When in Houston...

...do as the natives do. And voyage to the best texmex food found...well, anywhere: Lupe Tortillas. There are now several locations around town, but nothing beats the original, off of the Katy Freeway.

Start with a handful of friends.

Then down a giant margarita.

Enjoy the chips with the unparallelled bean dip.

And no need to open a menu... finish it off with beef fajitas for two (multiplied as many times as need be). The sizzle as they bring it your table is enough to keep you coming back time after time.

If only they had one in New York.

This is the story of how I fell in love and came to know the existence of an afterlife.

Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For they must needs be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent. In this divine glass they see face to face; and their conversation in free, as well as pure. That is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, because immortal. 

William Penn

 

It's been two years now. I was in Australia when it happened. We were staying at two separate hotels. The phone call reached our first hotel an hour after we left. And so I was left to live out the rest of my vacation in ignorant bliss. Left to enjoy the wedding for which I had traveled there. Left to enjoy the post-Christmas stupor. The New Year's hoopla. 

Waiting for the plane from California to Texas was the first chance I had to check my voicemail. Nothing. When we finally arrived home there was a message on the answering machine from a school administrator and immediately I knew something was wrong. I opted to pick up Dolly from the kennel--I opted for an escape, I wanted to be out of the house, out from under my parent's worried glances. I wanted to be on my own when I heard the news. All it took was one phone call, from my end. We had lost Jared. Over a week ago. The funeral had happened.  And life would go on. But it would be different. Altered. Absent. And then my phone finally registered all the hidden voice mails. 

Jared was my go-to relationship expert. He got me through my first year boy crazy phase, when life was a veritable ring-around-the-rosy of upper-classmen.  He explained to me that boys were like colleges. You had the "safety" schools, the "target" schools, and the "reach" schools. I was settling for "target" schools when what I really deserved were "reach" schools. And he was a quiet presence of strength and laughter as I lapsed into a deep sadness. We never got together, which was saying something, because Jared got together with many a girl. He was a ladies man if ever there was one, but in the best possible way. He always told me that he'd find me a guy, the guy--it was just a matter of finding one smart enough. 

He found me one, alright. Soon after he passed was when I met guy #1/2. And I knew it was his doing. I saw a medium in Lillydale the following summer and she told me that a boy was coming to her. I knew it was Jared. Immediately, I knew. And she said that he nodded his head as I mentioned  guy #1/2--that Jared liked him quite a bit. He approved, if you will.

But as I walked away from the session, I thought, how convenient. This was just me grasping at straws, wanting something so badly I willed it into existence. But when I listened to the tape (they tape the conversation for you and give it to you at the end) what struck me most was the medium's laughter. Her laughter actually danced. And I knew she had been charmed by someone, something much greater than myself. And Jared was the answer. I told her he'd find me a man and she nodded her head in agreement saying he was telling her "rosebud"--that would be the sign from him that he approved of the guy. Funny, that morning I had made a Citizen Kane joke uttering that infamous line myself. 

I'll never forget the early hours of January 1, 2007. I was lying in bed. It was a few days since he'd passed, and yet I was still swathed in my own ignorance. And I felt a happiness unlike anything I'd ever known before or since. It was a happiness that brought with it such clarity. It didn't last, of course. But I've felt the repercussions of that moment many times in the subsequent years. That's what Jared gave me. In the midst of depression he reminded me what the light on the other side looked like. He literally gave me hope. 

For the most part I've never felt a great sadness, or a great loss at his passing. It was always so clear to me that Jared was not gone. He had just taken on a different form. There are times that I miss him. Times that I wish I could call him up. Times that I'd like to complain about the latest guy. So I just start speaking. 

I feel him less now--than I used to. But I think this is a good thing. I think it means he's having more fun up there and trusting that we'll all be okay without him. 

Two nights after I met with the medium I was passing the amphitheatre at Chautauqua. The Celtic Tenors were singing and I arrived right as they began their last song. This song is dedicated to lost love, they said, and then began in with the Air Supply tune that was on all those Burger King commercials about a year ago, "I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you..." And each one of the tenors pulled out a long stemmed red rose to hand to a member of the audience. Standing outside the auditorium, the tears streamed down my cheeks. The last thing Jared and I ever did together was sing that song for an absolutely ridiculous liberal arts project. The song couldn't be more perfect--it's such a cheese fest that while in some ways the lyrics ring true--you can't help but smile all the way through it. 

I miss Jared. So much. But when I think of him, all I can do is smile. And remember. Remember how he made me laugh. Remember how he sometimes made me cringe. And remember that he'll make good on his promise. So for now I'll just keep waiting. Waiting for the rosebud.

Post Christmas blues? No thank you...I'll take another Holiday.

 

When I get to the age that demands I host a holiday party, it's gonna be in celebration of Boxing Day. It's like the second half of Christmas and I can't understand why we don't celebrate it here in the states. 

Boxing Day 2006. Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia. With Stephen. One of a a series of absolutely ridiculous photos taken on the beach.

Polaroids from the edge (or Christmas magic).

Christmas

Yesterday I woke to the pitter-patter of raindrops and I knew it would be a good day. Most would view this sign as ominous, foretelling of disaster. Not me. It can't really snow on Christmas--not here in Texas where the temperature is in the 70's. So rain, rain is my version of snow.

Perhaps it was a warning sign and I missed it. The grinch took strong hold of my heart yesterday and wouldn't let go. Christmas? Nah, no thanks. I wanted nothing to do with it. This would be the first Christmas that I--I who believed in Santa Claus long after it was cool to do so--would eschew Christmas and all its surrounding hoopla. 

I wrapped presents angrily, cursing the fact that I'm no better at gift-wrapping now than I was at the age of seven, and trod all over the house allowing my own personal rain cloud to trail after.

Then, miraculously, a shift began to take place. For this I credit the following three things:

1. insta-glamour in retractable form: my holiday lipstick, "party red"

2. our Christmas Eve tradition: a dinner of nothing but appetizers (and a Christmas miracle--i found the one thing in the kitchen that i'm skilled at making: i can make a cocktail sauce that will make you see the face of God)

3. the movie Love Actually. talk of the film forced my brother and me to rush out and get it and two minutes into the thing i was donning metaphorical bells and whistles and ready to package myself as a Christmas wreath.

Ahhh, relief. After all, midnight mass on Christmas Eve is my favorite event of the year and I did not want to suck the joy out of that. 

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm not the most religious of people. But I was raised a good Catholic girl. And believe it or not I take a tremendous amount of pride in this. We went to church, as a family, every Sunday. On Wednesdays I would head to CCE classes. I was taught to dress appropriately to enter a place of worship, even if it moonlit as a school cafeteria the other six days of the week. And I was taught that you waited to exit until after the priest had left. And I abided this, despite the two small quarters in my tiny fist pulling me toward the rec room and the promise of doughnuts. 

There are things I disagree with about the church. About organized religion in general. But making the sign of the cross feels more like home than anything else I know. The thing is...being Catholic isn't just something I practice (or don't)...it's who I am. I feel it in my bones. It's part of the reason I so love Pat Conroy: he writes from a Southern, Catholic perspective and innately I understand that. 

I'll never forget the day I sat in church and the priest said the reason we read the Bible again, and again, the same passages over and over is because the Bible is not the literal word of God, it is something that is meant to be studied and interpreted. The Bible was not written by God, but by men--flawed men struggling to survive in a difficult, burgeoning world--men who were attempting to build empires. And therein lies the true gift of the Holy Spirit--the Holy Spirit which represents the ability of the church to change and grow and adapt to a world very different from the time when the Bible was put down on paper. The Holy Spirit is in each of us, meaning God is in each of us, and hence there are times when the best we can do is listen to our heart. Because sometimes what we know in our bones, in our heart, trumps anything we could read, even if it is the Bible we're reading.

I never feel the Spirit more strongly than Christmas Eve mass. 11 pm. The witching hour. We return to my brother's high school where we gather in the auditorium and sit amidst friends, family members, complete strangers. And in that one hour I feel and see everything. I can literally taste love. 

Last night the sermon was about just that: love. The gift of love. Nothing asked of in return. A father's love. Heavenly Father. And as many time's as I've heard that phrase, child of God, last night was the first time I really heard it. God doesn't love us as a ruler, an overseer, he loves us as a father--a parent. 

And so (since this post has gone on entirely too long) Merry Christmas. Here's to celebrating family (spiritual and otherwise) and love that transcends understanding and religious devisions. 

'tis the season.

I knew it was time to leave NY when I witnessed a near fight. Let me set the scene for you: It's my last day at the department store job. It's also the Saturday before Christmas. I'm on my lunch break. There are very few chairs and a very many people. Two older women approach one table at the same time. One sits. The other stares incredulously before declaring that she was there first and thus entitled to the table. The demander wins the fight only when she begins lobbing "Merry Christmas"s like ammunition. 

It was amazing. Try it. "Merry Christmas" is one potent insult when spoken with just enough vim and venom. 

So now I'm in Houston braving the department stores here. And after milling and seething through today's crowds at Memorial City, I'm left wondering...what recession? That is until my mother reminds me of the story she saw on the news of a 52 year-old-man who lost his job and was thereby forced to take work as a janitor and apply for food stamps. They showed his fridge on the news. He had nothing in it. And he had eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner the night before. 

My mom told us it would be a lean Christmas this year. But let's be honest I'll never really know a lean Christmas (well, I don't want to say never because things can change in a heartbeat, but to a large degree, it's doubtful). But I fear my mom still thinks my brother and I measure Christmas by how many presents are under the tree. We don't. I couldn't really care less. Yes, yes, sometimes I get obsessed by the little things I've asked for, but it's more about knowing I've been heard. Knowing someone's listened to what I had to say or that they've thought about me. It really is the thought that counts. Cliche, but so true. 

While perusing the stores in Boulder over Thanksgiving, cousin Brian pulled a Christmas card off the rack. It said something to the extent of Christmas: Celebrating the Birth of Santa Claus. It was meant to be funny (well, satirical), but the funniest (or saddest) part was how long it took  Brian and myself to figure out the joke. It seemed like a statement. A true statement. I may not be a very religious person, but I'm quite sure that the spirit of Christmas was nowhere to be found in that mall today, or in the little cafe on my last day of work.  

So here's the thing. I'm okay with a person celebrating Christmas because of the birth of Santa Claus. So long as we're clear on what Santa Claus is:

He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence . We should have no enjoyment except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished...Is it all real? In all the world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

So, let me say I'm thankful for him and Him. And the grace and love and faith that both bring into my life on a daily basis. And guess what? Those things don't require gift wrapping.

On a separate note: 

      Addendum to yesterday's post. 

Let me be clear about this...I loathe Speidi. With everything in me. Well, not everything...because that would mean I actually care about the two of them and I don't. Word to the wise: Heidi, when you tell everyone about your wedding and feel the need to justify it by describing the night-before-tequila, something is amiss. And Spencer when she answers your question in the courtroom by saying, "I shouldn't have to tell you..." she's right. She shouldn't have had to tell you. Get your head out of your ass.

(Dear blog-spot-lover I'm sorry I've just sunk to new lows by blemishing your facade with Speidi ranting, but I had to get it off my chest.)

And in other news....

Dear husband-to-be,

I know I said I'd mary you in the rain, but this would be mighty fine too...

Saw it on A Cup of Jo's blog, but check out the originals here.

I'm coming out of THE HILLS closet.

I like Lauren a lot. I'm even a fan of Lo. But I love Whitney. And therefore can't wait for the series premiere of THE CITY. 

Last week, a girl at work said I looked like her, Whitney that is. Now listen, I have plenty of delusions about what I look like, this is not one of them. Maybe my New Year's resolution will be to get a body just like hers (well, like the one she had before she too took the Hollywood skinny pill). 

Ahh, who am I kidding. I'm better off going with my already decided upon resolution of taking up swimming. After all, when I meet Michael Phelps I want to have something to talk about. 

Disclaimer.

dear husband-to-be,

i have a leaky left eye. this means i sometimes have to do my makeup twice. nobody knows the cause. it began two years ago. and because of this i'll often be late. and then other times i'll show up to your office christmas party with only one eye done. 

i'll cry at the silly things. and i won't always say the right thing. half the time i won't actually say anything at all--chalk it up to my irish-catholic roots--and you'll have no idea what i'm thinking or feeling. but i'll work on this.

i'll dance around the house in just my socks and underwear. a lot. and i'll expect you to join in. i'll always play in the snow. snow fights. snow angels. i'll want to wake up in the middle of the night--the silent night--when the snow is untouched. and i'll pretend that we--just the two of us--make up the whole of the world. i'll sing in the shower and that's how you'll know i'm happy. i'll dust and vacuum and i'll chuckle at your dirty socks under the bed. but when i ask you to pick them up i'll expect you to do it. and i'll hope for surprises. silly ones. little ones. or flowers. 

for at least a little while, our kids will be raised in Montclair. it's where my parents started out. and it's where i spent summers. i have roots there. we'll ride our bikes and make friends with the neighbors. the kids will play soccer and sign up for little league. and they will be safe. the schools are good. and we'll be happy. 

and maybe we'll live in Europe. for a time. on a cobble stone street amidst a thousand years of history. and we'll make our own history. and we'll make our own roots. 

and we'll go skiing and always make time for the other's in-laws. and we'll exchange homemade gifts and start silly traditions. i love silly traditions. and if you'd let me i'd marry you in the rain. just so long as i could see your eyes. 

i'll never be the perfect wife. the put-together wife. i'll listen to corny music and watch too much t.v. and i'll eat too many m&ms. and i won't cook well. i probably won't cook at all. i'll need you for that. i'll make a mean salad and help the kids make jello, but you'll have to make the cupcakes for the school bakesale. 

oh, and i have smelly feet. and sometimes i wake up at night with a charlie's horse. and i'll always want to play charades. and when we go to the beach i won't tan.  i'll cover myself in spf 50 and a long t-shirt. but that won't stop me from spending all afternoon bobbing along with the waves or attempting to surf. i'll fall off every time but laugh all the while. 

and sometimes i'll want to go to the arcade to play air hockey and foosball. while other times i'll stay up all night playing video games. 

but at Christmas time i'll need you to drive around the suburbs with me just to see all the lights. and watch it's a wonderful life and the sound of music. and kiss me like it's the first time.

just so you know.

love,

me

image stolen from Ned Frisk phtography/Corbis (a la google image search)

Happy Birthday Mom...

my best friend, role model, and greatest advocate. and the most beautiful woman i've ever known.

Today it snowed and snowed and snowed.

And I slid all the way to work.

I was tagged.

4 things I did today

1. fought off the worst headache I've ever known

2. fell asleep at nine pm, only to be awakened at 12 am (I dreamt that W. died right before the end of his term--of completely natural causes)

3. checked the widgit and was endlessly tickled when I saw that someone searched for the blog on google using this phrase..."brunettes that fill out their jeans" (yeah, baby); this was definitely better than last week when someone searched under "brunette bombshell, died 2008"

4. willed the phone to ring. It didn't. 

4 things on to do list

1. pack. I'm going home on Sunday. yum, yum yum...

2. clean my room. it's still on the to do list. still--how did I get to this point?

3. fall back asleep.

4. prepare for tomorrow's last minute audition. I have to sing--uh oh.

4 guilty pleasures

1. watching re-runs of Frasier

2. the television show Californication

3. Starbucks and The Light Choice (no surprise there)

4. Facebook hunting old flames. I'm trying to stop, I promise. I've even cut most of them off my Friend's list so that I can't actually stalk them.

4 random facts

1. I too, shill, can't stand to wear my hair down. It makes me feel too glamorous. Odd, I know.

2. Sometimes I think I missed my calling. In fact, all the time--I should have been an Olympian. Or a competitive eater. It's a sport, you know.

3. I once went on a kind of date with famed American playwright Sam Shepard. He was very tall and cupped the back of my neck with his hand (this is singlehandedly (no pun intended) the sexiest gesture any man has ever directed toward me). I remember Amy Winehouse was playing on the radio. 

4. today one of the little girls I babysat for had put the figurines of Mary and Joseph (Christmas decorations) face down on her rocking chair. I asked her what they were doing there and she said they were in time out. Mary and Joseph were in time out--it was amazing, kids are amazing.

Tag...you're it!

Sheila, Nicole, Phoebe, Shilvia, Micaela

I know, I know I chose 5, so sue me.

December's 7th post.

Last night I looked over at my blog archive and noticed that the month of December had a sad, little 6 in parenthesis. Six? Really? Only six, huh. 

There it was...a number letting me know just how low my creative reserve actually is. 

I decided to start this blog sometime in June. I didn't really get started until August. When I told my parents what I was going to do they had a fit. Dangerous...that's what they kept saying. And before I knew what was happening the fit became a fight and I postponed all plans. Why was the question they kept asking. Why not keep a journal? A diary? Why not just have it be private?

They were all valid questions. 

I was an odd child. No denying it. I kissed my bears goodbye whenever I left home and asked them to be good. I held funerals for browning-leaves that fell of the plants when I was dusting (a weekly chore). I spent hours in the hall closet, under the stairs. My childhood was perfection. Bliss. I grew up down the street from my public elementary school. When I got old enough to walk there by myself I would make up stories on the way. Sometimes, I spoke them aloud. Others, I allowed to silently pulse to the push of my white Keds. I used to wake up at six in the morning to get in a good hour of reading before I had to get ready. And in the afternoons when I drove with my mom to downtown Dallas to pick up my brother, I would pass the time engrossed in the Boxcar children adventure. I used to love sick days. It meant more time to read. And if I wasn't reading. I was pretending, play-acting, living in a world of a million make-believe miracles. I tried to keep a journal, but my mind moved faster than my pen and I couldn't sit still long enough to persist--not when I had a play-date in the fort across the street. 

As I got older classwork and extracurriculars eclipsed free-time. I stopped reading. Writing became a task relegated to English class. And again I tried with the journal. Not much more success. The things I wrote about seemed so petty, so mundane--so not worth writing about. 

And at another point acting took over. It became the greatest of my loves. But I was always aware that my passion for theatre came from my love of literature. My senior year of high school when that passion began to wane, all it took was one reading of John Guare's Six Degrees of Separation and I was back, more zealous than ever before. 

What I hadn't realized, until  started blogging that is, is how much I love shaping words myself. Making my own life tangible--that's what this blog is about. So that ten years from now, twenty, I'll get to show my husband and my children what I was doing in December of '08. So yes, this thing could be private, but thank god it's not, otherwise I'd only write about boys and then spend the rest of the time complaining (mental note: work on that latter thing in everyday life--New Year's Resolution perhaps?). It's the same reason plays are performed for an audience--sometimes we need that outside element--it's a challenge--a call to embrace the best version of ourselves. 

So... while I many now feel the pressure to actually write well, since (ghasp) people actually read this--not too many, but just enough--and this leads to a lack of posts all together--I'll work on getting back to celebrating the mundane things (since now I'm mature enough to do this (cough, giggle, giggle))--you know, back to my roots. 

And who knows I may even start to write a little bit more about boys?

a list of 10 delicious little secrets.

So the lovely shill has given me an award and thus bestowed on me the arduous task of listing 10 very honest things about my oh so secretive life...and since we all know how much I love making lists forgive me if I go beyond 10. does that negate the award?

1. for many years my family had an artificial Christmas tree. what was the catalyst for this decision? well, since you asked... when I was three I was wandering around the backyard and decided to dig up a molasses cookie I had buried there for safe-keeping, weeks before. turns out those things ain't so easy to eat when they've begun the process of fossilization. i started choking, but the parents couldn't hear my cries for help since they were inside fighting over the fresh fir that was shedding all over the living room floor. not to worry, my little fists proved quite effective against the glass window. needless to say it was many years before we ventured back to fresh foliage and to this day no one knows if i was eating the fabled molasses cookie or if it was maybe just a piece of tree bark.  

2. for more years than i'd like to admit I thought the response to a sneeze was gablessyou. i didn't understand that it was meant to be God bless you. 

3. one time, in high school, i accidentally told a guy i loved him. i didn't mean it that way--it just came out. i just mean it in the you're so funny you make me want to pee my pants and my heart kinda flutters when i see you way. turns out it was a brilliant mistake because he turned out to be something of a jerk.

4. i had my first kiss the day before i graduated high school. we dated for a month before ever confessing to ourselves that that's what we were doing. our first date--we saw Kill Bill Volume II. he liked scooby-doo and phish, and had homie figurines in compromising positions, glued all over the inside of his jeep. he always bowled like a 260. and he had no idea what Juilliard was. he was way too cool for me. and yet he treated me with more respect than any guy i've ever known. 

5. the best dream i've ever had involved me being pregnant. it was the most glorious feeling. ever. 

6. the only recurring dream i've had involves me leaving my fiancee at the alter. in each dream the man is always someone i know but with whom i have no romantic involvement or feelings. yet the dreams always come when i start to like someone a little too much. 

7. i've fallen in love one and a half times. getting over guy #1 is the second hardest thing i've ever had to do (someday maybe i'll admit to the first). and guy #1/2 i knew for a night. but it's the closest thing i've ever experienced to love at first sight, because after that one night i knew guy #1/2 was the actual manifestation of everything i could ever hope for. and for the first time since meeting guy #1, i knew there was someone better out there.

8. i believe in choice. we make choices--countless choices--everyday. we wake up and choose to be happy, to be healthy, honest, trustworthy, a person of integrity--the list goes on and on. i do not believe that we choose to fall in love--if only it was that easy. if we could choose to fall in love, life might be a lot easier. however, i do believe that what we do with the love, once we have it--therein lies the choice. to honor it, to nourish it, to accept it, to rebuke, to systematically stamp it out--those are the choices we make everyday. that's what i should have said when he-who-shall-not-be-named and I had this conversation. instead of sitting there silently and nodding in agreement. i pledge to someday tell him everything. absolutely everything. 

9. i believe very strongly in traditions. chief among them...watching The Sound of Music while decorating the Christmas tree. however, i am curious...why do people always watch this movie during the holidays--what does it have to do with it?

10.  every once in a while i watch the pbs documentary, chimpanzees: an unnatural history. and every time i see it, it makes me want to give up everything in place of a life helping out a chimps at havens all over the world. (don't know how i left that out--importance of editing)

11. tonight i don't believe in capitalization (of letters that is). not so sure about the other kind either.

stay tuned for explanation of award, and my nominees...

I am afraid. Full stop. (Or...the post with lots of ellipses...)

Last year, when I first dared open my eyes to that beast known as the transition into the real word, I confidently said I would be in it for the long haul. I hadn't trained for a sprint, I was going full out--metaphorical marathon runner, I am! 

When I say "in it" by "it" I mean the business of acting. Yes, I am an actor. I am loathe to admit this because...well, let's face it...everyone's an actor. And many "actors" are...well, you know...selfish and self-serving and delusional. Not to say that I'm not all these things, in fact, I'm quite sure I am. But I'd like to think that somehow I'm...different (delusional indeed). What I mean is... I don't want to be defined by the profession, or the business. Acting is something I do and I happen to be quite good at it, but I dunno...it's hard. Hard to reconcile the art of it with the grit of the business. And I'm not quite sure I'm ready for the grit of it. 

I had coffee with my friend Stephen a few nights ago and I said...Stephen, I'm afraid that deep down I don't really want to be an actor. And do you know what he said to me? He said, No Meg, you're afraid. Full stop. End of story. Fear is fear and it will latch on to any story you're willing to feed it. Fear is in you and you're making up stories to justify it's existence. 

Ohhhhhhh....huh. So that's what I've been doing. And upsy-daisy goes my world. 

So I'm gonna keep truckin'. Training for that marathon. Stretching my muscles before that internal gun goes off and I leap off the edge of what's known.

So here's to racing along a route we've never before traveled.... ever been to Arches National park in Utah? One of its main draws is "the delicate arch." The path there is not easy. Long, difficult footing, monstrously hot if you travel there in the summer, and seemingly never-ending. But just when you think you'll never get there, just as you're about to give up all together, you turn a corner and there it is. And in that moment you literally swallow you're own heartbeat. I hope the path I'm embarking on is like that. Just like that. 

P.S. Image stolen from www.utah.com

Once upon a time I was a waitress. I pray it never again comes to that.

The wind shifted tonight. It began blowing vigorously. It portends my coming day. Ten hours on my feet selling goods at a department store. During training the women kept knocking on the "wooden" (plastic) desk and saying how lucky we all were to have a job. Most people in the room will be earning eight dollars, without commission, and are promised only three weeks worth of work. This hardly constitutes a job. Not in New York anyway. Though one man mentioned he could only work every other day because he had to take care of his mother with cancer. This knocked me down a few pegs. In fact in knocked me off my high horse. Right on my ass. And I sat there thanking my lucky stars for the health of everyone around me.

However, the impending doom of ten hour department store days has driven me to vigorously search Craigslist for a new job. The last time I checked Craigslist, in an effort assuage boredom, I checked the personal ads. Just curious you know. Men seeking women. That's what I clicked on. Turns out most there's a whole host of married men in this city seeking pudgy women who are willing to provide a little companionship for a nice, pudgy lump of cash. I'm gonna keep looking under the job tab, but if worse comes to worse... Well, what can I say, it no longer seems like such a ludicrous option. Oh shush, stop you're guffawing, I was only kidding. Lord knows my going rate is much higher than anyone on Craigslist would be able to afford.

And in an effort to motivate me, and a show of solidarity, my father has begun a nightly "blog"...meaning he emails me every night. Long emails. And in the subject line he always puts Notes from Dad 12/9/08. Tonight's blog was particularly exciting. He sent me a list of all 28 jobs he's had over the course of his storied life. 28 jobs. With descriptions. I thought I'd share of few of my favorites...

1. Cheerful Christmas cards salesman--in 5th grade to earn enough money to buy my own desk to do homework  instead of at the kitchen table

2. Window washer--for my grandfather every Easter with my brother

4. Lawnboy--Employed my Christian Brothers who probably hoped I would have a religious calling

6. Coat checker--my coat was stolen when the college kids stormed the coat check because I was too  slow in dispensing the coats

14. Factory machine operator --In Westchester ghetto factory (his words, not mine)

22. Market researcher interviewer--worked for future wife (that's my mom; I didn't know this and it makes me giggle)

23. Clerk to lawyer in Queens who worked taxi cab accident claims--Only lasted three days and was not paid

And he walked 5 miles, in the snow, to school every morning (it doesn't says this, but you know it's implied)

He then ends his "blog" with the following note: I would be glad to answer any and all questions you might have about any of these income earning opportunities

Personally, I want to know more about the Westchester ghetto....

Or maybe I can first ask about bringing back my very first business venture: Gift wrapping. I used to slave away in my room as the holiday season approached. And bear in mind, I'm about as good at wrapping gifts as I am skilled in the kitchen. Maybe I've improved over the years. And the cost of paper has surely gone up...so what do you think $50 dollars a package?

This is Not so Glamorous.

Christmas in New York. Could anything be more perfect? The city changes. Each day something new comes into view and these small accumulations result in utter transformation. Holiday window displays. An influx of tourists. Twinkling white lights--they're everywhere. The fine people at Time Warner center have even gotten it to snow. Yes, snow. Inside. It snows inside the building. And my personal favorite: Christmas tree tunnels. That's what I call the impromptu vendors that pop up all over the place to pawn off their best fir trees. You're walking along and all the sudden the sky is obscured by green. For a passing moment you're transported, by smell alone, to a world where everyone wears snowsuit jumpers and the decoration of choice (besides the tree itself) is the miniature Rudolph made from cut branches and trunk, with a little tinsel thrown on for luck. This city was made for Christmas. The season breathes new life into the well tread streets. New York lights up, literally and figuratively..  Nothing could be more glamorous.

Nothing could be more glamorous? I'll tell you about glamorous...my room is covered in laundry. Everywhere I turn I find another renegade sock. The air has turned so bitter I can barely keep my eyes open if I'm walking against the wind. And tonight my friends and I had a fantastic dinner party. At McDonalds. Glamorous indeed. I'm working two jobs and still short on rent, but 'tis the season. 

Back when I went to a school where midterms and finals were par for the course, I used to try to put off any holiday spirit until all tests were safely taken. Holiday spirit was not to be trusted. This was a bad idea. I literally bred any holiday spirit right out of my genetic make up. Well, I didn't breed it out literally, but you know what I mean. In re-inventing myself into someone destined for Harvard (cue laughs for irony), I lost that part of myself that got the feeling. You know the feeling I mean. That giggle that sits in the stomach. The lurch that counts down the days. That pull that orbits around ice-skating and holiday cookies. The internal alarm clock that won't let you sleep past seven, the morning of the 25th. Now my family usually wakes me at eleven and I get out of bed somewhat begrudgingly. 

This morning on the subway, on my way to training for my new (seasonal) job, I actually cried. Then I cried this evening at McDonalds, but that's another story. The holidays can be a lonely time when you're without a family. I know, I know, of course I have a family. What I mean is--that period between leaving home, and then leaving school, before you find the person you know you'll work to make happy everyday just for the chance to never have to spend another Christmas without him--that's a funny time. I used to have a plan. Go to school. Live my life, fully, all by myself. Have a torrid love affair with a man from every major European country, know that I could die happy, then (and only then) settle down. My rational was this: most of us spend the first eighteen years of our life tied to our family. The next four tied to school. If the average American gets married at 26 and dates their mate for a year before exchanging rings, this leaves that same average American three years. Three years just for them. Three years of a whole life--that's nothing! Now, I think what I've been secretly hoping for is the man who will ruin my plan. The man who will knock it upside and in doing so make me wonder why I haven't always had the perfect blue of the sky under my feet. 

What I'm trying to say is...this period of not belonging is hard. And so sometimes I cry. A lot. Because as beautiful as the lights and sounds and smells all are, sometimes I wish I had someone to share them with, whether it be the family I've known all my life, or the family that's out there waiting for me. Because coming in from the cold to a mine-field of laundry isn't so glamorous. Not at all. 

That being said, I got a package in the mail today. My blue Santa. I picked him out from Lord and Taylor's a few years ago and he's been my decoration of choice ever since (or at least since my mom broke my most perfect tree ornament from Bethlehem (Bethlehem, NY that is ) and left it in the trash for me to find). My mom sent him. If I hadn't left my camera in Colorado, I'd take a picture and post it. But for now just imagine the most beautiful wood-carved, hearty Santa, the world has ever known. And while he arrived slightly chipped (or not so slightly) I was reminded that family is not so far away. Not ever. 

So tonight as I braved the biting winter air. I saw the city as it's meant to be. Dazzling. Simply dazzling. Because tonight I felt hopeful. Hope. I don't think love or faith can exist without it. Hopeful that I'm on the right path. Hopeful that this economic crisis will pass. Hopeful that my life will always be colored by an abundance of love from a family that's never more than a phone call away. 

The post without a title.

Once upon a time I was in a nail salon where a woman with eight toes came in asking for a discounted rate. She had lost two toes in a fire. They didn't give it to her. So she left.

Once upon a time I returned from a fancy-smancy evening of drinks at the Ritz Carlton only to have one of my dirty, destined-for-the-laundry socks, fall out of my beret. And pop went the bubble.

Today on the subway, an older woman attempted to move my leg by hitting it with her cane. A simple excuse me was too difficult.

This is all just to say...I'm trying to remember that there is inspiration in everything.

I'm a Now and Later whore.

My parents would probably take offense to the title of this post, so let me explain...

My Aunt has always classified herself as a wood whore. She picks up sticks and logs everywhere. It's all fuel for the fire, literally. From the month of November to April (give or take a few weeks on either end) she and my uncle drink beer in front of a log fire, each and every night. So you can see why her obsession is almost a necessity. Almost.

My obsession on the other hand...not a necessity, but it exists nonetheless. Now and Laters. Google them and the first website you come up with is Candy You ate as a Kid. Meaning...of the past. Now and Laters are not easy to find. So I search for them everywhere. Most of the time any news stand worth its salt (is that a phrase? it's late, so I don't know anymore) carries them. Supermarkets? No. Candy stores? Not likely. However, the occasional Duane Reade makes this blogger a happy girl.

Now and Laters are like a twin sister to Starbursts, but with a little more edge, and a lot more for your money (at places in Brooklyn you can get a pack for as little as 75 cents. Unheard of, I know). However, most people don't understand my fascination. 

I think it's due in part to my awareness that this particular form of candy is a dying phenomenon. An endangered species if you will. Yes, I am in fact witnessing the end of an era. 

So imagine my delight when I climbed into Unlce Bill's car this past week and there they were, strewn about. Slightly hidden, in the back, on the floor, but there all the same. Wrappers. Now and Later wrappers. Evidence that I am not alone. Evidence that there are others out there who eat them as well. And if there are enough of us, then maybe there's hope. Maybe the manufacturers will continue production. 

But the best part was that those wrappers were evidence of another kind. Families may share facial features and competitive streaks. We may even spout out the same phrases or have the similar hand gestures. But at the end of the day it is in the rare Now and Later lover that I know I've found a kindred spirit. To think that those people sometimes turn out to be family as well... well, what can I say? I'm one lucky girl.

Family Vacation Scrapbook

Just a few photos of my week in Colorado...more to come. But please bear with me as I get better at this photo editing thing. And if anyone has editing websites that they really love (or tips) please let me know. But for now, enjoy the following tid-bits...