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A day late, and many dollars short after Black Friday shopping AM I RIGHT!?!?!?

Yesterday was Meera’s birthday, and I was too distracted to write. I’ve been unmotivated to write, but right now that I’m typing to you I feel excited to chat. I got back from Pittsburgh Sunday evening after spending the week there for Thanksgiving. I’m proud to say that I did not have any adolescent angst! I think it’s because of writing my morning pages (something I’ve been slacking on, including today).

In the moments I’ve been excited to go home for Thanksgiving, of course I think of my family…but I’ve really been thinking about returning to my hometown Planet Fitness. I always see a few people I know that I can text Ryan This person is here rn and always feel confident in getting a good workout. Since my last trip home, they’ve redone the gym in very positive ways.

For those uninitiated, PF has a section of the gym for 30-minute workouts, a circuit training area with machines and step platforms designed for someone needing to get in and go. This section takes up prime real estate and is infrequently used, so I was so excited to see it gone! They replaced it with ab machines I’ve never seen at PF as well as benches, big weightlifting equipment, and mirrors. All gymgoers know how crowded and somewhat intimidating this section can be, so adding another one lessens all loads aside from whatever weight you’re lifting.

They also replaced existing machines with newer models with ample space to put your stuff on, and some of them even had water bottle holders. This small change makes lugging my things around much easier.

I’m happy that my new favorite PF is the one I get to go on when I was home. I felt so confident walking around and was getting a ton of stares, which made me think Wow, I’m so sexy and strong. I then went to the bathroom mirror to see that the padding of one half of my sports bra was screwed, so one half was normal and the other had my nipple protruding under the bra in such a threatening manner. One nipple to rule them all.

I like that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving has been dubbed Blackout Wednesday. I always go to the one gay bar I’ve been to in Pittsburgh that I can dance at with Gabby, her sisters, and their compatriots. This year was such a nice melding of my suburb life, including the aforementioned girls, Georgina and her compatriots, Ryan, and my brother. Gabby, Georgina, and Ryan are the three people from high school I still talk to frequently partly because they all live in New York. It was nice to all be out together and fun for me that Ben joined us.

Unfortunately, this was the bar’s worst showing. The majority of the clientele was white gay guys in their 30s, and the dance floor was not as popping as it was in Blackout Wednesdays past. I was shocked at the sheer amount of side parts with a little quaff in the front. My friend and Pittsburgh-dweller Alaina said I don’t know if they all have a group chat or some thing, but some days they’re just all here.

All of us who have fled the nest go into every hometown bar thinking we’re the hottest commodities, and I thought I had a leg up because of the lack of women. But 22-year-olds Alaina and Kelsey were the ones that got free drinks from the bartender. Gabby and I lamented upon learning this information and knowing that we were not given preferential treatment, whining for multiple minutes about how we must be chopped and unc now. I never like say or pretend that I’m old, but this was harrowing. We might as well have the rest of the 30-some gay male communications specialists at UPMC named Matt at the bar.

I’ve never considered getting a facial before. I don’t have any reasoning for it; it’s just not something that crossed my mind. My mom’s dermatologist recommended facials to get rid of milia, and she is now evangelizing them, scheduling appointments for the whole family. Now she, Ben, and my Nonna all were on the train.

There is a very small group of people that have interacted with all four of us, and they are an elite and strange group. Now, Arlie and Diana of Arlie Aesthetics on Donati Road (impossible for me to say that street name without a Pittsburgh accent) have joined this circle. Arlie is in her 40s but doesn’t look it, which is, in itself, a good enough advertisement for her facial and botox services. The waiting room in her…office? Studio? Lair?…is exactly what I want from a girlboss small business owner in suburban Pittsburgh: Christmas decorations, fake candles, and framed posters that look like newspapers with headlines like RESEARCH SUGGESTS: Beautiful women only need money and pasta.

My facialist Diana looked to be about Ben’s age (but as an esthetician, maybe she’s hundreds of years old and just takes great care of her skin), and she is why I called this section “The art of the facial.” I love seeing people completely engrossed in their passions, and you can tell within minutes of talking to her how passionate she is about skin. She’s knowledgeable, thorough, and — most of all — excited about her work. She talked me through the treatment as I got under a blanket on a curved bed before getting my face all steamy. We talked as much as one can while getting their face scraped up, mostly because of the music she was playing. She did not strike me as a Cleo Sol fan.

Ben had a painful facial because he’s had some blackheads on his face for nearly a decade (One of the best facials of my career — Diana), but mine was mostly relaxing and painless. The only parts that hurt were the extraction of certain blackheads and a light burning sensation from whatever serums and creams she put on my face after.

I walked out feeling like my albedo was at the level of freshly fallen snow. I was shinier than the sun, more reflective than a mirror. My skin has been super dry since, and I’ve been moisturizing like crazy, which is finally paying off. I sometimes feel like less of a woman because of how non-instinctive beauty procedures and routines feel, but I recommend. I’ll see her after Christmas.

I learned that at some point while I was home, I would be painting a bird. I guess this is a thing my mom and Ben do sometimes. My mom had little canvases for us, a book of bird pictures, and scissors to cut them out. Okay then!

I have always been weird about visual art, especially when I’m with my mom. This is fully self-inflicted. My mom has an art degree and taught art to college students until baby me was too annoying. She has always exposed me to so much art and encouraged me to create my own, never putting pressure or criticizing my work. Despite these prime conditions, my poor fine motor skills, desire to excel, and crave for approval turn me into an insecure, frustrated mess when making art around her. I was less like this in a classroom setting, even choosing an advanced art class elective in 8th grade much to the chagrin of my orchestra teacher. I can make art that I am proud of and can look good, but I feel most confident with typography, doodling, or drawing without the burden of coloring anything in.

Painting can feel daunting. Mixing the right colors together? Putting the right amount on the brush? Dealing with the lack of an eraser? I haven’t painted anything in years. Not even the low-stakes environment of my mom’s dining room with oldies playing in the background could stove off my intensity. I’m going to ruin another tender family moment.

Time to choose my bird. I went with the Common Grackle. Despite its name, I found its subtle blend of colors special. Plus, its eyes looked just like the crow-like birds I saw all the time in Austin (which I learned just now is the Great-Tailed Grackle!). I set to drawing him out. Ugh, I wish I made a grid or something. My proportions are all off. Why is his back so fat? Why are the erasers in my vicinity so bad?

Whatever. I know how I get. I need to just move past it. I think I waited 15 minutes before saying I’m gonna kill myself, which was much later than when I first had the urge to say it. Just move through. The Artist’s Way is teaching me to just create, that just making something is a success. It doesn’t even have to be good. It can be especially good because it’s bad! Unfortunately, Julia Cameron’s pretentious tone could not penetrate my negative self-talk.

Ben and mom’s birds were already looking so good. I cannot help but compare to my genetic counterparts. My mom obviously was supportive of me and talked about how even she was nervous because of the unconventional blotting method she used to show her bird’s chest plumage (spoiler alert: it paid off).

I pushed through and painted the grackle. Finally. But then…the background. I wanted to jump off a bridge. The picture I chose had a complicated foreground of spiky vegetation as well as a background of sky and trees. How could I be capable of making sure the sky paint doesn’t bleed into the actual grackle? The vegetation even covers the grackle’s feet.

Instead of letting the self-imposed pressure crumble me, I said Screw it — let’s just laugh. I painted two cartoonish, simple legs that turned into Louboutins. Perfect.

Now what to do about this background? As I pondered, my mom was chatting about this very newsletter and was talking about the first thing she does every time she reads it: I scroll down to your picture. The cheery way she said it made me laugh, and I decided I wanted to write it above the Grackle in a purple color that I liked.

Then, I started filling the background with more quotes from things the three of us said while we were painting. Ben and I earlier broke out in singing “Misty,” which is one of the most beautiful songs maybe ever, something both of us (different types of) music snobs can agree upon. I ended up writing My hat from my glove, which is one of the lyrics in case you aren’t as tapped into jazz standards. Lesley Gore’s “It’s My Party” came on soon after, and the three of us laughed about how she says Oh what a birthday surprise! Julie’s wearing his ring, so I added that first line onto the bottom. We were talking about Hamilton, and I couldn’t stop belting I AM THE ONE THING IN LIFE I CAN CONTROOOOL from “Wait For It,” so I added that in, with goldish brownish text stretching over the bottom of the grackle’s body.

I was satisfied. I wrote GRACKLE in blue at the top in front of my first quote and added my initials at the bottom. The whole thing looked serial killer-ish. My handwriting, especially with the paintbrush as my pen, looks scary. The grackle himself doesn’t know what’s going on. Ben and mom’s pieces actually looked beautiful, but mine was beautiful, too, because it was mine. I had so much fun by the end breaking the rules and doing what came naturally to me (serial killer writing?) that I was okay with my final product. It also made me laugh. I’m just happy I finished it instead of punting like I would as a kid. Maybe next time I’ll be better.

One of the stores I’ve hoped would open in Pittsburgh is Aritzia. Pittsburghers would love the vibe this stressful place attempts to curate. Finally, it’s made it to my favorite Pittsburgh mall (Ross Park Mall, obviously). I was intrigued to see how the overwhelming shopping experience would mix with the sheer power of my mom and I on a shopping trip.

Unfortunately, duds. Everything fit weird. Plus, I can say that 5 different sales associates came up to ask if I needed anything. I tried on 10 garments, all of which either looked cheap or wrong. What an upset.

The shopping trip was not a loss, though, because we went to Lululemon right after. I don’t care how 2015-y it is: this place rocks. Their stuff is so nice. No other sweatpants or leggings compare. Alo is a scam. This is the place to go, and is also an especially good spot for the men in your life. It’s like they’ve invented pants. I still wear my leggings I got freshman year of college. They are pricey but worth it because they last so long and stay cozy the whole time.

I recommend saying them aloud or just feeling the weight that these are real places that some people apparently live in. All are PA unless specified otherwise.

And the best one of all (and we stopped for Dunks here, so I can finally say I’ve been!):

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