Photo: Justified Sinner
I think that I can write this without violating the sanctity of girl secrecy.
A couple of weeks ago, on a Friday night, my friend Amy and I sat in the gold dining room with my laptop, volume on high. We went through my Spotify playlists and dissected many a song, from Ludacris to Christopher Cross. We danced in our chairs. We got a little teary to some Bon Jovi. We acted like white girls with a bottle of sweet tea vodka on a Friday night, meaning, there were some really bad moves done while gathered around a Mac laptop.
I squeezed my hands the way I do when I get excited.
It had been an exceptionally long week, and there was Amy, there to listen and to listen to my really bad version of the 2011 mix tape: the Spotify playlist. The same stupid songs I've listened to at 15, and 25, and 35, with some new ones thrown in the mix. She gets that. She gets that when I play The Cure I'm 16 again, quite angst ridden and suburbanly-goth.
When I first met Amy, I was a few weeks into my job at the magazine and someone said I would like her. I was a little nervous to approach her because she seemed really intense. One day I stopped by her desk with that time-tested white girl icebreaker: "Hey, I hear you practice yoga. What kind?" She then proceeded to tell me about a DVD that involved a man in jorts, and that it was good if you could stomach the jorts. I loved her immediately.
Half a year later, Amy and I were in New Orleans for JazzFest -- story research. A Louisiana native, she walked me through the streets she loved. And I cheered her on as she ate her first raw oysters at ACME Oyster house. In Lafayette Square, we had our palms read. The palm reader said, "you are writers." How did she know? It's not like we were carrying around notepads. Evidence of carpal tunnel?
What did she say about the lines etched in our skin? We talk about it around the dining room table now. We wonder what she really could see, and if she held anything back. We'd like to go back together, after these tumultuous years, and ask her to look again. What would she see on our palms now?
Here is, what they say in our business, the buried lede:
Amy, whose guest post here ("For Charles") was amazing, has a new blog. Vodka Cranberry Clooney, where she shares her funny, smart, at times heartbreaking writing. Reading it is like being with Amy at the dining room table.
Bookmark it, read it, and spread the word. If her writing touches you like it's touched me, support it. Pass it along. She's looking for a publisher, and deserves one. It doesn't take a palm reader to get that one.
Oh, and if you help find one, I'll invite you over to the gold dining room for a dance party with the two of us. We'll even share our playlists.