Tag: Psychology

Another Day, Another Deep Dive! (Feb 19 2026)

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In which Our Hero works hard (or hardly works?!) 

Remodeling an apartment is hard work. 

Between 10:05am and 6:30pm, non-stop (with breaks only for bathroom; no food), I… 

  1. Rejiggered my apartment floorplan, composing a total of 32 different line-item changes, including
    1. Selecting an oven.
      1. This was easy because 1) we want it mounted below the cooktop, and 2) our cooktop has a list of 20 different models that could safely be mounted below the cooktop. 
      2. This was difficult because our cooktop has a list of 20 different models that could be mounted below the cooktop. 
      3. All-in-all, a combing and comparing game. 
    2. Selected two dishwashers (my apartment will have two! :D)
      1. Did you know you’re supposed to clean your dishwasher filter regularly? Did you even know your dishwasher had a filter? Did you know they now make dishwashers that have basically garbage disposals in them so you never ever have to clean the filter again???
    3. Removing one refrigerator, but leaving its dedicated power supply and also placing another dedicated fridge power supply elsewhere. (I suspect I will eventually want to have two fridges, maybe two fridges and a chest freezer, maybe two fridges and a chest freezer and half a cow. That is a later problem.) 
  2. Crunched through 8 different general contractor proposals with the help of Claude and ChatGPT, resulting in
    1. Almost definitely selecting my contractor to hire. 
    2. A list of 44 open questions and contract terms to adjust with him. 

After that work sprint, I… 

  1. Completed a 20min Peloton Max ride and a 5min Peloton core workout. 
  2. Played penny poker for 2.5hrs. Lost $71. Played very well, except for one call. That call cost me $45. 
  3. Played dollar poker for… I’m still playing while I write this. Lol. Currently down $37. 

My Partner has a rule: She goes to Central Park every day. It’s less than a block away. I support this rule. 

I do not have that rule. 

Today, the farthest outside that I went was to drop trash off in our building’s bins. 

I have a rule: Live a good life. 

Today I did. 

Step-by-Step Instructions (Feb 15 2026) 

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In which Our Hero reflects on unusual timelines. 

People often ask me how I formed such an excellent relationship. (No one has asked me. But let’s assume.) 

Here’s my process, in case it helps: 

  1. Date her friend 
  2. Have a threesome with her and another one of her friends (not the one you were dating) 
  3. Let 10+ years pass 
  4. An AI matchmaker pairs you
  5. Schedule a 3-day-long camping trip as your first date 
  6. Extend date to 10 days long, ending only when one of you comes down with Covid 
  7. Wait 2 weeks <cough, cough> 
  8. As a second date, she moves into your van, and the two of you drive across the country together
  9. Attempt to purchase a house together in Puerto Rico within the first 6 months
  10. Backpack though Europe together
  11. Break up 
  12. Attend clown school together in France
  13. Get back together 
  14. Put down a deposit to buy an apartment 
  15. Buy life insurance on each other 
  16. Within one month:
    • Make embryos
    • Get engaged 
    • Buy apartment 

We’ve got all the right steps, just not in the normal timeline. Maybe next we have kids before getting pregnant. 

Free fridge: frustration not included. (Feb 13 2026)

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In which Our Hero <grumblegrumblegrumble> 

Two days ago I acquired a free fridge. My partner and I wheeled it home: 6 short blocks and 1 long block. Arriving home, we spent 1.5 hours removing fridge doors and apartment doors just to learn it’s slightly too large. 

No bother: another person in the Facebook free group can take it. We text yesterday and she offers to pick it up today between 2 and 3pm. I confirm. 

Today I tell her 2:45pm is ideal. 

She says fine. 

At 2:30pm, I say I’m around and ready. She says she’s delayed: would 3pm work? 

I say that timing is worse for me, but we could do it if it’s exactly that time. 

At 3, she tells me 3:30. She gives me the phone number of “her uncle”, who is coming to pick it up. I call. He says he’s 15 minutes away. 

They finally arrive at 4:15. It’s not her uncle: it’s a moving company that she paid $350 to move the fridge for her. 

This entire time I’m pissed. Sure, I’m doing work from home that I would just be doing across town with my partner. It’s not the impact on my productivity: it’s the disrespect. I’m giving you a free fridge. 

I glance at her Facebook page. She is a single mother of two. 

It’s a hard spot: on the one hand, I’d like to help someone in need. On the other, she made my day worse. 

And, like, never even said thank you. 

What did I learn? 

  1. Especially when being kind/helpful/generous, establish what I can do and when. Let others fit it. 
  2. Use the time better. The angry/annoyed time could have been better spent. 

I’m considering messaging her to say “Hey, just an FYI: your misestimating of timing by 1.5hrs made my day much worse. If you had given a more accurate window, or even told me it was a wide window, I would have been able to plan better.” 

Would I feel better? Yeah. Would she do better? Unlikely to do worse! 

There is probably no justice to be had here. We’re talking about a free fridge handoff, after all. 

But even without justice, perhaps we can inject some humanity. 

Stuck in the Mud (Feb 12 2026)

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In which Our Hero <schlorp schlorp schlorp>.

On our long third date, my partner and I got stuck in the mud. 

We were rock hounding after snowmelt, down a dirt road off another dirt road in the middle of nowhere without cell service, and my two-wheel-drive van got stuck. 

I was driving; clearly my fault. 

We discussed our options: 1) get unstuck; 2) sleep here and walk the 5-7 miles to town in the morning to get cell service to call for a tow. 

2 hours later, after around 10 overly optimistic “that’s it! We’ve got it!”s, both the van and I were covered with mud, and our gentle rocking (putting some rocks just behind the wheels and move back; putting rocks in front of the front wheels and move forward; repeat without rinsing) had us back on solid ground. 

—

Yesterday, I made a mistake. 

A reasonable mistake. 

A mistake that… 

Because, like, how can a refrigerator exist that doesn’t fit through a normal width doorway? 

A fair question. 

But it turns out my doorway is 1.5” short of normal width. 

Oof. 

—

At 9am someone posted “free fridge!” In the neighborhood free group. 

Within 40min, I had dibs. 

At 11am, my super lent me his hand cart. 

At 5:45pm, my partner and I walked the 5 short blocks and one long block to pick it up. This walk took 20 minutes, 5 of which was spent buying a ratchet strap for a 15% discount because it lacked a component that wouldn’t affect our use. 

At 7pm, we reached home with the fridge. 

… and realized it was too wide for the building’s front door. 

So I took the fridge doors off while my partner measured our unit door. 

She reported back, “We’re going to need to take the unit door off too, but it should fit”. 

At 7:45pm, I had the fridge doors off and it at the front door to our unit. 

At 8:15pm, we had the unit door off, despite 3 screws being stripped before we got there, and concluded the fridge bulges slightly in the middle

At 8:40, we had just enough screws back in the unit door to close it (if you physically heave up on the knob to seat it properly in the latch), stowed the fridge in the basement, and went for pizza. 

—

What did I learn? 

  1. Excitement and optimism can distract from considering practicalities. 
  2. Doors may be a standard 30” wide. But some doors are not standard. I imagine the same applies to other common items (eg cars). 
  3. Avoiding the sadness and pain during the installation and re-installation will increase the likelihood this sort of event happens again. 

The whole experience was frustrating and grumble-provoking. 

Many parts of me were generally annoyed at the situation. And therefore annoyed at all its contents (me, my partner, the door). 

It’s interesting, however, that this didn’t cause my partner any emotional harm. (I asked.)

Evidently she also felt frustration and dissatisfaction, but the annoyance I felt at her didn’t come through to her. 

Since getting engaged, this appears to be a change. Maybe the fact of having an increasingly-solid foundation means we’re both less worried about some of the minor pokes and scuffles. 

She knows that it’s us against the problem. And the problem is challenging and frustrating and annoying. So even though I’m partially annoyed at her (because I’m annoyed at everything), it’s chill. 

And that’s nice. 

Because sometimes we get stuck in the mud. 

And when we do. 

90% of the time it’s my fault. 

😂 

Hate Mail (Feb 11 2026)

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In which it’s nice to be seen 🙂 

My first piece of hate mail arrived in the form of a google document from my partner’s former grad school weightlifting friend. It articulated all the terrible traits that he observed during the long weekend we stayed with him. It included such gems as, “There were multiple occurrences of him saying something to the effect of ‘this happened because of some thing you did Nikki’ or ‘whose fault is this?’ And because he was saying it in a silly way it is expected to be a joke.” 

I read this criticism to a clown school friend of mine, who asked, “Oh, so you were doing bits?” 

“Yes,” I replied. “One was blaming Nikki for absolutely absurd things that were clearly not her fault, like the weather.” 

“That’s a pretty good bit.” 

“I agree.” 

—

Then, two months ago, I received a second piece of hate mail. This one came as a series of text messages from a fellow clown student. She derided my blog, my relating to other humans, and my analytic approach. I hadn’t spoken with her in ~a month (I had broken my foot and stepped away from clown school), and before that, I recall only neutral-to-positive experiences. Apropos of nothing, she sent me this diatribe. 

I have since shared that letter with a few friends. To a person, they describe it as “unhinged” (or various synonyms). 

In her hate mail, she made a few good points. My writing was likely alienating to some clown students. Clown school is a beautiful place and a precious gift. 

She also took some shots. Specifically, she said I “wasn’t funny yet” (the newsletter was called “Am I Funny Yet?”) and she described my blog as “very public and mediocre”. 

After I received that letter from her, I of course didn’t reply. I also of course didn’t alter my writing or publishing schedule. The article I published that day prompted a second screed from her the next day. She – in whatever reality she was experiencing – thought my intervening post had been about her (it had not). 

This second screed brought me great joy. 

“Ah,” I thought. “How wonderful it is that she reads my blog every day!” 

—

I like to live my life in public. I adore New York partly for that reason: meeting strangers and living in an environment where big, bold people are appreciated. I take my shirt off in public. I do so even though I’ve grown breasts. 

I also think it’s funny to call a blog about someone’s daily struggles “mediocre”. It’s not polished. It’s not complete. It’s not intended to be either of those. It’s a documentation of my attempts to do new and challenging things; a collection of my thoughts and observations and learnings and experiences. I’ve never been accused of waiting for perfection (and my partner, at least, thinks my life is better for it). That’s one of the clowning lessons: fail more, and befriend your flops. 

To quote my partner: “Being mediocre is the first step towards being kinda sorta good at something”. 

At present, I have 21 Substack subscribers and 168 subscribers. 

I’ve never looked at my stats before. I haven’t cared. I still don’t. But it’s nice to know that her estimate is also true numerically. 

So yeah, with my hundred of fans and my abnormal life, I’m proud to be: 

Very Public & Mediocre. 

Homeful (Jan 29 2026)

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In which Our Hero lands. 

Today… I bought a house! 

A home, to be precise. (It’s an apartment.) 

It’s in New York, a block from Central Park. 

It’s big enough for a family, and gets great light. I’d love to live with roomies 🙂 

Here’s what happened (all numbers are approximate). 

  • I arrived at 11:27 for a 12noon closing. 
  • From 11:30 to 11:53, my attorney walked me through the financials.
    • One fun exchange:
      • “This was more work than I expected,” he said. “Do you want to increase my fee?” 
      • “No,” I replied. 
      • “Fair enough.” 
    • And another:
      • “I know people,” he told me. “You’re smart. You went to Harvard.” 
      • “I went to Yale,” I replied. “Don’t insult me.” 
      • He laughed. 
  • At 11:53, the title company transfer agent arrived. 
  • From 11:53 to 12:10, I signed some necessities (her notary book, for instance). 
  • From 12:10 to 12:25, we waited. 
  • At 12:25, the vice president of the co op board arrived. He brought soup for lunch. 
  • From 12:25 to 12:35, the vice president and I signed a few documents. 
  • At 12:35, the attorney for the co op arrived. 
  • From 12:35 to 12:45, the attorney and the vice president and I signed a few papers. 
  • At 12:45, the president of the co op board arrived. 
  • From 12:45 to 1, the president signed a few papers. 
  • From 1:00 to 1:17, we waited. 
  • At 1:17, the lawyer for the bank arrived. 
  • From 1:17 to 1:50, I signed 50 documents totalling over 200 pages.
    • Many of the documents requested of me were inaccurate, either procedurally or factually. For example, the bank attorney wanted me to sign a document saying that my ID was correct as written. But he wanted me to sign the document *before* he wrote the details in. I said no: he should write it in, then I sign. And he WROTE IT IN WRONG. 
  • At 1:50, we faxed the information to the bank. 
  • From 1:50 to 2:10, we waited for confirmation. 
  • At 2:55, my attorney’s receptionist suggested I leave. “We’ll call you back if we need anything from you.” 
  • At 3:45, I received the confirmation. 

I now own a home. 

Well, technically, the bank owns the home, but they’re going to let me live in it while I pay them back! 

Going Places (Jan 28 2026) 

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In which Our Hero voyages through space and time

Theo works nights at the front desk of the only hotel in this small French town. He works days at the car dealership, cleaning cars. He also works days on his talent management company. He wants to build the ROC Nation of France. He is 23 years old and wants to retire by 40. He prefers the American work ethic to the French one. I tell him to make sure to increase his hourly wage, not merely his number of hours worked. 

—

“You sleep when you can.” 

The businessman in the neighboring airplane seat says he lives his life out of suitcases, in identical rooms in identical towns. He changes time zones frequently: today Munich, tomorrow Mumbai. After years of struggle, he gave up on circadian rhythms. He sleeps when he sleeps and works when awake. One day, maybe he’ll have a partner. I wonder how old he is. 

—

Ilian is 21 years old, on an airplane for the first time. He’s snapping pictures out the window as the plane lifts off, and sets his phone to record video when he’s sleeping. “Comme un gros oiseau”, he says. Today he goes to Iceland. Next year, to Switzerland. Also on his list: Japan. I tell him Japanese pork was my surprising highlight of the cuisine. He doesn’t eat pork. “You’re Jewish?” I ask. His eyes widen in what looks to me like repulsion. “Muslim,” he corrects. He shares with me a breadstick he brought for the trip. We exchange phone numbers. When I return to Paris, we’ll go to a museum. Maybe one day I’ll tell him I was raised Jewish. 

— 

Somehow I became 32. I don’t remember 31 from 30. I can’t parse 29 from 28. I suddenly understand why my father takes a moment to isolate what year an event happened. “It was nineteen … (pause) eighty … (pause again) seven,” he’ll say, and then be proud he pinned it down. 

Six years ago I didn’t want kids. Five years ago I didn’t want a life partner. Four years ago I started taking exogenous sex hormones. Three years ago I flew to Australia to escape heartbreak. Two years ago I met my now-partner. One year ago I still lived in a van. 

Tomorrow, I buy a home. 

And the day after? 

Mellow and Dramatic (Jan 26 2026)

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In which Our Hero mellows in the drama 

Today was the first day of the second term. I’m not there. I’m in Etampes, four minutes walk from the school. I walked earlier today by the train station cafe that doubles as the student haunt. Yet I’m not there. Do I miss it? 

Today my mother and I dawdled down a classic Parisian street. Over lunch we swapped plates four times so we could experience what the other was eating. An Eastern European tourist offered us alcohol at Jim Morrison‘s tombstone. A California native gushed his worries about American politics 10 feet away from Molière corpse. 

This evening, my housing purchase was confirmed. After 8 years nomadic (homeless?), it’s time to put down roots. My partner ordered a bed for the empty apartment. I ordered locks for the doors. We’re buying one way flights like we always do, only this time they’re to home. 

The clown course I’m missing is melodrama. A fellow student once told me that melodrama is about stretching moments. What should be a five second stroll becomes ten minutes of dramatic, hyper-experienced anguish. 

Today stretched. From sprinting for the train to dashing through loan documentation, I was hyper present. Focused. Immersed. 

That’s one of the goals (or is it *the main goal* of clown school). Presence. Giving. Moving forward. 

I don’t miss melodrama. 

I’m excited for my life. 

Ease is what you make it (Jan 24 2026)

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In which intense and easy coexist 

At the start of today, I expected an easy day. Farmers market in the morning, then relaxing in this little medieval town, perhaps with a stroll around the lake.

But when I’m with my family, things happen!

My mother – who was up until 4am last night – walked for ten miles around Paris today. “Because today is so nice and tomorrow will be cold and rainy”. 

We sped through the annual scallop festival; sauntered winding streets in the outdoor flea market, strutted down the jardin des tuileries, and basked under the calmest place I’ve found in France (a particular library room near the Louvre).

We ate four of my favorite French foods: tomme de brebis, galette, a particular raclette wrap, and carbonara at the best Italian restaurant in Paris. (You may think carbonara is Italian. But if in France, doesn’t that make it French?)

Le jeu changed over time. From find caffeine to find food to find the most outrageous item being sold to people-watch to make the train. 

(We made the train home, despite it leaving in 20 minutes and Google telling us the walk would take 22 minutes.) 

If this were my everyday, I’d be exhausted.

Exhausted,

but happy.

😌

A Homecoming of Sorts (Jan 23 2026)

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In which? In Étampes! 

Back in Étampes, the land of the Clown School. My mother and I are visiting for ~5 days. 

My mother asked me what it’s like to be back.

My answer, in anecdotes:

  • At the airport, waiting for the bus, my mother and I talked about our travels to France: hers through Portugal, mine from Spain. Perhaps its the German genes we share, but both of us have trouble with those local cultures of queueing. 
  • When the corner baker popped up from behind the counter and saw me, her eyes widened and her cheeks shined. “I thought you were gone,” she said. I told her about my broken foot and leaving for the holiday. She told me, “Before you leave, you must tell me!”
  • My mother asked, “What should we get in our croissant?”. I replied, “Oh you silly Americans. We are going to the best croissant in the whole town. We will eat it as it is.” And we did. And it was good.
  • “I’m glad I’m wearing my boots, because this is muddy!” (I don’t own boots.) 
  • The two cheeses in the fridge, untouched for 1.5 months, had me wary. One ages for 24 months before it gets to me; the other spends its adolescence stewing in musty caves, which are selected because they harbor fungicidal mold. Perhaps it’s no surprise they’re both not only edible but delicious.
  • The outer crunch of the baguette; the smear of blue cheese; the dollup of black truffle pâté; the slice of iberian ham. If I lived here, this would be my every day. When I lived here, this was my every day.
  • Three — now four — times, my mother and I have said “It’s so great to be with you.”