H-A-LL-O-W-EE-N

circa 1987...maybe this is why I dreamt of growing up to be a cheerleader

Today I saw a little girl on the street dressed as Harry Potter, Hedwig under one arm and her quidditch broom in the other, and for one fleeting moment I remembered what it felt like to not be able to sleep the night before out of sheer excitement. Eyes tightly closed, willing morning to come just a wee bit sooner. 

Happy Halloween. Here's to many more nights where morning just won't come fast enough.

The ghostwriter has gone to bed.

Addendum: a few days later we have a breakfast nook!

So now I'm free to blog in peace and leave you with some images. Here's how the home is shaping up...

My work corner...featuring the table.

I've finally added some curtains. Technically I'm living in the living room, so without a door a girl must make do. The white picture frames on the left house pictures from Kate Spade adverts (which I got turned on to by the blogging community...you know, random blog surfing). 

MJ and my very own chalkboard wall. It's all because of Naomi. Though, I must say, chalk is very, very hard to find and this simple fact makes me sad for children all over the country. Bring back the chalk and the simpler times!

The first poster for our very long (very empty) hall. Picked it up at Z Gallerie, which is a fantastic alternative to Pottery Barn and Gracious Home. In fact it's one of my favorite stores and when I have loads of money I'll outfit the whole apartment in their items (along with a little anthro flair thrown in here and there).

Notice the air mattress at the back of the photo. Update on bed situation: the Phillies won the world series tonight!! Three cheers for that because it means my uncle will be in a fabulous mood for weeks to come and will therefore be extremely willing to cart two old twin mattresses into the city for me to turn into a bed nook overflowing with pillows. It also means I will proudly wear my retro Phillies trucker hat all day tomorrow (look for pictures to come).

So that's all for tonight. I've been running low on blogging ideas so hopefully an exciting post will be coming your way soon, but for now I leave you with this thought: MJ now responds to news and stories with this phrase..."blog dot com it." We've created a monster. 

"You can quote me on that...if you want...on your Blog." Or...10 things you should know about me.

1. MJ (the roommate) hints at things he thinks I should put on the blog. All the time. He's becoming the ghostwriter. And annoying...god, I love him.

2. I hate going to the post office. Hate it. The people who work there move at a snail's pace. This makes me violent.

3. I often write letters and never send them (see above for possible explanation).

4. I almost never take the pills I've been prescribed. This gets me in trouble as strep throat tends to require that the first round of antibiotics be completed. Otherwise it comes back. With avengeance. And I end up sitting in a movie theatre silently sobbing because I can hardly breathe or swallow or think.

5. Once upon a time I was in love. 

6. I do not understand people who think it's okay to cut into a clearly established line.

7. I often offer up incorrect spellings of words. Waist instead of waste (Freudian slip?). Sense instead of scents. I ask for your patience with this as they're (not their) all over the place.

8. Pictures are my last frontier. I've gotten to a place where I can feel pretty good about my body, but I look at pictures and still get a fright each time. So, this is may way of saying...the pictures will come...give me time and they will come....I'm working on it.

9.  Tomorrow is my first day off in about as long as I cam remember. And thank goodness for that because this pressure cooker is about to pop (break? blow? I'm bad in the kitchen, remember--so even the analogies confuse me). 

10. I've been sleeping on an air mattress for about three weeks now. And right now it's got my name all over it. So, goodnight and here's to hoping I find an actual bed sometime before the year's end.

Why isn't it on your blog yet?

Just so everyone knows...today my roommate facebook stalked me (while I was at work) to find my blogspot address. You see, I had promised to post a picture of him...this picture.

We went to Trader Joe's on Friday and this is one of the goodies he came away with. When I got home, he wanted to know why I hadn't yet posted this little gem (well, he hadn't emailed it to me). The point of this is to say...it took me posting a picture of him to get him to come my silly, little blog. I won't hold it against him...in the end he came.

So for all you people out there who venture into my virtual world with no promise of a picture, I offer my thanks. Your comments give me more joy than you may ever know. I love comments, I love getting them, and I invite more people to leave them. I think getting a blog comment is kinda like being five years old and getting an unexpected letter from somewhere you've never been. And I'm even gonna put an end to my own blog-lurking ways and leave comments...who knows, you may find one coming your way soon (I hope so, or else I've yet to discover your gift of a blog--but not to worry, I'll get there eventually). 

Love, love, love to lurkers and brave commenters alike,

Meg

Musings, ramblings...Or what you will.

It's a perfect Saturday morning in the city. Quiet. Cool. Slightly overcast. My laundry is tucked away in one of the many washing machines two doors down and a hint of breeze is slipping in through the top of my window. 

When I was little I played make-believe more than most children do. I carried out the humble manifestations of my dreams and idyllic ideas long after most girls had become boy-obsessed. When I was tiny I played wedding make-believe. And god bless my mother as she was always in search of the perfect underslip that would easily turn into the perfect wedding dress (I guess I envisioned separates?). I played house, most especially whenever my father brought home flowers, for they brought out any domestic goddess tendencies that now lay dormant. I had my own little Fischer Price kitchen in the pantry and I would piddle away the time answering the yellow telephone and taking things in and out of the stove. God, I still remember the curve of the plastic and glamor of it all. The first two jobs I ever aspired to were those of cheerleader and flight attendant. Think about it, a young girl's first two job choices: flight attendant, chearleader...yes, clearly feminism was alive and well. Not to worry, in time I dreamt of becoming a pediatrician or the first female President of the United States. But when I really think about it, from a very young age, I wanted nothing more than to live in Manhattan, all by my lonesome, and live the life of  a sophisticated, hard-working, single gal. I didn't dream about marriage or even men. I dreamt about the life I could build by myself, so that when I did meet the man of my dreams I would be ready for him.

At school, for four years, all I ever heard was, if you can get through this, you can get through anything--that our schedule would be harder than anything we'd ever come up against. Well, let me tell you...no one, absolutely no one, prepared me for this. Working a myriad of jobs (while constantly seeking to expand the circle of employment), auditioning, taking class to make you a better artist because really you're working to become a better person, keeping up with friends and family, and oh yeah...trying to keep my head above the rip-roaring currents that constantly threaten--that's hard. It's so hard. Remember, a while back when I said that I wish it could be just a little bit easier? I still hope for that, but now I'm not just hoping--I'm working towards it, on a daily basis. It's so hard...and right now, I wouldn't have it any other way. 

I was so taken by CJane's post where she wrote that Christian spoke of literally feeling the prayers working on him. The idea of that humbles me in every possible way--the idea that prayer is not a thought, but an actual action, an energy that moves through the world healing. Well, I'm starting to believe that prayers coupled with the million daily miracles that keep life moving forward can actually change us--heal us, alter our physical make-up. My day requires alot of travel time. Busses, subways, foot traffic. And well, I can feel those hour long subway rides working on me. Those cross town bus trips shaping something new and different. The very ebb and flow of the city is moving over and through me, carving a new outlook, eroding doubts, dislodging fear. Something much greater than me is healing me, making me whole again. Two days ago, walking in Brooklyn before class, I realized that right now, at this very moment, I am living the life I envisioned for myself as a child. I am beholden to no one but myself. I am working as hard as I can, but as of yet, my life is completely anonymous. My life is my own. The other day, when I claimed those words as my new working mantra, I had not a clue as to how truly fitting and potent they could be, because there is a freedom in that anonymity like nothing I've ever before experienced. And yet, even that statement my life is my own, is somehow false. My life belongs to something much greater, much larger than me. I don't know where my religion stands right now (I'm working on it) but I do know that a higher power is working on me. So my life in many ways, is not my own at all. And I'm so glad it's this hard. Because I'm not alone. And I know that five years from now, I'm going to look back on this period as pure, unadulterated bliss. And in those five years as success gradually takes on new forms and different names, each period will be just as miraculous as the last. Now that I am aware of the joy inherent to any present moment, it will just keep coming, so that each new period of my life will be just as important and joyous as the last. Different in form, but similar in spirit. 

And thank God for that.

Remember when...

we used cotton balls to make Santa's beard, instead of using them to remove makeup?

I miss those days.

An open letter of thanks to Shill...

Shill posted this for me and I love it! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love the blogging community more everyday.

An open letter to the man I'll marry...

Dear Husband-To-Be,

        Just so you know, I owe Rob our first born child. Why, you ask? Because he helped my lug about 50 lbs of pure table from 55th to 80th street, on the subway (my idea). It was maybe the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, and I've got bruises all up and down my arms to prove it, not too mention a free pass from the gym today as I sweat enough for three solid days of cardio. 

      Across 55th to 8th. Up 8th to 57th. Enter Subway. Descend two flights of stairs. Waddle across platform. Descend more flights. Waddle some more. Then ascend two flights. Get on train (easiest part, mind you). Exit train. Ascend yet more stairs. Then into my room it went. Hardest thing. Ever. This, this is why Rob gets our first born.

Love,

your doting and delicious Wifey-To-Be

Lots and lots of little things make a life.

1. The tree as I walk down the steps of my new abode. Finally, fall has arrived.

 

2. A park bench. Has any quotation ever made more sense?

3. The conservatory garden revisited. Can you believe the flowers blooming? 

4. Dinner with a roommate. 

Insert your "happy" song here and you have the title of this post.

They make me feel like it's okay to not want to say hi to someone you recognize. So today, I didn't.

9 ways I know I'm growing up

1. I've given up soda. Not entirely, but almost. Benefits: I'm not filling my body with chemicals (well, not in this form anyway) and think of all the money saved! Now when I get the hankering for that soda rush, I reach for the water bottle.

2. I've put my beloved Prada bag up for sale on ebay. It's a matter of cash flow. I needmoney flowing in. And when I prance around Manhattan, so uber chic, with my Prada bag swinging in the wind, money tends to flow out...and out...and out. 

3. I have three jobs. One involves going to birthday parties and teaching kids to assemble robots. Ahhh,  the things we do when we're just starting out. 

4. I'm replacing my self imposed egoic image of fearful, with fearless. Fearless. A good word. A good way to live. I wear the word like a tramp stamp on my lower back (metaphorically, of course). 

5. I've given up Starbucks. I know, I know...I didn't think I'd ever see the day either, but it's now.  No more mint mocha chip frappucino lights. And I'll never go back. Not ever. Because just one sip and the addiction will begin again. For the first time, all over again.

6. I dealt with the insurance today. 

7. Today I assuaged my long suffering throat with orange juice (dietary concerns be gone!) and assorted berries (including blueberries, which I loathe) instead of the much preferred, cool, transiently soothing, but oh-so-good Tasti-Delite. That's the next addiction to go. I can feel my wallet growing already from all the money saved. 

8. I ran errand, after errand, after errand. And wrote email, after email, after email.

9. And at the end of the day I thought, my life is my own. And I don't know that I've ever fully possessed a more beautiful phrase in all my life.  

Tonight it took a good hour to get the baby to sleep.

Bottle. Burp. Bounce. Bottle. Burp. Bounce. Sway from side to side. Try not to lose my mind. 

And as I stood there bouncing away, the little baby in constant motion on my chest, hollering and swinging her head all about, I started to cry too. And I didn't know why. But somehow her determination to rattle at the top of her lungs gave me permission to loosen my grip--just a wee bit--on something I didn't even know was in me. 

I think I'm gonna need Cold Stone ice cream on the way home. 

That's okay. Right?

Tomorrow I will be 23 years and one week old and I am happy.

Because I bought the most gorgeous pair of black boots today. Meaning, my tattered and well-worn brown boots that I once loved so much are hidden away in the back of a closet in Montclair, because I finally came to agree with my mom: they're not so cute on. Style trumps comfort? I'm growing up indeed.

Because my room is blue. And mine. And I've done it all myself. Okay...so maybe Rob put the Ikea furniture together...but I've done it all by myself almost.

Because I'm learning that the any emotion that lives within us at any one given moment never has a problem being there. It's our unwillingness to coexist with it and explore it that creates the tension. So when I'm sad...the sadness within is not anything other than just exactly what it is. And its okay to let it chill there for a little while. Because while it is in me, it is not of me. Confusing? I know...I gotta get better at explaining it. And accepting it. And living it.

Because I'm figuring everything out. Which means it will all change in no time.

Because after reading Naomi's post about spooking herself, my bag of hangers fell over (of their own volition) and I near jumped out my skin. Imagine that last phrase said in a deep twang of a Texas accent.

Because my bangs are finally growing! Which means the rest of it must too, right? Even if it's still red?

Because I saw the cutest guy on the subway today. Wearing white converse tennies. And he smiled at me and I smiled back. And then got embarrassed because I couldn't stop smiling. And I think I fell a little bit in love right there in that moment. Resolution Fall In Love a Hundred Times a Day...well on its way, thank you very much. Sometimes (and that's a very qualified sometimes) the one train is worth it. 

Because I live in the epicenter of one of NYC's many great singles' meccas. And I love it. Turns out I really do love NY. Alot. I'd just been living in the wrong place the last four years. So now I'm falling in love with NY for the very first time, all over again. 

Mmmmm...yes, this is right. 

Today I fell madly and deeply and desperately in love.

With the color blue.

I trekked up to my old neighborhood this afternoon and purchased a gallon of Blue Wave. I just marched right in there, picked it out, and got it. There was no time for indecision or worry. I went with the gut and the gut told me this was it. So I came home and decided to test out a patch. Before I knew it. My sweater was off, plastic was on the floor, and I was rolling away. The spirit had moved me. And as I rolled and painted and sweated it happened. I fell in love with this color that no on in my family would ever choose. It's bright and bold and playful. And not pale. All my life I've lived in rooms painted in pale colors. Not this time. Maybe it's too bright and too bold, but for the moment, it's perfect. And it belongs to me. I'm doing it all by myself. It's about time I stopped coloring myself pale. Beauty lies in the unapologetic imperfections that comprise us. 

Blue skies...smilin' at me...nothin' but blue skies...do I see...

Side note: Naomi I didn't forget you...there's so much to paint...and along with my blue I purchased a small can of chalkboard paint that's got your name all over it!

It'll be a home yet.

Sneak Peek. 

I got your back too.

The night Paul Newman died Rob couldn't sleep. He was restless, anxious and roamed around the apartment. When he finally got to sleep, in the wee hours of the morning, he dreamt. He dreamt of an adventure with none other than Newman himself. In the dream Newman handed Rob a gun, keeping one for himself, and said, Let's make sure we've got eachother's backs. And so Rob tried to shoot his weapon to protect the two of them, but nothing came out. So Paul took over and said, Don't worry about me. I've got your back. That morning when Rob arose he learned of Paul Newman's passing. He called me and woke me with the news and he spoke with a great sadness in his voice. And as he did, I was reminded of just how much I love Rob. He taught me something no one else could--that the best friendships, are worth fighting for. They, like anything else, take work and care. And there are bumps along the way, but at the end of the day, Rob has always had my back. So Newman may have been you're hero Rob, but in many ways you are mine. 

Happy Birthday my love, happy birthday. You will always be one of the true great loves--the true great friends--of my life.

Lucy and Ethel's Day of Fun. Otherwise known as, Mom and I take on Ikea.

So for my 23rd birthday, October 4, 2008, my mom and I moved. Well, my mom helped me move. 

I woke in the wee hours of the morning to pack up, load the car all by my lonesome (no men needed, thank you very much), and inhale a granola bar before my mom took to the roads. With me as her wing man (or rather the place her anxiety driven comments bounced off of) we made it to the new abode in record time. 

We made it, only to find the street was shut down by a parade. No worries, we found a choice parking spot around the corner and the plan was that I would lug the boxes in while my mom would survey , take measurements, and eventually come to the realization that this place was just fine and hence I would be just fine. This was the plan. And it was carried out...somewhat successfully. After lugging one box I went in search of the police in hopes that they might let us in past the barricade, after all, while the street was closed it wasn't actually on the route of the parade. The fresh-faced all of eighteen officer took one look at me (I'm sure sweat was dripping at this point, despite the cool October air), laughed, briskly said no, and returned to his partner to talk about nothing of importance. No, no? But I was moving in? Shouldn't I have been granted some pass? This blockade was the first of many we would face on this momentous day, but we were not to be deterred. I finally got all the boxes in, my mom got the measurements and off we Ikea we traipsed. 

We had been the night before, after my three hour tour of Lincoln tunnel, but now we were ready to buy. Bookcase, check. Chest of drawers, check. Two separate mirrors, check. All in a very chic, very grown up, fitting for a 23 year-old, color of black-brown. We loaded the items, or rather the very heavy brown boxes housing the yet to be assembled items, onto our cart with the help of a very handsome Spaniard (this time manly assistance was a must) and I proceeded to the checkout while my mom went to pull the car around. I paid, with my own money, and went to meet her. No man around to help load boxes into car. What's a girl to do. Go in search. Detour first--hunger takes precedence. Dollar bag of animal crackers from vending machine? Yes, please. By then I realize the boxes are already in the car and my search ends before it really began. So I head of to arrange the boxes, only to be distracted by the scent of nail polish coming from my purse. It spilled, but no real damage. However, in setting my stuff down to check I sat on my animal crackers with a resounding crunch and then as I reached to salvage them I dumped them all over the floor. 

With or without the crackers we headed back to the city. During the car ride the boxes kept hitting my mom and so I was assigned to fasten them into place. Pit stop at Fudruckers for burgers. Then into apartment. Lugging boxes. All by ourselves. Off to sleepy's. Swayed by salesman ( I always am) so I've got a full on hold. At this point, so tired, barely breathing. No coherent trains of thought. Back to Montclair. Buy supplies for bunny cake. Nap. Oh thank you nap, I've missed you, you brought me back to life. 

The two of us, while we accomplished alot, were like chickens with our heads cut off. If something could go wrong, we not only enabled it, but seemed to encourage it. Lucy and Ethel, we just can't decide who's who. Last October we may have had the perfect visit, but yesterday...yesterday was the perfect day. 

Resolution #1: Take More Photos.

look really closely at this one...I'm in the bottom left corner (you can see my red fingernails)