Rachel Kramer Bussel's Blog, page 109

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A friend asked if I could get together today, and I can't, because I'm still catching up on work, but said I could tomorrow, if she could pick me up. There's a glaring difference between my home in New York and my/my boyfriend's home in New Jersey, and it's not just that there's no coffeeshop or 24-hour deli or movie theater or hotel in his town. Where I live, life is happening all around me--on the street, below the ground. There are people spilling out of subways and buses and cars and restaurants; at most hours of the day or night you can hear people talking. I can hear the next subway stop announcements from my bed if the windows are open and I listen closely.

It's not like that here, and the biggest difference for me is mobility. I once knew how to drive, barely, but that was many years ago. I haven't driven a car in probably 15 years, and don't plan to again, at least, not in the tri-state area. Maybe on some wide sunny open road somewhere without other cars, but even that scares me. So when I'm here, I'm here. I don't make plans to go places. I don't spontaneously meet anyone for coffee. I'm hoping to seek out a place to get a manicure/pedicure. From my home, I can hop on a subway and then a bus to Philadelphia or Washington, DC, as I've done this year, or a plane to anywhere in the world. The New Jersey transit train I take to get to here passes by Newark International Airport, but that's about it.

My life here is about home, about this home that we are cobbling together, day by day, so that now, versus when I first came here, it feels a bit more like me. Yesterday, my boyfriend was sitting at the dining room table, which I've commandeered as my desk, while I watched him from the couch. I could tell he was itching to straighten everything I'd strewn across the wooden surface, and he did. He lined up the empty boxes I'd left there in order, placed my three seltzer bottles next to each other. I was impressed he left my laptop case and iPhone charger and Hello Kitty gratitude journal and little sticky notes in their own haphazard placement.

I used to feel trapped here, precisely because I had to decide in advance how long I'd be here. I wasn't free to come and go and that went against every ounce of New Yorker in me. Being able to create my day however I want was the consolation prize of freelancing when I got laid off and is still part of what I treasure most about New York; not only the time, but the abundance of choices of how to use that time. Slowly, though, I've come to like the homey aspects of this life. I like that with fewer options, I do actually spend more hours in front of my laptop, hopefully generating income. I get to be here when he comes home, and we can have a whole weeknight together. I cannot imagine what this relationship would have been like had I been working at my old job, but there's no way it would have been as rich and fulfilling because we would have had only a fraction of the time we get together.

Lsat night I'd planned to go see graphic memoirists Ellen Forney, whose new book Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo, and Me is excellent, and just hit the New York Times bestseller list, and Julia Wertz, author of The Infinite Wait, which I bought at an indie comic shop in my neighborhood, at the Strand, one of those amazing New York institutions that inspires me every time I walk in its door. But when we got back from New Haven on Sunday I realized I didn't have the energy or desire to go all the way back home and spend Monday zipping around New York, only to come back Tuesday night. I wanted the quiet and the time and the simplicity. It's a balancing act, and I keep being seduced by all these tempting travel offers (there is an amazing $382 Hawaiian Air roundtrip from JFK to Honolulu, but the December dates are extremely restricted). 2013 feels like it's practically already here; I have no idea exactly how I will fly there because something about paying double what I could pay to go to Honolulu to go to London seems wrong, but I am officially part of Eroticon 2013.

Right now, though, I'm focused on today's stories; I'm trying to narrow down my lists so I don't get depressed and overwhelmed. I'm on Day 2 of Gabrielle Bernstein's 40-day guide May Cause Miracles , and I'm supposed to be meditating on choosing love instead of fear. Sometimes that feels impossible. I know fear; it's comfortable, familiar, steady. Choosing love, which I had to do to get to a place where I don't wake up and miss the noise and chaos and transportation New York City has to offer, didn't happen overnight. But I can say for sure that the building blocks of our relationship, the little things that keep surprising me, they are more special to me than any reading or party or event or subway line. The amount of love and caring and commitment I've been given seems a little surreal after the last few years, and I catch myself thinking I in no way deserve it. Who knows? Maybe I don't, but I have it anyway, and all I can do is try to be worthy and give it back as best I can. Not at the expense of me, which is why I plan to shop for a town with a little more going on, somewhere I can find the equivalent of a Gimme Coffee, somewhere I can meet kindred spirits and walk to a train and raise a family.

A year later my heart tattoo essay still suits me to a T

My heart is a lot stronger than it was when I wrote this essay a year ago. I'd forgotten about it because I'd submitted it to xoJane and never heard back, and as often happens with me, I simply let things go and assume they suck if I don't hear back from an editor and don't try to shop them around. Freelancing can be kindof like dating, and if you let someone else's rejection of you form your sense of self-worth, you're in for a very hard road. So I will let this speak for itself, without giving in to my temptation to go in and tinker with it, posting it here flaws and craziness and all. My heart it still very much like a little girl, as am I, but 37 is so much better than the start of 36 was, and I hope 36's worst, most heartwrenching moments stay where they belong. I still look at my tattoo every day, and I'm still incredibly grateful for all the luck and opportunity and love that's come my way this year. Now I just have to keep being worthy of it. Today I'm thinking about that phrase home is where the heart is, and also its converse. I decided to skip New York this week, after our lovely getaway in New Haven this weekend, and stay at my future home, with my guy, where we tease each other and play on the Wii and cook together and are silly and stubborn and still getting to know each other. My heart, and I, still have a lot of growing up to do. A lifetime, really. Never would I have imagined what the year after my tattoo would bring, because how could I? And maybe that's the real lesson.

I end this essay with a quote from Gabrielle Bernstein, and I'm now reading her new book, May Cause Miracles , because I want to be like her, be someone who believes in and creates miracles. She nails me, or the old me, to a T when she writes: "Special love is based on dependency and lack. The ego convinces us that we're alone, which leads us to desperately seek completion in others. The experience of lack grows out of our profound sense of separation from our real spiritual identity. Believing this state of lack to be our reality, we seek special relationships to help us feel whole." I got the tattoo in part to make me feel whole. I sat in that chair in that city in that state and I cried for so many reasons and yes, it fucking hurt. My skin, my heart. But I got through it, and I think it made me stronger. I figured out that I don't need anyone else, certainly not anyone I thought I needed. I figured out a lot of things, including that I'm still the same raw, stubborn, impulsive, wistful girl I was. Even though my boyfriend does add happiness to my life, a hell of a lot of it, I never want to see love as anything other than what comes from inside me. I spent far too long feeling so lost because I thought I didn't matter, and only when I finally believed that I did did the person I'm with now step into my life. Even then, on our second date I had to tell him something that made me feel like my life was utterly out of control, because it was. That was this wakeup call moment where I realized I was either going to let myself spin completely out of control or pick up the pieces and only focus on the things I can control, to truly live the Serenity Prayer, rather than just aspire to. I'm glad I had all those rock bottom moments this past year, because they taught me exactly the lessons they were supposed to. They told me what and who to value, taught me that I have so much more power than I think I do in my lowest moments. And every day I try to remember that. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I don't get what I want. Sometimes I don't even know what I want. But as Gabrielle Bernstein writes, "...living with an open heart and embracing love as our true purpose is essential to living a miraculous life." And no, she's not talking about any kind of fake, Hollywood-ized version of romantic love, or the idea of some knight in shining armor to save you love. She's talking about the real thing. I'm so glad I have the wisdom to know the difference.



Last year, I deliberately chose to get my first tattoo, the word "open" in purple cursive script, on a part of my body I wouldn't be confronted with every day: my back. I can easily see it if I'm naked and look in the mirror, but most days I'm too busy going about my routine to focus on those four purple letters. I know they're there, and right after I got the tattoo last year, I used to reach behind me and touch them, letting their spirit press its way into my fingers.

Which brings me to my brand new tattoo. After the first one, I was pretty sure I wouldn't get another. I didn't want to be the cliché of someone who "just can't stop getting tattoos," which many friends told I would become. "It's addictive," they said, and since I have an addictive personality, I resisted. I'm the type of person who, if you tell me that I'm going to or should do something, I immediately want to prove you wrong and not do the thing in question, because I'm stubborn and contrary like that. More so, I don't want to feel like what I'm doing is somehow preordained, conformist, not thought out.

But the longer I've lived with my "open" tattoo, the more I've realized that the job I wanted it to do—to open my heart and mind—wasn't happening in part because, like everything good for us that we want to forget about because it's annoying or inconvenient or frustrating or slow or difficult, I was tuning out my tattoo. I liked the idea of being marked "open" but in reality, when anything went awry in my life, I shrank bank into the same old negative thought patterns; I had trouble adapting to change, whether a breakup or a layoff. When things fell apart for the last time with the man I was crushed out on, to put it mildly, instead of trying to make my peace with that, I went into jealousy mode. His wife (it's an open relationship) suddenly embodied everything I'm not, and never will be. In my head she was not just younger, but smarter, prettier, thinner, more successful. Yes, talk about another cliché—the jealous woman—but that was me, and, if I'm honest, still is me on some days. I couldn't figure out how to acknowledge that jealousy without letting it overwhelm me. I interpreted "open" as being allowed to revel in any and all emotions that passed through me, as if they were all equal and thereby deserving of my attention and devotion.

The hard part of being truly open isn't recognizing my contradictory and often unhelpful feelings, but using my vision for the kind of life I want to sort through them and only tap into the ones that are healthy and furthering me on my path. I found that instead of trusting my heart, I was starting to berate myself for making foolish relationship mistakes. Every setback seemed like a blaring sign that there was something deeply wrong with me I'd never be able to fix (public service announcement: don't ever tell someone during a breakup talk that they "deserve" better, that's basically an extremely twisted passive aggressive version of "fuck you"). I let myself return to dating people who'd already told me explicitly they didn't want the same things I want. I was stuck and, well, a tattoo seemed like a start on the path toward getting unstuck.

So, "heart." I wanted this word bold and bright and in my face, because I tend to scorn my heart more often than I should. I blame following my heart any time doing so doesn't lead to mad passionate long-term romance. But closing off my heart can't be the answer; I don't want to freeze out my heart to the point that I don't have room to welcome love—not just romantic—of all kinds into my life. A lot of my heart's travails have related to dating, but I also want to use my heart to be a better daughter, granddaughter, cousin, friend. I don't want to get so mired in my own head and problems that I can't use my empathy and compassion when I need to, while also taking care of myself.

Once I decided to get the tattoo, I did a little Googling and found Sanctuary Tattoo in Portland, Maine, where I was taking a birthday vacation, and chose them mainly because I liked the look of their website. I may agonize over what to order off a menu, but with bigger decisions, I usually make them more quickly. I made an appointment, sending a photo of my other tattoo and explaining what I wanted, and then I didn't let myself think too much more about it, lest I second-guess myself.

The design Ryan had picked out was taller than I'd expected, curving over my inner arm, its swirls visible when my arm is facedown. That was a surprise, but I liked it; I knew I wasn't just making the transition into a person with multiple tattoos, but into someone with a publicly visible tattoo. It hurt, a lot, more than I remember my other one hurting, but what made me cry—not huge wracking sobs, but a few good tears—wasn't the physical pain. It was thinking about the fact that there is still a part of me that wants to impress that same person I spent a long time infatuated with, who taught me so much, good and bad, about what it means to love someone. There will probably always be a part of me that wants his respect, and I couldn't help wondering what he'd think about my tattoo. I let myself go with it, feeling the pain on both levels. When the scraping of my skin with the tattoo needle seemed to much to bear, I reminded myself that it was the visceral equivalent of the times when I felt this extremely profound, painful ache of wanting the love and attention of someone who didn't have those things to give me. And less than an hour (and costing only $125!), it was over.

I described the tattoo before I got it as being an "anti-cynicism tattoo," and that still sounds pretty accurate. When I feel hurt, my first reaction is to retreat, to pull far back from anything and anyone who might ever hurt me again. The problem with that is that self-protection very quickly turns into a misguided sense of self-sufficiency and cutting myself off from the world. I start to think I should cocoon myself away until I'm somehow a better, smarter, prettier, more moral person—basically, until I'm perfect—rather than doing the only thing any of us can do: work through our issues, each and every day.

My heart is like a little girl, imperious, impulsive, and impossible. And while little girls are adorable, especially my friend's 2-year-old daughter who I love to pieces, my heart reminds me of the time I walked into my friend's bedroom and her daughter was tucked under the covers, looking like she was sick, but was instead just cozy and watching TV. She wanted me to leave so she just pointed to the door (a movement translated by her mom), while I tried not to laugh at being bossed around by someone so tiny. She's two, so she's entitled to do whatever she wants whenever she wants. My 36-year-old heart, though, not so much; it gets in trouble when it simply wanders down a path without considering any of the potential pitfalls.

Lest that sound too much like I'm just some girl who's not quite over a guy (which is accurate, in its way), I want "heart" to mean all the best things about me, and about life. At a time when 10-year-olds are committing suicide, elderly people are getting pepper sprayed, and a friend of a friend was randomly shot three times on his block, I know that my problems are quintessential White Girl Problems, but they are still very real to me. I want to wake up genuinely happy and grateful to greet each new day, rather than facing the morning with dread and fear of what it might bring. I want the tattoo to be a reminder that I shouldn't forget my heart, but I shouldn't be ruled by it either.

"Heart" in a way is a substitute for faith—faith in love, in other people, in the future, in myself. I've been reading Gabrielle Bernstein's excellent book Spirit Junkie , and she writes of the clash between fear and love, "We've saved our faith for fear. But deep inside each of us lives a soft voice reminding us that love is real." I believe her, but the loud self-hating voices in my head often run roughshod over the softer-spoken ones, so I hope my loud tattoo helps me keep that lesson real, and, most of all, keep me in touch with my heart, with all her wayward demands, demons, and desires.

2 new erotica audiobooks: Dirty Girls and Curvy Girls

Dirty Girls has been my bestselling of my over 40 anthologies, which says a lot, and now it's available as an audiobook from Audible! Click through for a free sample listen. Click here to read my introduction to this action-packed, extremely varied 27-story anthology, with authors including Marie Lyn Bernard, Alison Tyler, Carol Queen, Sofia Quintero, Melissa Gira and many others.



Curvy Girls, featuring plus size women of various kinds, from athletic (I love the way Sommer Marsden interpreted the theme in the opening story "Runner's Calves" and hope athletic women and runners will especially appreciate it!) to kinky to butch to ones with big asses, is also available as an audiobook. Click through for a free sample listen.



Here's the table of contents and description:

Foreword: The Volumptuous Life by April Flores
Introduction: Curves and Attitude by Rachel Kramer Bussel


Runner’s Calves by Sommer Marsden
Before the Autumn Queen by Angela Caperton
Champagne & Cheesecake by A.M. Hartnett
First Come, First Serve by Lolita Lopez
Small Packages by Tenille Brown
Decadence by Satia Welsh
Excuses by Nina Reyes
Recognition by Salome Wilde and Talon Rihai
Passing the Time by Gwen Masters
First Date by Louise Hooker
At Last by Jessica Lennox
Wenching by Justine Elyot
What Girls Are Made Of by Evan Mora
Appetite by Elizabeth Coldwell
In The Early Morning Light by Kristina Wright
See and Be Seen by Arlette Brand
Big Girls Do Cry by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Marked by Isabelle Gray
Happy Ending by Donna George Storey

You just pick a day in time and I'm in/a new destination

I wrote an essay for a friend's website that'll be up soon about some of the music I started listening to when I first moved to New York, and found myself listening to Live City Sounds by Mary Lou Lord and vaguely recalled this post, which feels like a lifetime ago. I don't think even then I could have imagined all the places this year would take me, and not just on planes. I'm sitting in the complete quiet, the only sound coming from my laptop, in my second home. You don't get this kind of quiet in New York City. At first I thought it was too much quiet; it haunted me, felt unnatural, unnerving.

But slowly, through many days of sitting and sleeping and taking baths and cooking and kissing and watching game shows here, of having my own closet that is now neatly arranged by my boyfriend, it's come to be my home just as much, if not more so, than the place where I send my rent checks every month. And maybe by having that stability, I've been able to go so many places, to dream of new places to go. I looked up the list I'd made of all 50 states and counted up the ones where I've eaten cupcakes, and found that I've gotten up to 22, and while I do want to get to all 50, it's not just about the numbers. It's about the connection. I like being able to talk to someone and say, "Oh yeah, I got a tattoo in that city, or I ate at that restaurant, or saw a show." I like feeling like I don't have to be tied down to any one spot, that there are an infinite number of adventures waiting for me.

Sometimes, yes, it's disorienting. I not only don't know where I am, I don't know where I want to be. But that girl who pushed everyone away, who sought out the most unavailable people over and over again? I think I left her behind, at an airport, maybe, on a bus, on a train, in my journals. I have a date in 2013 for Catalyst, and for all sorts of things. I have all these possibilities dangling right in front of me, ones that would make me giddy if they come through, but also, right here, in this quiet space, I know that I can always make more dreams, especially with someone who is more supportive of my dreams, as outlandish and ridiculous as they may sometimes be, than I could ever have hoped for.

I'm reading at Grand Central Station November 28th

I will have details soon on the time but I'm reading on Wednesday, November 28th at Posman Books at Grand Central Station from my essay "Kink and Condescension" from the new anthology Fifty Writers on Fifty Shades of Grey edited by Lori Perkins, out now from Smart Pop Books! It's shipping now from Amazon and has an amazing lineup of erotic and romance authors, commentators, Fifty Shades of Grey parodists, book industry insiders like Judith Regan and more!

I love a sexy spine and a hot bondage photo

On a person or a book! Many thanks to my publisher Cleis Press for putting this hot bondage cover photo by Roman Kasperski on the spine as well. I was just reading a whole comment thread at xoJane about how Jane Pratt revolutionized the reading of magazine spines for people.

I'm sending out copies of Best Bondage Erotica 2013 today, hot off the press, to my Amazon.com reviewers (you ROCK!!) and it always makes me so happy. I'm sending books to California, Florida, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma and Texas! I love getting to send out books before they're even in stores, getting to know where my readers are, and helping ensure the longevity of my books. There's something about investing in my business (and now the paperwork is in place for me to officially be a business) that makes me feel good about the work that I do. I hate having to be all "buy buy buy." It feels slimy and gross, even if I do believe in the projects I work on, even if it is part of the life of something creating things that are for sale. I know I need to get over my Fear of Money and Fear of Business if I can ever hope to make a go at this freelance life for real, not just for a year, but I also know I need balance, so sending out 20+ books this makes my soul feel good and gets to feed my love of the post office and snail mail! More info on this book is below, and I'm hoping to have new calls up very soon! And as always, stay tuned to @raquelita on Twitter for my random musings and book giveaways.





Order Best Bondage Erotica 2013 from:

Amazon

Kindle edition (ebook)

Barnes & Noble

Nook (ebook)

Powells

Books-a-Million

IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)

Cleis Press

Foreword: Uncomfortable Truths Graydancer

Introduction: Loving Bondage Anywhere and Everywhere

An Introduction to Shibari Elizabeth Coldwell

This Is Me Holding You Annabeth Leong

Tying the Knot Tiffany Reisz

The Great Outdoors Teresa Noelle Roberts

What Vacations Are For Thomas S. Roche

Lights Out Mina Murray

Feeling the Heat Lucy Felthouse

You Can Look… Evan Mora

The Moons of Mars Valerie Alexander

Interlude for the Troops Louise Blaydon

Hot in the City Sommer Marsden

Passion Party Purgatory Logan Zachary

Steadfast Andrea Dale

Tree Hugger Giselle Renarde

A Public Spectacle D. L. King

Seven More Days N. T. Morley

A Bit of a Tangle Monocle

Wheelbarrow Position Danielle Mignon

The Longest Afternoon Medea Mor

Plastic Wrap Shoshanna Evers

Wiped Kay Jaybee

Foot and Mouth Rachel Kramer Bussel

Introduction: Loving Bondage Anywhere and Everywhere

One of the main things I look for when editing the Best Bondage Erotica series is variety. I want a mix of types of people being tied up, a range of implements used to bind, a diverse setting for these kinky scenarios. This year, I got all that and more—much more.

I was especially pleased to see that several authors threw open the bedroom door and took their kinky play outside. In “The Great Outdoors,” “Wheelbarrow Position” and “Tree Hugger,” you’ll find some very creative bondage that borders on exhibitionism, as well as full-on exhibitionism in “A Public Spectacle.” The excitement of being exposed, of baring your body to the elements and not being able to escape should someone walk by, is expounded on with kinky delight in these tales.

The variety doesn’t end there. There are newcomers, whether to bondage or specific types of bondage play, from shibari to a simple rope harness, plastic wrap to handcuffs to a chastity tube. There are sex toys, all manner of them, from a special pink ribbon to a Hitachi Magic Wand, and they come into play in ways that will surprise and delight you, but what I’m most thrilled about with this collection is what the men and women feel once they are tied up, bound, restrained, at someone else’s mercy. Here’s a sampling:

“…this is a stranger for whom I want to be the very best toy ever.” (“The Moons of Mars”)

“She focused on her breathing. Taking slow, deep breaths, she stared back at him, daring him to do his worst.” (“The Longest Afternoon”)

“The blatant hunger on his face almost made up for the last year of neglect. But he was struggling against his bonds now, and that just wouldn’t do.” (“Lights Out”)

“Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker that I fall for it every time. Maybe I just want to. But when I see and hear him taking out the duct tape, I squirm in anticipation.” (“Foot and Mouth”)

These characters find themselves appreciating even the discomfort of bondage, trading their autonomy for something greater, something that sets them free—from convention, from daily life, from their usual roles. It’s that freedom to exult, straight, mouth off, give and take pleasure that I hope comes across the strongest in these pages. For while these stories take place in a variety of settings, using all sorts of implements and household items, what they have in common is desire, curiosity and a willingness to pursue them, even when you’re not sure where the journey will take you. I hope dedicated bondage fans, newcomers and those of you who share that curiosity about the thrills of being tied to a tree or a chair or a bed, will keep this book handy and be inspired to dream up, and live out, your own fantasies.

Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City[image error]

Last chance for a free bondage erotica book, Amazon.com reviewers

I have a few more copies of Best Bondage Erotica 2013 to send to Amazon.com reviewers tomorrow; if you're in the U.S. and have an Amazon.com account you've made a purchase from and want to review it, email me at bestbondage2013 at gmail.com with "Amazon" in the subject line and your name and mailing address by tonight (Wednesday, November 1th) and if I have enough, I will send you a free, signed copy tomorrow. You can read the table of contents and my introduction here. I just ask that you review it within 6 weeks! This is a promotion I do with all my books and I buy and mail the books myself, which is why I can't afford to send overseas, sorry! Thank you so much for your ongoing support, everyone who's read, bought, reviewed, liked and otherwise supported my books. It means a lot, and I hope to have some more calls posted soon!

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November gratitutde

I have a lot to be grateful for, like amazing friends, exciting news that actually made me tear up last night, these fishnets from Gigi K that for some reason I'm only now wearing for the first time, and a sexy cooking date with my man tonight which I also get to write about! My friend took a photo of me last night talking on the phone because I looked so happy, and that said a lot to me. More on what we cooked tomorrow. For some cute food photos, check out my daily Movember moustache cupcake posts.

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What I look for in an airline is what I look for from the people in my life

Yesterday, I spent about 6 hours in Buffalo, at the airport, waiting to find out when I would get to go home. My JetBlue flight from Phoenix was diverted due to fog at JFK, after it had been delayed about an hour. At first, we all trudged off the plane and waited, and I expected to get home that morning. Not at 6 as planned, but that morning. Each hour we were told to check back. Around 9:30 we were told we'd be boarding. Some people stood in line; I sat and charged my phone. Just when we thought we'd be boarding, an announcement was made that the crew had timed out, that gate was closing, and we could go to another gate to find out what was happening. They said something vague about giving us food vouchers and that we could take a bus. That was it. No notice, no warning that this crew time out was imminent, no information about next flights.

Most of us went to the gate we were sent to; some went to another gate nearby. Both gates were busy boarding two other flights to JFK and barely moved. I did see the two sisters (one was 10, I believe, the other probably younger) being boarded onto one of the flights. The woman with a baby was waiting with all the rest of us. We had to rely on random snippets of information gleaned from passengers who pushed to the front and returned with what we hoped was concrete details. @JetBlue on Twitter apologized but couldn't tell us anything more. We were told we could go to a third gate for information, but when I arrived I heard the woman staffing that gate tell us she was having a bad day, too, before leaving. She returned shortly only to call and ask what to do with us. I heard murmurings about a 5 p.m. flight. Then out of nowhere an announcement came that they'd found us a crew and we would be boarding. Eventually, we did, and landed around 1 p.m.

The thing that bothered me most wasn't the delay, although that wasn't fun. My KLM flight from Amsterdam to Dubai was cancelled due to the plane's mechanical issues, and we dealt with it. No one wants to fly on an unsafe plane or into fog. But the utter lack of information given to us was appalling and for that, I do blame JetBlue. They should have foreseen that the crew would time out when they did and tried to get another crew in sooner. They should have told us that was a possibility. They should have kept us informed and had staffers to help us when that crew timed out. They didn't.

Today I got an email from JetBlue about a fare sale. Go short, go medium or go long. Travel between November 20th and December 20th. "Fares not available on Orbitz, Travelocity, Expedia, or Priceline," according to their website. I'm tempted, because I love traveling, I love the thrill of escape and discovery. But what I look for in an airline is what I look for from anyone I deal with: good communication. Trust. Knowing they are working to the best of their abilities. Yesterday, JetBlue wasn't. I did get a $10 voucher. I did get home, to a city where the Airtrain and my subway are back up and running. The Buffalo airport did have wifi. But I remembered telling everyone who asked in Scottsdale that JetBlue is my favorite airline, that I try to fly them as often as possible, that I was looking forward to flying them home after I'd flown Delta on the way out. I hope JetBlue can restore my faith in them, because they have a lot to offer as an airline. But they didn't live up to the service I've come to expect yesterday, and that's because they didn't tell us what was going on. It was chaotic and unprofessional and confusing. I hate that in my relationships with people, and in my relationships with airlines or any other business.[image error]

37 so far

I'm waiting for my redeye home from Scottsdale, grateful I can stay at home Monday if I want to, grateful I can take the Airtrain and subway home, or go to bingo (to support the Ali Forney Center serving LGBT homeless youth, which was heavily affected by Hurricane Sandy) if I'm up for it, grateful I discovered Elif Shafak's memoir Black Milk. Tuesday I set in motion the process of incorporating, which feels way more adult than I am, but that's the way things are now, and I just have to catch up. 36 was intense, and even with all the good, I wouldn't want to repeat its worst moments. I learned so much, like how to search email on my phone, that drugs don't cure jealousy and I can be pretty good in a crisis and that I can take care of myself at home and 6,000 miles away. I did things I never would've imagined myself doing, surprised myself in all sorts of ways, and through trial and error and luck am somehow in a much better place than I was last November. When I sat at Sanctuary Tattoo almost a year ago, I couldn't have predicted where my crazy heart would lead, and maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Probably if I'd known in advance I would've fucked things up, but thankfully I didn't, and in a few days I will be back in my second home, which is more and more becoming where I feel the most comfortable.

So far, 37 is pretty good, but I think this photo is a lot more accurate of a picture of the age I feel: