Author: goodnightmere

DiverCITY

This piece first appeared on lululemon’s “Stories from our Store.” “The Queens have arrived!” my manager announced. But there was no need for an introduction – these Queens know how to make an entrance, even when it’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday. The early call time may have slowed down their arrival – it was more of a stroll than a strut down the empty road – nevertheless, they still looked fierce and once the caffeine hit their veins and the runners hit the pavement, it was show time. The audience? 10,000 people. The distance? 10 K. The goal? Don’t. stop. cheering. It’s easy to cheer for the first ones – the ones with the quick legs and the fast times. The ones who sprint through an entire city in the time it takes me to remember my computer password. The energy and the novelty doesn’t wear off for them. But what about the ones with the personal bests that aren’t measured in seconds but steps forward? They count and they deserve to be recognized. It’s …

Copinghagen

First, I suggest reading this: https://goodnightmere.com/2018/11/08/dan-ish/ And then this: https://goodnightmere.com/2018/11/09/stn-cph/ Or just this… “Maryyyy, wakey, wakeyyy!” I hear someone call from the other side of my bunk’s curtain. “Maryyyyy, wake up!” I open one eye and squint at my phone. 10:00 a.m. The last time I looked at the screen it said 6 a.m. and I was just going to bed. “Marrrry?” I squish the lumpy pillow over my head. It’s too early for sound. “Mary, are you alive?” And if this Mary girl doesn’t answer soon, I’m gunna kill her. “Mary, I got you breakfast.” There is a Frenchman in my bunk holding a bowl of cereal. Wait…I’m Mary? “I can’t eat dairy,” I mumble, rolling over. He looks down at the bowl, defeated, then puts a hand on my exposed, bare hamstring. “It’s nice today, you should go outside,” he says. I’m going to kill him. I don’t want to go outside, I don’t want to leave this nook, and I certainly don’t want his hand on my leg. His hands were on me …

STN > CPH

My flight to Copenhagen is boarding in twenty minutes and I still have to change terminals, legally enter the U.K., clear customs, pass security, and find the gate. How do you say “I’m fucked” in Danish?

Dan-ish

I saw it in a second-hand book shop one summer. Its pretty cover caught my eye and I know what they say about books and covers, but this felt right. I paid twelve dollars and slipped my new hardcover into my yellow-shoulder bag. “Look what I just bought!” I squealed to my best friend, Natalie, when I met her for lunch. “The little book of Hig-ee, the Danish way to live well,” I recited the title, convinced I had the right pronunciation. “Hi-guh.” She corrected me. And so began our obsession with a word neither of us knew how to pronounce. A Danish word that is as strange as it is familiar – a feeling, rather, one that makes you feel safe and warm and cozy, like a blanket next to a fireplace or Jamie’s biceps on Outlander. Nat and I would tag each other in various Jamie and twinkley-light-Hygge-decor posts on Instagram, dream of travelling through Denmark together, and when my roommate, Sarah, and I hosted a Hygge-themed Christmas party, it was Natalie who …

Episode 3: Slanted

What followed was a series of aggressive emails, threats to be sued for “damages,” lies about a sick sister from Italy, and less than 60 days to move out and find a new place in a city with a 1 % vacancy rate where I have a better chance of finding Tupac Shakur than an affordable home.

What Happens in Vegas…goes on the internet

“Ladies and gentlemen, there is no more alcohol,” the flight attendant announced. We were only half way to Sin City, but full of booze and tiny pretzels. It had been a long, cold winter-spring-winter, and as the plane touched down I could literally hear a teary eyed Kelly Clarkson sing, “some people wait a lifetime for a moment like thissss.” When my best friend suggested Vegas for her bachelorette, there were no questions – other than, “how can I afford this?” – and I promptly emailed my credit card and passport number to a lady from Flight Centre Bowmanville. The bride-to-be did all the planning, I just sat there refreshing my credit card statement, justifying every expense leading up to the trip with a healthy I-worked-two-Saturdays-in-a-row-therefore-I-deserve-this mentality. I don’t deserve anything. What I needed was a break and two miniature bottles of prosecco, thank you. By the time we checked into our hotel, I was both drunk and hungover from the sheer enormity that is the Las Vegas strip. Everything in Vegas is big. The casinos, …