake lazing. Boat lazing. Fishing lazing. I might even wage a personal vendetta and engage in an epic, summer-long battle against those damn flies; you know, like old retired men with no grandchildren do. Fly-swatting lazing.

Question: What else can I do with all that free time? Living in Portland, a city which (at least to a New Yorker like myself) looks to be the Capital of Lazing, you must know of some new, awesome forms of lazing which I am not yet familiar with. No offense intended with that remark. Y'all certainly are a bunch of relaxers, though. And I salute you. So, enlighten me.

Thanks,
Kate

P.S. -- My lazing summers don't quite start till Summer 2011, but a girl can be prepared, no?

Dear Kate,

Getting close to Jennie is entirely in your court. You have her phone number, so call her.

As for her participation in ATWOH, you'll again have to speak with her. She has the lovely opportunity to work on the Oregon Coast this summer as a camp counselor. I'm not sure what she wants to take on outside of that job and her normal writing.

My advice- just give her a call.

Sorry, I can't be your middle man,
Molly

Jennie Juniper

Dear Molly,

How do I get closer to Ms. Jennie? I think she's pretty darn wonderful, and I miss her presence in my life. I can't very well move to Portland, though.

Can't we find a niche for her at All the Way Over Here (dot com)?? Would she be open to the suggestion?

With bated breath and whispering humbleness,
Kate

P.S. -- I love Donovan. I really do. And that song really is about Jennie.

Oh, To Be a Hot Bubbly Mess of Sticky... Emotions

Dear Molly,

It's funny -- I remember hiding in the bathroom often, but that detail about opening the drawers to block the door had gotten away from me. Our readers who aren't familiar with the house we grew up in may be wondering why we chose the bathroom, of all rooms, to hide in. The bathrooms were the only rooms in the house with locks on the doors - ha! It's ironic, though, thinking back, that we thought a slab of wood, a push-button lock, and a few pulled-out drawers could keep the storm outside from reaching us. In a way, it did, and I remember feeling very safe in the bathroom with you.

But, like all homes, there are leaks in walls, windows, and doors, and the rains inevitably find their way through them. It's odd that I told you not to cry when I myself am the biggest cry-baby of them all. And I was most likely crying at the time, too -- probably worse than you were.

As you already know, I've been seeing an acupuncturist for the last year, on account of the daily attacks of chronic idiopathic urticaria and angioedema -- or, as the layman calls it, chronic hives and facial swelling. (Which, by the way, I can happily say have subsided almost completely over the past few months, knock on wood.) Anyway, one day, after examining my tongue -- which in Chinese medicine is the most telling gauge of qi, or energy flow, in the body -- my acupuncturist asked whether I had been feeling sad, and if I had been refraining from letting myself feel it. I had, in fact, been fighting the urge to cry all day, but moreover, the sadness I was feeling had a strangely inexpressible quality to it. Usually, she puts a bean bag over my eyes for the duration of the session, but that day, she explained to me that she was going to do something called a cathartic treatment, which would require my eyes to be free from cover due to the simple fact that she was going to induce tears.

I know, this sounds slightly weird -- and kind of pathetic, perhaps -- but no sooner had she dimmed the lights and left the room than I had to make use of the tissue she had placed in my left hand. I cried. But a good kind of cry. I couldn't stop crying for a good ten minutes. When the tears subsided, my heart rate slowed, my breathing grew deeper from my abdomen, and I fell very easily into that meditative, zen-like state it usually takes me about 20 minutes to get to during regular sessions. At the end of my 50-minute session, I went back to work with a clear head -- not cured, for sure, of that sadness, but released from it -- and better able to comprehend and deal with it.

Here's a memory -- my own, but it's a common one, I'm sure -- after the jump.

Are you familiar at all with the Ferber method for comforting crying infants at bedtime? (I've spent a lot of time in the last year, as you well know, with a lovely little baby, so I've become quite familiarized with such things.) It strikes me as similar to the cathartic treatment described above. When you leave the baby to go to sleep at night, and it persistently cries, you return to its room to comfort it in increasing intervals every night. In this way, the baby learns to accustom itself to its own rhythm, and consequently, begins to comfort itself.

You're familiar with the term "crying oneself to sleep," I'm sure. I have a distinct memory of being little and crying so much that my eyes literally would not stay open. After crying for twenty minutes, I'd let go of one great big sigh -- and then peacefully succumb to sleep. It was wonderful.

I believe, that as we get older, we train ourselves out of this method of relaxation. Sure, we cry sometimes. Sometimes we cry a lot. But we don't really allow ourselves to get to that point of letting go because in our mature minds, those troubles which brought about the tears haven't really gone away. When we're little, mama's always going to be there in the morning. Now that we're older, the troubles are deeper, darker, and more everlasting.

But then, not really. As you said yourself, there's always more in this world to find happiness with than there is to find sadness with. It takes a lot to realize that, and even more to admit it sometimes. But it's generally an excellent -- and healthy -- way to look at life. I've found a lot to be happy about in the last year, much to my surprise, as I've mentioned before.

I'll be the first to admit that I am a hot mess of constantly bubbling emotions. When I'm not, I get hives! It's no joke. For all the times I'm a crying sap, though -- I fought back tears throughout the entirety of The Blind Side -- I'm also a beaming ray of sunshine. Ha! Yes, I just wrote that. A close friend of mine, Dana, tells me my face is an open book. Some days, though I may not be crying, may not even be frowning, she can tell instantly that something is bothering me. I'm lucky. It's almost as if the simple fact of a dear friend noticing is enough to get rid of those ugly feelings brewing beneath the surface.

Other days, of course, when I'm happy for no apparent reason, when I'm smiling simply because someone's smiling at me or it's sunny outside, I can feel the entire room light up. It's those days that people seem to take the most notice of me. Someone told me one day that they loved my smile, and it caught me so off-guard because I hadn't even realized I had been smiling. It was charming. That's the word. And it made me feel charming. Ha!

My point is, sure, crying can be messy and ugly and annoying and so completely not fun, but it can also be just as good for you as smiling is. In the right company. I completely understand the fear of your emotions being used against you -- this has certainly happened to me in the past, most often (and perhaps singularly) in the case of a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing.

But how do you know, when sometimes their disguise is so great?

In this case, get a border collie. Figuratively, at any rate. Border collies are those people you can trust, those people who have proven their unfailing loyalty, love, and care for you. Surround yourself with them. Or just stick with one of them, and chances are, they'll lead you to more like them. Birds of a feather flock together, after all. In the last year, I have become quite successful in herding out the wolves. Or, I have some good border collies (see: Dana, above, or Quality People here).

So. This sounds an awful lot like I'm giving you advice, but I'm really not. I'm mostly just passing on what I've come to learn about emotions -- and dealing with them. As the song goes, let it out and let it in. It's the only way to do it. Emotions are messy, and life is a heck of a lot easier without them. But then life just wouldn't be all that fun, would it? The smiling days would seem banal -- the utter opposite of lively. And that, my dear, would be just unacceptable, don't you agree?

Bisous,

Kate

A Woman of Substance

Dear Kate,

A Fertile Blur of Supple Strength? A Sleek Cat? I don't even know what that means. I do have oddly cat-like reflexes.

As for the proclamation that I am God (don't worry, I don't really think I'm God/Jesus/Buddha or any other higher being. And I'm certainly no saint), I'm relating more to the human side of Jesus right now.

I know what you're thinking. "Did Molly just admit to being human? Did hell freeze over? Is therapy working?"

Yes, I am human. Yes, I have feelings. Yes, its terribly hard for me to talk about them. Why? Here's why. I'm a runner. You know this. It's a family joke. I'm the runner of the family. "All my life I've left my troubles by the door cause leaving is all I've ever known before." I have to be able to pick up those troubles and walk out the door. I don't get attached, I don't share, because someday I will get the urge to run and its harder to run when you've formed bonds.

"But, Molly," you might ask "what about the dream of yours to have a family, a home? Those require very strong bonds."

I know. In addition to being a runner, I am a jumbled mess of contradictions inside. That's something I'm working on. Now, before anyone jumps down my throat, just because things are contradictory in my mind, doesn't mean I'm not happy. There are more things in my life that bring happiness than there are things that bring sadness. The pros outnumber the cons.

That's not to say I don't have sad days, or days when I'm scared, or days when I'm lonely. But if some one were to ask me how I felt in my life, I could honestly and confidently say that I am happy.

Oh, and yes, I get hurt. But I also don't believe in sitting around and moping. I've always advised against that and I take my own advice (atleast on that count). So, if one day you see me and I tell you it feels like five cows have just trampled across my torso and the next day you hear me whistling the Battle Hymn of the Republic, its not because I'm covering up the hurt. I've simply addressed the pain, dealt with it, and moved on. Sure, some residual hurt can occasionally cause some passive aggressive, snarky comment, but that's to be expected. Its in my nature to make snarky comments and if I see the opportunity, I take it.

But, I've digressed. Emotions. Expressing them and why I can't. Now, I am in no way blaming you, Kate, but do you recall hiding in the upstairs bathroom when we were little? I do. I remember one particular time where we locked the door, pulled all the drawers out in front of it, and sat down on the edge of the tub. I began to cry and you turned to me and said, "Don't cry. He's not worth it." Now, I know we were somewhere around 10 and you weren't purposefully trying to diminish my emotions, but that has become a sort of mantra of mine. "Don't cry. [Its] not worth it." I'm not saying its a very good mantra, but there you have it.

There's one more thing. I don't trust people not to use my emotions against me.

Post Script-
I LOVE Neko Case. She is a wonderful lyricist with a tough, sweet voice that's like ripping silk. I fell in love with her in high school when I randomly bought Furnace Room Lullaby. The woman has a way of knowing me with her music.

Tenderly, tenderly please take my breath from me
Into the fountains and up from the grave
Tearfully, joyfully burn what is left of me
I don't want these burdens that handsomely weigh

You be the guest
And I'll let you stay
Leave me the check
I'll pay with the rest of my life
Twist the knife

Unfortunately there is no video for that song, but this is one of my favorites of hers and this is a lovely version.

-Molly

Post Script

Come on sorrow
Take your own advice
Hide under the bed
Turn out the light
Stars this night in the sky are ringing out
You can almost hear them saying
"Close your eyes now kid"

I'm in love with this song. I was listening to it on my lunch and thinking of you. I know this album came out over a year ago, but I haven't listened to it in a while. Below is the only decent recording I can find of "Magpie to the Morning."





I kinda like the video, anyway.

Are You a Fertile Blur of Supple Strength?

Dear Molly,

Question: Are you a fertile blur of supple strength?

Explanation: Sometimes, I like to read my friends' horoscopes to see what they might have in store for the future. My horoscope is generally full of crap, which is probably why I put it out of my mind and forget it completely by the end of the week.

Also, it's a horoscope.

But! That's not to say that it's not fun to read. And I do read it -- every week in the Village Voice, which publishes the syndicated horoscope column, "Free Will Astrology," by Rob Brezsny. I happened to read yours today, Ms. Pisces, and thought I might share it with you because it seems to describe a certain... theme? feeling? proclamation? you've been (fittingly) subscribing yourself to lately.

Anyway, read on, sister:

In honor of the new identity you're evolving into, I hereby give you the nickname of "Miracle Player," or else -- if you like one of these better -- "Sleek Cat" or "Giant Step" or "Fate Whisperer." You may hereafter also use any of the following titles to refer to yourself: "CEO of My Own Life" or "Self-Teacher of Jubilance and Serenity" or "Fertile Blur of Supple Strength." Feel free, as well, to anoint your head with pure organic virgin olive oil, fashion a crown for yourself out of roses and shredded masks, and come up with a wordless sound that is a secret sign you'll give to yourself whenever you need to remember the marvelous creature you are on your way to becoming.

Well, what do you think of that? Are you a Sleek Cat? A Giant Step, maybe?

Obviously, I have no burning question today, but if you really feel the need to advise me, maybe you can answer me this: Why is my horoscope always so wrong? Or -- as is most often the case -- why does it, without fail, employ that dime-store "you-have-great-hope-for-the-future" fortune cookie triteness?

It's just not fair. I want to be a Sleek Cat. Or a Fertile Blur of Supple Strength.

Best,
Kate

Nothing provokes speculation more than...

Dear Kate,

Yes, take advantage of these young men! If they want to buy you a drink who are you to argue? You are a capable, competent, self-sufficient young woman. You don't need these men to buy you drinks, its just an added perk to being a confident, out-spoken, intelligent lady.

I, myself, feel no shame accepting a drink from a young man. By doing so you are in no way leading them on, they are choosing to buy you a drink. Nothing provokes speculation more than the sight of a young woman enjoying herself. And why not invite a little speculation into your life?

Also keep in mind that its not just a one way street. Feel free to extend the same courtesy to a man once in a while. If you are chatting with a fellow, enjoying yourself, and you happen to notice is drink is dry, order one for him. You should have already taken note of what he was drinking (these things are very important), so it makes a good impression if you can order his drink correctly for him. It works the same way when he's ordering for me. Its a couple marks in the "pros" column if a man can correctly order my whiskey for me.

Enjoy yourself,
Molly

Have You Seen the Well-to-do?

Dear Molly,

Holy hell, you are a freak. But that's ok. Let your freak flag fly. Unfortunately, you're just a little too vague about your cult, and I'm just a little too impatient to wait for these details you speak of. Besides, I can have everything I want right here on Planet Earth. I can even have Paris. And if I dump champagne on myself on a sunny summer day, it'll even be like it's raining the stuff.

On to some much-needed advice. I'm about to have an after work drink or two with a good friend of mine; something we try to do at least once or twice a week. Except, even though there are tons of places in midtown Manhattan, we seem to keep gravitating to this one outdoor beer bar on Park Ave, packed to the max with the midtown youngeon corporate banker set. It's super weird and kinda funny, and we get a lot of head turns, but...

Should we be taking advantage of these dudes? You know, for like free drinks and all. They certainly like to flash their wallets and fancy shoes.

Thanks,
Kate

Freaks flock together...

Dear Kate,

I can promise you all these things and more, but first you must make sacrifices. You must help me prepare the way. When I know I can trust you more I will tell you what we are preparing for, but for now I need your help in gathering a flock to me.

This flock, like you, will have many questions and I will take the time to address all of those questions and shed light on those who now dwell in darkness.

PBWY,
Molly

Let's Get Down to Brass Tacks, Shall We?

Dear Molly,

Are you planning on starting a cult? Don't get me wrong, I think you're totally rad and all, but I'm just not sure I want to drink the lemonade. Yet, anyway. Let's talk details. Maybe you could tell me a little more about what I would get. Because, you know, it's all about me. All the time.

Like, would I get to ride first class on the super-sonic express rocket to Planet Molly? When we get there, what kind of living quarters are we talking? I want a seven-floor Frank Lloyd Wright-esque tree house in which all the appliances work by magic and make faint twinkling sounds when I use them. I want a swimming pool filled with holy water and love. I want a Border Collie/Samoyed mix named Drummer 2.0 to keep me company. I want to drink champagne everyday and when it rains, I want for it to rain champagne and sunshine, and nothing else.

Also, I want Paris. The whole of it. If Paris isn't part of the deal, I'm out.

So. Are these things you can work with? If so, sign me up. I'll be your Simon-Peter in a heartbeat.

Thanks,
Kate

All the better to rip your face off with, my dear

Dear Kate,

I like the new changes, I do, I do! I like your newly formed domain allthewayoverhere.com.

All this is good, including the picture. Most of all the picture. I think it truly demonstrates our relationship. You looking (admiringly) to me for guidance, even from a young age.

I think opening up the forum to outside queries is a good move. I've found my wisdom is put to best use when its spread out among the masses. Incidentally, I've commissioned a statue to be made in my likeness.

Also, I've been looking for a few acres of land in the country. Somewhere remote, with a couple barns already available for use, would be great. If you happen to find anything that might suit the bill, let me know. Along those same lines, I'll probably need some barbed wire. You know, to protect the property.

How would you like to be the Simon-Peter to my Jesus Christ?
Molly

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

Dear Molly,

As you can see, I've recently made a few changes to the site. For one, most obviously, Dear Molly now has a pretty sharp-looking photo banner. (Sweet claw-hand, by the way.) Also, I'm proud to officially introduce Dear Molly as a sub-domain of the newly formed allthewayoverhere.com. (Which, by the way, has been sorely neglected lately in lieu of more pressing issues. Namely: spring, social life, application deadlines, work hullabaloo, etc.)

Anyway, I hope you like the new changes. I have some more ideas we should probably discuss in email, as well. With your permission, I'd like to set up a contact page where our your readers might find an address to which they could send any questions they might have for you. While Dear Molly is -- and shall remain -- primary concerned with Molly's answers to Kate's (many) life questions, I thought it might be nice to get some of the readers in on the action if they so wished.

Get back to me. And let me know how you like the changes. Unless, of course, you hate them; then don't tell me at all. Or lie.

As always, many thanks,

Kate

Oh crap.

Dear Kate,

"Oh crap" was the first thing that ran through my mind. The second thing was "who stabbed you in the stomach with a machete?" That is the only way to describe that pitiful look on your face. Judging by the hurt in your eyes, it had to be some one close to you.

That being said, I actually like this picture. It looks like you belong in a Final Fantasy. Yes! That's exactly where I've seen this look before. This was the look on Aeris' face when Sephiroth kills her.

Always happy to judge,
Molly