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13 best songs of 2013

December 21, 2013

Is it just me or has 2013 been a test of endurance for everybody? I’m usually the kind of person who becomes wistful at the end of the year, thinking about all the good times I’ve had. But 2013? Screw that noise.

I’m actually pretty excited to turn the final page on my sexy priest calendar and look to the ripe, fresh year ahead.

Goodbye to you.

Anyway, for all its faults, 2013 HAS been a good year for music. Here are the songs I loved, sang along to in the shower and almost wore out. (Wanna see my previous lists? Check out 2011 and 2012.)

Here we go, in no particular order:

Do I Wanna Know? • Arctic Monkeys

Once upon a time, I didn’t think Arctic Monkeys had much more to offer the world than “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor.” Then they started collaborating with Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age and recording their music in Joshua Tree, and things got weird. In a good way. Their sound now is darker, more sophisticated. And while I think the band has always been interesting and clever, they now have an added layer of maturity. I feel like this is the band the Afghan Whigs should have grown up to be. (And I LOVE the Afghan Whigs, but I don’t think they ever reached their full potential.)

Pretty Green • White Denim

Few good things come out of Texas, aside from my friend Ashley, but this song is one of them. It’s bluesy and dirty and rock-n-rolly, and it makes me think of epic songs my brother used to blast on 8-track. Terrific production by Jeff Tweedy is the gravy on this chicken-fried steak.

My Number • Foals

I had a sad thing happen earlier this year, and my friend Leigh finally forced me to stop listening to my “Sad Songs To Make Me Sad” playlist on Spotify. The antidote was a Motown playlist (because Motown rules, duh) and saccharine pop songs just like this. This Foals tune is little bit disco-y with a clean, crisp refrain. What’s not to like?

A Ton of Love • Editors

I don’t enjoy this as much as earlier Editors songs. But it’s reminiscent of Echo & the Bunnymen, and that makes me happy.

Feel Real • Deptford Goth

Not goth but still moody. Good for those cloudy days when you’re tired of the Cure.

Crazy • Au Revoir Simone

To be honest, this isn’t the best song on this list. I’m not even positive it deserves a place on the list at all. I just enjoy the purity of the vocals and the mindlessness of the lyrics. Ask me again next week, though, and I might feel differently about it.

You – Ha Ha Ha • Charli XCX

When I was in my early 20s, I was angry all the time. I think it was an unfortunate side effect of all the body glitter and pleather pants. Because I spent all my time drunk and furious, I invited a lot of unhealthy, inappropriate people into my life. This song reminds me of that time period, but photoshopped to be prettier, sweeter and more fun than that time ever was.

From Nowhere • Dan Croll

I’ve listened to this song so much, it has almost become part of my heartbeat. The thing is, it’s just so reliable. Every time I hit play I know exactly what I’m getting, and I know I’m going to be satisfied. It’s basically the Chipotle of songs.

Tennis Court • Lorde

I like Lorde because she’s funny and melodramatic but also jaded and unsettling — everything a 17-year-old girl should be.

Riptide • Vance Joy

I’ve grown a little obsessed with this song. That’s what happens with charming lyrics and ukuleles.

À Tout à l’heure • Bibio

This sunshiny song takes me to a kind of love I’ve never experienced, only seen from afar — something innocent, involving meadows and wildflowers and Ben Affleck’s beard from “Argo.”

Master Hunter • Laura Marling

Imagine Ree Dolly from “Winter’s Bone” all grown up, chewing up and spitting out her Ozark suitors. This is her Saturday night song.

Roar • Katy Perry

Just a really great pop song. The only problem is that whenever I listen to it, my husband asks if I’m watching “Glee.”

Conspicuously missing from this list: The Arcade Fire. I once listed them among my favorite bands, but Reflektor and everything surrounding that album has been so pretentious and cringe-worthy, I can’t even. Oh, and that “k” in the album title — I hope they are ashamed of themselves.

What the? No. Just no.

Gratitude

November 28, 2013

Today is Thanksgiving, and I am thankful for so many things.

Thankful for a pomegranate as big as my head.

A body that can do yoga every day and still find something new in it. How reading for pleasure now feels like playing hooky from school. My friends, my writing tribe, that warm feeling of sitting around a fire and spilling secrets until dawn. The people who inspire me without even knowing it. The fact that I wake up with the same man every single day and am still happy about it. The big slice of shit pie we were served this year that somehow brought us closer together and made us more compassionate. A city full of mountains and sunshine and bright people. A snuggly dog. The internet. My pink glitter Christmas tree. Potatoes, any variety, any recipe. Sandalwood vanilla candles. More books than I can ever read and shelves that are always ready for more. Mint tea. A world that is wild and vibrant and brimming with invitations to explore it all. The places where bodies of water blend together. Seasons of the desert. Wildflowers in the spring. Gorillas. Grape leaves. Lemonade. My book, which is getting closer to having an ending. Falafel. Love.

On Shrinking Women

October 24, 2013

I watched this video from a poetry slam the other day, and it left me in tears.

Poet Lily Myers talks about body image and how it affected the women in her family, especially her mother: “Nights I’d hear her creep down to eat plain yogurt in the dark, a fugitive stealing calories to which she does not feel entitled, deciding how many bites is too many, how much space she deserves to occupy.”

My mom was strong and tall, a German woman who survived World War II by walking over a frozen lake. She could do anything — open stuck pickle jars, lift all the bags of groceries at once, push me higher than any other kid on the swingset. One time my plastic digital watch stopped working, and my mom slapped it across her palm so forcefully that it turned her hand pink. “Just needs a good German touch,” she said, as the digital numbers reappeared.

As much as her body could do, my mom was never satisfied with it. My house was a world of weekly weigh-ins, diet gum and Tab. I don’t remember my mom eating bread, only thin Wasa crackers at 35 calories each. Sometimes she binged on candy, then immediately berated herself. She was hungry for years, skipping breakfast and only eating the tiniest of lunches. This magnificent, accomplished woman was consumed by her own consumption.

It’s strange. I loved my mom because she was elegant and exotic. She tucked me into bed every night and whispered prayers in other languages. She was proud and loyal and she loved me fiercely. I don’t remember the shape of her thighs or the roundness of her belly. I remember her crinkled fingers that felt for fever on my forehead. I remember the arms that held me. The swoop of her freckled shoulder.

You could say my mom died of Alzheimer’s Disease, which is what gnawed away at her mind and body for 10 years. But really she died of starvation, which is a terrible irony. In the final stages of Alzheimer’s, my mom’s brain could no longer send signals to her organs, so her body couldn’t process food anymore. My family decided a long time ago that we did not want to prolong her life with feeding tubes, and eventually her body shut down. In her final days, she had been whittled down to a thin, pale shape. And she was beautiful.

That’s the awful thing. When I looked in my mom’s coffin at her funeral, my first thought was, “Wow. She would be so happy.” She was finally skinny. She would’ve loved that.

Somewhere along the line, I picked up these unhealthy thoughts and made them my own. I’ll eat something delicious, then complain to my friends that I’ve been “so bad.” I do regular detoxes and cleanses, the more modern, acceptable version of diets. And I look with longing at tiny, slim-boned women, and I wonder how wonderful it must feel to be so small.

Now my husband and I are trying to start a family, and he says he hopes we never have a girl. “I don’t want a daughter to grow up with your body issues,” he says, a comment that is so distressing in its truth. I could be one bad-ass mother to a girl — and instead I want to be small? Why not focus on being substantial? Something is very wrong here.

As that poet says, “I wonder if my lineage is one of women shrinking.” I wonder if my lineage could become one of women who are larger than life.

The good, the bad and the old panties

July 13, 2013

We just moved into a new townhouse, and I love it. It’s like a 1970s Palm Springs dream home, and every day it makes me feel happy just to walk in the door.

However, with every new place comes things both good and bad. Even dream homes.

(Warning: Grainy iPhone photos ahead.)

GOOD

A weird atrium in the middle of the house. Look at all the sunlight! And rocks galore!

BAD

We have nothing to put inside this atrium except a cactus that looks like a penis.

GOOD

Carpet! No more incessant CLICKY-CLICKY-CLICKY of dog nails hitting the hardwood.

BAD

Brown.

GOOD

Microwave! After four years of deliberate, microwave-free living, I was secretly excited to see our kitchen cabinets were pimped out with a microwave.

BAD

It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. Look at it. It’s from the Smithsonian Museum of Appliance History.

GOOD

The guest room has a Murphy bed. And as someone who has watched many a comedy film, I know that Murphy beds mean one thing, and one thing only. Hijinks.

BAD

What the hell could be bad about a Murphy bed?

GOOD

The guest room also contains a built-in desk. And a chair too. This room has everything!

BAD

When we moved in, there was a pair of old, pink panties on the chair.

This room has everything.

The things I carried

July 10, 2013

I always seem to move under the worst circumstances.

I moved out of my college apartment while I had alcohol poisoning. I have only the vaguest memory of vomiting several times in rapid succession on the eggshell-colored berber carpet while the new tenants looked on in horror. (Totally my fault.) Years later I moved across the country while my husband was wheelchair-bound, recovering from an accident. (Not my fault.)

This time around, I moved immediately after an exhausting grad school residency while I had bronchitis on a 110-degree day. (The Universe’s fault.)

On this move, I discovered I have things. So many, many things. Things I didn’t even know I had. Things I probably don’t need but moved anyway, just in case. Things I was too sick and hot and exhausted to think about, so I just shoved them into a box.

Thing after thing after thing.

Dog toys.

Ticket stubs, envelopes of photo negatives, programs and other scrapbook memories.

Fifty-seven jars of spices.

Makeup.

1992 Fairborn High School marching band at Grand Nationals VHS tape.

Rice cooker.

Blazers I haven’t worn since I tried them on at the store.

An IKEA table.

A Target lamp.

A bookcase from nowhere in particular.

Nineteen crates of books.

Four crates of cookbooks.

Five crates of textbooks.

A drawer full of socks.

A chair.

Magazines that haven’t been read. I went through and purged a big chunk of the stack, but still two years’ worth of Shape, Fitness and Self remain. (This is what hope looks like.)

Box of markers.

Box of pens.

Box of nail polish, some very clumpy.

A bottle of Sambuca that has been moved from place to place since college. Because I don’t like Sambuca.

Coffeepot, coffee grinder and 12 varieties of tea.

Souvenirs from Obama’s inauguration. The first one.

A heavy bedspread made of sari fabric, purchased on a festive night in Goa. The kind of night in which I didn’t think about the results of my actions, such as how to get a bedspread from India to Palm Springs.

Scarves.

A plastic tub filled with newspaper articles I wrote before everything went online.

My mother’s rocking chair. It is ugly. But it is from this chair that she sang lullabies to me, whispered German nursery rhymes and rocked me to sleep, so I will carry this chair until I die.

Crockpot.

The good news is that on the other side of this hot, gross, sickly move, the perfect townhouse was waiting for me. It’s so perfect and spacious and nice, I don’t want my new home to become cluttered and uncomfortable.

So now that all of my things are here, I’ve finally started to get rid of them.

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