All posts by kathleenmartin124

I'm a community journalist based in Emporia, Kansas. I write creatively, shoot photos and videos, and play guitar and violin. Oh, and I am an expert french-fry chef.

Sincerity and stuff

How Elizabeth I taught me to stop Facebook-stalking men

February 27, 2015 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

I haven’t written about romance or relationships before. If you have read my posts before, you know I am very honest. But speaking of insecurities related to love puts one in a vulnerable position. What if someone should misunderstand and think of me not as someone who may have valuable experience and advice, but as a single girl publicly trying to affirm her comfort in singlehood while secretly wallowing with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, pining after all the men I have and haven’t dated?

But I decided it’s silly to over-analyze how others perceive these posts. I mean to share experiences and insights, and if this does not come through the way I intend, that’s just the way it is.

It can be confusing to navigate my thought process – like a road trip with many U-turns, I’m never sure where I’ve been until I look back on my map of mistakes and annoyingly helpful GPS instructions. But there you are.

Singlehood anxiety

Last week, another Facebook friend got engaged. Good for her, I tried to think, suppressing my immediate anger because I know such an emotion is an inappropriate response to two people declaring their undying love and commitment.

Good for her.

I imagined her entering lifelong romance, going through life in the type of ridiculous activities you see in bad romance movies – eating breakfast in a Tuscan villa, rowing across a swan-covered lake at sunset, becoming two old people who eat sandwiches on park benches and feed the leftovers to the same pack of swans as earlier. Swans are weird.

Once the scenes began to fade, the feeling of injustice welled up again. Where are my swans? Where is my Tuscan villa? Why should this girl get to marry Hugh Grant when I’m her equal in conversation, wardrobe and music tastes? What else do I need to find Hugh Grant? Posters advertising “Single man with Ryan Gosling’s face, Edward Norton’s brains and Mark Ruffalo’s sense of humor, apply here for position of serious boyfriend”?

I began to analyze my past romances and male friendships, wondering if I had passed Mr. Right already while distracted by a shoe sale, graduation or lunch time. What if my soul mate had walked by just as I stooped to tie my shoe? The possibility of being alone forever because I had neglected to invest in Velcro was unbearable.

I even began to Facebook-stalk old friends, the purpose for which I believe Facebook was truly intended, just in case I missed someone along the way.

Waste. Of. Time.

While I was analyzing, idealizing and wondering, I could have been doing something that mattered. Instead of scrutinizing someone else’s personality, I could have been holding a magnifying glass to myself. I could have asked myself:

How would a relationship help me be happy?
Do I really have such low self-esteem that I think I missed out on love because of who I am?
What has being single taught me?

If I had started answering these questions when I was 14 years old, I would have saved myself a lot of pain and time over the years. But at least I’m trying to answer them now.

A relationship could give me affection, seeing myself through someone else’s eyes, and understanding another person.
I am a confident, well-adjusted person with a great capacity for understanding myself and others. Some days, I think I’m Wonder Woman.
I do not depend on another person for emotional security. When I’m alone, I usually don’t long for someone else to come in the room. I feel confident going to a party by myself, and leaving by myself.

Then I thought about marriage, which can be such a beautiful and difficult thing (I’m told).

I thought of how badly marriage can be if it’s rushed. I thought about why it can be rushed – a need for emotional security? Baby on the way? Arranged marriage?

I thought about the young divorcees I know, and how painful it must be when reality does not meet expectations.

I thought about couples who become so dependent on each other, they can’t stand to be apart for one night. Do I want to be in that relationship?

I think relationships can be wonderful experiences that help us to grow into better people. But there is nothing wrong with patience, with being comfortable alone, with waiting for a relationship that doesn’t fill a void, but adds some topping to your metaphorical cheesecake that can also stand just as well alone.

It’s good not to feel I need a relationship. It feels healthy, clean and strong. Not to say I would turn down a relationship if it felt right, but I’m not less of a person because I’m single. After all, there are no swans and Tuscan villas in life. Well there are, but not in this metaphor. There is hard work, understanding, and there is a time for everything.

Elizabeth I never married. She is one of the most memorable English queens, perhaps because she wasn’t busy Facebook-stalking the pizza guy to see if their zodiac signs were compatible. (I would have liked her to one day find the Victorian version of Hugh Grant. But I suppose she was happy.)

Maybe I, too, can give something to the world instead of focusing on what’s missing in my own life.

So that’s the story of why I stopped Facebook-stalking single guys. Sorry, Zuckerberg.

Home life

Hi, I’m Kathleen and I live with my parents

February 16, 2015 kathleenmartin124 2 Comments

I moved home just before Christmas. During my first three weeks here, I didn’t look for a new job. Instead, I created a creative writing portfolio from scratch in order to apply to graduate programs. The applications were my full-time job, cost a bit of money and a lot of time. Because of this, I didn’t have income for six weeks. Application deadlines wouldn’t wait.

Everything is working out – I now work at Half Price Books with plenty of lovely people, and it looks like I’ll be going to grad school in August. But the point is, I could not have applied in such a short time frame if I had a job, dependents, or rent. Thankfully, I live with my parents.

They’re pretty good roommates. Sure, I love not paying rent. All the things I used to do alone – eat dinner, watch TV – I now often do with my parents, and I’m happy. We’ve gotten to know each other better – before, we only talked on the phone once a week.

Plus when I wake up in the middle of the night, convinced a serial killer is in the house, I feel relieved when I remember my dad sleeps with a baseball bat under his bed. This goes for every time I think I left the front door unlocked, the oven on, or worry about carbon monoxide poisoning.

I still work, go out to see friends, etc. I stay away from the basement, and I’ve never been one for video games, so there goes that stereotype.

The main drawback, is that I have to wear pants (most of the time), something that is optional when living alone. Sometimes I think back to days of laying on the couch, eating cookie dough and drinking fireball whiskey while watching “Gilmore Girls” on my laptop. Delightful.

But things change. People change. I found out last month I’m hypoglycemic, so cookie dough and fireball whiskey aren’t a good idea anyway. Now I eat vegetables, floss and jog. (I also recycle. MERIT BADGE, PLEASE.) Now I watch “Gilmore Girls” on a real TV. My mom and I are watching it together, starting from Season 1.

I used to associate moving back with parents with failure. It means you couldn’t support yourself, that your dreams weren’t what you thought they would be. And it’s true – but is that such a shameful thing? We all take knocks and we all need help, and that is OK. It’s good to ask for what you need.

I like to think my parents like having me around, too. My contributions to the household are cooking one weekly dinner and cleaning the bathrooms. So far, I’ve made potstickers, lettuce wraps, and tillapia with a steak rub.The tillapia was terrible. Actually, none of the dinners were very good. But I’m trying.

I can be an odd roommate. Dishes can go missing for days when I eat leftover tillapia in bed. I often wake up at 3 a.m., write until 5 a.m., then sleep until 9 a.m. I break household items. Specifically the DVD player, the Internet, the lightswitch, and maybe a few other things. I’m also responsible for a surplus of furniture in the basement, and for Craiglist strangers coming over to buy it.

When my parents are old, they are more than welcome to live with me. Granted I plan to be a poet/writing professor/artisan toast chef, so I’ll probably live in a studio apartment.

Maybe I’ll buy a futon.

Fitness, Out and about

Tai Chi is Yoga submerged in Jell-O

January 13, 2015 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

We will get to Tai Chi. But first, I just have to listen to one song…

OK. So – Tai Chi.

I was warned about Tai Chi – it’s the old-folks class that doesn’t make you sore or get your heart rate up. This is true. But I walked out of class Friday feeling more at peace and in-tune with my body than I have in a very long time.

Of course I would be late to the calmest, no-rush, most zen class in the world. As I opened the door four minutes after class began, I cringed and looked up guiltily at the instructor, Gray.

“Welcoooooome to Taaaaaaaaaaaaai Chiiiiiiiiii…” he said, his arms curved like a human water mill.

Well OK then.

Look how focused and color-coordinated they are!

Gary looks exactly as you would imagine an American Tai Chi instructor would look. He is in his mid-fifties, a tad heavy-set, and wears large, rectangular glasses. He speaks very gently, and cracks corny jokes throughout class, and people actually laugh. Oh and (sorry, Gary), his thin hair is tied at the base of his neck in a long, black ponytail the girth of a strand of yarn.

Much like in Pilates, I did not blend in with the Tai Chi class. Most students are members of the AARP, and wear solid-color sweaters, grey sweatpants and white tennis shoes. I came to class in my red “Drink coffee, Read books, Fight evil” tee, black yoga pants and — oh yes — fashionable “hiking” boots. (I thought this was a socks only class. It wasn’t.) My wooden heels clacked on the wooden floor with every step, interrupting the sounds of “Introspective Mountain” music and deep breathing.

Sorry, man. Gotta get through class. — Sorry man. Gotta get through class.

Tai Chi is like an hour of vertical yoga, submerged in an ocean of Jell-O. Tai Chi is slow, meditative movements working against invisible resistance. I didn’t break a sweat, but my muscles occasionally trembled.

If you think Tai Chi is dumb, please, please do not go. You will bust a gut by laughing, or you’ll roll your eyes so far into your head that Gary will have to call an ambulance. I went with an open mind, and I am glad I did. (The old people kicked my ass, by the way.) Tai Chi is about isolating muscles, coordinating movement, and developing consciousness with movement. Through my five minutes of research via beginnerstaichi.com, I learned that Tai Chi was either developed in China by a:

Guy who saw a crane and snake fight, then interpreted their movements into human exercises
Mysterious stranger who came to the Chen village and insulted their martial arts. They tried to fight him, but of course he knew Tai Chi so it didn’t work well.
Chen warrior who combined his knowledge of combat, Chinese medicine and acupuncture into Tai Chi. He wanted his village to be able to protect itself.

So yeah, no one really knows where it comes from. Before you knock Tai Chi as something for the elderly folk, understand that there are many variations for many ability levels. It is used to train athletes, and its difficulty can be adjusted for the audience. When Tai Chi is practiced by older folks, it is geared toward them. But as a 22-year-old, I felt my body wake up, balance and stregthen over the hour-long session.

By the end of class, I felt calmer than I have in months. I felt more connected with my body. As I drove home, I could see my left leg was tense because it was bent too much, and I straightened it and felt it relax. All week, I’ve been checking my posture, because when I slouch my shoulders tense up. So no, Tai Chi wasn’t difficult for me, but it is highly beneficial.

I might even come back.

Fitness, Out and about

How Pilates crushed my ego and my entire body

January 6, 2015 kathleenmartin124 2 Comments

The above photo of a graceful woman, exercising with ease and strength? It isn’t me. It’s some chick in Wikimedia Commons.

I’m the woman off-screen with an expression I usually reserve for opening stubborn jars of Prego sauce.

“Just! One! More! Squeeze!”

Pilates made me nauseous last night. It was my first class in over two years, and it beat me.

As I drove home from the gym, my stomach ached as if it just survived Thanksgiving dinner plus four shots of rum. Not good. Maybe it had something to do with the crazy lady wearing sweats who asked me to do 100 crunches, followed by 5 billion other things that made my entire body ache.

On the drive to the gym, I remembered my last Pilates class. I went to the class once a week for four months in Bulgaria, so I considered myself … well … not terrible. I was wrong.

But then, my teacher in Bulgaria only spoke Russian, and I do not speak Russian. (But I did learn to count to three in Russian during that class. Eras! Va! Tree! Seriously, three is tree in Russian.) I went to Russian Pilates with my friend, Elizabeth, and we tried our best to mirror what everyone else was doing. I remember bragging to my roommate that I was never sore from Pilates. I thought it was due to my abs of steel and general Wonder-Woman-esque physique. Actually, it was because I was doing it ALL WRONG.

(However, the Russian teacher saved 15 minutes at the end of each class to teach amateur strip-tease moves. This made Elizabeth and me very uncomfortable, and we left early.)

**If Gerard Butler helped teach, we MIGHT have stayed.**

The second I removed my fuzzy winter boots for American Pilates last night, I knew I was in over my head. All the other girls wore cool sports-girl socks with neat, black check marks on the ankle. My socks were a mismatched polka dot print.

As I grabbed a mat, I was warned by a sweet, “I’m-50-but-my-skin’s-so-tight-I-look-30” Pilates veteran, who told me we would also need a mat cushion, small ball, Big Ball, Big Ball stand and strap. I decided to grab it all in one trip, and promptly knocked two Big Balls down from their five-foot shelf. My bad.

This instructor, a firm-voiced, “I’m-50-but-my-butt-cheeks-look-20” Pilates goddess, began us with what I call modern torture in sweats. One hundred crunches, our legs in the air. Twist this, pull that. It was like sadistic Twister.

Over the course of the hour, I tried (and failed) to hold in my laughter every time I heard “Grab your Big Ball.” I swear, this lady actually prefaced one Big Ball exercise with, “I don’t know why people struggle with this, unless they have gluteal amnesia.”

"It's easy! Just balance on the swan with one foot on the ground, and unless you have gluteal amnesia, the rest will come naturally!" — **“Just balance on the swan with one foot on the ground and, unless you have gluteal amnesia, the rest will come naturally!”**

Yes. Gluteal amnesia. Don’t laugh – millions of people suffer, including me. I was was the only woman there who, after resting my front half on the Big Ball, couldn’t pick my legs off the ground by sheer power of my ass. I ended up resting on my Big Ball with my “can’t open the spaghetti sauce jar” face, and my legs stayed on the ground.

No one else struggled with this. The “my-butt-cheeks-look-20” instructor swept her legs over her head and bent her body like a pretzel, and I flailed like a paraplegic lobster, then gave up and started laughing. Variations of the “Impossible Exercise Looks Easy, But Kathleen Finds it Impossible and Starts Laughing Before Collapsing” occurred regularly for the rest of the hour.

Meanwhile, I think the rest of the class looks like this. — **Meanwhile, the other girls are like the next Cirque du Soleil. Perfect.**

But seriously- this instructor has my admiration. I, on the other hand, would be the worst Pilates teacher. For one thing, I’m terrible at Pilates. For another, I laugh too much. (Big Balls and spirit-woman-mountain-tone-music! Come on!) But most importantly, I am not a strong disciplinarian. If I was a Pilates instructor, it would sound something like:

“OK, so we want to focus on the gluteal amnesia to grab the Big Ball and count to 500,000 … Oh, you’d rather sit down and watch ‘This Old House’? Well yeah, that’s a good show. We deserve a break after that 10-second stretch … OK that’s lunch!”

I’m obviously exaggerating, but there’s some truth in this. That’s why I exercise in groups – I need a stronger disciplinarian than myself.

I am sore this morning, especially in my abs and my butt.

My ego is particularly bruised. I’m used to being really good at things and when I suck at things, I do other things, like sit on the floor and watch “This Old House.” I’m super good at that.

I know this is a terrible life-philosophy, and I’m working on it. Grad school applications are tough, especially when one has to create their poetry portfolio from scratch and hope it holds a candle to portfolios by people who have studied poetry for years in order to get into one of the most competitive graduate school programs in the nation. So I’m working harder on this than I have ever worked on anything.

Anyway, I think the secret is to success is to want something badly enough that you’ll go through ego-bruising humiliation every day to get it. And I really do want better glutes.

I think I can, I think I can... — I think I can, I think I can…

Sincerity and stuff

The life-plan, Part II / Cheers to the New Year

December 30, 2014 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

December 2014 is so far the most interesting month I’ve experienced my 22.5 years of life.

It began with the decision to officially move on from The Emporia Gazette as of New Year’s Eve. It was the best decision I have made (so far). Ever since I was in kindergarten, I thought being a writer was the coolest profession in the world. (Well, it might have tied with the construction industry. Cool hats.) I connected “Being a Writer” with composing fairy tales, probably by a fireplace while wearing a sweet Irish-cabby hat. Oh, and I would have a giant wolf-hybrid. That was very important.

However, writing is one of the few things no one encourages you to do professionally. Sure kid, you can be a ballerina, a fireman or an astronaut. But a writer? Not on the inspirational poster! Of course, that could be because most adults are not writers and never wanted to write post-ACT. And who can blame them? Sitting in an isolated room every day trying to invent things no one will publish for not much money does not sound as cool as ballet, or even teaching.

But I wanted to write. Because I wasn’t ready to put creative writing in my life-plan I majored in journalism, a close cousin. I learned plenty. If you have experience as a good journalist, you can observe, question, edit, and write short and fast. Write every day because it’s your job. Cut out the adjectives. In fact, cut out everything but the bare bones, plus maybe a hat and a scarf for color.

If I had stayed in Emporia, I would have become too comfortable to risk leaving. What a blessing to leave early, before the connections I made would become stronger and painful to sever. Comfort can be a fatal risk. I love comfort. I love Netflix, frozen food, my new heated mattress pad, playing Tetris, et al. But comfort has potential to transform into fear of losing stability, and that can’t always factor into important decisions. Especially when you have no responsibilities except not to starve, which is virtually impossible with a piggy bank of quarters and the option of Top Ramen. (Well I say that now…)

I trust my gut. It says I should do what I love, even if it’s illogical and risky. I’m young and untethered, and if things go really wrong, I’ll become a homeless puppeteer. (Hey, at least I have a plan Z!) It took a split-second to choose creative writing first, because it’s my first love and I know I can do it. Last night it took about six minutes to decide I’m applying for Master of Fine Arts programs inside and outside of Kansas, because nothing is keeping me here. Well my family is here, but who knows if they’ll be here in five years and they probably want me to Carpe Diem and all that stuff. The point is I’m 22, single, and just stupid enough, I have a plan, and I’m working hard.

(I am by no means expecting acceptance. Getting into an MFA creative writing program is like being accepted by Harvard Law. But who knows? If not this year, I’ll try again. I’m learning plenty, and I’m happy with whatever the world has in store.

So here’s to the New Year! As always, I resolve to eat less sugar, be more present, do an hour of yoga each day and join a Tibetan monastery. (Just kidding. But I will eat less sugar so my foot doesn’t fall off, and I may join a gym or take pole-dancing classes. Pole-dancing is irrelevant to my life-plan.)

But above all, I challenge everyone to find one thing you want to do but aren’t doing … and to start doing.

Holidays

Santa was the creep who stole my hat

December 24, 2014 kathleenmartin124 1 Comment

My family is spending Christmas in Gunnison, Colorado. Yesterday we skied and did not die! Hurray! I’m snow-adventuring at a nice, slow pace. One day inside on the couch, then one day mostly inside with one afternoon excursion. It’s worked so far. I spent a good amount of time finishing my last story for The Gazette – a series on Emporia housing, and applying for jobs. Hit me up with suggestions! I can make coffee, write amusing things and sing without coercion. (Actually I have a long list of real-life, grown-up communication skills, but you don’t really want to hear about those now, do you?)

I know I have to make a Christmas post today. It’s the perfect time. I finished my eggnog, I have a comfy blanket, and the cabin is quiet except for the Christmas-themed episode of This American Life and the inaudible sound of Rebecca finishing a Van Gogh puzzle. So here we go – in two segments, my thoughts on Christmas past.

After I fell head over heels on the ski slope, I paused to take this picture. You can see Mr. Tumnus in the forest

Santa Claus was the creep who stole my hat

Like many smart children, I never warmed to Santa Claus. I wondered if he brought me presents to make up for being so weird and scary whenever we met. There was the basic awkwardness that happens when two strangers meet, enhanced by the fact that Santa appeared to know me, when I certainly did not know him. It’s like when a stranger comes up to you in a bar, claiming to know you from high school when this is absolutely not the case. Awkward. Add a velvet suit and societal pressure, and we will never be best friends.

I don’t believe I ever sat on Santa’s lap. I don’t know what child in their right mind thinks it a good idea to sit in any stranger’s lap, even if he’s wearing velvet pants. But one evening when I was nine years old my younger cousin, Elizabeth, visited with her family, I met Santa once more. On this evening, I was wearing my favorite, velvet, blue hat.

Santa could tell I didn’t like him. In hopes of becoming my friend, he stole my hat. Personally, when I want to make friends I ask someone to lunch, or to watch a bad chick flick together while we eat ice cream. But Santa decided to steal my hat, and he waved it tauntingly above my head, which wasn’t difficult considering my height. Summoning all my anger and indignation, I leaped in the air, snatched my hat back, and walked away. Santa did not feel good about himself. Jerk.

I won’t say I have no good memories of Santa. He brought us a trampoline one year, which was pretty cool. Sure, I was tipped off a few years early by forgotten price tags. The Sharpie scribbles over the price tags were each like a little wave signaling the truth. There was no way Santa shopped for gifts instead of creating them via elves. He isn’t an Amazon distribution center. Either he was getting lazy, or my parents picked up the slack.

We had a White Christmas the year Santa stole my hat. White Christmases don’t happen every year in Kansas, and my dad and uncle took advantage. After the Christmas Eve service, members of the youth group handed out reindeer food, and I made sure we all took some home. I scattered the food on the brown grass outside, and woke up to a snowy suburban landscape. On the roof, there were sled tracks and boot prints. It must have been the man in the red suit.

I know there are many feelings about whether or not children should be told a moderately overweight man dresses up like a weird Broadway chorus member and breaks into your house. But I don’t mind the lie. Every kid needs magic at Christmas, and we all need something to believe in.

“Christmas is a time to be homesick, even when you’re home.”

My brother, Bill, hacked my Facebook to post this as my status one year when I was in high school and he was home from college. I was happy and surprised he didn’t write something like, “I have ingrown toenails.” But that sentence, “Christmas is a time to be homesick, even when you’re home,” stayed with me. It’s one of those truths no one wants to say, like “My Great Aunt Trudy doesn’t know Florida is too warm for wool, but I can’t bear telling her because she sends me a hand-knit Rudolph classic each Christmas.”

It’s difficult to deny memories laying in bed as the magical feeling of Christmas Eve ballooned inside, and you struggled to put away the excitement because you knew Santa wouldn’t come otherwise. We used to count down the days from Halloween to Christmas. There was (and still is) magic in singing “Silent Night” by candlelight, and spending an entire day in pajamas when no one can judge you. Christmas is still magical, but it will never be the same as when we were children.

Before Christmas became a routine, albeit a warm and fuzzy annual routine I look forward to, every tradition was new when we were young. When I was seven, I could only remember about three Christmases. Decorating the tree, baking gingerbread houses and opening presents felt like a tradition I was establishing with my family for the first time, rather than an age-old practice we were carrying out for one more year.

Now is the season that prompts memories, which encourages nostalgia. I love nostalgia. I miss nostalgia. Now is the limbo between when our parents made Christmas for us, and when we’ll make Christmas for our children. It’s the sweet spot. Those of us in our 20s have very little expected of us and therefore, minimal stress. I’ll fill someone else’s stocking one day. For now, I’m happy to drink eggnog and watch bad movies on the couch. Until I go broke buying Christmas presents “from Santa” as I mark out the price tag with Sharpie, I’ll make a few memories of my own.

Maybe I’ll buy my own reindeer food.

Nope, that would be weird. Merry Christmas.

This is our first fake tree. Maybe I’ll buy some pine-scented Febreeze.

Home life

How I cook for one and eat for five

December 18, 2014 kathleenmartin124 2 Comments

I’ve been to the grocery store three times this week, each time swearing that this is the last trip, that these groceries are enough to last until I leave Emporia on Friday. I must have bought at least five packages of frozen food, which I have sworn off over and over because they have more salt than the Atlantic and various other components that will probably give me cancer, but I’m continually lured back by the promise of instant sweet-and-sour chicken.

Oh well.

One of the reasons I love living alone is because I can be very possessive of my food. I don’t share food, underwear or driving privileges. If you think it’s cute to snatch a bite of my mashed potatoes while I’m not looking, it’s not. I keep a fork-sharpener in my purse for just such reasons.

The one downside of never sharing is the absence of people to blame when half my batch of brownies go mysteriously missing.

Leaving Emporia probably means I’ll live 10 years longer, because I’m moving away from what I call the most heart-attack-adjacent corner in town. It takes less than 30 seconds of walking to reach a Chinese restaurant, liquor store, donut shop, frozen yogurt and pizza place. Be still, my heart (maybe forever if you eat the way I did when I first moved here).

Then there are the times I eat my feelings. Who doesn’t? Bad Chinese and a healthy dose of Gilmore Girls can cure any breakup or other emotional slump. Sure, roommates can also help you through rough patches. But I like to think Chef Boyardee and Little Caesar’s also have strong, supportive presences in my apartment. Ben and Jerry are my most frequent male visitors.

I don’t think anyone should feel guilty about using food to feel better every now and then. I mean, it’s better than crack or whiskey, or crack-whiskey.

My single-serving life is just 270 calories per meal! — Thanks for reminding me while I’m eating low-fat fettuccine that, yes, I’m eating alone. Geez….

Cooking reaffirms my natural role as a homemaker. No matter how successful I am at my career or how independent I am from men, I can’t suppress my instinctive need to take out my curlers, put on an apron and make a hearty lasagna for the whole … well there’s just me. There’s nothing like driving home from a hard day at work, knowing that a warm, nutritious meal is being prepared by … oh wait.

It really is weirdly satisfying cook while wearing a nice dress. Seriously, I kind of want curlers and an apron. Hello, June Cleever!

I am immune from health guilt or judgement! Every cookie I eat only make me stronger. But after my doctor said I need to watch my blood sugar, I started being more careful. There are still times when I throw caution to the winds, cook up a big plate of french fries, and gobble it down without a second thought.These moments of weakness occur roughly three-seven times a week. I’m working on it.

If it's in print, it must be true! — If it’s in print, it must be true!

I’m not sure which conclusion to draw, except I really like food. And I’m not sharing.

Sincerity and stuff

Goodbye, Emporia

December 10, 2014 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

It’s time for a difficult post. I’m leaving Emporia by Christmas, and I’m leaving The Emporia Gazette one week from Thursday. Life in this kind-hearted town has taught me plenty, not to mention all I’ve learned as a journalist.

Interviewing and telling stories teaches you to see people through a strangely honest lens that few can access. I made plenty of mistakes. But I also learned plenty. I learned how to ask the right questions — the ones that show I’m not just interested in the two-paragraph scoop, but that I sincerely care about what people have to say.

My most memorable assignments include:

An area UPS driver who does beautiful woodworking on the side
A fatal motorcycle accident
A juvenile tried for aggravated robbery
Puppies swimming in a pool
A woman recovering from a multiple-story fall with her community’s help
Our nationally watched governor’s campaign
Why Emporia does and doesn’t want chickens
A girl battling a lifelong genetic disorder
Every story that shows Emporia’s desire to grow

I learned what it’s like to work in city government, how to get along with cops, why problems happen, how to work in an office, and why people work as hard as they do. I worked under pressure, found my own stories, worked two beats and created relationships. The lessons I learned from this job are unbelievably invaluable. Thank you to everyone who has helped me grow during my time in Emporia.

I'm going to miss watching reporters like Jessie hide from the public. — I’m going to miss watching reporters like Jessie hide from the public.

Ultimately, it has become clear that newspaper journalism is not the field for me. Long-term survival requires a toughness, cynicism and skepticism that I don’t have and don’t want. Part of journalism is about stress, a 24/7 schedule, working holidays and sacrificing too much for a career path I sincerely respect, but never really wanted. I’ve always wanted to earn money writing, and journalism seemed the most practical way to achieve that. But in the end it’s constant stress, and it’s a distraction from a risk I have always wanted to take.

I filled all these notebooks with good stuff. Plus three others.

Small Town Field Guide will continue under the same name in Kansas City for a short time, then in Wichita for (hopefully) a long while. I see no reason why the blog should stop, simply because I will no longer live in a small town. Thank you for your support so far. This has been a fun release from work, and it’s sparked my interest in web publishing and humor writing.

starting over5 — I will miss living on this street.

Next, I want to join a workforce of the most impractical people known to society: creative writers. I will now have more time to write, work and in a craft I have always loved before any other interest. After I find a job (That’s right, Mom! A real job!) and apartment (complete with a cat) in Wichita, I plan to work toward a Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Wichita State.

Wichita State has a great creative writing program. The point of an MFA is not to apply to a specific job, or for a line on my resume. I plan to write long-term on the side while earning money in copywriting, freelancing or public relations. Working daily with a community of serious and talented writers would be an incredible opportunity. I’m confident I’ll one day be able to support myself through a variety of writing forms (fiction, blogging, web copy, etc).

I have loved my time in Emporia. The sweet old ladies who call the newsroom, early closing hours and cute historic buildings are endearing and keep their history well. The people here are the best. However, I am excited to return to friends in Wichita, where all the grocery stores have conveyor belts and 20 varieties of potato chips.

Ready for my next road trip. — I am ready for my next road trip.

I am so thankful for my time at The Gazette and in Emporia. The people I met taught me plenty, and I’ll carry those lessons with me. For now, it’s time to say thank you, and goodbye.

(Well, I’ll stick around for another week or so. Then it’s goodbye.)

Ciao, baby!

P.S. Emporia: Let’s get a beer sometime. FYI, I’m not buying.

Home life

The perks of living alone

December 8, 2014 kathleenmartin124 2 Comments

Before this summer, I had never lived alone. Heck, for three of my college years, I didn’t even have my own room. Don’t get me wrong, having two friends permanently hanging out can be pretty fun. There’s always someone else to make dinner, and you’re never alone on a Friday night. But after living alone, I think I’m going to keep flying solo.

I realized that living alone is a privilege enjoyed by people who love Lean Cuisine, Netflix and cheap wine. Just my kind of crowd! It’s not something everyone gets to do. So for all those tied-down, “I have my crap together” friends, hats off. But between you and me, you’re missing out.

1. My apartment, AKA “No-Pants City”

No one knows or cares if I spend all my free time in my underwear. And my lower-half appreciates the freedom. Plus, let’s be honest, everything is more fun in pajamas.

“What are you doing, neighbor Joe?”

“Oh, I’m filing taxes. Payin’ the man! What about you?”

“I’m making cookies in my underwear!”

Fun, huh? I bet even taxes are more fun without pants.

I never saw the movie. But I can relate.

2. No passive-aggressive sticky notes

It happens to every apartment community. One person is neat, and always ends up cleaning the dishes of the messy one. The neat one begins feeling used, unjustly treated, just because of their higher cleanliness standards. So begin the sticky notes.

Somehow, a note saying “Don’t eat the casserole, it’s for my Nana” brings about expletives and other cruel, judgmental language. The sticky that says “Please don’t wake me up until 8:30” makes your roommates sneer. What a lazy-ass bum! We can blast Queen while shaving our legs if we want!

Then you remember that at one point, you were nervous to knock at these people’s dorm room. Oh, the days of sitting awkwardly in the hallway together, pretending to “work” on your laptop when you were really on Facebook, but dying for some real interaction.

Yup. That's about it. — Yup. That’s about it.

3. Quiet time is all the time

After the daily grind, the last thing I want is to make obligatory small-talk, or hear about someone else’s day. Honestly, I would much rather eat spaghetti and frozen yogurt horizontally while using my chest as a placemat. It’s what I do best.

I’m not a J.D. Salinger-esque recluse. But I need my space. With the right flavor of Oreos and movie selection, I could probably stay in my apartment for about 36 hours before getting bored. Sad? Maybe. True? Absolutely.

4. My food is exactly how I left it.

No one will eat my brownies except me, unless I decide to share (I usually don’t). No one will eat my leftovers as a pre-lunch snack. If I put something in the refrigerator, chances are it will still be there the next day, in the same portion I left it. Beautiful.

Oh I love Oreos. Maybe I'll go buy some in my underwear. — Oh, I love Oreos. Maybe I’ll go buy some in my underwear.

5. I can sing to myself all day!

Living alone means no one can judge you for anything you may do while alone in your apartment (unless you have thin walls). If I want to impersonate Bridget Jones singing “All By Myself,” more power to me! I can talk to myself, and no one can call me crazy. If I want to narrate an episode of Gilmore Girls, there’s no reason to feel self-conscious. Luke Danes can sound like Papa Smerf all day long at my place.

In the end, living alone means freedom from rules and judgement. It’s the Wild, Wild West of domestic life! Look out, Joe next door, I feel a song coming on…

Out and about

The Flint Hills are alive with Elton John

December 1, 2014 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

It’s Monday evening and I’ve worked over 20 hours this week. Granted, this weekend was my turn to work for The Gazette, so the 20 hours is expected. In any case, I didn’t sleep enough and left work at 7:15 p.m. tonight, feeling cynical and ready to crash. The CD mix in my player, made by Bea Burchill and titled “Songs of Home and Adventure,” began to play this song. Bea made the CD in preparation for my semester studying abroad in Bulgaria. (Don’t worry, this is the cheesiest this post will get.)

I chuckled as my mind flashed back to the summer of 2008, when I heard the song while driving with my brother, Bill, to Montana. He had graduated high school a week earlier and was already hired at in a university lab in Missoula, Montana. Smartie. Since this was his first solo road trip, my mom sent me as bodyguard.

Mintra and me looking tough to promote our many successful films. 2006? — Thirteen-year-old Kathleen and bestie Mintra: We got your back.

We prepared for the 20-hour drive by going over our route and itinerary and packing bags of snacks. Our parents had to reserve hotels for us since we were too young to do so ourselves.

Bill helped me write a Gazette story while we were on vacation in New Orleans. What a good brother!

Bill had three jobs for this trip:

Program the GPS
Drive half the shifts
Find good CDs

He definitely succeeded with #2. Navigation was iffy on both our parts. But Bill kinda bombed #3. He didn’t have CDs of his own, and as I opened our CD book, I found two Johnson County Public Library CDs. (We later returned them, as we’re law-abiding citizens.)

“These Are Jokes,” by comedian Demetri Martin (props)
The single “Candle in the Wind” by Elton John (no props)

Bill meant to grab an Elton John mix. While Elton isn’t my favorite, anything would’ve been better than a single of “Candle in the Wind.” I mean, who loves Princess Di enough to pay Elton $5, knowing full well they’ll just feel sad and start buying collectible Princess Diana beanie babies on eBay?

Thankfully, we had our sister’s CD of Elton John’s greatest hits on hand. We listened to “Tiny Dancer” when the road was dark and we sang along as the sun went down. Instead of counting sheep due to road hypnosis, we could’ve counted the headlights on the highway.

Instead, Bill played “Tiny Dancer” over and over and over again. The chorus is difficult to understand, which should frankly be the least of Elton’s worries about this song. Seriously, all I heard was:Or

Lay me down and she’s so blanely

(Or “Lay me down and sheep still play me”)

You had a fill today to dane?

Not knowing the lyrics bothered Bill, and we didn’t have Smartphones to look up the words.Two hundred gold stars if you figure the whole song out without Google. Bill likes understanding things, which is probably why we were on the 20-hour road trip to jump-start his successful career in biochemistry. I, on the other hand, cared very little what the chorus says and still do. But I still sang “Tiny Dancer” at least three times in 4-7 different keys.

—–

I still think about road trips past when I drive through the Flint Hills around Emporia, which is coined as “The Front Porch to the Flint Hills.” I’ve been good friends with these hills since I was 12 years old and traveled to the Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield with my bestie, Mintra, and her family. Then there were violin competitions and later, a college visit to Wichita State University. Once every month during my first three years at WSU, I made the trek to Overland Park for orthodontist appointments.

At Rosalia Ranch during the Symphony in the Flint Hills. I believe this is Kaitlin Whelan and Jen Bookhout. — Kaitlin Whelan and Krisi Metzen wander Rosalia Ranch during the Symphony in the Flint Hills concert in June 2014. I helped the Flint Hills Media Project this summer, after being a student. I believe this is Kaitlin Whelan and Jen Bookhout.

I could write on and on about what the Flint Hills mean to me. Mostly, they mean big sky. A half-hour drive to Bazaar Cattle Crossing after a hard day or on a lazy Sunday wakes me up to the spaciousness of sky and land. The hills stretch out for more miles than I can see, but they’re comforting because I can believe that, unlike anything else in my life, they will be there when I die. A Flint Hills thunderstorm is frightening and invigorating. I can watch lightning stab down from the sky, and the hills survive.

Kansas is beautiful. Many people don’t understand this. They haven’t been through the Flint Hills, trying to remember the words to a chorus.

Oh, Elton. Let’s here one more! (Sorry, Bill.)

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How a small-town transplant can grow