Dispatch #9: So This Is Love?

KEBABBY HILL

Let’s start this dispatch with one of the most important things — one of the things that makes life meaningful. Good food. Last month, I mentioned my Xiaohongshu kebabs. And here they are:

COPY EDITING CORNER

In last month’s newsletter, I omitted an Oxford comma. It pained me, but I didn’t want to go back and fix it — because I was afraid I would break something else.

My bad grammar wasn’t the only issue with last month’s update. Let’s talk about that atrocious formatting. The font was terrible. Too big, too small, too bold – it was all over the place. And it was all a mess, no matter how many times I tried to fix the formatting.

I realize that this happened because I wrote my newsletter outside of Beehiiv, on my phone and on my laptop, and I pasted it in all pell-mell. I moved things around, and I adjusted paragraphs, and everything fell apart. 

But this time, I’ve tried to do better.

This time, I did all of my drafting in one word processor. When I paste everything in, it had better look good. And if it doesn’t, please know that I reached my breaking point before I gave up!

“ON THE SHELF”

If you’re lucky enough to be perpetually single, when did you realize that you were “on the shelf,” so to speak?

(It’s a detestable phrase. What are we? Tchotchkes?)

It’s never too late to find a partner to settle down with – but I feel that I’m still technically what you’d describe as on the shelf. I’ve even covered myself in cobwebs, in the hope that I won’t attract too much unwanted attention.

I rarely find dating interesting. It’s exciting for five minutes, and then it starts feeling overwhelming. A year ago, I got bored and decided to test out some dating apps. But I realized that the apps are basically the world’s largest buffet, and I’ve suddenly lost my appetite after being presented with every option under the sun. 

I have my own hangups. Even though I write a newsletter, I still don’t want to reveal too much about myself. (Not to everyone, not all at once.)

I guess I’m just … a little doll in the curio cabinet. I’m only six inches tall, instead of nearly six feet tall. I’m made of glass. I’m on the top shelf, and I’m turned away from the window. I’m turned toward the television. On Saturday mornings, I watch Manchester City play, and on Wednesday nights, I watch Abbott Elementary. The rest of the time, the TV goes on and off, and I don’t pay too much attention to any of it.

I don’t want to let my guard down, at this stage in the game – not when I have my own little corner of the shelf. What if I lost my place on the shelf? It’s a nice shelf. So comfortable and lofty.

My little corner is too small to fill with many other tchotchkes. I’m a bit of a minimalist.

But whenever I say it’s probably never going to happen for me, and that’s fine – I accept it as a fact. It isn’t a sad fact; it doesn’t even make me feel alone. 

At times, I do feel misunderstood. But I’m so used to that feeling – in every facet of my life – that being misunderstood doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. I try to make myself easy enough to interpret, but I’ve given up on overexplaining.

(I’ve given up on overexplaining, I say, as I write a unnecessarily long newsletter.)

There isn’t really a lid for every pot. Some of us are soufflé dishes and ramekins. And like one of those dishes, I am at my best when I’m left uncovered and full of crème brûlée.

Besides, if you’ve seen Squid Game, then you’d know that trying to find an eligible bachelor in western Kentucky is like trying to play Mingle.

I do think some people have treated me differently when they find out I don’t feel like I need to get married or have children — as if I have some sort of illness that makes me unworthy of social acceptance.

Thankfully, this seems to happen less often as I get older. One of the privileges of being a single 30-year-old is that (most) people seem to accept that you’re content with your lot, and that you’re the one steering your own boat. That’s a privilege.

And so is sleeping in on the weekends — which is perhaps my favorite privilege.

THE GULF

Anyone who asks me to call the Gulf of Mexico the “updated” name will be displeased to find that I’m calling it El Golfo de México, porque no puedes detenerme. As Bad Bunny once said, no me importa un carajo.

SIDEWALK STORIES

I recently received a LinkedIn notification to consider adding a stranger. I immediately recognized him as the person who I cut off on the sidewalk the morning that I really needed to get inside and find a restroom. 

I’m sorry. I don’t normally write about such things, but this pained me – to think that that person also received a notification that I should join their network. They only know me as the odd lady who was sprinting erratically up the sidewalk. I suppose that’s preferable to being known as the odd lady who was having an accident on the sidewalk, so I can’t be too upset.

BOTTLE TREES

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by bottle trees. I loved them, but I didn’t understand them.

If you live in the South, you’ve probably seen these trees. They’re waist-high “trees” that look a bit like coat racks, and they’re covered in blue bottles. From time to time, I’ve seen some with red and blue bottles – though I don’t know if that’s purely aesthetic or if there’s a more particular meaning.

A quick Google search told me that the practice originated in the Congo Basin region in the ninth century. (Way back in the 800s, which is amazing to think about. And the bottle tree’s connection to Congolese history thrilled me!)

The bottles are supposed to be a means of warding off malevolent spirits — and possibly also warding off malevolent people.

It’s wild to think about how this tradition has survived for over a thousand years — but the trees are so striking that I shouldn’t be surprised.

HAUNTED BY MY PAST

When I want to keep myself up at night, I think about how I’ve done so many awkward things, and how I’ve said too many silly things. I’m haunted by my ineptitude.

I still remember the time in my high school art class that I called another girl country. I think what I said was, “Gee, I don’t know how to do it because I didn’t grow up out in the country.”

… which is not true. If you are from the far reaches of western Kentucky, then you are from the country, even if you didn’t grow up on a farm. For most of us who didn’t grow up on a farm, our parents or our grandparents did.

My great-grandmother was a sharecropper, for goodness’s sake, so I really needed to rein it in. 

We are a rural people, as a collective. We’re so country that these are some of the names of our local communities: Fancy Farm. Farmington. Westplains. Wheel — which I assume was named after the humble wagon wheel. Mama, rock me!

Possum Trot is just up the road, to the northeast. And if you’re heading in the other direction, Blandville is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. So is Yellow Dog Road — a community, not a road. And YDR isn’t in Mayfield, but Mayfield Creek runs through there, as it is winds its way over to the Mississippi River.

Anyway — we’re from the sticks.

Let’s get back to my original story. My classmate had objected to my choice of words, and she didn’t try to hide it. 

“I am not from the country,” she said.

She was miffed. She took it as an insult. Was it an insult? I don’t really think so, but … I suppose I let my frustration become cattiness.

My frustration is usually the thing that gets the better of me. I don’t get mean, but I get somber or sarcastic. I remember the time I told a girl I’d hate to trouble you! and I think she thought I was being sarcastic – but I was just talking like a worn-out, grouchy Papaw. 

In that moment, I had a feeling my tone sounded too stiff and weird, but I couldn’t stop myself from being a grouch, because I’d just been out in a rainstorm. I know I looked and sounded bedraggled. 

In the past, whenever I felt moody, I’d turn to my journal. My very public journal — my Twitter account. When I was in college, I treated Twitter like a confession booth, like a wind phone. I didn’t even care who was on the other side, listening in. I just wanted to get things off my chest.

I still remember posting something catty on Twitter, back in my undergrad years. I was sitting in one particular class, feeling like everyone was judging me (wild, I know), and I tweeted something like, “I just wish I’d gone to a different college. I don’t like anybody here. There’s no one I like here, because there’s no one likable here.”

(I’m paraphrasing, but this was the gist of it. Yiiiikes.)

I think I tweeted this because I thought a girl and her boyfriend were staring at me, and I wanted to disabuse her of the notion that I wanted her man. (More on that in a bit — because this wasn’t the first or last time something like this has happened to me, back when I was an insecure young woman!)

Realistically, you should know that your boyfriend or girlfriend doesn’t want me. If you’re reading this, you understand that I’m not a hot commodity — I’m more of a flop or an oddity. I’m actually like the clown in Edward Hopper’s painting: I just need my huge decanter of Hpnotiq, a cigarette, and some clown makeup, and that’s me!

I’m still ashamed of myself, though, for writing that tweet. I felt shame when I realized that several of my high school and college classmates followed me. Would they take it as a personal attack, this silly thing that I only tweeted out of frustration?

They’ve probably forgotten all about it. My elephantine memory has struggled with letting go of all these tiny, terrible things.

I guess the funniest bad-subtweet-moment happened back in 2017. I was waiting in line at Kirchoff’s, which is a great place to buy cookies or bread. Or brownies. Or a po-boy.

This was right around the time I was finishing up grad school, when my grandmother was in the nursing home. I often found myself over in Paducah, visiting her. I would occasionally stop at Kirchoff’s for a cookie, just to grab a little treat.

While I was in line to buy my treat(s), a young man kept turning around to stare at me. He looked vaguely familiar – but the person who I thought he was isn’t from Paducah. (Evil twin, maybe?)

I did recognize the young lady he was with – not from school or work, but because she’d once measured me at Victoria’s Secret. She seemed nice, but her boyfriend wouldn’t quit rubbernecking, and I felt flustered and exasperated.

I opened Twitter. “If you have a boyfriend or a husband who can’t keep his eyes to himself,” I twote. “Tell him to quit staring at other women.”

Two hours later, I met some of my cousins’ friends for the first time. They were a lovely, kind, friendly married couple.

I opened Twitter and deleted my tweet, while I was still sitting across from them on the couch in my cousin’s living room. I realized that subtweets wouldn’t help me make a good impression. There’s just too much that’s open to misinterpretation.

Around the same time, I also found myself subscribing to the Say It With Your Chest! school of thought. Now, if I hate something, I have no qualms with making my beef public. No more subtweeting for me.

PAYBACK — RESTITUTION, NOT RETRIBUTION 

While I’m confessing to some of my most innocuous keep-me-up-at-night moments, I sometimes remember that I owe one of my high school friends money from when he bought me a meal back in 2012, when I was short on cash. (We were college students, so I’m sure we were both short on cash.)

I often wonder whether I should just mail him the money, and if I should bother writing a note about what it’s for. I wonder if I’ll ever have an opportunity to make it up in some other way — and then I chide myself for waiting for opportunities. 

I need to be more proactive, and less reactive — in just about every facet of my life.

SAYING THE RIGHT THING

I spend a lot of time thinking about my voice. A few years ago, I thought about my voice obsessively. I don’t worry about it as often as I used to, but I sometimes wonder about my tone.

I think that if I sound too sunny, my words come across as fake and forced. I’m also afraid that if I sound overly chill, it’ll come across as trying to sound sultry. (I’m about as seductive as a dust bunny, so no danger there! I just don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be something that I’m not.)

I suppose I just don’t want to be perceived as a threat. I’m already an oddball, but I want to be known as a harmless eccentric. I’m just a whimsigoth weirdo.

MISSING YOU

There are so many people who I miss — people I haven’t seen in twenty years, people I may never see again.

I miss the girls in my dance class — the one taught in the building behind the pawn shop — even though I only know their first names. 

Now that we’re all older, everyone’s last name has changed. I will always be a Barrett — I love the name too much to ever let go of it! So I guess I’m counting on people to remember my name, because it will never change.

The girls who I especially miss — they came up to our dance class from Fulton, and I was always delighted to see them, because they were so kind to me.

It’s been 25 years, and I still have happy memories of being a dumpy little girl in a tutu. I couldn’t do pointe, but I could tap — which possibly explains why I devoured Zadie Smith’s Swing Time.

TES-BLAH

I hate whenever we take my dad’s Ford Lightning out on long trips, because he often stops at Tesla charging stations. The only time I felt “safe” to be at one was when a kind couple in a Mach-E Mustang were also charging there. When the only people there are Tesla drivers, I feel like they’re possibly fans of Apartheid Clyde, or like they’re going to spit on me for being of a lesser class.

I try not to make eye contact with the people sitting in their Teslas, because I really don’t want to be approached by the sort of fella who thinks a Cybertruck is a good investment.

I feel like I don’t need to be closed-minded, because not everyone realizes that what they’re driving or wearing is taken as a political statement. (Let’s be real, though. Everything is political.)

Put another way, not everyone has qualms about buying certain products, or they simply can’t afford to boycott certain products.

I canceled my Amazon Prime subscription, and I don’t buy anything but groceries or hygiene essentials if I’m buying from Amazon or Walmart. But other people rely on Amazon and Walmart, and so they can’t boycott these retailers.

I try not to make snap judgments — and yet I can’t help but feel uneasy about using a Tesla charger. I don’t even use Twitter, and that is (was?) free. 

I don’t want to give a single cent to that po-faced huckster.

While I’m at it, I want to mention something tangentially related. Something about seeing your wallet as a political tool.

Lately, I’ve been sending money to a local warming center. I say this not to brag about benevolence — but because I want to help other people to think about what they could be doing, and who they could be supporting. 

Last week, I saw a great post on Bluesky. It was about how so many people think “Ah, now I need to go back to law school!” or “Now I need to start a non-profit!” — and while those are admirable things, you need to think about what you could already be doing to help your community, with whatever tools you already have.

You may have a dollar, a small shovel, or a little bit of common sense — but all of those things can be used to contribute here and there. Those small moments of action are some of the most meaningful, if they’re happening within your community.

I’m never trying to show anyone up when I make a quick post to say that I’ve donated funds — small amounts — to UNRWA and Food Not Bombs, to reproductive health justice groups in Kentucky, and to other mutual aid efforts.

I’m not trying to show people up when I tell people — in real life, on Instagram, wherever — that I once spent a lunch break filing a Hatch Act complaint in support of CDC employees, or when I once spent my morning break sending a complaint to another government agency. 

I’m just trying to tell my friends that you can always do something, even if you’re sitting on your couch in your pajamas. You have to relax, and you need to have fun, but you can do your part to share a dollar (or a link, or a form letter to your representatives) here and there.

At the same time, I don’t think it’s sensible to broadcast everything you’re doing. Especially if it’s something particularly radical. But if you have the means to do something helpful, then do it — and let other people know that they can do it, too!

KIND OF A FUNNY STORY — BUT I‘LL SAVE IT FOR THE FUTURE

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past, and about some of the weird things that have happened to me.

I’ve told the story about the time I had to flee a local Chinese restaurant because one of the cooks grabbed a knife and chased another cook around the buffet. 

This was, in retrospect, terrifying. It wasn’t a knife; it was a huge meat cleaver. But I loved that restaurant — and I kept eating there, until they shuttered it sometime around 2020.

The only “weird” stories I think I haven’t shared elsewhere are (1) the story about the Chick-Fil-A employee who showed up at my workplace and repeatedly invited himself to stand at my desk until I got back from lunch, even though I’d never invited him to visit me, even though we never knew each others’ names, and (2) the story about my cousin shooting a rabbit off of the steps of a Baptist church during a midnight revival.

Story 2: This is the same cousin who got kicked out of a bar for rearing back and putting his dirty cowboy boots up on the bar, and the same cousin who sideswiped a Kentucky State Police cruiser while driving down a winding country road.

Story 1: This is one of many reasons why I don’t eat at Chick-Fil-A, by the way. My not-so-secret admirer(?) and the Cathy family. 😬

A STORY FOR THE PRESENT

My dad and I once cut a tree at night. We used one of those string rope saws, and we pulled back and forth for what felt like a couple of hours, topping the tree, and making sure it landed just so in the yard, crashing down right between us.

I was still in my work clothes. I didn’t even have time to change. I just came in from the library and got straight to work on topping the tree — and even though I was exhausted, I took down a giant. It was amazing — to tackle something so much bigger than me.

CROSSING PATHS

I recently crossed paths with a couple on a sidewalk. I know one of the people in the pairing, but I don’t really know the other that well. I smiled, said “Hi!”, and I kept it moving. I felt like I’d be interrupting, otherwise.

But my polite-but-awkward sensibilities got the better of me. About a minute after I walked away, I started beating myself up. I wish I’d said, “How are y’all? It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” I wasn’t thinking quickly enough, and I’d only smiled and nodded and looked down the walk.

But I was kicking myself. Usually, you know, you can think of something to say: “Have a good lunch!” “Enjoy this weather!”

Of course, you can’t use those lines when someone’s coming back from lunch. You can’t exactly sound cheerful about saying “Well, back to the grind for you!” – so I ended up drawing a blank. My face had to do all of the talking, because my mouth couldn’t.

I was too busy thinking about what I couldn’t say that I couldn’t think of what I ought to say. I let my mind wander down the most useless path – the one that’s covered in kudzu and has a Dead End sign.

Someday, I’ll try to trim the kudzu away, and see if I have any original thoughts hidden under there.

CONGO CORNER

I’ve only barely been keeping up with the news out of the eastern DRC. 

I have to admit that I hadn’t been paying attention to the situation in Goma, because when I talk about “Congolese news,” I’m guilty of paying more attention to the western side of the Congo Basin. I pay attention to the capital cities, to the land nearer to Angola. 

So I had no idea that the situation in the eastern part of the county was so dire. More than 700 people were killed in a single week. And I had no idea, until I checked the BBC’s website.

I’ve been reading up on the M23, and Rwandan groups, and mineral looting, and I still feel ignorant. I’m struck by how much I read, and how much I still miss.

I need to read more international news, and I need to read more broadly. Canceling my New York Times subscription was one of the best things I ever did — but I need to find more substantive substitutes.

THINGS I JUST FOUND OUT ABOUT IN FEBRUARY

I don’t like Cristobal Colon. His legacy is bad enough, but the fact that he also possibly did stuff with manatees is wildly inappropriate, too.

Not a big fan of Columbus, y’all. Because of Columbusing, I often try to avoid saying that I discovered something. Instead, I think of it as learning something that’s new to me.

I’m not being too pedantic — I’m accounting for the fact that everyone else probably knew all of these things. I’m late to the game, as per usual.

Here are some of the things I only learned about this month:

Feb. 1: I watched the original video where Tyrese says, “Oh, my Shayla!” 

“Is that Tyrese?” I said. “The Tyrese?”

Yes. Yes, it is. That’s Tyrese, and that’s his Shayla.

Feb. 3: I saw an updated cover for Heather Has Two Mommies. One of the mommies looks like me, although I haven’t joined the mommies’ polycule.

Feb. 13: I came across a great photoshoot featuring Kang Ha-Neul, the actor. (I would place a link here, but I found it on TikTok, and I’ll have to scroll around to find the right video.) He’s actually a little too conventionally attractive for my taste — I like ‘em weirder looking than him! — but I love that set of photos. 

I know my grandmother would take one look at that man’s smile and say, “Oh! He’s a doll! You need to find a man who looks like that.”

It occurred to me that I haven’t had a celebrity crush in … five years? Ten years? It’s been a long time. What happened to all of the “90s Fine” celebrities, y’all?

I did a quick analysis — a very scientific analysis! — of athletes, because I couldn’t think of a single “90s Fine” actor or musician. Here are the initial results:

There are hotties aplenty. It just requires some digging.

Middle of February: The press secretary at the White House is married to an ancient man. Yikes!

Ever since I’ve turned 30, I have been a bit put off by age gap relationships. I’m fairly open-minded, but I don’t want to be in a relationship where either of us is being taken advantage of. I hate to see people creeping on kids — say, Drake! — but I also hate to see people taking advantage of someone who might be older and more vulnerable.

Middle of February, again: While scrolling Wikipedia, I found out that the Percival Everett is married to the Danzy Senna.

Why didn’t I know this until now? I’m usually nosy enough to notice when two (really good) writers are married.

Feb. 20: I suddenly remembered that SATC’s Charlotte also wanted to name her baby Shayla. Her Shayla!

GOOD EATS

I’d like to say something about a different Chinese restaurant. My great-grandmother’s cousin’s — stay with me, y’all! — stepson’s wife opened a Chinese restaurant in my hometown, right around the turn of the millennium. She was Vietnamese. Her name was Mai, and I believe the restaurant was called Mai’s.

We went one night, right around closing time. Mai let us take anything on the buffet that we wanted — and I’m sure I begged for some chicken, so they let me have some.

I was six, which explains why I was so shameless. I know I’ll still be a little shameless when I’m 36, but … go easy on the kid!

I’ve seen restaurants come and go, but her restaurant was special. I’m biased, but it was great. Great food, great people.

HORSE NAMES

I was never really a horse girl. I loved reading those Saddle Club books when I was in elementary school, but I never really wanted a pony of my own.

Being from Kentucky, I’ve seen horses, and I’ve ridden horses, but I tend to admire them from afar. I’m sure I will never own a horse.

But I love naming things. While going through the notes on my phone, I found this short list of horse names:

I love Vinegar Tom. I can see him now. He’d be a beautiful bay, and they’d always put him in the 13th post position.

A FREE JOKE, FOR SOMEONE WHO LIKES TO MAKE GRADUATION CARDS (ON CANVA, FOR ETSY, ETC.)

Girl, you’ve got the kind of brain you could bounce quarters off of.

It’s so brilliant. And toned. Congrats, friend!

A NOT-FREE JOKE, WHICH I’D DELIVER IF I WERE DOING BAD STANDUP

The Run for the Roses? I don’t know a thing about that. I’m from the other side of Kentucky. The only run for the roses I know is when you see a bunch of people at the gas station hunting for those glass pipes with the roses in ‘em.

Yeah. Now that I think about it, that was the original rose toy.

Thank you, thank you! I’d never be brave enough to tell this joke IRL, because I’d get nervous and butcher it!

END-OF-THE-MONTH THOUGHTS

I’m so glad we’re just weeks away from spring. I’m ready for something sunnier.

When the days get longer, I’ll probably be able to focus on outdoor activities.

This 4,000-word newsletter will probably be trimmed down — maybe 2,000 words will be sufficient. Maybe 1,000 words. Maybe 800.

I’m sure both the readers and the writer will appreciate this.

Thanks, as always, for putting up with … all of this!