Double Rainbows and Hot Trekkies

Hispanic waiters. Brazilian juices. Cheese ball-hoarder Matt. "E" as in Eskimo. Lunch at Eva's. The Funniest Kid in the World (Ok, now? Now?) J. Fal and Neil Young impressions. (Full on, yeah.) Uncle C behind the fridge. Bring me my milk and cookies and Jamaican eggs and bacon. Speed Scabble with Buff and Chase in P-Town.

Sure don't see these girls often enough. No siree.

dressed in holiday style

Tonight we bundled up and headed out on the town. Cousin K from the Big City, Miss A and I ate pizza at a new-ish restaurant in town. We were celebrating our three glorious births and enjoying togetherness without the rest of the family around (not that we don't adore them, because 'trilly we do.) K showed up looking oh so City Chic: a fur stole*, black leather gloves, and hair to die for. (I'm not quite sure how we're related.) We dipped our wood fired gourmet pizza in olive oil and fresh Parmesan and followed up on seasonal goals set this time last year. I made everyone look in the bathroom at the fantastic interior design. (It's really top-notch. I can't wait to go back to show N.) K brought mini red velvet cake to share which we ate at Miss A's afterward. We took pictures by the Christmas tree, mostly silly in nature, and listened to Harry for the Holidays. Oh, how I love my dear cousins.

*Imitation, people.

the sound of the river

As we pulled past the gate, I reached for my bag and grabbed my book. I tried to read on the way home; I needed to, even. But, I couldn't resist looking out the window as country gave way to city. Two bliss-filled days of sun and moon and mountain air. Campfires, cousins, and late night laughter. Sunshine streaming through quaking aspen. Pastures of sagebrush and a raging, winding river.

Our sleeping bags in front of the fireplace, last night cousin K and I talked of The Big City and the smaller one below us and where in life we've landed. The other conversations dimmed in the background. Accompanied by a snoring brother just above, our words became softer and more separated, and sleep summoned. One after the other we drifted off as glowing embers drew the last bits of shadow from the room. The only sound left was the rushing of the river.

Tonight, down in the valley, I rocked in the hammock while the sun sank below the Oquirrh Mountains to the west. My book folded across my lap, I let it remain, not wanting to renounce the day. A breeze blew through the branches above me and the faint smell of campfire danced past my nose and on into the back yard. I closed my eyes, and off in the distance, I heard the sound of the river.

{illustration by B. Posselli}

City Babes

Cousin K is home from the Big City, something that seems intrinsic to my happiness. We made good memories there. In the Big City, that is. Like the time she joined Mom and me at The Waldorf towards the end of our trip my senior year. She arrived looking very New York-ish in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria*, a stylish carry-on in tow. We lounged about in the lobby, opened up ridiculously over-priced items like microscopic bags of cashews from our mini-bar and took full advantage of the concierge, who gave us directions to the finest dining including a place in Little Italy where we gorged ourselves on pasta and sparkling water with lime. (When in the Big City, go big or go home. Always add a citrus embellishment.)

This amazing once-in-a-lifetime deal slash gift of graduation grace from the travel gods my Mother found included free makeovers at Bloomingdales. So, atop fifth avenue, adjacent to Central Park, the three of us were doted on by Estee Lauder employees for over an hour. We were pampered pampered pampered and walked out looking like we could walk onto a Broadway stage. None of us had ever worn that much makeup in our lives, but it was well worth it. The serums! The creams! The under-eye-circle-reduction potions! It was all so heavenly. In a moment of haste, after hearing "Yoah goahjuss, Maatha! Just goahjuss!" a thousand times and being told the fountain of youth was contained in a tiny bottle, my mother bought me the most expensive beauty product I have owned to date. Something about smaller pores, wrinkle reduction and skin rejuvenation. All I know is that it made my skin feel, as a New Yorker would say, "Like buddah!" And, at age eighteen, this million dollar cream that came in a bottle the size of my pinky, was imperative to my beauty-future. I used it down to the last drop, scraping the bottom of the bottle with a q-tip towards the end. I practically gave that bottle a funeral upon it running dry, turning my head as I dropped the pretty bottle into the trash bin. I held back the tears as to not remove the lotion-potion from my face with waterworks.

Tonight, nearly ten years (yikes!) and a few wrinkles (gasp!) later, I was going through a bunch of free samples in my bathroom drawer, tossing this and that. A tiny bottle caught my eye. It was way too pretty to be of little importance and therefore tossed. It's a blue-green that shimmers in the reflection of the mirror. I opened it up, and with one whiff, I was back on the fifth floor of Bloomingdales, with the beauty experts in their white coats, saying "Yoah goahjuss!" Whether it makes me goahjuss, I have yet to say. This I know: it smells like heaven in a bottle just the right size for Stewart Little. I shall use it ever-so-sparingly. But mostly, I will unscrew the lid, inhale deeply and transport myself back to my first adventure in the Big City with Cousin K. There have been more adventures since our Fith Avenue Facial Fantasy come to fruition and there will be more in the future, but for now, I'm glad she's back on home turf, at least for a little while. Welcome home, dahling. Yoah just goahjuss!

*Lest you're ready to cue the theme song to Green Acres...
(New York is where I'd rather stay.
I get allergic smelling hay.
I just adore a penthouse view.
Dah-ling I love you but give me Park Avenue)
know this: My mother dearest found the most amazing deal. Staying at The Waldorf was cheaper than staying at the Marriott. I swear. It was, in a word (or three) an absolute dream!

these are a few

I adore little notebooks. I have a shelf-full. Mostly for listing. Sketching. Jotting. Note-taking. Here's a list (among lots) I've been working on since February. It's the most recent "Favorite Things" of many among such notebooks. I add to it every few days.

007. toast
031. being with my cousins
052. lamplight
061. dancing close
085. sleeping in your own bed after you've been away for a while
143. when steph says, "peace, love, and chicken grease!"
190. exploring other people's bookshelves
212. swinging on the gate at the cabin
237. bread bowls and tomato soup with levi
266. pulling my hair up at the end of the day
268. all green lights
300. swively stools
358. when someone helps me get my luggage out of the overhead bin
369. apricot jam
380. kate spade green
395. spray startch
403. market street with mom & dad
413. seeing my friends as moms
419. free mobile-to-mobile
422. long lunches
431. hammocks
452. snow angels
467. paddle boats at liberty park

the red brick house

In the red brick house with the round table and the quilt with the big red square, my sister and I shared a room. We had matching bead spreads; white with blue and yellow flowers. We lined our stuffed animals up on the windowsill and at night, Dad would sit between our beds and make up bedtime stories. Sometimes he'd nod off, and from our twin beds we'd shout, "Dad! Dad! Wake up Dad!" There was a laundry shoot and we took turns dropping a bucket full of "surprises" down to each other.

Red tulips poked up through the soil in the spring. The droopy branches of the birch tree made for a shady spot and there was room to roller skate on the cracked driveway. Aunt B picked us up for teddy bear pancakes at Ruth's Diner on Saturdays. And, when the gardening was done, Dad gave us rides in the wheelbarrow, down the sloped driveway and across the street to visit Grandma and Grandpa. In summer, we'd pick mint leaves in the yard to flavor homemade lemonade. We'd set up shop on the corner, shouting at all passers-by and counting quarters when the red thermos was empty. Mom drove us to swimming lessons in the green Volvo. She let us stretch out in our wet suits in the back seat all the way home. In the fall, we walked to school with Emily and raked the yellow leaves that fell from the birch tree.

When we moved from the red brick house into the white house, our flower bead spreads came along. Sister and I no longer shared a room; she slept down the hall. Sometimes, when I was feeling brave, I would sneak into her bed just after she'd fallen asleep. The quilt with the big red square was still neighbors with the round table, as it had been at the old house. There was a bathroom with sparkly butterfly tile and a basement with lots of room to play. We hopped the fence to school, and after Dad got home from work, he'd take us to the playground to shoot hoops or run the 50 meter dash. For our birthdays that November, Emily made sister and me a swing to hang from the tree in the backyard. Dad helped us tie it tight around a strong branch above lots of yellow leaves. I met another girl named Emily who lived at the top of the street. I'd walk home from school with her sometimes. Her Korean nanny would make us Top Ramen for lunch on Fridays. We'd spend the rest of the afternoon playing American Dolls.

My parents don't live that far from the white house. Not far at all. The quilt and table are still the best of friends. The wood swing hangs from a cherry tree which drops lots of yellow leaves each fall. Sister lives in a house of her own, and our bedspreads are long gone. Soon Dad will give grandchildren rides in the wheelbarrow and tell them bedtime stories, perhaps about two little girls who lived in a red brick house.

Universe in a Red Bag

I stepped out onto 25th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenue, and in a very Martha Takes on Manhattan attitude, my morning stride matched those of the other native New Yorkers. I was determined to blend in; to seem as if I knew exactly where I was going. I was surrounded by people getting their morning groove on, ipod earbuds shoved in their ears to drown out the sounds of the city. I could have joined them. But this trip I knew I'd spend a lot more time on foot than the last, and I wanted to hear and see it all. I had everything I needed in my bag (ipod included). K helped me plot out a path the night before. I was to head straight down 5th until I reached Union Square.

* * *
In my visits to the City, I've noticed that everyone carries large bags. Why? Because they have to be prepared for anything. A last-minute dinner date, an unexpected downpour, sore feet after a long day on Wall Street, an extra bone for their little dog (who fits in their bag) a coat in case the wind changes, an ipod, a laptop, clothes for the gym, a good book for the subway...New Yorkers, for the most part, are prepared for anything. I've seen ladies pull full wardrobe changes out of their bags. By the time the Subway stops on Broadway and 42nd Street, they're all dolled up and ready for a night out on the town.

There is a scene in a less than stellar chick flick where the two main characters (guy and girl) are sitting on a bench. Guy has just gotten himself into a bit of a situation and girl comes to his rescue. Girl pulls one thing after another out of her bag, all of which aid in the rescuing of said guy. In what could be considered one of the cheesiest exchanges in the whole movie, (if not in all of Chick Flickdom) guy asks girl, "What else do you have in there?" The response, which inevitably makes me want to throw up each time I hear it, "My universe."

* * *

I made it down to Union Square on my own, and, in one of my dumber moments, purchased books for my family at the beginning of what I knew was going to be a long walking day. I figured I'd lug the books around until we braked for lunch, at which point I could switch my satchels at K's place before the afternoon adventures commenced. The rally spot was Whole Foods. The only thing on our list: organic marshmallows. Both practical and delicious. They wouldn't add any heft to my hauling. K would meet me there after her morning of work. I'd tell her all the things I'd seen; all my favorite spots.

I forgot to mention that in a moment of utter ignorance, I brought THE most impractical bag ever known to (wo)Man. It was big, therefore, I thought it was the perfect candidate for the job of towing things to and fro as K and I traipsed up and down Manhattan. When I saw it in a store at home, it had a certain je ne sais quoi about it, and, with a New York state in mind, I thought I'd bring it along and try my hat at the whole avant garde thing. So, I bit the bullet and bought the bag. Darling, yes. Practical, no. The straps slid off my shoulders, the cute flower on the outside kept catching on my sleeve. By the time I lugged my books seven blocks, I was through.

At the bottom of Union Square, near Whole Foods, I spotted it: Filene's Basement. Therein lied my salvation. I walked in, perused their purses and grabbed a big black one off the hook. Behind the black bag was a red bag. Red. I quickly switched the two, and bought the bargain bag (Thank you Filene, your Basement -- which really isn't a basement at all. I took two escalators to get there, and your bottom-line prices). I told the lady, no, I didn't want a bag for my bag and hurried out to the lobby where I spilled all contents of my bag(s) onto the tile floor between Filene's Basement and DSW. The Red Bag was a smash hit from the beginning, fitting all the contents of my old bag, a new pair of shoes from DSW (turns out my sensible shoes weren't so sensible) an umbrella, my books (still a dumb idea, even if I found a Central Park Running Guide Dad just had to have for his next trip to the City) and all other necessary contents for a City Girl on the go. The shiny redness of it all helped, too. And the patent-leather (Fake. We're talking Filene's Basement, folks) would be practical for those on-the-spot New York down pours, rain pelts sliding off the patent.

The bag traveled with me for the next nine days. It's contents grew by the day, as did the grooves in my shoulders. But, the straps stayed in place, and everywhere I went the people did shout, "Where oh where did you get that bag?!" New York people. The very Avant Garde themselves! I wanted to say I found it on sale at Barney's to send a mad dash of female shoppers in a frenzy, but instead I said proudly, a little shop at Union Square called Filene's. Back here at home, even a year and a half later, I say, "Filene's Basement in New York." "You're kidding?!" is the typical reaction. "Forty bucks," I say. Oohs and aahs follow.

So, in what was a moment of utter frustration and unpreparedness, I bought what I thought was a bag to fit the bill. Really, what I bought was a sense of self. That red bag has become my signature. I take it where ever I go and when I arrive, I put whatever I find inside. The straps are fraying, the zipper on the inside is becoming loose, and, when the seasons change (patent ain't so hot for summer, or so I'm told) I nearly cry when as it is laid to hibernate for the summer months. I'm utterly amazed at what I find when I empty it: too many lip glosses to count, receipts, business cards, glucose tablets, tiny notebooks, medium-sized notebooks, graph paper, the latest read, lots of change. Just the other day someone asked if anyone had a pen. I quickly opened my red bag, showed off my collection and asked, "Which kind?" It was a felt tip that did the trick. I guess you could say that bag contains my universe. But, you won't ever hear me admit that out loud, at least not to a guy.

twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine

On October the twenty-ninth, twenty-eight days ago today, K and A and I sat in a corner booth.* We dipped bread and ate cheese and talked of the future -- A's future, if you want particulars. Tonight, in a booth across town, it was my turn to toast to the year that is Twenty-seven. What I'll work towards. How I plan to get there and what I'll do once I arrive. Thanks to K and A for the company, the "hear! hear's!" and the three cheers. Until July, K Dear. Then it's your turn!

On another note: baked pies today with Mom, Bibbers and The Chard. Sang Patty Griffin all afternoon. Bought prizes for tomorrow and am now tucked in for a slumber party. Can't wait for the crowd, Grandma's rolls and mashed potatoes, commentary from The Brothers N and after-Turkey BINGO in Alpine, among all other Things Thanksgiving!

*We miss our Meka Mouse. Must remedy that. Quick!

joy ride

It was one last joy ride. Just the girls. A quick out-and-back and we'd be home in time to head to the airport. My fifteen year-old self had never been behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, but this was a golf cart. How hard could it be?

K and I lurched out of the driveway, my feet unaccustomed to the touch-and-go of the gas pedal. We toppled over the gutter and out onto the golf cart path, rain slapping against the roof as we headed toward our new (as in mere moments before) favorite hill. I'd watched my Dad navigate the same path- a little give-and-go at the top and down through the puddle. We were all giggles with him at the helm; giddy at the size of the puddle, the sound of the splashing, and the realization that the rain flaps actually did their job, water rushing down the windshield like the tide headed back out to sea.

It happened so fast. One second K and I were on the path, all smiles and sandwiched between the thick Georgia forest. The next second, K was screaming at the top of her lungs like Drew Barrymore when she spies E.T. in the closet. I couldn't blame her. We completely missed the fairway, our puddle of joy, hole-in-one at the bottom of the hill. I lost control of the golf cart, and we were headed straight for the creek, leaving a trail of trampled saplings behind. The breaks locked and, just as K got her second wind, we came to a screaming, screeching halt, stopping mere inches from the edge. Two wheels tottered over the creek. The other two stayed earth-bound, stuck in soggy forest mud. The cart had stopped. The screaming had stopped. It was as if the forest itself had paused to breathe a sigh of relief. All we could hear was the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof. And the rushing of the creek just below our feet. We were stuck in our own bunker, a literal mud hole, strokes away from our hole-in-one puddle.

After this much needed moments worth of silence (my ears were ringing at a pitch that would shatter a champagne glass, thank you K) we both burst out laughing. We were hysterical! We laughed so hard in fact, that our guffaws threw off our center of gravity, which was the only thing keeping us from diving nose-first into the rushing creek. With a "whoa!" from both our mouths, we ceased all laughing and steadied ourselves. We needed a plan. K would put the cart in reverse, while I pushed the front wheels up and over the rocks at the top of the creek. I lifted the rain hood and inched my way out of the cart, sneakers sinking deeper with each step.

Cold Georgia rain fell upon my hands while I tried to brace both sides of the cart. When I got to three, K was going to gas it, and I was going to push. Up and back. We'd be back at K's parent's house in no time, and no body would have to know. No one would have to know about the last-minute decision to turn back up the hill for one more joy-ride down the slippery slope. No one would have to know that we completely missed the jumbo puddle that pooled itself where the two declines met and formed a perfect parabola-shaped fun-course in my cousin's Peachtree City neighborhood. In fourteen hours, I'd be in Paris and this mess would only be a memory; a blur to the background of the Eiffel Tower and the lavender fields along the French Countryside.

We pushed. Up. Over. Side-to-side. Spinning and spinning, the two back wheels splashed thick dark mud onto my legs. The two front wheels spun circles in the air over the creek. The stench of burning rubber began to seep out of the ground. An encore of smoke followed. This wasn't going to work. We devised a plan which included soliciting the help of K's Boy Scout brother but discluded the involvement of parents, freeing us from any sort of explanation as to why our joy-ride hadn't ended up being so joyful. I quickly made my way back to the house, rain pelting my back as I ran. I told M to come quick; that he just had to see something K and I found. Immediately. He wouldn't be disappointed. As soon as I was out of parent-ear-shot, I spilled the beans.

M arrived on the scene, a veritable hero for the Ladies in Peril. He wasn't amused. In fact, as he shoved sticks and stones under each back tire to help lift us out of the mud (such the Boy Scout) all he said, over and over again, was, "You guys are so stupid. Dad's gonna kill you. You. Are. SO. stupid." His efforts were valiant, yet regrettably, M's assistance wasn't enough. By this time my wrist was literally sprained (I spent the first day in Paris getting x-rays) and my pants were wet up to my thighs. A yellow flash caught my eye. Like a knight in shining armor, Dad arrived in a borrowed yellow slicker and some of Uncle D's boots. He looked...ridiculous. His trusty steed: my sister, who was eager to help (as in poke fun) us in our plight.

With the four of us, one each corner of the cart (K was all dry inside, manning the gas pedal) pushing and pulling in unison, we freed the cart from cascading down the creek. Putt. Putt. Putt. The ride back to the house was literally silent, except for the klunk-rattle-rattle-klunk-klunk of the golf cart and the rain on the roof. K tried to assure me that it had always made that sound; that her Dad never knew why. I didn't buy it. What I came to terms with was the fact that I might have to buy a new golf cart. I held my wrist against my chest the whole way as I subtracted the price of a new golf cart from my Paris spending money, sending me into imaginary overdraft before we even left U.S. soil, or, in this case, U.S. mud. Safely inside the garage, my Dad put the golf cart in park. As he turned the key, he looked into the back seat. "No one has to know about this. It can be our little secret. Go tell Aunt S to stick your pants in the dryer. We've got to get going." I breathed an audible sigh of relief as K and I slipped in the back door.

We ended up spilling the beans. It all came out in a medley of nervous notions and hilarious hiccups, each with our own version of what went wrong. In the end, I was to blame, but no one pointed their finger. Ten minutes after our confessional, we were headed to the airport, Paris bound. What a whirlwind start to the vacation of a lifetime. One of the best pictures from the trip is of all of us, Rich in Dad's arms, in front of the Eiffel Tower. I've got a brace on my wrist placed there by the local docteur in Noisy le Roi all because of a last-minute spin by two teenagers in a golf cart. Looking back, it's one of the best stories I have with K. There are many, so it is hard to choose.

A Christmas Without

The table seemed empty, yet we had to cozy up to fit around the two tables, over-flowing into the living room. We were snug, on new dining chairs amidst Swedish food galore, a tradition which, after 100 years in the Haglund family, is still going strong. The J.H. Haglund boys are still going strong, too. Steven is nearly as tall as Michael (something J.J. is a bit upset about. And, I won't even start on Phillip, who boasts that, despite his lesser stature (he's still above 6'0"), his biceps are thicker than all of his brother's necks. He's right). J.J., Phil, Rich and I rounded out the end of the dining room table, leaving the adults to themselves in the living room. We talked of frat bros, studying abroad, girls, boys, and moving out (real grown-up stuff) as we munched on dup (traditional Swedish roast with sausage and gravy - delectable, if you ask me), goat cheese, flat bread, veggies galore and mashed potatoes to die for, each grabbing second and third plates.
Grandpa's spot sat empty, his patriarchal presence was all but unnoticed, yet we continued on with the rice pudding. R. called the boys in from the football game so we could dish up the rice and dish out the free verse. He was the right man for the job - four boys magically reappeared back at the dinner tables, ready for the rice. Dad and R. stole the show, as they always do, reciting the best on-the-spot poetry. Second place most definitely going to O, K and J, who gave the most darling of performances. Mine was short and sweet. Not even worth recording, but I think RCF got it on video nonetheless.
I love knowing that all over the country - from Chicago to Tennessee, from Irvine to Texas, Boston to Virginia, we all eat the same meal and we all participate in the same traditions: dup and potatoes, and no rice before impromptu poetry. So the years continue, as we think of Grandpa with fondness - He the one who fostered it all, carrying on from previous generations, Grandma at his side, mixing and mashing, spreading the table full of delicious Swedish food and wonderful decorations. God Jul!

by the chimney with chairs

The most cherished gifts are the little ones. And who can resist a miniature? I know exactly who would adore these. And how adorable are they? Love. (I found these on a cup of joe. Here's the link).

In my attempt to become just like S & E, I've taken up collecting little chairs - S added one to my birthday package this year, rounding out E's unbelievably thoughtful gift. The chair is wonderfully geometric and shiny white. It now sits proudly in front of my chair bookends bought on my trip to Chicago in '99. Karli and I took The Windy City by storm. Well, it took us, actually. K, in her sandals and a hooded sweatshirt, (in January, no less) was begging for a blizzard. On our Michigan Avenue shopping spree, she spent her money on mittens and socks (and Frango mints at Marshall Fields, which I proudly partook of. It is, after all, tradition). I bought some adorable chair bookends at a store on Michigan Avenue, the inaugural chair set for my miniature chair collection. Then, to escape the absolute blizzard we found ourselves in, we rode the escalator up to the fifth floor of Borders, with stacks of books and magazines and watched the snow squall roll in off Lake Michigan. K and I make the best of travel companions. I can't wait until she comes home. Less than ten days. We'll sit by the fireplace, in the chairs here on Bryan - last night I stayed up too late making wreathes to attach to the back of each of them - and laugh into the night, digesting the Frango's that are bound to be at Grandma's by Christmas Eve. Can't wait, K. Bring your mittens. It's cold outside.

med/moy in Manhattan

(NaBloPoMo: eight)
There are few things I love more than a great pen. I've got boxes and boxes of fine point Sharpies, which since design school have become The Favorite. Then there's Micron...oh!...and Staedtler...love Staedtler...and Zig...You see? Few things I love more. When felt tip or rolling-writer won't do, there's Bic, tried and true. I've been known to hang on to certain Bics for years. E.M. and Kates, do you recall the turquoise-green Bics I was given that were almost more precious than the boy who bequeathed them? The last one ran out of ink last night. Truly, an emotional evening.

As one can imagine, I've got quite the pen collection. My nightstand drawer houses hundreds hyperbob-ly (that's for you, Linds) speaking, but I've got lots. As not to make the drawer-dwellers feel forsaken, there's a great little wire basket at arms-length, on the bottom shelf of said nightstand. A good pen needn't go friendless. My drafting desks...well, that's another story! A Universe of Pens.

While in NYC a few weeks ago, I found myself in an atrocious situation. After flipping on my book light for some light reading, I pulled out my journal to do some night-light writing. I searched my bag for Mr. Sharpie. What?! But how? The gasping could only go on for so long. K lives in a loft, so there's a "Shh!-the-Loft-Mates-Are-Sleeping" policy posted and strictly enforced. Because of the bitty-barracks, along with the "Shh!" policy, they also live by the credo, "What's yours is mine and what's mine is ours," which was in my favor that penless night. So, Book Light Beacon and I were soon on the grave-shift prowl. Two design students in residence, this place was bound to be a pen-haven. I'd have a 05 Micron between my knuckles in no time. No need to panic.

Alas, alack and, woe indeed, my discoveries were definitely discouraging: a lone Bic. A lone Bic (!) And not my beloved med/moy, but a fine Bic, which totally cramps my style. To make the midnight more calamitous, the pen's top had been chewed to bits. I made my way back to the futon and muffled my despondent yelps. Not only was this the only pen in the household, this proprietary pen had been assaulted. This wasn't the work of a girl. No, no. Girls don't carry out such acts. This was most decidedly the work of a MALE. How can I be sure? Here's how: along with the munch-marks, the pen had been drawn on with another pen. Graffiti-ed. Tattooed. Who does that? Lest we dwell on such savagery, let's go back to me, my book light and K's loft in mid-town Manhattan: Pen in hand. Collected, I passed the night pensively writing away, with the aid of Mr. med/moy Bic. He did quite well for himself.

A few moments ago, here on Yale, a similar situation, involving paper and pen, presented itself. I reached for the closest writing instrument when...What the? My hand felt something prickly. Yucky. I looked down, and there it was. The Innocent Assaulted Pen. I abducted Him! Why? And now He'd settled in to abide with the others: The Felts, The Rollers, The Bics, The Staedlers, and The Zigster? All cozy-like and accepted. My pens. They had risen to the occasion. It's almost as if they shoved Mr. Innocent to the front of the line - The Head of the Class to ensure His usage tonight. I guess it's for the better, you know? Loneliness can get old, right? And, we've got a history now. A good pen needn't go friendless. So, K, Hillary, and Jordan, if you're missing your dear Bic, don't you worry, He's not out on the streets. He's safe here, back in a big Bic family, getting used - in the good way. And, for crying out loud, girls, walk a few doors down to the CVS and buy yourselves some Sharpies. You won't be disappointed, nor will your midnight-meandering guests.

Right Through the Very Heart of It

(NaBloPoMo 6)
Something has to be said for being able to take in Rothko, Albers, Van Gogh and Warhol, then Puccini's Madam Butterfly at the Met, (so spectacular I cried as soon as the curtains parted and Mme's stunning red kimono rippled out, silk rivers of red, before our eyes) explore a 16-story building full of designer fabric and only fabric, inhale the best deep dish apple pie a la mode in all my 25 years, puddle-jump through The City a la Gene Kelly, (the cabby who launched upon me a virtual tsunami from hip down only added to the experience), watch an early Halloweener-gone rubiks-cube try to fit through the subway, dine on the most delectable burger known to Man in a restaurant only equipped for 19 and chat with the owner while doing so (he wasn't so bad his British self!), feel smaller than a dot, equally as important as one, love every minute of it...and still manage to get the best sleep of my life on an air mattress all within a 24-hour period.

I heart NY.

The (W)Right Place at the Right Time: NaBloPoMo Numero Uno

My cousin steals the Internet from The Comfort Inn and feels perfectly comfortable doing it. Who wouldn't tap into someone else's free wireless in New York, where you're stacked so closely together, you're practically living like a Pringles chip? The downside: it's totally unreliable. You're mid-email, mid-episode of "The Office," mid-stalk-session via The Bliggity Blogosphere, and BAM! It's gone! Kaput! Outta here! Comforting? I think not. It was with such discomfort (utter chaos, panic and hysteria) that I found my dear cousin a week ago last Monday.

I'm all for protecting the Innocent, especially when the Innocent includes myself (oops. So much for that) so I'm not naming names, but there are a few of us (I'm rounding down) that have become somewhat, oh how shall we say it, "consumed" (again, rounding down) with a certain blog. The posts, the pictures the documentation of The Perfect Family of Four. It's the whole idea that when a good thing comes along you might as well share it philosophy. Can one ever have too much of a good thing? I'm arguing "Nay" on this one.

K and I arrived home after a tiring day in the City ready to plop ourselves up in the loft and settle in for some "epps," as she says, of our favorite shows. We soon donned our flannel and cozied in goose-down. The Comfort signal read strong. Oh Happy Day. But, business before pleasure, right? I logged into my email account to see what was going on in my little work world. When I realized that it wasn't much, I thought I'd share a few good things with K before we sat back for a sitcom. It wasn't long (a mere instant) before K joined the Fan Club and we were previous-posts surfing the night away when it all took a turn for the worse. Indeed it was dire. The doom was impending. But for K and J, the newest members of the Fan Club, this was an all out Dismal DOOMSDAY!

Before I knew it, K was up on her knees, ibook in hand as if she was offering it up as a sacrifice, shouting in the direction of The Comfort Inn, "Three Bars! Three Bars!" As she inched closer and closer to the ledge of the loft, off the mattresses, I was sure her fleeced knees were about to slide. J joined and seemed to summon the Comfort Inn Wi-Fi gods with some sort of ritual arm dance done from a kneeling position, as the top of the loft allows no more than that, unless you plan to puncture your Pringled head through to floor five. So there they were, imploring the gods of the Internet, but mostly the Comfort Inn, after all, this was indeed entirely their fault. I could only look upon these primordial prayer-sayers and...join right in! Good grief this was an occasion for such prayers; such dances!

Gasping dramatically, K froze. She had found it. The sweet spot. The Cingular of Wi-Fi (more bars in more places.) Such beauty in such a little symbol. We silently inched closer to her as she scrolled the touch-pad with one finger and clicked the refresh button. And there, in 22 West 25th Street, New York, NY, we were back in business. Loyal fans...tried and true...to the death (nearly) in exactly (and I mean exactly) the (W)right place at the right time.

NaBloPoMo
*as always, thanks to E. Here's to the challenge! (Oi!)

I Wanna Be A Part of It: NYC Part I

"New York remains what it has always been: a city of ebb and flow, a city of constant shifts of population and economics, a city of virtually no rest. It is harsh, dirty and dangerous, it is whimsical and fanciful, it is beautiful and soaring--it is not one or another of these things but all of them, all at once, and to fail to accept this paradox is to deny the reality of city existence." |Paul Goldberger|

Here I sit in the loft of 22 West 25th Street, on matress #2 (of 3), on K's laptop, directly across from St. Sava's. St. Sava himself keeps watch over us here, his big eyes peering directly into the apartment and up into the loft. He's watching me now as I type. He's turned his nose at the Sunday flea-market-goers and the noisy cabbies arguing below. This place is amazing. And I feel so little and unimportant in it. It's marvelous!

After being so busy with work before I left, I've been anxious for a little "me" time, looking forward to a little MM experience of my own: seeing all my old friends in the City; walking alone in Central Park. I'd forgotten how big The Park is. What a glorious sight it is, no matter from which area of the City it greets you. I used my feet as a broom as I walked in the Park today...searching for the still-crowned acorns, cloaked in an oak leaf blanket that seems to stretch across most of the lawn near the carrousel. I pocketed a Royal Few. They'll take up residence at home, nesting next to cousins from The Boston Commons and from Grandma's tree with the bird feeder. Sometimes I'm a lot more like my Dad than I thought - scrounging for little bits and pieces of nature from the places I've been. Like him in the best way, that is. As if there is a bad way to be like my Dad. He loves this City.

K knows the history of the carrousel. Her Dad would be proud. We jumped on with childish delight, as soon as the guard let up the gate, and rode round and round. The majority of the riders were adults, which I found to be amusing and magical.



Karli and I walked about the Park for the rest of the afternoon. We talked about The City, K's job, what she's learned after a year of being here as a true City Girl. We had fun imagining Grandpa and Bis among the same sights and streets: the beautiful house in Pelham, Bis's days at NBC and Grandpa's days on Columbia's Crew team, rowing along the Hudson.

There's a little bit of New York City in me, and not just because I love the fast-paced excitement of it all. I feel a sense of heritage when I'm here. It's exciting to be a part of that history, and to take a little piece home in my pocket.

Next up: The West Village, Soho, Chelsea Market, Union Square/ Parsons, The New York Design Center, The D&D Building, Times Square, Harlem/Columbia, etc.

Signing off for now,
Me, Eloise.