Tag: Relationships

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. 

But the People are Reasonable (Feb 10 2026)

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In which Our Hero continues acquiring junk.  

Lack of scams… As yet. 

Yesterday, I bought a Peloton. The owner highlighted the three parts of the screen that are slightly buggy. They provided a discount of ~90% off retail, equivalent to ~50% off the going rate for used ones in NYC. 

I’m a big fan of Peloton. I’ve used a friend’s at his home. It’s exactly the sort of exercise I enjoy on an approximately-daily basis. I’ve been tracking the used market for the last few weeks. 

Spotting this one while my truck-having friend was in town: ‘twas a no-brainer. 

At pickup, I rotated the pedals and twisted the resistance knob: a check just in case. 

When I arrived home and plugged it in, the item booted up fine. I left it to go to sleep. 

The next day, it wouldn’t turn on. The power light blinked. Peculiar. 

I used the Peloton website to perform some basic troubleshooting. The results suggested I may require a new power cable. I ordered one (with a 30-day return window) to arrive tomorrow. 

I also messaged the seller with these diagnostics, asking if they had experienced this issue. They said they had not, but they asked me to keep them appraised. The tone of their replies suggest that 1) they want me to have a good experience, and 2) if there is an issue, they’d probably refund me something for it. 

Thusfar, I’ve bought 3 items from New Yorkers. (Admittedly this couple is technically in West New York, a city in… New Jersey!) And all of them have gone above and beyond with support and help. 

New York is perhaps the first place I’ve lived that has actually felt like a community.

Anger & Elation (Feb 8 2026)

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In which annoyance passes and delight arrives 

This morning I wrote an angry email. To someone who has done me wrong. Done me wrong in at least two ways. And now, a third. 

In buying this apartment, I worked with many people. Some more competent, some less. But this particular person was in charge of the majority of the paperwork and timeline. And is responsible for 1) much of the work not starting until three days before closing (despite having 4 months to complete it and it being scheduled to be a three month process); 2) sending me out looking for a printer at 11pm in suburban France because she needed a wet signature on something that actually later turned out to not be wet signature; and 3) now needing me to do something after closing that both isn’t my job and exposes me to liability, but which I need to have happen since it’s my money on the line. 

So I wrote an angry email. An appropriately angry email. Not one filled with emotion. One that tells her that I don’t accept this scenario and if needed I will find someone else, higher up on her team to fix it. 

This got me thinking about the recent social shaming of people who ask to speak to managers. 

In many of our commercial situations, it’s one of the few powers that individuals do have. In my case, it’s a large national bank where someone’s screwed up thrice, but I’ve had to be nice and cheery and pleasant about it because I needed their future cooperation. But now, that deal is complete. I don’t need her positivity: I need her to solve this. 

How much of our recent social shaming of Karens is an implicit political backhand slapping of assertive women? I’ve never thought it appropriate to shame that function. (Entitledment, sure. But that doesn’t strike me as the main element of a Karen.) 

I’ve never respected any generalized term that uses a person’s name as a metonymy. (Karen; Chad; more recently, Kyle.) They tend to engage in the bad type of stereotyping. 

This is to say I don’t mind behaving in a manner that others might describe as Karenly. 

So tonight, I sleep. And tomorrow, maybe I send. 

It’s no fun to be done with a thing and then be told you’re not done. 

—

Tonight I hosted a superbowl party. I love the superbowl. It’s the most patriotic I get every year. Football, advertising, halftime show: there’s something for everybody. 

I created a little gambling game. My partner and I made nachos. We used the event as an excuse to get cake. 

It’s nice to live somewhere. 

I look forward to building community. 

Precisely Pinpointed Pricing (Jan 30 2026) 

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In which New York City accepts everyone… and especially their money

For a city with such diversity, it sure does discriminate. 

I’m talking, of course, about price discrimination. 

—

This evening, I purchased an unpriced slice of cake. 

I walked into a cake store, perused the menu, and made my selection: a slice of strawberry cheesecake. 

The cashier rang it up, a dollar more than I expected. 

I asked, something like “The sign says $6.99, but your cash register says $7.99”. 

He calmly explained to me that the price said “Six ninety-nine and up”; only the plain slice was $6.99; and pointed to the place on the sign where it said “$6.99+”. 

I looked around. Nowhere in the store could I see the prices for the different slices. So I asked him to list them, both because I was curious about their prices and because I thought it was an insane way for a customer to learn the prices for a dozen different items. 

— 

At some New York pizza restaurants, a plain slice costs $1.50, and you can get two slices and a can of soda for $3.50. At these very same pizza restaurants, you can get a single slice with a fancier topping for $3.50. 

—

In the year I’ve lived in New York, I have found the city very affordable. People are shocked when they hear this. “New York is expensive!” they’ll tell me. 

“Nah, just rent,” I’ll say. 

So if you live in a van or a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, the rest is very doable. 

$5 for 12 delicious dumplings in Chinatown; $1.50 for a slice of pizza; $5 margaritas. These are not high prices. You want a different flavor of dumplings or a topping on your pizza, or a flavored margarita: that’ll cost you. But for the basics, New York has you covered. 

My partner thinks this is a function of affordable housing. I know plenty of affluent people living within a block of affordable housing projects. They comingle, sharing the same streets and frequenting the same restaurants. This city therefore needs options at every pricepoint. You want to rent a bike from one of those docks? The normal ones are cheap and manual, the e-bikes more expensive and easier. Poor people bike, as do wealthy people. (Except for right now when all the bikes are encased in a foot of snowcrete.) And everyone takes the subway. 

At my apartment purchase closing yesterday, one of the members of my apartment co-op board mentioned how her uber took 45 minutes. I know the distance she went. The subway would have taken 30. But I think she got something more than transportation from the uber. Just as the person who buys the burrata slice of pizza gets something more than food. 

Is it fair to call that flavor? 

The $2 extra on the $5 Hell’s Kitchen margarita is explicitly for “flavor.”

I rated the cheesecake restaurant 2 stars. The cake was delicious. I may return. I just don’t respect their menu practices. I prefer my discrimination to be honest.

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. 

The Presents of Presence (Jan 25 2026)

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In which Our Hero, carried along… 

At 10:17am, my mother awoke. I had been awake since 7am: bought bread from the bakery, roasted duck in the oven. She awoke in part due to my ideal duck timing: the duck roasts for 30 minutes; she awoke 27 minutes in, the smell wafting under her door like that pie in the old cartoon. 

The fast train leaves Étampes for Paris at 11:26. Awakening at 10:17, you’d think we make it. I proposed this option without much commitment. We decided we’d eat duck, wait, and see. 

Then, two hours passed. 

We ate duck. We discussed the differing baguettes. We laughed about the train coming and then passing, us not on it. 

We failed to catch that train, then the next train. We grabbed the one after. 

If the point is the together, why matter which train? 52 minutes vs 34: the extra 18 is <le shrug>. 

Then, on the platform, we happened upon clowns. Two friends I’d been hoping to see, but the planning is hard. We rode together, riffing, laughing, le jeu. 

There’s a funny thing about living in the moment. You’re never disappointed or wanting. You may have desires, but you don’t want for anything. Perfectly satisfied and engaged. It’s the tension of wanting what you don’t have that makes the dissatisfaction of not having it. (I meditated today. I should meditate daily. It keeps me more momentized. It dims my mental chatter.) 

8 hours later, after walking around the Latin Quarter and Notre Dame, my mother and I headed home early. The fast train was delayed, so the trip took an hour. How nice it is to sit on a train station platform, hearing about your mother’s old friendships. Not something you’d think to do, but exceedingly nice when it happens.

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.”