Sweet Home Chicago

I've been doing a bit of traveling lately for work. Before I started taking them, business trips held a certain allure. It always seemed very glamorous and ADULT to travel and be paid for it. Unfortunately, like many things in life, the reality does not quite live up to the ideal. Mostly, you spent a lot of time being disgruntled in airports and getting a sore shoulder from lugging a 20 pound (or so it feels) laptop around with you all day long.

The first trip I took in May was to Iowa, of all places. I landed at the minuscule Grand Rapids airport and tracked down the shuttle service I had booked to transport me to my hotel. The service turned out to be a very nice elderly man who sat behind a counter at the airport and kept his reservations alphabetized on index cards. Midway through the 20-mile drive to the hotel he commented, "It's a shame you're coming in at night because you're missing the sights." I wasn't too disappointed since I can only imagine he was referring to the roadside Denny's and, let's face it, if you've seen one you've seen them all.

The second trip was to Chicago, which was actually pretty exciting because I grew up just outside of the city and was able to work in some time to spend with my family and friends. I also got to stay in a hotel right downtown for free.

One thing I have discovered is that no matter where you are, everyone you meet will tell you how much they love Chicago. It may be the most universally beloved city in the world. And with good reason. It's a bustling metropolis with great restaurants, culture, sports, a shoreline and an effective public transportation system. It's what New York would be like if New York were clean and its people were friendly and it had a moderate cost of living and didn't smell like garbage. (So actually, I guess it's nothing like New York.)

Every time I'm in Chicago, I'm struck by what a beautiful city it is. On a bright and sunny day the Loop actually seems to sparkle. And everyone who lives there is like seven feet tall (it is the city of big shoulders after all) and loves to jog. They all seem so happy and robust it's enough to make you ill. While I was there I visited my friend who lives in the chic River North neighborhood. It's a former industrial area, and there's still a chocolate factory nearby that makes the entire neighborhood smell like chocolate chip cookies. How could anyone resist such a place?

The funny thing is that I have resisted it for many years now. I left when I was 18 and profoundly bored and desperate to get out of the Midwest and see what life was like in a different part of the country. I've always felt that my true home is among the neurotic and dispossessed, and I've never really looked back. But now, whenever I visit, I feel just the smallest tug pulling me homeward.

That feeling was especially acute when I arrived back in Los Angeles, where it's smoggy and ugly and every one's constantly bitter because their development deal fell through or they got turned away from Hyde last Saturday night. Why, I wonder, don't I flee this horrible place for the magical land of happy giants where it always smells like freshly baked cookies?

But then, of course, there is this.



And if I didn't live in Los Angeles, I would not have ended up sitting two rows in front of Screech from Saved By The Bell on the flight back. (He was sitting in coach...I guess being an early 90s TV actor turned home sex-video star doesn't pay like it used to).

And if that is not a sound argument for living in La-La Land then, my friends, I do not know what is.

Negative Affirmations

My pal Sarah, in her-ever gentle way, has nudged me to participate in the insecurities meme. And how better to wile away a quiet late Thursday afternoon at work than a public airing of my grievances against myself?

So here we go:

1.) My age. I know, I'm only 27, I'm still young, I have my whole life ahead of me, blahbity, blah, blah. I really thought that I would greet my late 20s with a certain measure of grace and dignity, but my last birthday hit me a lot harder than I expected. It just seems like time is racing by and there's still so much I want to do before I really become an adult. I realize that I am indeed still young, but "still young" is not quite the same as "young." And that's something that I'll never be again.

Oh, and if you aren't sufficiently depressed now, the members of the recently-reunited New Kids On The Block are all pushing forty(!) Chew on that for awhile.

2.) My nose. During the past few years I've more or less come to terms with my features, but my nose is still kind of a sticking point. Let's put it this way...I'm half Jewish. I think most of that half is contained in my nose.

3.) My lack of hobbies. There are plenty of things that I like to do--go to movies and concerts, read, hang out with friends, drink wine. But these things don't really count as hobbies per se, and when people ask me what I like to do for fun my answers seem very bland. I feel like I should take up tennis, or learn to play an instrument or join a club or something. But the truth is that I've never really been much of a "joiner," and when I have some down time all I usually want to do is settle in with a good TV show on DVD, or see what new fashion atrocity is being committed on Go Fug Yourself. It's a bit of a conundrum.

4.) Highway Driving. This is something I definitely have in common with Sarah. Freeways are just part of life in Southern California, so I'm used to it and I actually like driving when traffic is manageable. But I've had enough close calls on the road to realize just how precarious hurtling down a crowded freeway at 70+ miles per hour can be. Also, I don't like driving with other people in my car. It's not because I'm too lazy to drive or too cheap to pay for gas, I just don't like having other people's lives in my hands.

5.) Being a bride. Just to clarify, it's not the wedding or the marriage that troubles me. It's more about my ambivalence toward the whole bridal culture. The idea that your life--from the moment you get engaged to the moment you march down the aisle in some giant taffeta monstrosity--should revolve around planning every perfect detail of your perfect day is very disturbing. On the other hand, poring over pictures of white silk dresses and sparkling rings makes me kind of giddy, and I find myself having endless internal debates over ridiculous details. This simply does not seem like a respectable way for a proper post-modern feminist to spend her time.

6.) Being so disorganized. I am definitely a "type B" personality. I've never met a desk or closet I couldn't clutter, nor a piece of important paperwork that I couldn't lose. And I staunchly defend my right to live in barely-contained chaos. After all, people who are disorganized are more creative, cooler and laid back. (Right?) But sometimes I wish I had natural penchant for organization. Overall, it would probably save me some headaches come tax time, or when I'm trying remember which of the piles on my floor are the clean clothes and which are the dirty ones.

7.) That I'm boring. Sometimes I worry that my life is just this endless march toward the status quo. I'm taking a memoir writing course this semester, and there's a guy in my class who is writing about being raised in New Jersey by his family of Albanian thugs. He has two cousins who once killed a man over cheese. How cool is that? It's not that I necessarily condone dairy-related violence, I guess I'm feeling like I need a little dose of "Funship" in my life.

So there you go. I guess if anyone on my blog roll wants to participate in this, consider yourself tagged!

Blogiversary

It's occurred to me that my little blog is a year old this week. To commemorate this small milestone, I've spent the past couple of hours at work reading over some of my old posts. I've never kept a diary (despite a few half-hearted attempts when I was a preteen, which mainly consisted of writing about boys I had crushes on and how my parents were fascists for not letting me watch R-rated movies), so it's a new and interesting experience to have a written record of a year of my life.

I suddenly remember very clearly where I was and why I started this blog a year ago. Basically, I was stuck. I was tired of my job and of writing articles I didn't care about for people who didn't much care to read them. I was tired of suburbia and maintaining a semi-long distance relationship. I was also soon to be homeless, as my wonderful roommates were all moving on to the next stages of their lives. I needed a creative outlet, and I was hoping that the New Year would bring a much needed change; something to shake me out of the lethargy I had fallen into.

And did it ever. In the past 12 months I: began a new job, moved to L.A. and into my first apartment with Matt, started grad school and got engaged. And somewhere, in the midst of night classes and learning to color coordinate home furnishings and talking about wedding plans, something shifted inside me--I could actually feel myself growing up and moving into a new phase in my life. It's been a little scary at points, and I certainly don't have it all figured out yet. But mostly it's been pretty great.

I can't say that starting the blog directly led to any of these changes. But maybe it made me a little more optimistic, or changed my perspective and helped me to look at my world in a slightly different way. Sometimes when you don't know what to do, it's best to just do SOMETHING.

So here's to The Notebook. Even if I sometimes neglect it (see the month of December), and even if my readership is small (yet unerringly loyal, thanks guys!), I have a real affection for my humble little corner of the Internet. And I can't wait to see to where 2008 takes us!

Ballroom Blitz

Bet you thought that after I got engaged my posts would be full of sappy declarations of love and dreamy visions of my upcoming union. I kind of thought that too. But after only two months of engagement bliss and being mesmerized by the sparkling addition to my left hand, reality has sunk in.

Being engaged means there will be a wedding. Which means we have to plan a wedding. Which means we have to figure out to pay for a wedding. And when you have two large sets of Irish Catholic families anticipating a full and robust bar, a sister who is morally opposed to bridesmaid dresses, and a mother who is a rabid ABBA fan--well, the task of putting together an event that will make everyone happy becomes quite daunting.

We took our tentative first steps a few weeks ago when we went to Barnes & Noble to pick out a wedding planning guide. There were literally hundreds of books and planners promising to deliver the crucial advice needed to achieve the wedding of your dreams on any budget. One particularly unhelpful guide recommended that to save money we should forgo the open bar and just buy a keg. It also suggested choosing an inexpensive yet memorable venue--like the Minneapolis City Zoo!

As I looked at Matt across the stacks of bright pink books full of pictures of happy brides, I could see the rising panic I was feeling reflected in his eyes. If we couldn't t even commit to choosing a book about wedding planning, how were we going to plan an actual wedding?

So this is where you, dear reader, come in. To anyone who's ever planned a wedding, had a wedding or even ever been to a wedding, I'm pleading for any advice or guidance you can give me. In exchange for your assistance, I promise not to turn this blog into a forum for my bridezilla-esque rantings.

Unless, of course, you've long harbored a desire to visit the Minneapolis City Zoo.

As Time Goes By

Matt and I were 18 when we met, which I admit is a ridiculous age to meet the person you're going to end up spending your life with.

We were Freshman in college, and we lived on the same floor in our dorm. Matt says he remembers seeing me at the floor meeting on the day we all moved in. I remember that meeting too...I was terrified and excited and, if I'm not mistaken, I was wearing my hair in pigtails (probably my idea of dorm fashion at the time--cute but not trying too hard). Icebreakers and pigtails are a ridiculous way to meet the person you're going to end up spending your life with.

Over the next few months, I don't exactly remember how, he became my best friend. And then he became more. I won't subject you to all the details of our eight-year relationship, but suffice it to say that along the way there were break-ups and break downs, long-distance drama and moments of uncertainty. When people ask me how we've stayed together through all of our tumultuous young adult years, my stock answer is that it hasn't always been easy, but it's always been worth it.

Sometimes I think our entire relationship can be summed up by our first subway ride together. One night, very early into that first fall, we decided to take a study break and head over to Tower Records. It was only a few blocks away, but we were new to the city so we jumped on the Green Line for a two-stop ride.

I don't really remember what we talked about on the way. What I do remember is that when the conversation finally paused, we realized we'd overshot our destination by about seven stops. Instead of heading right back, we got off the train and walked around the Boston Common; the first of probably a thousand times we'd wander around the city together, just walking and talking. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but that night became a blueprint for all the nights that would follow--never running out of things to say to each other and never wanting the ride to end.

So now, we are engaged. In some ways it feels like everything has been happening very fast. After all, just six months ago we were moving in together, picking out our couch and stressing about the $700 price tag. Now we're talking about planning a wedding (talk about escalation). But really, we've spent the better part of a decade getting here.

And what a ride it's been.

Hip To Be Square

One of the more interesting aspects of life in Los Angeles is the ability to observe hipsters in their natural environment. Of course, the species* can be found in virtually any major metropolitan area, but in L.A. they seem to flourish like hothouse flowers.

Because I enjoy indie music and movies, and have several friends who are wannabe filmmakers, I occasionally find myself hovering on the fringes of hipster culture. But even after four years in Southern California, I still feel more like a cultural anthropologist than a member of the tribe. Maybe it's because my bangs--despite being carefully sculpted by a Beverly Hills stylist every six to eight weeks--never seem to fall quite right. I've tried the leggings under an oversized shirt thing a few times and, while I thought it looked rather fetching, I still walked around all day saying to myself, "good God, I'm a 26-year-old in tights!"

Alas, unhipness seems to be coded into my DNA, like the Midwestern twang I've never quite shaken and my inexplicable love for Kenny Loggins (who, I have on good authority, is dead sexy in concert).

While I can take solace in the fact that I would probably be the coolest person at a Kenny Loggins concert, such is not the case in my daily life. Still, living in the epicenter of tragic hipsterdom does have its moments--like when you're at a Los Feliz bar (which, incidentally, is located next to a cafe called the "Bourgeois Pig") and a group of people in funky hats at the table next to you break into an impromptu script reading. Or when you show up at a concert in Echo Park and see Santino Rice from Season 2 of Project Runway standing outside the venue

(I fear I may be going overboard lately with reporting my celebrity sightings. But then again, what's the point of living in the superficial cesspool that is L.A. if you can't regale people with stories of bumping into the enfant terrible of reality television outside of Echo Park clubs?)

When I saw Santino, resplendent in skinny black pants and a hot pink bandanna underneath a fedora, I suspected I was a little out of my coolness league. Surely enough, the Bishop Allen show was chockablock with waifish twenty-somethings sporting stovepipe jeans, black-rimmed glasses and artfully sideswept bangs.

Still, my lack of the proper accoutrement did nothing to damper my enjoyment of the show, and Matt and I even decided to splurge on t-shirts to advertise our love of all things Bishop Allen. Matt was at first reticent, fearing the t-shirt would suggest he was trying to acquire a false geek-chic aesthetic, when his look is really more straight-up geek. But I talked him into it and, if I do say so myself, he looks dead sexy in it.

On a side note, if you get a chance to check out the band, they're pretty great. I stalkerishly feel like I have a connection to the two frontmen, who formed the group while living in Boston in the early 2000s. (The band is named after the street they lived on in Cambridge.) Also, they have both been featured in this guy's movies, who used to work with Matt's friend Kate at the Trident Bookstore on Newbury Street.

As you can see, me and the band are practically BFF.

Anyway, midway through the show I noticed a guy standing near me who appeared to be even more out of place than I felt. The poor sod was at least 40, and was wearing stone-washed jeans, a button-down shirt TUCKED IN and some kind of bizarre cowboy boot/loafer hybrid upon his feet. At one point between songs he leaned over to the young Elvis Costello doppelganger standing next to him and said, rather sheepishly, "what do you think the average age here is, "25?"

Costello just shrugged his shoulders dismissively, and unhip old guy returned to his place at the edge of the group. Part of me wanted to go over to him and offer some words of comfort--something about how maybe no one ever really feels like they fit in and it's all just bullshit anyway.

But of course I didn't actually go up to him and say anything. In the end, I figured he probably just got lost on the way to the Kenny Loggins show.


* In case you are wondering if you meet the criteria to be a true hipster, you may find this helpful.

Perfect Wives Club

I've always had mixed feelings about marriage.

When I was 18 I declared, rather impetuously, that I would never get married. But I've grown up a little since then, and I think it's a fine institution. I've been to about eight weddings in the past year-and-a-half, and all the couples seem very happy together. I'm sure that one day I'll join their ranks, and I'll like it just fine.

But there's something about the word "wife" that seems so foreign to me. How could I be a wife? It's a role that seems fraught with all kinds of cultural expectations and stereotypes. Wives cook nutritious meals, drive small children around in giant SUVs and hem things. I don't do any of those things. In fact, I have made a point of actively rejecting such practices, a decision that could probably be traced back to college when I took a class called "Psychology of the Family" to fulfill my minor requirement.

In this class, we learned about how married women are more likely to be depressed than unmarried women. One study showed that while unmarried couples who live together tend to share household responsibilities equally, married women take on about 70 percent of the household chores and child-rearing--even when both spouses work full time. So horrified was I by this bleak picture of matrimony, I determined it was in my best interest just to never learn to do these things. The result is that I'm a 26-year-old woman who can barely make spaghetti, but I'm ok with that. Fortunately, I found myself a guy who's ok with that too.

But there are moments when I wonder if I'll ever be marriage material--particularly after a recent run-in with the dreaded Perfect Wives Club.

Here's the back story: A couple of months ago, in an effort to recapture his high school glory days, Matt joined a baseball league. Every Sunday there is a game that consists of much manly back patting and yelling of things like "Atta Boy." Last Sunday was the first time I actually attended one of these games, mainly because they always take place at some ungodly hour of the morning somewhere in the Valley. (If you're not from Los Angeles, it's hard to imagine the amount of scorn that can be infused into the word "valley.") Sunday's game was also in the Valley, but at least they had the decency to schedule it in the afternoon, so off I went.

Matt had already informed me that there is a small cadre of wives and significant others who go to almost every game. Not only do they go to every game, but they bring snacks for the team and keep score and hand out candy bars to the guys who make the best plays. I encountered two of them on Sunday. They walked up to the stands--where I was busy leafing through the latest In Style magazine--carting lawn chairs, a portable stereo and a cooler full of Gatorade and candy bars.

"Oh hi," Perfect Blonde Wife said. "It's nice to meet you...finally."

Chagrined, I put my magazine aside and attempted to follow what was happening on the field. For the next eight innings, I listened to Perfect Blonde Wife and Perfect Brunette Wife discuss the following topics:

1. Who made the best offensive play (Matt, yay!)
2. What decorations to have at the upcoming end of season party (baseball themed, of course)
3. What snacks to prepare (rice krispie treats in the shape of baseballs)
4. How hard it is to get to baseball uniforms clean

At this point, Perfect Blonde Wife turns to me and says, "was it hard to clean Matt's uniform that one time it got really dirty?"

What I was thinking at that moment went something like this... How do you remember the time it got really dirty? He spends three hours a week rolling around in the dirt with it. It's always really dirty. And why would I be washing his uniform for him? Neither of his arms are broken. Even though we now cohabitate, we're still individuals capable of cleaning our own clothes as we have been doing for the past decade or so of our lives, thank you very much.

Instead of saying all this, I smiled serenely and said, "it wasn't a problem."

So maybe I'll be never a Perfect Wife. But I sat through the whole game, and even let Matt pick the movie we watched later that night--which I think makes me a Pretty Good Girlfriend.

The IKEA Effect

Since there has been such a clamor for me to return to my regular scheduled blogging program (ok, just from Neetu, but still), I think it’s time for me to get back on track. The only excuse for my posting hiatus is that moving, decorating and starting a new job sucked up way more of my creative energy than I anticipated, besides leaving me Internetless, cableless and generally cut off from the world for the past three weeks.

The biggest problem with being a nomad for the first half of your twenties is that when you finally settle on a place where you plan to stay for a while you find that the only things you’ve managed to accumulate in the last four years are a bed and a toaster. And eight boxes of VHS movies your significant other has been collecting since he was ten and refuses to part with.

So most of my time has been occupied with how to fill an 800-square-foot apartment on a 400-square-foot budget. This project can be pretty much summed up in two words: Target and IKEA.

These twin titans of moderately priced home furnishings have become my second home over the past few weeks. And while Target remains my favorite one-stop shopping destination, I’ve recently discovered that IKEA might actually be the unhappiest place on earth. Some could probably make an argument for Iraq, Guantanamo Bay or the Department of Motor Vehicles. I say it’s a toss-up.

I grant you that IKEA is, in theory, an inspired idea. Those crafty Swedes sought to create a big box Xanadu of affordable faux-wood furniture that even the most boneheaded among us can assemble with relative ease. The reality is that IKEA is actually some kind of brain fever-inducing Hell mouth.

Think I’m exaggerating? Spend a Saturday afternoon wandering around their cavernous showroom and you’ll observe hundreds of hitherto completely sane people screaming at each other over items with elfish names like “Mumsig” and “Ektorp.” I witnessed no less than three couples descend into outright name-calling, and Matt and I barely avoided a brawl of our own when we realized we had left the room measurements back at the apartment. I wonder how many relationships have been destroyed over whether the extra-wide bookshelf will look unwieldy in the living room.

Fighting your way through the hordes of would-be bargain decorators and screaming children, you can actually feel your sense of decency and order disintegrate into a kind of primal survival instinct. Suddenly, your desire to pick out a damn coffee table already and get the F out of there overrides any other consideration. You find yourself grabbing at the first things you can get a hold of and wandering aimlessly through Media and Storage for the fifth time because Bedrooms seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

And finally--once you’ve made it through the unending labyrinth of furniture and home décor--you grab a cart and lumber through a giant warehouse stacking up large boxes of unassembled wood like a little worker ant. You wait in line to pay, and then push your laden-down cart to the loading area where one of you guards the haul while the other pulls the car around. The most horrifying moment of all comes when you realize that you’d gladly back your car over a family of four if it meant they’d get out of the loading zone faster.

Then you get back home, hoping to banish all thoughts of the previous four hours of your life, and realize that the birch veneer you thought would complement the couch perfectly is all wrong and that those fire engine-colored curtains that you grabbed in a frenzied haze not only don’t match your lovely dark red accent pillows, but they make the entire room look like a giant stop sign.

So, this weekend we're going back into the fray armed with receipts and a new mental toughness. Furnishing our apartment with the perfect combination of style and thrift has become my white whale, and I remain undeterred in my quest.

Call me Mumsig.

These Vagabond Shoes...

My favorite times at my house are Taco Tuesdays. The best thing about Taco Tuesdays is that they can actually occur spontaneously on pretty much any night of the week. One of the roommates will come home from work, and instead of a throwing together a hastily prepared meal eaten at the counter, will declare “I feel like tacos tonight.”

Then there is great jubilation over the inspired idea. Plans to go to the gym, do laundry or run errands are abandoned. Sufjan Stevens, or something equally soothing, is played on the stereo. Erin will start cooking the meat (real for us, soy for the metro-sexual men of the house), I’ll chop the vegetables, Nick purees the avocados, and Corey brings out the chips and salsa for pre-dinner snacking. When the feast is prepared, we all sit down at the table like the bizarre pseudo-suburban family that we have become.

The last such night was especially significant, because we all knew there was a good chance it would be one of the last. Change is always a little bittersweet even when it’s welcome or even sought after. This week, I accepted a job offer in Los Angeles and will be moving there in few weeks. By the end of the summer, the three delightful people I’ve shared a home with for the past year-and-a-half will likely be scattered around the globe when they leave to teach overseas.

I’m rejoicing at no longer being an urban snob trapped in the suburbs. No more will I be stranded miles from a Nordstroms and good Indian take-out. After three years of living 60 miles apart and mutual shuttling back and forth on weekends, I’m leaving tract-home Hell for the relative civilization of Los Angeles and domestic bliss with Matt.

It’s incredibly exciting, and long overdue, but it also closes a chapter in my life. With the exception of the nine months I lived in a one-bedroom apartment alone, I’ve always had roommates.

There’ve been the Good (the current roomies, my 1601 girls from senior year of college), the Bad (my freshman year roommate who sold drugs and kept her stash hidden in the cereal bar box) and the Ugly. (My former housemate, Jen, who listened to rap full blast in the morning and actually thought she should only have to pay half the rent one month because she was going to be out of town for two weeks. Also, my other freshman year roommate who went to bed at 10:30 every night and at 12 a.m. would inevitably march into the floor lounge and tell everyone to “go to bed, idiots!”)

Now, that part of life that is spent shuffling from place to place, essentially rootless and able to pack my life into a few boxes on short notice, is over. Matt and I will purchase furniture and hang framed pictures on the wall. I will spend an inordinate amount of time drooling over Pottery Barn catalogues. My books will be displayed on shelves instead of shoved under my bed in shopping bags.

If things go according to plan, I will be somewhat settled and Matt will be the last roommate I ever have. That is unless somewhere down the line, in my golden years, I end up sharing a house in Miami with a ditzy blond from St. Olaf, a slutty aging Southern belle, and a sassy elderly woman who starts every sentence with “Sicily, 1952…” (I guess in this scenario I would be Dorothy.)

The next stage of my life is sure to be a journey fraught with adventure and some peril. Can a slob and a neatnik co-habitate without turning into characters from a Neil Simon play? Who will emerge as the ultimate master of the remote, and how many televised Red Sox games can one woman endure?

I can’t wait to find out.

And So It Begins

To start with, I should say that I tend to be late to the party. But within the past few weeks, I've hooked up my TiVo and gotten my first IPod, so the time seems right to continue my foray into the 21st century by setting up a blog. It's something I've wanted to do for a while, mainly as a creative outlet and because I'm just arrogant enough to think that someone besides me might be interested in my thoughts on things. (Isn't that the philosophy upon which the entire Internet culture is based?) The plan is to regularly post pithy and hopefully insightful commentary on current events and pop culture, but I can't promise that it won't occasionally be just a landing pad for random thoughts.

Part of the reason it took me so long to get this going is because I agonized over what to call it. It's harder than you might imagine to think of a name that's neither overly pretentious nor cheesy. In the end, I called it The Notebook as a nod to my roots. Back in high school, my extremely close-knit group of friends started passing around a notebook as sort of a collective diary. A sisterhood of the traveling three-ring binder, if you will. What started as musings about the mind-numbing boredom of health class and gossip about boys later evolved into a gold mine of doodles, photos, hilarious observations of high school trials and tribulations and endless games of dump, screw, marry. If everything I owned were to suddenly go up in smoke, that is probably the first thing i would save. That and my new IPod. So, I dedicate this blog to a group of bright and witty young women who were the first people on earth to like my writing, or at least to tell me they did.