From My Rooftop

My roommates on our rooftop

I have to admit… my rooftop is probably one of my favorite aspects of my apartment. Does that give me a “god complex” in some weird way? I don’t even like heights! But there is something so refreshing about being able to go outside but not having to deal with weirdos walking down the street, or without having to protect my iPhone from getting stolen… again. Or without having to put pants on.

I guess I’m sort of obsessed with my rooftop, which is strange considering I don’t go on it nearly enough. Maybe if there was furniture up there, or a little more to do than watch the laboriously slow M train whir by… But then again, the fact that there isn’t more to do up there; it’s refreshing.

It’s our little spot. No one else can get to it (aside from our next door neighbors who are a group of three 30-something men whose WiFi name is “Playboy Mansion,” but they don’t want to come on our side because their’s has a barbeque). And yet, when you see other people on neighboring rooftops nearby, it becomes sort of a culture. An elevated city of its own. You wave to each other the same way that strangers on passing boats wave to each other; unfamiliar, but kindred in some fashion.

We seem so far away from Manhattan, but we have a beautiful view of the city. I hesitate to say “especially at night,” because when the sun is setting and everything is backlit (as it is in the photo above), the vote tends to swing.

P.S. In two days, I’ll have lived here for a year. What?!

Avocado & Plum

With garlic and lemon drizzled on top. Who knew?

I’m trying to do this thing lately called “eating better,” which sounds pretty boring and all, until you chop up avocado and mix it with random things you wouldn’t normally expect to taste good with it.

So far, it’s turned out pretty well. MAKE THIS SALAD.

Dad: The Best Person I Know

My dad & I

My dad & I

Well, crap. I guess it’s pretty cliché to write a blog post about how great your dad is on Father’s Day, but I have to have some sort of excuse to kiss his ass, right? Honestly, I don’t know if he’ll read this, but if he does, he’ll probably be embarrassed. He doesn’t really like attention in this way, but thankfully, he also doesn’t really use the internet as much as the rest of us (see: something he calls “nerding”). But you see, cliché or not, he is the best person I’ve ever known for a multitude of reasons. I could probably write an encyclopedia of the ways he impresses many, but I’ll keep it short out of respect for brevity. Let me tell you a little bit about my best friend.

He knows literally everything.

I remember when I was a young teenager, probably like thirteen or fourteen, I saw some chart in a magazine or somewhere depicting various ages of a girl’s life and her relationship with her father. Obviously it was just cute, probably with no factual basis, but it went something like you would expect: when you’re a child, your father is a superhero; then you grow a few years and you think he knows everything; when you’re a teenager, you think he knows nothing; when you grow up more, you realize he’s only human; and so on. I guess that chart was pretty bang on, except that I never grew out of that phase where I thought he knew everything, because in my mind… he sort of does.

Anytime I ask him for help on something, some sort of advice, or how something works, he always has an answer. I always tell my friends, “Let me call my dad. He totally knows” and sure enough, when I do, I get an almost textbook answer about how to fix the most obscure, minute little fixture on my kitchen sink, or the best way to cook carrots. I think I’ve only heard him say, “You know, I actually don’t know” three or four times in my life, and the tone he uses when he says it generally reflects both his surprise and mine.

While playing Jeopardy!, something we did nightly during dinner when I was in high school and still living with him (and, honestly, whenever I am back to visit) he would kick my ass night after night. The only times I would win were when I cheated and kept it playing while he cooked, or was in and out of the room. Whatever! I need an advantage sometimes!

Oh, and his vocabulary is pretty spectacular and kind of silly sometimes. You’ll just be having a casual conversation and he’ll randomly throw in words like, “cantankerous” and “subcutaneous” and you don’t realize it until a minute later and think, “Who is this guy?” Oh, yeah, a smartass!

He has eclectic taste.

I brag about this literally all the time. One of my coworkers went to see ZZ Top a few weeks ago and my entire conversation with him about it revolved around how awesome my dad’s music taste is, bragging about how my dad set up an amazing stereo system and would listen to “Rough Boy” with the bass in the walls shaking across the house.

Sometimes, when I was younger and sleeping in too late on the weekends, when he wanted to be casual with a wake-up call (probably so I would clean my room) and not want to be so blatant by using a vacuum outside my door, he’d put Depeche Mode on those speakers and honestly, how could I be mad? It was genius. I may have pretended to be asleep still, but really I would just be laying there, enjoying his tunes for awhile. He always calls me to ask about music, if I’ve heard such and such band because he’d heard them on the radio, or such and such song, saying I knew about Muse before they were big, etcetera etcetera, but really, I wouldn’t have had any foundation to form my own tastes on if he hadn’t laid the groundworks.

Oh, and we’re seeing Depeche Mode together in September. Amazing.

Four words: Raised Two Teenage Girls.

My dad, my older sister & I

My dad, my older sister & I

So, but… how?!

This one blows my mind. My dad is a man’s man. He’s into all things masculine, motorcycles and tech and war movies, yet somehow, he managed to raise my sister and me. I mean… two teenaged girls in one house, I sometimes thought I was going crazy. How did he survive?! We all got along really well most of the time, we were sort of our own little Evans team, but… I’m honestly impressed.

When I got my period the first time, I was so embarrassed and my older sister wasn’t home and I didn’t know who to talk to, so I went to the kitchen (where he was waiting for me, because we were about to leave to go to my aunt and uncle’s house) and took a notepad and wrote, “I think I need a pad…” and he burst out laughing, and handled it like a champion. I’ll never forget the day a couple years later, when fourteen-year-old me was in so much pain from it, the worst cramps, and he went to the store to buy pads. I always just pictured this tough dude waiting in line, the only thing between his dividers on the conveyer belt being a package of bright and bold Tampax pads. I don’t know if I ever thanked him for that.

The point is, he survived through the ups and the downs of living with two teenage girls, and even two girls growing up into adulthood. He has listened to me cry about boys, cry about my weight, cry about the pimple on my nose, cry about how my period makes my chest ache. He has found condoms in the wash, and known the right time to mention the option of birth control. Yet still, he would threaten to kick any man’s ass for our honor.

God damnit, dad, why are you so amazing?!

He is beyond wise.

The above sort of leads me into this one, because it more spans across the notion that he simply knows how humans are, he understands how they work. Growing up, he was hardly restrictive, but set up unspoken ground rules for my safety and my well-being.

He wouldn’t let me dye my hair when I was a teenager, which, going through a “goth” phase I wanted more than anything. I’m thankful, now, because my natural hair color is amazing and I’ve never tarnished it and have no interest in doing so. It’s like he knew this would happen…!

He put up with all of my phases, too. My dark and broody pre-teen “depression” and my weird, nerdy internet gaming phase… he handled it, because he knew that if he restricted me, I’d just get mixed up in stupid shit. I have a few friends like this now — their parents were very free and willing to let them do what they wanted in youth, and now they are smart and wise adults. Whereas the kids whose parents suffocated them, they all rebelled in silent ways — sneaking out at night, getting high and drunk at fourteen, whatever — they’re all into it now, shooting up on the weekends and not giving a damn about “the real world.” It’s sad, really, it is, but I’m so thankful everyday that my dad was wise enough to raise me to be smart, not reckless. I mean, hell, he didn’t stop me when I almost took an internship in Iceland, he didn’t stop me from moving to New York City, he has never tried to stop any hobbies I’ve had, or tried to push me out of the door on a weekend after a long week at work.

Likewise, I can ask him for advice on anything, and he has seen enough and experienced enough to know a proper answer. Like I said, he knows everything, seriously. Any bind I am ever in, he is the light at the end of the tunnel. I was mugged a few nights ago outside my apartment. Some kid stole my phone right out of my hand and took off running. I had a long panic attack until I was able to speak with him, as with most problems I face. Nothing is ever right until I hear his voice and he sets me straight, because truthfully, he is the only person who can calm me down. A lot of my friends’ parents would have told them to pack up and move back home, or to look into investing in a weapon, or to move to a new neighborhood at least. But my dad knows. He realizes that low-life teens are everywhere. Hell, even in my uppity white high school, things were getting stolen from me all the time. Instead, my dad calmed me down, told me he had already talked to the cell company and gotten everything situated, and to go buy myself a new phone the next day, because everything would be alright, because I’m alive and safe and unharmed, because the world goes on. I know he is internally freaking out, worried sick about my safety, but still he is not holding me back. I don’t know whether that is thoughtful, or just stupid, but I appreciate it no less.

He is a man of routine.

On a lighter note… if there is one thing that friends and family know about my father, it is his routine. I know at any given minute what my father is most likely doing, and I love that about him. It makes calling him really easy. I know not to call on Saturdays or Sundays between 11am and 2pm, because he is most likely not going to answer as he is doing yardwork. Whereas if I call too early on the weekends, I might wake him up from a post-newspaper nap on the couch, which he would thank me for.

His routine is great, and sensible. Part of it almost always includes hanging out with his brother, my uncle, the other Best Dad Ever that I know. My uncle is like my second dad, and another one of my best friends. Their relationship is something I really, really admire. They are constantly in touch, always there for each other, getting each others’ backs when they most need it. They are so fundamentally different as people, but still the best of friends and comrades. I honestly, truly admire them.

I know that my moving across the country hasn’t been the easiest thing for him, and I hate knowing that. But above all, I know he wants me to be happy and to grow into my own and figure things out for myself. Who knows where I will be in five years, or ten years, except with my phone in my hand, talking to my dad about the weather, and the dog, and what new songs are good, and how awful people are, really. My dad is the greatest person I’ve ever met. Hell, even when I’m catching up with old friends or ex-boyfriends, they don’t care how I am, they always immediately ask, “How is your dad doing?”

“He’s good,” I always say. “Same ol’ dad, best person ever.”

The ship that didn’t sink

Why is it that rain makes for the best Instagrams? (Williamsburg Bridge, December 2012)

Why is it that rain makes for the best Instagrams? (Williamsburg Bridge, December 2012)

Hey guys, guess what!?

I’m still living in New York. After six months, I figured it was safe to post on here again and brag. I mean, I don’t want to say, “Haw haw! I made it!” because the phrase “making it” is pretty tacky (unless you’re talking about getting laid, then you’re just classy and/or vintage) but I just wanted to say… I told you so?

Remember when I first posted about this last May, and someone commented with the charming toast, “You’re in for a real surprise!”?

I guess my surprise was that… I wasn’t surprised. At all. I was surprised by my lack of surprise, if anything. New York City just seems so… ugh, so me. But whatever, like I said, I’m not going to toot my own horn. Point is, I’ve got a few little eggs of knowledge and wisdom!

“Three Months” as a success marker.
Within my first week of being here, I was at a bar with my friend and we needed some fresh air (although it was mid-August so the fresh air was more like wet hot midnight air, but that’s just my bitterness about humidity talking) and met a couple girls outside who decided to chat my friend up for a cigarette. After the run of the mill, “Where are you from? How long have you lived here?” questions, they were quite surprised when we divulged the truth. Just a week?! You’ll be lucky if you make it three months! Shade alert! It wasn’t an unkind judgment, she later apologized, just that three months is supposed to be a major achievement. I guess her logic was that the money you’ve saved up before moving here is generally gone by then, so you either make it or you have no choice but to get out. Three months, she told us. Well, those certainly flew right on by, didn’t they? Toot, toot!

People actually are from New York City.
It’s kind of annoying when people say that no one is actually from New York City and that everyone just moves there. It’s true to a large extent, but some of the coolest people I know are actually born and raised in the city. Including the little kid I saw on a leash the other day. He was intense.

I will find a drag scene no matter where I go.
I feel like this almost qualifies as a personal problem. Within my first two weeks of living here, I had already obtained this cute little drag posse. I don’t know how it happened. I wore my fabulously studded heels out one night to a gay bar and boom, there I was… mauled. Maybe it’s the red lipstick? Or the fringe? I don’t know, but it happens every damn place I move. I swear I’ve got a tattoo in ink that’s visible only to a Queen’s long-lashed eyes that says, “Look here, honey, I’m who you were looking for.” And I’m so into it. As an aside, the term “fag hag” is and has always been appalling. Just because “your gay boyfriend” uses it, doesn’t mean you should! Ew! Tacky! (Another aside, here is a photo of my friend wearing my few-years-back Halloween costume randomly one evening in my bedroom. He wore it better than I did! Not fair.)

I have the cutest and best apartment ever.
No, seriously. It’s a duplex. My walls are painted seafoam green. I have photos of Sigur Rós and ads of Cole Mohr in Marc by Marc Jacobs FW 2008 (look it up!) plastered atop said paint. The rest of the house defines boho chic and I say “house” because it’s actually a duplex. And my rent is the same as any California apartment. So… I’m not going anywhere.

It’s really difficult to experience NYC culture.
Ah, good ol’ New York City work ethic, where the only holidays are Christmas, Thanksgiving and New Years Day; standard working hours are 9am to 7pm; and standard commuting hours are 30 to 45 minutes each way. Not that I’m complaining, because I still adore taking the subway as much as I possibly can (being from a place that has practically no public transit), but… by the time I’m off work, all of the museums and touristy things are closed, and pretty much the last thing any Brooklyner wants to do on the weekend is go back into the city, so, admittedly, I haven’t experienced many of those things. Everyone always asks me, “Can you see the Statue of Liberty from your work? How close to your apartment is Times Square? Have you gone to New Jersey yet? Seen the Jersey Shore? How many times a week do you go to the Met?” Uh, guys…

Anyway, I’ve been listening to The Cranberries all day, so pardon my sentiments. I imagine any seasoned New Yorker reading this is probably stifling a laugh and shaking his or her head, but give me a minute to reflect, and pardon my nubility. And also my bragging. Because I had a pretty bad day at work (I say “work” because I got a job in Soho a month after moving here. One more boast!) and I could use a little self-peptalk.

Search results that have directed people to my blog

I love looking at my Site Stats on my WordPress Dashboard. It’s like a subtle ego-stroke every time the “daily visitors” number goes up, and also like a puzzle trying to figure out how they arrived at my blog altogether. Sometimes it’s easy, but sometimes these search results are a little unexpected. Here are some of my favorites:

  1. roommate his toenails – This had two results. Someone got here twice from this search. How?
  2. vesturbaejarlaug gay – Someone wanted to know if a community pool in Iceland is gay, or…?
  3. dandy nick cave – I just like this.
  4. osama bin laden iphone – …?
  5. katie evans nietzsche – I’m proud of this one.
  6. saddest boobs – I’m not really sure why. I just have no idea, honestly?
  7. songs that say katie – If anyone finds a list, hit me up.
  8. list+of+random+foods+ive+never+heard+of – Yes.
  9. i have laid in bed – Me, too, Googler! I can sympathize! Why did this lead to my blog?
  10. person talking on iphone clipart – 99% sure I’ve never had one of these on here.
  11. sean mullins sings lisp – This might be my top favorite.
  12. when to kick a roommate friend financially unstable – ASAP, Googler! A.S.A.P.!
  13. omg rami kashou nude – But why? I do love Rami Kashou, but… why?
  14. does iphones have an app to wear i can make my self look thicker? – But why? [2]
  15. katie evans applying for a job – Very funny, Future Employer. Crafty, aren’t you?!
  16. katie evans my to go shoes – I need some.

No, but really, “katie evans applying for a job”? So crafty! I bet they found my Alone Time entry and thought I was a weirdo.

Anyway, what are some of the strange search results you’ve gotten?

Things I learned from my desk job

So, after a year and some change, it’s officially time to move on from my desk job to hopefully get one step closer (to the edge, and I’m about to–) to my “dream achievements.” Mind you, I still intend to work this same job remotely, but there’s something about the office environment… It certainly brings a few changes to a person. So, after over 360-some days of going to the same desk, the same chair, surrounded by the same people, I’ve learned a few nuggets.

Data entry is the most potent form of brainrot.
I remember reading an article on Thought Catalog about how data entry is just, seriously, mind-numbing. In a bad way. In a comatose, never-going-to-recover way. In a my-eyes-are-bleeding-someone-please-help way. Honestly, I have to admit, sometimes I like doing data entry. Those are mostly days when I’m too hungover to muster the energy for real work, but they do exist. Naturally, I am healed within ten minutes of doing the task, which may actually mean that data entry has medicinal qualities. But don’t be fooled; data entry is like the Hair of the Dog in this situation. Not good. The thing is, most jobs have a large percentage devoted to the duty. You cannot escape it. We’re all slaves to the data. Does this mean I should drink more, or…?

Cubicles are very small.
Like, really small. Like, thank goodness I’m not claustrophobic small. I’m a pretty short person so I have no problem with small, enclosed spaces. What I do have a problem with is the compression and proximity with other cubicles because, in their miniature stature, cubicles are meant to be ordered in rows. This isn’t bad when you have enjoyable cubicle-mates. I’ve got one a cubicle over who is without fail one of the comic reliefs of every day. The one directly across from me is empty. The one diagonal and behind me used to house my Work Wife before she moved onto another job. Down the aisle is a nice lady who keeps chocolates on her desk (or maybe she’s an evil, mean lady for that reason. HOW DARE SHE?). But, not everyone can be so lucky. And I’m not saying all of my office mates are the best. Some of them have reprehensible cubicle habits and qualities, admittedly. There are yell-talkers. There are hoarders (words can’t describe). There are talk-to-selfers. All I can say is that it really helps to have noise-cancelling headphones (I can recommend you a great pair of $5 earbuds that block out all noises ever — including people standing directly next to you, screaming at you) and some Spotify playlists rolling.

Money is actually really awesome.
I’m not saying I’m a loser or anything, but when I moved back in with my dad to take this job, I moved away from 99% of my friends and acquaintances. While I hated this at first, watching my accounts payable shrivel while watching my accounts receivable bloat… it was a beautiful thing. How else do you think I’m able to afford to move to New York City? Making money is a great thing. I can see why so many people suffer full-time desk jobs when they’d rather be frolicking outside. I respect myself too much to stay in that sort of situation forever, though.

A job title is a loose guideline.
I would say about 20% of my job is doing what my job title signifies. I kind of like that, really, because it ensures that I’ll stay well-rounded and be able to learn other aspects of the business world. I’ve seen this with a lot of my friends. Web designers are also administrative assistants. Account managers are also HR managers. Shipping workers help with marketing assignments. So on and so forth. I guess it would simply be naive to assume that, when you’re applying for a job, you’ll be doing only that job. That’s an okay thing, truthfully, as long as you expect it.

I have an impeccable sense of hearing.
Barring the times that I have those extremely noise-canceling headphones in, my ears really impress me with their ability. This is related to the subject at hand, I promise, because I only realized this after I noticed: I can recognize anyone in the office by the sound of their walking, I hear every sigh, some people have really funny sneezes, I hear when people curse under their breaths and appreciate the comedic relief that provides. I know when my boss is leaving because I can hear him making certain shuffling noises in his office. My senses have actually sharpened since taking this desk job. Awesome.

Sometimes people get paid just to talk.
This can go two ways. Some people get paid simply to have meetings and talk about ideas, only to assign tasks to those working below them. I guess if you’re tenured, you’ve sort of earned that right, though. On the other hand, there are the people who must simply be bored with their jobs and thus spend their entire days going from person to person just to chit-chat. And they get paid for that.

Bathroom breaks are short-term therapy.
Honestly, restrooms are like the little guaranteed temporary safe haven. If I get overwhelmingly stressed about something, I can simply walk into the restroom, sit in one of the stalls for five minutes just to collect myself, get some quiet and alone time and instantly feel much better afterward. It only takes a couple of seconds of separation to clear your mind, and the bathroom — in it’s air-conditioned and fruit-sprayed glory — is the perfect place to do that. Assuming no one else is in there actually using it for its purpose.

Fluorescent lights are silent killers.
I may have spoken too soon when I touted that my senses had sharpened. It might have just been a reaction to my eyes getting worse, because fluorescent lights are absolutely the worst. Not only is my cubicle in the dead center of the building, with no access to any windows or natural light of any kind, but there is also a woman who comes in around 11am everyday to start, and turns on all of the lights, when only half were on before. That’s just cruel. These lights are very unforgiving and bring ache and strain all evening long. If you have a window in your workplace, don’t take it for granted.

Mind you, I certainly learned more than this. I learned how to operate a working CMS. I learned some cool new PhotoShop tricks. I gained a new hatred for double-spaces between sentences. I learned about marketing automation. I learned tons! But these points, I feel, are broad enough to be related to any desk job you (or I) might encounter.