Author: Jackie Mantey

And just like that it’s June

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I’ve been looking forward to this month all year for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that Justin and I bought all our summer clothes in, like, March. We’ve been excited for summer.

Our New Year’s resolutions included going out more in our city when it’s nice outside and to spend more time together doing fun stuff. It’s not that we don’t spend a lot of time together, it’s just that sometimes, most of the time, life adds up and that free outdoor festival sounds like a monotonous, mountains-away drag when you can just nap in each other’s arms with the fan on at home. And just like that your life is a “16 There’s Still Time For You” song without a hint of irony.

We do watch a lot of TV together. Sometimes, most of the time, I’m reading while we do this. (Unless, of course, it’s an episode of “Dawson’s Creek,” which we’re re-watching from start to finish… If you’re looking for a hint of irony, you won’t find it. That show is like mysterious candy. Still. Even with the shitty new theme song.)

Fun fact: Theoretical physicist Carlo Rovelli—I learned this while reading—says time isn’t real and there are “actually no things at all. Instead, the universe is made up of countless events. Even what might seem like a thing—a stone, say—is really an event taking place at a rate we can’t register. The stone is in a continual state of transformation, and on a long enough timeline, even it is fleeting, destined to take on some other form.”

Cool cool cool.

Can I use that as an excuse next time I miss a deadline?

A few years ago at a backyard barbecue, a friend’s birthday party, one of the stoners, mid-bite of his veggie patty, told me that déjà vu is something we experience when we are in the exact place we should be. Like, the universes have aligned, man. I responded that I hadn’t had déjà vu in a long while and felt deathly depressed so perhaps he was on to something. Then we did some fire spitting and went home.

Even if time is a fluid human concept, there’s no denying the extent of which its very-very-realness impacts the lives of us non-physicists and/or potheads. It’s the great equalizer. The thing of which we never seem to have enough of, gently slipping through our well-worn fingers.

That’s why I’m also looking forward to this summer: I’ve been buying myself some time.

I’ve been working extra jobs since January in an effort to save up enough money to comfortably take this summer off from professional gigs to spend time on myself and my personal writing.

It’s my favorite aspect of freelancing—you decide how much work to take on, which means you can overload yourself to the point of exhaustion in order to reach the promised land of free time. When you freelance, you can be as successful or unsuccessful as you want, depending on how hard you’re willing to go.

The night before this all-hallowed summer season begins, I’m sitting in my apartment watching the national championship spelling bee. We meant to turn on the Cavs vs. Warriors game, but had the wrong station.

Have you ever watched a championship spelling bee before? On the screen are these perfectly precociously adorably brutal children being 1,000 times smarter than you despite the fact that you’ve got them beat by several decades during which you could have been studying the dictionary.

Nerds.

(Nerds I will happily freelance for one day when they run the world.)

Fun facts:

  • Arrhostia is an evolutionary product or trend that appears to be more or less pathological, such as the immense size attained by certain dinosaurs.
  • Kanone is a person who is an expert skier.
  • Carmagnole is a lively song popular at the time of the first French Revolution.
  • Soubresaut is a straight-legged jump from both feet with the toes pointed and feet together, one behind the other.
  • All of the above are words 12-year-olds knew or almost knew how to spell. (RIP Enya.)
  • Jackie Mantey still gets stuck spelling commitment. (Indeed, spell check just corrected that for me.)

It feels like just yesterday Justin and I were watching the Cavs play the Warriors at a nearby bar as Cleveland clinched its first championship in what felt like forever. It wasn’t yesterday, but it was two years ago.

Maybe I’ve been thinking about time so much because just like that, I’m 32, which is the age you officially start eye rolling 25-year-old Millennials blaming their ennui on a “quarter life crisis,” just like I did seven years ago. I’m such a Millennial, I Millennialed first, kids. Get off my rent controlled apartment’s avocado-strewn lawn.

Even LeBron “The GOAT and Still Smashing Records” James has been fielding questions from reporters about whether he feels his age will slow him down. He’s 33.

(Note: LeBron once felt a million years older than me, as did the characters on “Dawson’s Creek,” but, as I realized today after watching the jaunty little senior prank episode, I realized they were mere seniors in high school when I was a freshman. … See? Time. The great equalizer. Now we’re all just grief-stricken and stumbling and thoughtfully passive adults who can have reunion features in Vanity Fair.)

Truth is, I don’t give a shit about Roseanne being cancelled. And I watch “The Handmaid’s Tale” not because I think it’s important as a cautionary social justice horror story, I watch it because it’s cathartic. Seriously, watching June try to disassociate her mind from her body after being brought back to Gilead tapped into some deeply buried relate-ability. Growing up girl around people in power who condescendingly make you feel like your body is not your own, and with boys trained in this environment to treat you like shit, your mind can start to do the same thing. (I know it’s not the same as being raped systematically after being kidnapped, but we also don’t have intergalactic battles but empathize with and see ourselves in Luke Skywalker, so let a girl have her indulgences, OK?)

But most of the trauma I’ve experienced in my life happened to me a long time ago. Time (and sobriety) has healed its residual wounds and I’ve found ways to demand better—from men in my life and society as a whole. I, in essence, feel in control of myself and my reactions. I feel like I can help others going through the same thing and I try to, which is half of the healing process anyway.

So now, I’m living in the flow state of life’s ebb and flow. Things are moving forward but mostly I feel as if I’m waiting. For what? Can I really just not enjoy the peace? Do I always have to be on the lookout for what’s next? Is that a survival technique?

Or have I been conditioned to do this? To move so fast? Haven’t we all?

Apropos, here’s something else I recently read.

It’s a passage from Henry Kissinger’s article in this month’s Atlantic about human society being unprepared for the rise of artificial intelligence. Titled “How the Enlightenment Ends.” Yikes.

He writes, “Inundated via social media with the opinions of multitudes, users are diverted from introspection; in truth, many technophiles use the internet to avoid the solitude they dread. All of these pressures weaken the fortitude required to develop and sustain convictions that can be implemented only by traveling a lonely road, which is the essence of creativity.”

He has a point here. (Honestly, this was one of the few points I could understand in his essay, which is why I will not be running for president in 2020 and neither should you. We all need to just hold on to our tits and wait for those spelling bee kids to graduate from Yale.) But it seems reductive for me to blame all my dread about time’s passage on social media’s speed.

Markers of time: Reading google reviews of cereals to find the one that contains the least amount of sugar and the most amount of fiber but doesn’t taste like cardboard that’s been sitting in the puddle behind the Dumpster. (Check.) Walking the long way around the park as to avoid the packs of primal high schoolers spraying pheromones in each other’s direction. (Check.) Hating social media but knowing it’s not so black and white an issue/ experience as to sign off of it entirely. (Check check check.)

If everything, as the mad physicist says, is in a constant state of transformation, what is happening to me during this unspectacular time?

You know what I think might be contributing to my worry about time, too? The fact that I feel really good right now. So good, in fact, that  1) I have nothing else dramatic with which to soak up my brain cells, so left to their own devices they plan ahead, and 2) I wonder why I don’t have more of the things I want in my life yet. Where’s the house, the couch, the baby, the book, the MFA?

See, this is why I can’t truly hate Kim K. It’s so human—steadfast transformers that we are—to want more than what we have, despite having just earned some incredible things we wanted for a long time (i.e. a wonderful and supportive relationship, Chicago residency, stable work-from-home/ work-from-anywhere/ choose-your-own-adventure lifestyle, sobriety).

Trying to balance ambition with the gift, the privilege, of living in the present is tough.

The best Pinterest wisdom I’ve found about defeating jealousy, which can often drive our ambition, is the imperative to not compare yourself to others and instead compare your current self to who you were yesterday. With that in mind, I’m my life’s god damn Karthik “Commitment” Nemmani. (Winner of the 2018 national championship spelling bee. And actually he won spelling “koinonia,” which means Christian fellowship or communion. Congratulations, Karthik. I’m totally not j-e-a-l-o-u-s.)

So far, my best life advice is to always check the store-bought strawberries for mold before popping one into your mouth (a lesson hard won by experience) and to remember this too shall pass, even the calm and especially the time.

It just that ugh, sometimes, most the time, the waiting fucking sucks.

It’s only when life’s ebbs start nudging you in the gut again or throwing you upside down, head first, seatbelt off, into the next roller coaster ride of your life, that you appreciate how nice, soothing even!, it was to just stand in line.

As I write this, I realize I’ve had a lot of déjà vu recently, which could mean I’m exactly where I need to be. That’s a nice thought. Too nice though. Instead, this is the though I’m more likely to when I experience when déjà vu strikes: WHY IS MY BRAIN REMEMBERING THIS SEEMINGLY UNIMPORTANT MOMENT OF ME EATING MY FIBER RICH BREAKFAST? IS SOMEONE ABOUT TO DIE??

As the Cavs and Warriors went the locker room for half time, Justin and I looked at each other. We had planned to go out to a bar to get some food and watch the second half of the game. But our mutual look said that sounded like not as much fun as it sounded five hours ago.

We ended up staying in. After all, we have all summer.

Five things I’m loving this month

Jackie Mantey 1 Comment

“Good Thing” by Leon Bridges

Leon’s new album “Good Thing” is *the* sound for summer 2018. Though, I’d probably make that sentence work for whatever season he released it in. This is modern soul music at its sickest. Start with “Bad Bad News” and just try not to let those hips swing a lil.

Online video workouts

I’m always looking for workout ideas to supplement my runs in the summer, when I prefer to run outside and avoid the sticky, sweaty, suffocatingly indoors indoor gym. DoYogaWithMe.com is a great resource for free yoga sequences led by expert instructors. I like this one for core strength and stretch.

I also recently found this series between Nicole from the blog Pumps & Iron and Hyatt Place. Nicole shows you how to do quick, easy indoor workouts inside Hyatt hotel rooms. (Five stars for a smart branding opportunity, Hyatt!) I’m still working my way through all of these, but this five-minute pyramid workout is a great place to start.

@concepttalk on Instagram

Published by sister site Neon Talk, Concept Talk posts old photos of retro products, interiors, and ad concepts. The visuals are rad and really weird, which is a nice/ often-startling change of pace between all the baby pics in my feed. Follow Concept Talk here.

“Little Fires Everywhere” by Celeste Ng

Everyone I know who likes to read has been raving about this book since it came out late last year. It was one of my options for a Book of the Month Club selection, but I picked another title, not yet knowing how good/ beloved this book would be! Thus, I’ve been waiting for it from the library for montttths.

It finally came in on Friday. I picked it up on Saturday. And I finished it on Sunday.

This book is so good! Not only is it fast-paced, pumping with mystery, and beautifully written, I loved that it told so many women’s stories and explored empathy-as-moralistic-value—that complicated, perilous thing—so well.

I also loved how gently she delivered the recurring theme of seeing ourselves in other people, or imagining our lives reflected in that of others’ experiences (and all the ways that seeing can take shape).

Time Magazine’s The Vault

Time Magazine’s cover story by Steven Brill was titled “How Baby Boomers Broke America,” but the real point of his examination of how the last 50 years led us to our current state of affairs is not about pitting one generation against another. In fact, it’s not about pitting political sides against each other either. It’s about how the unprotected have been pitted against each other in an effort to surreptitiously further protect the already protected.

That, rather than a split between Democrats and Republicans, is the real polarization that has broken America since the 1960s. It’s the protected vs. the unprotected, the common good vs. maximizing and protecting the elite winners’ winnings.

Read the full article here, the hit up this page called The Vault, where you can see all of Time’s cover stories from the past few months and click the links to read them directly.

Notes from a Chicago Saturday morning

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I take the long route to the bus stop to stretch my legs and simply be outside. The brick house on the corner has its windows open, jazz puncturing the screen. The helicopter seeds dance in the early morning breeze. The music sounds how waking up before 9 a.m. makes me feel. Adult, aware, kinda sad, mostly hopeful, prone to chaos.

**

Apartment for rent. They’ve bumped the price down from $1,400 to $1,100 a month and put up a black and white computer drawing of the floor plan. They call it a “loft” but it’s just your garden variety studio garden apartment with one cool window. And two exits. All apartments here are supposed to have two of those. Just in case. Chicago is also adult, aware, kinda sad, mostly hopeful, prone to chaos.

**

I wait for the bus to pick me up, determined not to check my phone again to see how long my wait will be. It was six minutes, like, five minutes ago. I stand with my bookbag at my feet, craning my neck down the street like a child waiting for a beloved parent to pick her up from school.

**

The Chicago public transportation system is my favorite thing about this city, occasional pee smell, long waits, and deranged passenger aside. I sold my car as soon as I got to this city. In a place like nowhere-but-everywhere-at-once, a place like Chicago, independence takes new forms foreign to me before now.

I go to the back of the bus, where the seats are elevated and I can watch everyone inside and everything that passes by. In grade school, the cool kids, which meant the older kids, always got first dibs on the seats in the back. You could share secrets and candy and/or/sometimes kisses better back there. I used to ride home from elementary school with high schoolers. I was always in the front but would try little ploys to reveal my maturity to them, with a subtlety that belied my desperation to be like them.

In third grade I became proficient at writing in cursive, which seemed so elegant and adulty to me. So adulty, in fact, I would sit on the edge of my bouncing, hot plastic seat and write in my notebook little stories using cursive’s curly cues. The story I was writing didn’t matter. What mattered was that the older kids who got off the bus before me, with their perfume trail and confident stomps, would take note of my writing and think, “Oh she knows cursive! That means she must be of a certain age! Shall I invite her to the back of the bus tomorrow to tell her all my magical secrets?”

Imagine feeling like you can’t wait to grow up. Try to remember how far away where you are now once seemed.

**

The library smells like books and coffee. The air tastes like poster tape and the back of a stamp. It just opened and is yet to fill with the heavy exhaust of exhausted humans. Libraries are the last real place you can be indoors as long as you want and use the restroom one/two/five times without someone asking you to leave or pay for something. Well, except maybe now Starbucks.

As I walk to the bookshelf of holds, where tomes peer toward the entrance like kids waiting for a beloved parent to pick them up, I pass a little boy who is sitting at the public computer. I catch him staring at me and I smile. He is dressed in red gym shorts and a black tee loose around his belly that’s the shape of childhood, a malleable shape of something arrived too early waiting for its moment to stretch out and settle in.  

He reminds me of my husband, what my husband may have looked like as a boy, and I recall a quote from a documentary we watched together once. “Adults are just children who survived.” Maurice Sendak said that, I think.

I pass the boy again as I leave and wonder if he’s pulled up the news site he’s looking at in hopes someone like me, maybe me specifically, the cool old woman in the halter top who smiled at him, will notice… Will notice and will think, “That gentleman must be older than I thought, what with his well-curated morning news perusal?! Perhaps I shall invite him to the back of the bus and teach him cursive.”

**

I take the 80 bus three neighborhoods east and get out one mile from my next destination. I start to walk.

A man passes me and says, “Beautiful girl on a beautiful day,” and I don’t hate it, despite the “Everybody Dance Now” blaring from the phone in his pocket. That’s not a euphemism.

Another man passes me talking on his phone. “Is it diaper time?” he says to the person on the other end. I pretend he’s not talking about a kid and giggle.

Women in sundresses.

Dogs with dopey grins.

Breezes with a lick of lakeshore’s chill.

Sweat softening every place where my skin melts into fabric.

Summer has officially begun.

**

I was reading recently about lobsters fighting for dominance and how, when one loses very badly, his brain basically dissolves, unable to cope with what has happened to him and adjust to the new state of things. I think of this passage as I watch a woman wearing a trashbag push a shopping cart down the sidewalk. The neighborhood I currently live in has a man like this who’s always hanging around a particular intersection, usually screaming indecipherable things. Justin and I call him Yelling Guy and we and the other neighbors generally let him go about his business of scaring people who haven’t been there before and walking harmlessly up and down the street. I wonder what monster melted their brains, who or what hurt them.

**

The first fews months of college, which marked my first extended stay away from a place I spent 18 years of my life, I kept seeing people I thought I knew walking around campus. On the quad, in the dorm, right outside class. “Oh it’s so-and-so! What are they doing here?”

My mind connected these strangers’ facial similarities to people I’d seen all year long, every year until now. It was like seeing ghosts.

I used to live in this neighborhood where the 80 bus has deposited me. I see some of the same people: the woman who lives in the brownstone walk-up doing her daily walk, a family herding its toddler sheep to temple, the cashiers at Walgreen’s. I keep an eye out for the weiner dog in the weiner dog-sized Cubs hat, a staple of these sidewalks.

**

And there! Right as I’m about to head to the bus back home, through the windows surrounding the bar stool where I’m finishing up lunch, I see him. The neighborhood weiner dog who wears the Cubs hat. A fan favorite. A happy boy. A good boy. Tongue out, saying hi with a waddle-wobble strut that teeter-totters his little body left to right like a puppy pendulum: Same. Old. Same. Old. Different. Older.

**

My time spent watching the hatted weiner dog and sitting in the good feelings of my good fortune of having spotted him in this neighborhood overrun by regulars and tourists alike, I remember I packed some shoes to take to the cobbler up the street.

I hand over my heels and sign my name on the receipt. It’s the only time I write in cursive anymore.

Best-of commencement quotes about work to get you to the long weekend

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On the tedium of daily life

“And I submit that this is what the real, no-bull- value of your liberal-arts education is supposed to be about: How to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default-setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone, day in and day out. … There happen to be whole large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part involves boredom, routine, and petty frustration. … The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing comes in. … The fact is that, in the day-to-day trenches of adult existence, banal platitudes can have life-or-death importance.  … You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn’t. You get to decide what to worship.”

David Foster Wallace, Kenyon College 2005 (This whole speech is one of my favorite pieces of writing. Read it here.)

Lesson: We’re all in the same boat. If today doesn’t feel like a grand, extraordinary, “Oh the places you will go!,” choose-your-own adventure, that’s OK. Most days won’t. Just keep swimming. You choose. Choose love. Even when life fucking sucks.

On why we go to work when we could be focused on the side hustle

“Your job is not always going to fulfill you. There will be some days that you just might be bored. Other days you may not feel like going to work at all. Go anyway, and remember that your job is not who you are. It’s just what you are doing on the way to who you will become. With every remedial chore, every boss who takes credit for your ideas — that is going to happen — look for the lessons, because the lessons are always there.”

Oprah Winfrey, USC 2018

Lesson: Don’t freak out. Dreams take time. And the time will pass anyway. Sometimes you have to hustle for the side hustle.  

 

On not succumbing to power-hungry workaholism

“Acknowledging the wisdom and experience of a forklift operator or security guard with 30 years on the job doesn’t diminish your own experience. Acknowledging the sacrifice of others that enabled you to be in this position does not diminish the sacrifices you made on your own.”

Founder & CEO of Chobani Hamdi Ulukaya, Wharton MBA 2018

Lesson: Value all work. See yourself in others and things will go a lot easier. Be grateful; constantly. Don’t take yourself so seriously.

On being happy with what you have

“I’m Batman.”

Michael Keaton, Kent State 2018

Lesson: Don’t settle, sure, but also know you can’t ever have ***the*** dream job. That belongs to Michael Keaton.

Art you should know: Painter Toyin Ojih Odutola

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Someone once asked Toyin Ojih Odutola, a contemporary portrait painter based in New York, what her purpose as an artist was.

This is how she answered: “To make the world less small.”

On the surface level, how she does that seems obvious. Toyin is Nigerian-born and grew up in Texas. The perspective her artwork brings to the white walls of traditionally white, male spaces is important as we grow the space for voices.

But diversity means more to Toyin than representation of skin color in art. Diversity also means diversity of thought in the room. I love this little reminder that “diversity” isn’t a call to lift up one voice over another; it should be an attempt to elevate all voices to an equal level so that we can hear, and ostensibly learn, from each one.

Making the world feel less small comes through in her art in very powerful ways. Not only does her portraiture capture and express the magic of black skin, the conceptual work of her images reveals much. For her recent exhibition at The Whitney, she presented life-size portraits from the “private estates” of two fictional Nigerian aristocratic families.

As i-D writes, these are “radically soft visions of black wealth” driven by Toyin’s diversification of the stories we tell ourselves.

“Toyin says this was the driving question for her Whitney exhibition: What if you claimed everywhere you go as a home? Some black people avoid traveling because they (reasonably) fear they’ll encounter racism. Toyin wanted to help ease this hesitation by depicting black people outside, in nature, swimming in lagoons, chilling on the beach, taking in the sunset.”

That sounds so simple… but when you consider all the ways popular media can misrepresent black experiences and bodies by the imagery they choose, Toyin’s portraits seem all that more powerful in their commonness of scene.

More here!

Words on the Street: May 19, 2018

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Ad coming soon.

Find the dick!

You do you, wall.

Black Velvet, White Jesus is the name of my new fake band. 

As seen at the AIC. 

As seen waiting in the dressing room line at Forever 21. I’m a creep.

So hot, in fact, we can’t waste any time doing spell check! To be fair, it makes sense to think extremely would start with “extra.”

This building is a physical manifestation of me in relationships in my early 20s. “YES. NO. YES. NO.”

I just love this for some reason…

As seen at the SafeHouse restaurant in Milwaukee. Everyone picks their own agent name. I keep giggling at this one.

Rudy Not For Sale.

To do: Lavender Cola at The Gage in Chicago

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Like most wonderful surprises, I found The Gage by chance. Well, by Google keyword, which counts for chance in the 21st century.

A friend was visiting Chicago to run a race and she wanted to meet up for brunch while in town. I quickly Googled “restaurant + downtown Chicago.” Ha! And a star was born.

The Gage is a lovely contemporary white tablecloth restaurant that’s my go-to for elegant but accessible fine dining. It’s right across from Millennium Park, and all the various attractions located within, and walking distance from the Art Institute, which is my other sure bet for giving visitors a fun taste of the town without boring myself to death.

Example: We took our Cleveland cousin Maria to The Gage, where she unknowingly ordered a very carnivorous breakfast. She didn’t need to eat again until dinner.
We worked off the meat sweats by heading across the street for the Chicago visitor must-have: A photo at The Bean.
Then we walked the skybridge to the Art Institute.

My favorite thing about The Gage, other than the location and the food, is that I can make reservations on Open Table. The place is cavernous, so I never have trouble saving a seat, but they’re super busy during peak hours and it’s worth it to make a reservation just in case.

Since moving to Chicago I’ve become a reservation queen! I don’t always need them, but it brings me peace of mind that I won’t have to wait for a long time or waste my time commuting to a place that can’t serve me.

But for all my visits to The Gage (I went there for my bachelorette party and they gave me free dessert! WITH a candle! Not all heroes wear capes—some wear aprons!) and all my complaining that not enough restaurants and bars offer cool alcohol-free drinks on their adults menus, I didn’t try their specialty sodas until recently.

Among The Gage’s zero proof options: Organic Seasonal Cordial, House-Made Ginger Beer, Abita Root Beer, and Lavender Cola.

The Gage’s Lavender Cola

The Lavender Cola is a clear (surprise!) favorite. Not too sweet, with the lavender smoothing its way in more as an aftertaste to the citrusy carbonated treat. They serve it in a bar glass with a garnish, which helps me feel like I’m still getting all the fun of an alcoholic brunch but without the hangover, wasted day, and status updates to delete later. 😉

Scented beauty buys that are making my spring

Jackie Mantey 1 Comment

I know, I know.

But if the devil wears Prada, then friendly boss bitches wear mint leaf and bergamot!

$: Mint Leaf and Bergamot lotion by Bath & Body Works

I picked this up at a discount outlet Bath & Body Works, recalling my time working in a candle boutique and mixing the bergamot flower’s sharp citrusy floral with mint’s sweet-tinged freshness. It’s a unique smell that’s not overwhelmingly floral or musky. When the cashier rang me up, it was $5 for one bottle. I then hurdled the Pumpkin Spice displays and threw a baby out of the way, into the Juniper Breeze, to snag two more at that price.

$$: Argan Oil and Lavender conditioner by Beauty & Planet

I love this drugstore brand because of its ethical and environmental promises, but the lavender line’s soft scent lingers on my hair all day long and has made me a true believer.

$$$: Wood Sage and Sea Salt cologne by Jo Malone

Wood sage and sea salt smells warm, sexy, and grounding. It smells like vacation, but one where you spend a luxurious month meditating and talking about your dreams on a Mediterranean beach with a yoga instructor named Xavier. Xavier is a very good listener and won’t make a move unless you want him to.

I discovered this scent by way of a beauty magazine ad. You know, the kind with the foldable flap that makes fashion magazines smell like magic and womanhood and sophistication and the dope ass future that awaits once you get out of this dumb town? You know, the kind of ad that you’d sneak into the school library to rub all over your weird body before the big school dance? No?

When I dug around to see how much a bottle would be, I LOLed. (It costs about as much as other high-end parfums, but I already own one of those so I just couldn’t justify shelling out for two, ya know?) Instead of making an order, I ripped out the ad and hung it on my bulletin board right by my computer. I decided if I missed the scent after its paper particles had dissipated, I’d buy myself a small bottle for spring.

So I recently bought myself a small bottle for spring.

To do: Old Louisville

Jackie Mantey 2 Comments

Our recent travels included a stop in Old Louisville for Justin’s 5 For the Road comedy tour.

I’m always excited when we get to go to Kentucky. For all its redneck-ian hullabaloo, that is a gorgeous state with gorgeous stems (read: trees). And Old Louisville, a historic neighborhood located near the heart of the city, never disappoints.

Here are some recent discoveries from our latest trip you should hit up the next time you’re in Derby City.

Central Park

Once the idyllic country estate of the DuPont family, this 17-acre park is the perfect place to post up when you need to hot spot and people watch. While working from a park bench I saw a dad teaching his daughter how to ride a bike, three drunk old men shooting the proverbial shit on a neighboring bench, a date happening on the tennis court, a lot of people walking their eager dogs, and this squirrel, my co-worker for the afternoon.

North Lime Coffee and Donuts

This new bakery and java joint was within walking distance from our Airbnb, and, as Louisville luck would have it, the walk there included a veritable tour of grand estates. I love Old Louisville’s old architecture. Every house has a treasured new-old surprise to share. Aging lace curtains. Grand stone staircases. Wrought iron gates overgrown in ivy.

North Lime didn’t disappoint either. I got us a coffee to go and a few fresh-baked donuts, including a sprinkle version with an apple butter glaze. It was the best thing I ate the whole trip.

Mag Bar

This dive joint was the comedy tour’s show host. Trivia night was happening in the other room and drinkers were enjoying the weather on the outdoor patio. You could also kick it old-school and play some arcade games they had on tap like Mortal Kombat and Battletoad. Old Louisville indeed.

Sheherazade Gallery

After the show, we walked home and spotted this glowing pink art installation. I was drawn to it like an ant to discarded cotton candy. After some hashtag searching, I learned this was Sheherazade, a one-car garage turned gallery space. Rotating exhibitions fill up the whole open-air space and the clear glass gallery-wide door means it’s viewable after hours. It made our walk home weird and magical. Just like we like ‘em.

Filson Historical Society

Right by our Airbnb was the Filson Historical Society, so I went to check out their WWI exhibits during my lunch break before we got back on the road. Louisville native Jack Speed was an officer in the 150th Field Artillery on the Western Front. As an amateur photographer, he used what Kodak marketed as the “soldier’s camera” to take photos during the war. The camera folded into itself to about the size of an iPhone 4. I took photos of it on my Google Pixel. Cool to see how photography, cameras and humans (thank goodness!) have evolved since then. Stop by the front desk and ask to see their displays. An exhibition guide will give you a tour.

Planes, trains, automobiles, and ants

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

I spent today awkwardly trying to get back into my Chicago groove after spending the last seven days in four states. The multiple trips sent me across, through, and over the midwest in planes, trains, and automobiles.

So much movement and non-stop perpetual motion is mostly, usually exciting, but it can be jarring sometimes too. After I’ve landed back home, it takes me a beat to readjust to a normal pace and scene.

Plus, when visiting family and seeing friends, which this past week of travel included, it takes even more effort to get back to normal. The feelings of emotional warmth and change have to settle into their new shape, but it’s as if I’ve pushed bread dough into a pan and expected it to rise immediately. There’s a process of expansion that the new form taking shape refuses to rush, regardless of how much I want it to. I’m adept at adapting, but I forget that sometimes that takes a minute.

Things are different now, just as they always have been.

Time changes everything. But time always takes its, well, time.

After trips like these I need a brain Discombobulation Area, like the one at the airport where you try to put your shoes back on ASAP and wrangle what’s left of your dignity (quickly! quickly!) after a security pat down and wipe off the sweat congealing on your brow from being chewed up and spit out the sticky mouth of TSA.

(Clearly I love flying!)

Despite all this, I love moving around. My favorite thing about traveling is that it gives me perspective. Literally of this beautiful country, but metaphorically too. The security check line may be long, but life is short. Physical journeys, being an outsider looking in, is the antidote when everything feels small and uber-significant.

Because when everything feels small and uber-significant, it’s usually because I feel small and insignificant. Traveling reminds me how grandiose my options are, reminds me my life is big because it is also small, reminds me not to sweat it. In fact, there’s no need to sweat anything except getting to my ride on time.

And visiting friends, family, old stomping grounds? Traveling to them and dropping by for a while reminds me to be completely present in them. To feel all of it. To remember. To pay attention, because this moment * right now * is what I’ll look back on soon. I want to make it count.

Today after my evening run (or, more accurately, jog-walk… travel = treats!), I stretched in the park across from our apartment. As I laid on my back to stretch these American thighs, I turned my head to the side. Eye level was an ant diligently collecting nectar from a dandelion as if it was the most important thing in the world. He climbed all over this supposed weed, through its golden landscape, over its hilly petals.

It made me remember something my dad told me this weekend while I was home. My parents have peonies growing in the space right outside their front door. The peonies are a wonderfully visual choice once their bulbous, bombastic blooms open, but to get there, they need the help of tiny ants like this one in my Chicago park.

“There will be ants on those peony buds,” Dad said. “Go look.”

Sure enough. There were ants crawling all over their green cocooned buds.

“Ants help pull open their shells,” he said.

Sure enough. Google confirmed. The flower releases small amounts of nectar to recruit the intrepid insects into doing some of their work for them.

Would I have missed this seemingly insignificant observation had I not been paying attention? Probably. I’ve missed more while I’m physically at places than I ever have when I’m gone, longing and paying attention. 

Listening to stories from my dad. Taking time to do nothing but feel how my cat’s purr sends ripples through my fingers. Holding my niece in a hug that leaves an 8-year-old-child-sized imprint on my heart.

If that’s what travel does for me, gives to me now… The post-travel come down, the emotional discombobulation is worth it. Every time.

Like Vonnegut wrote, “Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.”