Kayleen Grows In Brooklyn

Best thing I've ever read online about "myself."

An Apartment of My Own

In March, my parents came to visit, and somehow, some way, after a few days, we all decided that I should have my own apartment that they would help me buy. Honestly, I have no idea how this happened because the conversations that led up to the decision went like this:

 Mom and me: “We should buy an apartment in New York.”

 Dad: “You can’t be serious.”

 I couldn’t leave Brooklyn because then I’d have to change the name of the blog. So after a lot of looking and some luck, I found a lovely, light-filled, one-bedroom place a couple of blocks from where I live now.

 In November, four months after my offer was accepted, I closed on the apartment. I’m not thrilled with this picture, but I decided not to ask the roomful of lawyers and bankers to take another shot because I didn’t look pretty enough.

 

 I spent a long time trying to think of what the feeling of walking into the apartment for the first time after the keys were mine compared to, and the closest I could come was when I went on my first business trip, at 23. I got to stay at the Treasure Island hotel in Las Vegas, and when I walked in the room, I was so excited I jumped on the bed. I couldn’t believe that I got to be there.

 Except this is a billion times better. If there had been a bed in my new apartment when I walked in, I would have broken it. Instead, I drank champagne while sitting on the floor.

 Thank you isn’t enough, Mom and Dad. I’m thrilled to have my own place in this city and so grateful that you made it possible. 

 During this whole deal, I also learned that it takes a village to buy a one-bedroom apartment. Thank you also to everyone who went to open houses with me, who gave me great advice about what to look for, who took me step-by-step through how to make an offer on an apartment, who taught me how to apply for a mortgage, who wrote me recommendation letters for the co-op board, who listened to me complain about how freaking long everything took, who let me stay in my old apartment a lot longer than I said I would, and who haven’t told me to shut up about the apartment yet. You’re welcome over anytime.

 

A Walk On a Glacier

One Saturday about a month ago, I found myself in REI, wearing hiking boots that felt like I’d strapped sneakers, orthopedic shoes, and Uggs to my feet at the same time, while I walked up and down a pile of fake rocks.

 I’d tried to get out of this situation. When I was told I absolutely had to have hiking boots to climb a glacier in El Calafate, Argentina, I tried to borrow some. (No luck.) I also called the ice-climbing company to ask if hiking boots were absolutely necessary. (They were.)

 I could spend an hour shopping for my tenth black sweater or pair of ankle boots. But if it’s action-adventure related, it’s probably also ugly, and I’ll buy it with my eyes closed thank you very much. No one at REI appreciates this attitude. 

 The whole expedition took like 10 minutes (including getting boots, waterproof pants, and texting Julien and Jeff to show them how hideous the outfit was). 

 But, cut to me staring at the glacier—on Thanksgiving Day in my new boots and pants—saying, on repeat, “I really don’t see how we’re going to walk on that.” I was glad I had some gear. After our guide Sorrientino (such an awesomely “Princess Bride”-like name) stuck spikes on all of our shoes (and put harnesses around our waists to fish us out of any glacier we might be swallowed by), we wandered around in the Ice Age for three hours. We peered into crevices, where the water was a steely blue color I’d never seen before, took a billion photos, and basically just marveled at the whole thing. I’ve never been so close to the Pacific AND Atlantic Oceans. Thanksgiving lunch was chicken empanadas shoved in our mouths at top speed—no standing around without gloves too long on a glacier.

When Julien saw the pictures, he said he was disappointed that they don’t make the glacier look as out-of-control cool as it actually was, but when I saw this shot of me, I decided this might be the coolest outfit I’ve ever worn. Badass boots, right? 

Last Lochte Post (Maybe)

• Daniel: please don't encourage Ryan Lochte's douchiness
• Sent at 6: 33 PM on Monday
• me: i will do what i want
• Daniel: I'm pretty sure he doesn't get irony
• me: um, dan, i do not love him for his brain
• #jeah

ESPN The Magazine sent me to Essex, England, to write about Jodie Marsh, a woman famous in part for going to London nightclubs wearing only a belt as shirt. She’s also topless model who’s recently ditched bars for barbells and transformed herself into a champion body builder. I was thrilled with the assignment and treated it as any professional would. On the trip, I (a) brought my mom, (b) got a flat tire on the rental because it’s easy to tag curbs while you’re driving on the wrong side of the road (at 2 AM, my mom flagged down two British boys to change it for us; she’s the best) and (c) and insisted Marsh and I have our picture taken with the Queen.

The story is here.

Ain’t Nothing Gonna Hold The Hadramout Down

In my neighborhood, there are like 15 places to get a falafel sandwich. At first, it was hard to figure out which one was the best, but when I put my brain to it, I realized: It’s the one with the line of cabs idling outside at 2 AM. It’s also the one where there are never any women inside, just groups of men eating lamb with their hands while watching ESPN Deportes. But everyone at the Hadramout has always been awesome to me, and except for a single, stomach-churning order of Selta, a traditional Yemeni dish—trust: you do not want—the food is great. So on Saturday, when I wanted a snack, I went to the Hadramout, but it had been shut down by the New York Department of Health and Mental Hygiene. These guys have been on a real power trip lately. In addition to now rating restaurants and closing those that don’t make the grade, they want to ban all sugary drinks larger than 16 ounces. To the no-Biggie-size thing, I say “Fine,” but shutting down the Hadramout? I’m not stupid. I knew I didn’t want to lick the floor in there; I didn’t even want to eat my food inside. But I still want to eat it. As I was turning to leave, I heard, “Pssst.” A man around sixty years old was standing outside the Hadramout like he was paid to be there. “You want falafel?”

I nodded.

“Mocha Hookah,” he said, gesturing across the street. 

Mocha Hookah is a dark, airless place that serves coffee and flavored tobacco. Whenever I pass it, I think either, “What a dumb name” or “I’m never going in there.”

But the promise of a sandwich and an adventure made me cross the street. I went to the counter, which was stocked with muffins and other baked goods, but no chickpeas or tabouleh, and leaned in. “You got falafel?” I said, in the same way I’d seen people get the hookup on “The Wire.”

The guy nodded.

“I’ll take two sandwiches,” I said, “and a side of baba ghanoush.”

I guess the best falafel joint has moved. 

Justin drinks a boot and doesn’t boot

Since everyone loved the previous picture of Justin, here is another.

As a present to both of us, Justin decided to kick off my Brooklyn beerfest birthday party by ordering a boot of beer ($25! A deal!).

Me, taking the picture, “Is this your good side?”

Him, “I don’t have a good side. I’m perfectly symmetrical.”

And here I am in my new birthday shirt — thanks Mom and Dad! — with a more ladylike beverage.

 Here’s to 34 being the best!

In Your Face

As a former grooming editor, I’ve seen a lot of creative facial hair and hated it all. I’ve never understood why, inevitably, a guy will look at his face one day and say to himself, “This isn’t a beard that needs to be shaved. It’s a canvas.”

Then this happened:

This is Justin and his “monkey tail.” It’s the greatest facial hair I’ve ever seen. I would like to express my appreciation to Justin for changing the game. He earned the smug look he has on his face. Also, since I know you were wondering: Yes. He went to work like this.