May your Thanksgiving be absolutely magical.

Yesterday, cousin Brian, found this magic wand in a store on the Pearl Street Mall in Boulder. It cost almost 300 dollars.

As for my Thanksgiving words of wisdom...be patient. I'm gonna remember this as I head off now for the family hike in Estes Park. And when I say family I mean...my mother, father, brother, Aunt Patty, Uncle Bill, cousin Brian, Cousin Kevin, Aunt Patty, and my other Uncle Bill. Oh yeah....and Ralph, Squiggy, Finn, and Oliver (they're the dogs).

It's official.

I always look better when Naomi takes my picture.

Just compare this picture of me and Collin with the one I posted, two posts below.

How does she do it?

Sometimes when I'm exorbitantly tired...

...the little things set me off. Like having to pay $15 dollars to check a back at Continental. I wont even balk at $5 for a cup of coffee. But to check my bag? This is bad, this is how I know the economy is so bad. Can't they just fold it into the price of the ticket and pretend? Never in my life, in all twenty plus years, has anyone had to pay for one measly bag, under 50 lbs. 

Then of course my anger about the bag becomes anger about the fact that I can't fit into my jeans. And my NY staple of skirts and boots just won't fly in Boulder--or across the US (and I mean this literally) not for less than $15 dollars that is. 

Damn jeans. Damn creams that are too large to put in a carry on bag. This is what happens--anger becomes the river that lubricates my stream of conscience and all the sudden the sky is falling.

Take a deep breath. In. Out.

This too shall pass. It's just been triggered by my post traumatic stress disorder that I contracted after eighteen years of traveling with my father, what a nightmare--that's a whole 'nother post. 

I'm off to pack the tiniest little carry on you've ever seen, with more stuff than you've ever seen. Mary Poppins magic here I come...

I have this really fantastic doctor on the Upper East Side. Let's call him Dr. Tom. Dr. Tom keeps me grounded. Very grounded. I've seen a host of psychologists and psychotherapists and psychiatrists in my day. And I must say that I've never met one quite like Tom. 

I actually don't know what his classification is exactly, but he seems to talk about neuroscience quite a bit. Never one for science class (except for a brief fascination with physics) my taking to Tom is quite unexpected. However, when he talks about the human body and the physiological causes and effects of anxiety and its partners in crime, I find comfort in the tangibility of it all. Lots of words, complicated sentences, am I making sense? How to explain this? Learning about the actual science of  it all, makes me feel like my anxiety is something outside myself--something that is changeable--something that doesn't define who I am. 

So last week, after a mini-meltdown, Dr. Tom asked me to make two lists. Comparative lists, if you will. The first was to be a list of all those things that make up who I am. The next was all those things that make up who I am when anxiety is sittin' pretty in the driver's seat. Easy enough. 

As this week passed things would come to me in spurts. I'd be on the subway and think how when anxiety is around I don't like to sit on the train. Or take pictures. I spend money on silly things that I can't afford (like trashy magazines) and I avoid the gym at all costs. I sleep longer than usual and become lazy. Anxiety manifests itself in a million little ways so the latter list was quite long. But I never really took the time to fill out the former--the list of those things that define me in my truest and purest state. But why need I? I know those things, I didn't have time to write them all down. 

Dr. Tom pounced on this--said that perhaps I didn't write the list because I wasn't actually sure I knew the things that make me me. And that inability to identify is a breeding ground where anxiety festers before it slithers in and fills the cracks. 

But I guess the real problem wasn't my inability to identify certain characteristics--it was my unwillingness to even try.

So here I go, giving it a go. Here's my list of those things that make me who I am. Because at the end of the day, there are some things I know. Tangible. Tangible things, so that when anxiety attempts to knock me over I can simply hold fast to my list, laugh, and say, "weebles wobble but they don't fall down." Me being the weeble of course...

The sound of John Legend's voice tickles my fancy. Okay, okay...so maybe it just plain turns me on. But not in the way you're thinking, but more in the i'll-dance-on-the-subway-platform-if-i-want-to and a this-smile-ain't-cuz-of-any-guy kind of way. Most especially the song "It Don't Have to Change" (Times is hard and things are a'changin'/I pray to God that we can remain the same/All I'm tryin' to say is our love don't have to change/ No it don't have to change)

I clean house best, right before I go away on vacation. 

I'm always going to splash about in rain puddles. 

I'm a Bruce Springsteen kinda gal. Interpret that as you will.

I love wearing baseball caps. And I love history.

I'm always up for a game of kickball, capture the flag, foosball, or an all-night Super Mario Brothers' marathon. Sega, anyone?

I love to ski. Fast. And the man I marry better be able to keep up. 

I like pizza and cheeseburgers and my idea of a perfect date involves one of the aforementioned food items. 

There's nothing like going to the ballpark to see America's pastime. Though, some day I'd like to take in the World Cup.

I think I might elope to Rome. 

I want to see the world. All of it. Prague, Mumbai, Morocco, Singapore. I want to live all across Europe. I want to act on the West End--then I'll get to wear galoshes to and from work every day.

One of my strongest fantasies is that of my lover singing "Isn't she lovely" while wearing only boxer briefs and socks (I know, I know, it sounds a little Risky Business, but maybe Tom Cruise actually did one thing right, albeit a very long time ago--doesn't Valkyrie look awful?). 

I want Yo-Yo Ma to play at my wedding. Impractical? I refuse to be restricted by such labels.

I cannot play the game by anyone else's rules. I just can't. Even if I try, my body rebels.

I love to dance around my apartment. And the wood floors are very conducive to sock-sliding.

I'm a Libra which means my moral compass is always working overtime. Often to my own detriment. 

I hold on to things that any normal person would forgive and forget. I have a memory like a steel trap. 

I've always wanted glasses. I think they're super sexy.

I'm getting the sense that this is getting to be too much all at once, but I'm sure more will follow as it comes.  

On a separate note, I got to catch Twilight with my lovelies. And I hadn't realized how much I've missed my friends. I laughed through the entire thing, but didn't feel so bad cuz Sarah talked through the entire thing. This didn't stop her from shooting dirty looks my way for my incessant giggles (oh, I have, have, have missed her being all the way in Chicago).

Our Equus superstar...

So good looking. My number goes up just by being in their vicinity...

I can't sleep.

I blame this. I'm on the third already. I was going so fast I took a break and did not allow myself to read yesterday. But now I can't sleep. And I feel Edward and Bella beckoning. Not to mention my allergy-attack-induced, stuffed-up nose insn't helping the case for a snooze-fest either. 

The thing is...I'm not even convinced that the books are that well written. Stephenie Meyer doesn't have anything on J.K. Rowling. But...I've been so craving a good love story and a little fun that it doesn't even matter.

Back to the book. Blogging must wait. 

For all of you who were worried...

...I'm no longer sleeping on an air mattress. Let the cheering begin. 

So here are some pics of the room as it now looks. Note: this might be boring for anyone other than immediate family, but indulge me please. 

And For those who don't know me really well, know this: this girl loves her bed--reading, sleeping, napping, oh my!

For a while there (okay, okay a brief day) the bed was in danger of looking like a hospital bed--twin bed, all white, think about it. And then Target came to my rescue. Love, love, love me some Target. A few pillows and a deliciously, comfortable throw (despite the fact that it hoards static electricity in its folds) make all the difference.

Please note the bins up top. You gotta get creative when it comes to storage in this city. Eventually I'll find a ladder so I can space them out evenly...

I think life might be a lot like the 1 train.

Often too crowded. Sometimes too slow. Most of the time you're in transition between one platform and the next. Too often you just want to get to where you're going. And then just when you think darkness is the only thing you'll ever know, you reach Dyckman street and the sun comes pouring in. 

And for all you non-New Yorkers out there, the 1 train is part of our undeground subway system. It runs from South Ferry (the low end of the island) all the way up to the Bronx. And it happens to be my most often used and most convenient mode of transportation. Dyckman Street is way up there in the Bronx just south of 210 and the train ends at 245h street.

Four Simple Rules

If I were to write a how-to book on overcoming depression, it would boil down to four simple rules.

1. eat well (eat what you like, when you like, with a focus on nourishing the body)

2. get on a regular sleep schedule (go to bed at a reasonable hour and get up at a reasonable hour--preferably around the same time each morning and evening)

3. exercise (not for vanity's sake, but because the body likes it, craves it, desires to move and dance and jump around--the body wants to be challenged)

4. and finally...always have a good book to read

Tonight, after an absolutely lovely dinner with my oh-so-generous aunt and uncle, at what's quickly becoming one of my favorite Upper West Side haunts, good enough to eat, I found myself with nothing to do.

see I'll surprise you all with a picture every once in a while, when you least expect it

Saturday night in Manhattan, the world was my oyster, anything was possible. Or was it? I've recently come to the realization that all my gal pals are in committed relationships. This means no single strumpets to dance the night away with in search of that oh-so-perfect--he's-the-one male to bring home to mom and dad. What's a girl to do? Hit up the bars by myself? I don't think so. I have pride enough to know when to hide away in my oh-it-needs-to-be-cleaned New York apartment. 

I weighed my options. I could...watch this week's Grey's Anatomy a second time, since the show is finally getting good again, and now I get to drool (quite unexpectedly mind you) over Christina's new love interest, Dr. Owen Hunt. Tangent alert: I used to think the most important thing on my love list (you know, the list where you enumerate the qualities of your perfect mate so that the universe can then bring him to you) was that he made me laugh and could laugh at himself. I now think this is a very close second to... manliness--I know, I know, manliness, what is that? I don't know how to describe it, but you know it when you see it, and you most certainly can feel it. I don't have time or patience any more to mess around with boys. Oh gosh, got way off topic there for a second...so I could watch Grey's, or hit up a movie. No, no, neither of those options was quite right. And then it hit me. Yes. I would got to Barnes and Noble and get the first book in the Twilight series. It was my turn to succumb to the teeth of a vampire. 

I got there, asked the sales associate where I might find said book and he pointed me towards the teen section--oh wait...no, no, teen section? A mighty blow. I was nothing, if not past the teen years. Right? Okay, so maybe I was just slightly embarrassed because this request in conjunction with the enormous black bow that was now pinning back my bangs  knocked me down a few pegs. But a good book is a good book and nothing to be ashamed of. So after a moment of lowering my reddened cheeks, I marched proudly to the teen section and in doing so honored that part of me that will always be the seventeen-year-old who spent her weekends curled up with the best company a girl can hope for (apart from Dr. Hunt)--a good book.

Life in New York can be hard. All the time.  Every day. And being twenty-three ain't no slice of pie. In fact, I think it might be harder than those storied teenage years. So a million times a day, I am forced to remind myself that this too shall pass. And a million times a day I am forced to make the active choice to pursue happiness.

This is all to say that, that choice is always easier when you're well rested with something to read and friends to share a lovely and indulgent meal with. Now, if I could only find my way to the gym.

Every once in a while...

...when the spirits need some lifting, a little magic happens. 

I was walking home when I saw it--the tree. Yes, the tree. That tree. The tree we wait for all year long. It was wrapped in a blanket, perched on a truck, and as it slowly crawled along Broadway, led and followed by faithful police escorts, I thought...I'm so lucky to live in New York. I might never again see the rather subdued procession of this famed tree, but for one fleeting moment tonight, as it rolled by, not only did I get to see it, but I watched with the wonder of a child who knows that Christmas is just around the corner.

That being said, let's give Thanksgiving its due share. I can't wait. I'm counting down the days 'till I head to Colorado and into all out familial heaven!

A girl can't kiss and tell.

But for all you kind and curious ones who inquired about "the blind date" I can say this...he was totally lovely. We enjoyed Italian food right up the street with a few of his friends from the city (he was visiting from out of town). And then journeyed to K-town to get our karaoke on. As kind as he was, I felt the true success of the night was the simple fact that I went (my mom had doubts right up until he picked me up). I went to dinner, chose to continue on to karaoke, and even sang two songs. Yael Naim. And Celine. Yes, that Celine. Celine Dion. And I was kinda good. Okay, okay...I was fine. The point is I had fun and got out there and did something I've never done before, but am more than willing to try again. The worst thing you can come away with is a free meal and a blog-worth story.

Thought I must say one of the highlights of the evening came when his friend told me I was the spitting image of Jennifer Connelly. I think it was the new part down the middle he was responding to.

One day Jennifer, one day.

I'll be better (tomorrow).

Tomorrow I'll get up at a reasonable hour

Tomorrow I'll survive on more than just chocolate chip cookies

Tomorrow I'll visit my long lost friend, the park

Tomorrow I'll go to work, since tomorrow I have work

Tomorrow I'll take a shower before 4 pm

Yes, I will be better. Tomorrow.

The times they are a-changin'

My first semester of college I didn't own a hair brush. I was an ardent subscriber to the school of thought that professed beauty lie somewhere between well-coiffed and au-natural (really, really au-natural). 

But last night, after searching my apartment (gorilla style) for the one hairbrush I own--because the thing that concerned me most about the impending blind date was how my hair looked--I knew that I had come away from school with so much more than a BFA. And that I was that much closer to becoming my mother.

Let's be better

I stole this from here who borrowed it from here. 

We no longer have an excuse. It's time to be better. Better fathers, better citizens, better everything. 

{The Oprah Winfrey Show}

As he looked out Tuesday night through the bulletproof glass, in a park named for a Civil War general, he had to see the truth on people's faces. We are the ones we've been waiting for, he liked to say, but people were waiting for him, waiting for someone to finish what a King began.

{Nancy Gibbs, writer for Time magazine}

This election will always be remembered as the dawning of a new era, the first time an African American was elected president. But the amazing thing is that in many ways the election had little to do with race. Americans did not elect him because he was black, or in spite of that fact--people voted for him because they believed he could deliver on a promise of change. The first action he took as president elect was to walk out into Chicago's Grant park and deliver a speech. He didn't walk out triumphantly. He came out sobered, steady, and knowing. He was a man humbled. And if that is any indication of the future then I couldn't be more hopeful. 

I'm going on a blind date this weekend.

My first one ever. How's that for challenging myself?

Si se puede.

It is at moments like this that I become keenly aware of the inherent failing of words. Sometimes they are just not enough. However, years from now when my children ask me where I was when the face of history changed, it will go something like this...

I was in Brooklyn, taking acting class where the focus of the night was will and energy--I know, I know sometimes the push of an acting class can seem so ridiculous, but for this one night it was anything but. We stopped work around nine and moved next door where we drank ourselves silly and gorged on expensive chocolates as the masks of Bali, that adorned the walls, smiled down on us. The reports were already good, as they had been for days, so a breeze of optimism hovered like a promise. 

It was practically done. Obama had taken Pennsylvania, and as the CNN expert did everything he could to get McCain to a hypothetical 270 electoral votes, he came up short each and every time. 266, that was McCain's best chance. But if we Americans learned anything eight years ago, it is that things are not always as they seem. 

I was absorbed in a conversation when it happened. I don't know what we were talking about, but I turned and there it was. The ticker. The promise fulfilled. The hope that we longed to taste: the ticker running across CNN's screen declared Obama as the president elect. Everything shifted. The texture of the air changed. The reverberations of that moment will be felt for generations to come. 

I will never, ever forget the emotion that took my body captive. It was, is, beyond words. A mixture of joy, disbelief, shock, pride, understanding, gratitude, and above all, hope. We jumped, danced, started, stared in silence, made phone calls, clapped our hands, hugged our friends, took pictures, and all throughout I desperately tried to remember every detail--to make tangible the intangible. But I couldn't. And that's when I realized, I mean really realized, this is so much bigger than all of us. 

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not naive enough to think one person can change a country (well, maybe they can because Bush sure did something) and I know the system is flawed, perhaps beyond repair. But for this one night I was going to celebrate. Celebrate that 13 million more voters than ever before cast a ballot. Celebrate that a young, vibrant, African-American family would be moving into the White-House. Celebrate that Virginia, yes Virginia, went blue. Celebrate that the American people did what sixty years ago, even ten years ago, even ten months ago, many believed impossible.

And celebrate we did. We took to the streets, chanting, cheering, talking to random strangers--people we'd usually avoid because the differences between us seemed too great to overcome. And as the night ended, and I headed back to Manhattan, the taxi came to a light on a street that was overrun with people. The taxi could do nothing but crawl. And what's a girl to do in a moment like that but hang out the window and join in? I'll most likely never again see most of the people I met on Tuesday night, but I'll carry them with me forever, because on Tuesday night, the fourth of November, I met the best of what America has to offer. 

I drank champagne on a weeknight.

And celebrated the fact that the people of this country just cracked it all wide open.

I wore bright red lipstick today.

And pledged that one day I'll run a marathon. 

I parted my hair down the middle today.

Two days ago, walking past Lululemon (a very expensive, but very chic workout wear store), I saw these words...

Do something today that scares you.

In the spirit of October's hallmark holiday, Halloween, that was the thrust of the window display. So this got me thinking. First, that not only should I do something each day that scares me, but secondly, that each month should have a focus. 

So, November.... Let's think... Well, Thanksgiving of course. And what's that about again? I'm having visions of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and a pre-school field trip that involved dressing up as a pilgrim one day, and Indian the next (Native American rather, but at that point political correctness hadn't quite taken hold) and visiting the local grocery store (we were even on the news--I do remember that). 

Back to the point. Oh yes, so Thanksgiving has something to do with sharing, right? Or maybe it's as easy as this...giving thanks. 

Perfect, no problem. Giving thanks. But on top of that I need a challenge, I need to scare myself (even if I am a month too late), and so this is my proposition....

For this one month, challenge your idea of yourself. 

Example: I believe myself to be a tremendously bad cook. So, one day I might put on my Eiffel tower apron, channel my 1950's housewife, and dare to create a kitchen masterpiece that far exceeds my expectations.

We all hang on to these images of ourselves that then limit who we are. Who we might be.  I'm fat. I'm thin. I'm wealthy. I'm old. I'm immature. I'm an actor. I'm a banker. I only wear black. I never take the subway. I can't take photos. But we're so much more than a label that we, or anyone else can assign to us. I'm a democrat. I'm republican. Liberal, right-wing, black, white, conservative, tall, short, modest, moderate, hip, dowdy, southern, christian, catholic, jewish. Right. Wrong. We will never be able to know the full depths of who we are, or what we are capable of. We just need to go in search, to try new things, to attempt what others would never expect of us. 

So today, I parted my hair down the center. Sounds simple, right? Silly, even. But after 17 years of parting it to the right or to the left, this simple action created a crack and, like Alice, down the rabbit-hole I fell. Well, jumped. And it felt good, falling--liberating and exciting. And I'm hoping (and betting on the fact) that one crack yields another and another and another--until this surface that we all hide behind falls away to reveal images we never dreamt possible.

Because the thing is, as different as we all are, I imagine we have more connecting us than we care to admit. And as our nation embarks on an historic election, I think it's important that we remember that at the end of the day we all want the same thing. Peace and love and hope for a better future. And isn't that what the first Thanksgiving was all about? The Pilgrim's and Indian's realization that they had more in common than they first believed.

One of the first civilians into space said that all politicians should be forced to a trip to the moon so that they could turn around and see that the only borders that exist are the ones that man has created. 

It's one world we live in and it's about time we started giving it the kind of thanks it deserves.