Happy New Year!

i've been thinking about this impending new year a lot in the last few weeks.

i love new years, birthdays--any time the calendar gives us a chance to begin again.

i make long lists. carefully note all the things i'd like to change about myself.

i suppose it goes back to all those after-school-specials where the geeky kid comes back from summer vacation transformed. i've been waiting for that all my life. the day i suddenly wake up and have it... together (for lack of a better word).

but, i'm laughing as i write this, because i'm realizing it probably happens that way for very few (if at all).

and while i have goals for this year, and wishes and great aspirations, i'll write them down next week. because for today i resolve to accept that where i am right now, is just fine. perfect in fact. and there is nothing to change. only bits and pieces to add.

today i resolve to resolve nothing.

that being said, below are some words and images i'm pocketing away to take with me into this new year.

may 2010 bring you all that you've ever wished for. i cannot thank you all enough for your kind words, support, and continued encouragement. your presence and friendships have brought me so much more that i'll ever be able to convey to you.

see you in the new year!

with all the love i have to give,

meg

"I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times a little hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."

Marilyn Monroe

let's go said he

not too far said she

what's too far said he

where you are said she

e.e. cummings

"People discuss my art and pretend to understand as if it were necessary to understand, when it's simply necessary to love."

Claude Monet

images 1 (quote picture), 2, 4, and 5 via sabino

3, 6, 7, and 8 via tweexcore

the call of the Father.

sitting in church on thursday night i got this craving--a full-body calling.

to go to rome.

and sit in the cool, dark churches.

to saturate myself in the history of my religion.

to begin at the beginning.

the very beginning.

the ritual: incense. sign of the cross. prostration before the alter.

to feel God.

but not to pray.

to listen.

to sit and listen.

to kneel and listen.

to stand humbled before the yawning eclipse of eternity and listen.

and to allow the answer to erupt before me.

to give a direction to this directionless life.

but because i cannot go to rome.

i bought a fresh copy of beach music and called it a day. (or at least a start).

how i feel upon waking this morning.

give me a man with some scruff.

and i will give him the world.

so michael buble wrote a letter to his wife-to-be. in the form of a song.

turns out it's not just the blogging community who has a penchant for penning letters (or songs) to their future mates.

this song, on Michael Buble's newest album, tickled my fancy immediately.

and so i can't stop listening.

but you know what the best part is? he looks so happy. so utterly confident when he performs it (here and on the video accompanying the deluxe album). and that's what it should be like--the promise of love, when you truly believe in it, inspires that confidence--that happiness--and that becomes the most attractive thing in the world.

(note for new year: work on exuding above attitude).

ps: grocery stores? dancing? that smile? could this be love?

happy post Christmas Monday. it's gonna be a good week.

love. and Christmas.

have i told you?

Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year.

it is a day of preparation and prayer.

a day when we decide that Christmas decorations as they stand, are done, and so we begin to clean.

a day when we take evening naps, readying ourselves for midnight mass.

and eat a dinner comprised completely of appetizers. and prosecco.

and then watch love actually (all four of us commenting--identifying our favorite scenes and rewinding to watch again and again as hugh grant {the golden oldie} busts a move.

and then we head to mass. my favorite event of the year.

i love this time of the year.

because...

"love actually is all around"

whatever you believe, whatever you practice, may this season bring you the happiest of tidings. may you be blessed and loved. and share that love and goodwill with all.

Merry {Happy} Christmas!

oh for a long, slender bottle. or two. or three...

there are so many ways my parents show their love for me.

and i am thankful for each and every one.

like the case of pellegrino on the bottom of the pantry floor.

my parents got it.

just for me.

and it feels so indulgent.

but that's how much they love me.

and that is why i love being home.

i got out of the city before the snow.

about two years ago i found a picture of my parents. they could't have been much older than i am now, sitting there, opposite ends of the couch. i recognized the couch immediately. even though the photo is in black and white, i knew it to be an ugly, near-lime green. i don't remember the couch itself, but its cushions defined my childhood. they were the fort walls, the rocks amidst molten-lava, the movable, down-the-stair slides that my brother and i used again and again. my parents did a lot of things right. they encouraged us to read. anything. backs of cereal boxes, billboards--it didn't matter. and instead of investing in expensive furniture, they bought pieces that could double as indoor jungle gyms. hence the ugly, near-lime cushions. in fact, sitting in our living room now is a low, flat wooden table. it is stained a deep brown. and while the stain (instant-update-in-a-can) is a only a few years old, that was the table that as a child i would lie on my stomach, feet reaching to God, and spin in circles until i was sick.

that's what i see as i look at the picture. the couch. and my gorgeous parents. at a time long before they had my brother or myself. my father with his long, curly hair--a man i've never known. and my mother. leg's crossed, one hand sandwiched between, and the other just under her nose. and i know that position. it is mine (or so i thought). index-finger extended. thumb under chin. middle finger resting on the upper lip. and i am reminded of all those behaviors we learn--absorb--without even realizing it.

people that meet my parents can't decide who i look more like. everyone has an opinion, they just can't agree. in all honesty, my brother and i are pretty good mixes of both. but while i sit like my mother, and have her facial expressions, i am (in more ways than i'd care to admit) my father's child. i have my father's nervous stomach, his artistic bent.

and i, like my father, do not travel well. though to be fair, i feel like that's more learned behavior than innate construct. as a child, travel was a two day adventure. the first, an experiment in cleaning, the second an experiment in getting to the airport on time. and it was always a toss-up whether the inevitable family-fight fell on day one or day two.

the final ten minutes, before we were out the door, were the most intense (and often stretched themselves into an hour). in that period we'd unplug every outlet and rid the fridge of anything possible food spoilers (black beans, anyone?). and then we'd leave. halfway down the drive my father would turn back. i just have to check one thing, he'd say. ten minutes later, he'd hustle back into the driver's seat. and there on the consul would he find the sunglasses he'd gone in search of. at the entrance of the neighborhood we'd turn back again. this time to make sure the gas was off. over the years, these countless false-starts caused my mother and i to conspire about the the actual flight time--we'd fudge it by thirty minutes.

it was in observing this behavior for all those years that i (without even realizing) had my first thought of my future life-partner. he will not travel like my father. my father, who when traveling for business would wait for the car to arrive to take him to the airport before even beginning to pack. note: the car arrives at the time you should leave. not before. not after. and certainly not before you've tossed some underwear in a suitcase.

now it is i who become a bit of a mad woman. any venture from home, be it a day, a week, a month calls forth an inner terror. everything must be cleaned. and suddenly i cannot tolerate the full basket of laundry sitting at the end of my bed. or fathom why my sock drawer has yet to be organized (it's been months now, but only this morning did it cause angst). and i have three unwashed potatoes sitting on my desk. one sweet, the other two regular. why are they there? and have i still not taken care of that ziploc of unsorted receipts on my bookshelf?

and at what time must i leave in order to get to the airport at a reasonable hour? suddenly i feel like i'm stuck in a mathematical word problem. if it takes you 45 minutes on the A train to get from 181st to Port Authority and then another 45 to get from the bus stop to Newark airport, what time must you wake up in order to pack your bags, clean your room and get to the airport with enough time to not panic?

i fear i am doomed to repeat my father's behavior.

or that i have so rebelled against his ways that i will be the mother forcing her children to wait in the airport lounge three hours before departure (domestic, included). more likely that.

however, it was as i was standing in the bag-check-line ( because i now always check-in-online (why wouldn't you, it's so easy?)) that a woman just before me threw a hissy fit. a passive-aggressive hissy fit (the worst kind). the line was not long. and for whatever reason the man in charge of the line called the family just behind hers first. i don't know why. they had several bags and several children? who knows. as a person whose job consists almost entirely of getting people from a line (in the form of a list) to a table i know that their are countless reasons i might go out of order. if the table i have only accommodates two, i have to take my party of two, before the party of three in front of them. or i'm going to get the woman with the cast on her foot a table near the entrance and that might mean seating her before i should. the point is, at the end of the day i try to accommodate the most people at the fastest possible rate. so exceptions are made. and i know how to do my job better than joe schmo off the street. and i'm guessing this man who pulled the family out of line, does as well. unfortunately, this woman at the front of the line (the very short line, who i can't imagine was waiting there very long) did not agree. and she let the man have it. he calmly tried to explain, at which point she turned to the others in the line (all three of us) hoping to enlist our sympathy and cries of outrage. and i, as always, opened my big, fat mouth and told her to let it go, he was just doing his job. she ignored me. and continued spewing bile all the way to the next agent's booth, no more than a minute after the renegade family was whisked from the line. i stood there and watched as her two children learned their own "travel" behavior. i can't say my father never made a stink in a line. he did. i know he did. but because of that, i arrive with enough time, that if someone cuts in front of me, i don't have to sweat it.

so maybe there is hope for me. and hope for my future family. because i sure as hell don't want to be that woman. i'll probably still get crazed about swiffering and unorganized drawers. and i'll head to an nonexistent gate C-79, when i'm supposed to be at gate C-73. and i'll have to check for my passport fifty different times. and i'll have my own countless false-starts. but i'll leave time to accommodate for those delays and cuts and mistakes. time, in this instance, allows me to say what will be, will be.

almost there.

it's quite early this friday morning.

and i am waiting for the coffee pot to fill.

my tree is looking a bit lackluster.

but i leave for home tomorrow morning (for the first time in a year {have i emphasized this enough?}.

my driver's license is renewed. and my bags are packed (well, not really, but everything i am planning on taking is in one dresser door and that's close, right?).

however, right now? right now, i am facing a full day of work.

and because people sometimes get nasty at this time of year, i am wishing i could click my red shoes (louboutins, preferably) and get home that much faster.

we'll see how i feel with that coffee in me.

happy friday!

image via tweexcore.

real age.

my mother has been pestering me for weeks now about my christmas wish list.

and last week when my skin fell apart (rosacea's return) i realized that a humidifier was a must.

so my list reads something like this:

reading chair

humidifier

new sneakers

bread pan

and upon actually writing it, i realized i have the wish list of of a 70 year-old-woman.

my mother on the other hand is asking for the wii.

hmph.

if only i could. peek, that is.

to my one-day-pal,

did you do school plays as a child?

do you remember the heavy velvet curtains through which you'd peek just before a performance?

ours were green. hard to pull apart.

those moments just before were the most exciting, weren't they?

the lights backstage all off.

peering through to a lit theatre, or auditorium, or cafeteria: rear-window in reverse.

i always peeked. did you?

i remember looking out during my first-year discovery project at juilliard. there were no curtains. no dimmed lights. open-air. i was in love with a boy then and wanted only to know where he was sitting.

and i remember a production during my fourth year, looking through wooden slats and spotting kevin spacey. word spread quickly and more than one performance was charged with that knowledge. silly actors.

i think all actors do it. peek and peer. no matter the performance space or the cost of the ticket. if they don't i'm quite sure i wouldn't care to be friends with them--too uppity about it all.

it's one of those necessary rituals. theatre as religion.

the moment just before.

that's what everything feels like right now.

like you're on the other side of that heavy, green curtain. and if i could just push it to the side and catch a glimpse--poke a small hole through the black paper covering the window.

like i'm in the dark room waiting to emerge in the light.

love, love,

me

image via sabino.

this time, in one week, i will be waking up in my own bed. at home. in texas. for the first time in a year.

ahh-mazing!

image via

sabino.

beans in the elevator.

i'm not quite sure when i became so honest.

well, actually that's not true.

i think i've always been honest. but upon request only.

my truths were mine--they were private things.

i suppose the extent to which i have relinquished my privacy (by making these truths public) has everything to do with coping with a disease--the truth of which made manifest in my body each and every day.

much as i wanted to lie, much as i wanted to hide--my body exposed new secrets each day in fresh ways--the puffiness of my cheeks, the snugness of a favorite sweater.

it was ned who changed the game. he made the battle a public one. and my willingness to fight back with honesty is more response than anything else.

so yes. now i am forthcoming in hopes of staying a step ahead. of controlling the story, if you will.

and i rarely ever lie. (which is not necessarily a good thing. lying {like flirting} is a skill which can prove important and necessary at various times).

so when i do, i am out of practice. and i flail a bit.

there had been a stench coming from the kitchen for a while. more time than i'd care to admit, actually (omission). and i kept returning to the fridge. trying to suss it out (correct usage? oh, who cares.) where was it? what was emitting foul odor?

i threw pounds of stuff away. stuff that was not mine. frozen meat that had been there for years. (remember i moved into an apartment where girls had lived for many cycles of the moon). questionable milk. rotting vegetables.

and still the scent persisted.

and i despaired.

i took the trash out.

i lysoled. baking-soda-ed. scrubbed. put my nose right up to...everything.

i finally found the offender.

black beans. perfectly normal looking things. no visible mold or rotting. but one sniff (and after coming to) i knew.

so i pulled our a trash bag, dumped them in, and hopped in the elevator to get to the outside trash receptacles.

and just as the doors were closing, leaving me alone with the beans for a mere three floors, totally doable in light of the odorless freedom on the other side, a girl stuck her hand in the rapidly diminishing crack, halted the door and got on.

three floors with rotting beans, myself, and someone else in a small enclosed space? not doable, no matter the prize.

the stench was...horrific. and i was...mortified.

so i lied.

i lied like it was my job.

"flowers gone bad," i said. for indeed that's what it smelled like.

she smiled coyly. and honest to God, i don't even think she spoke english. a waste (play on spelling intended, thank you very much) of a lie.

so here's the thing. i'll tell the truth about anything. my feelings. my past. all those skeletons that bernard shaw recommends we teach to dance. but a rotting can of beans? nope, no way. it was the beans that brought me to my knees. forced me to lie. the truth of them was just too much to share.

i mean, my God, what 24 year-old let's a can of black beans go bad to the point of turning putrid (because indeed the beans were mine.)?

i told you, i'm really not skilled in the kitchen.

confused as to who ned is?

or want more info on him?

check my sidebar.

what began as an open letter to the boy who followed just behind me in the park yesterday.

{disclaimer: this whole thing only makes half-sense to me, so expect confusion.}

i knew immediately i wasn't attracted to you.

call it female intuition.

but i was impressed.

impressed that you asked for directions (a lie, no?) and then proceeded to follow two paces behind me as we crossed to the west side.

and then annoyed. annoyed that the guys who follow girls home in the parks are never the guys you'd like to interrupt your meditative walk.

you kept the conversation going (difficult since i gave you one to two word answers), you in your floppy hat and me in my black, below-the-knee boots.

and still i wasn't interested.

and you asked what i did, and i said writer. and you asked if i self-published and i said no (known lie #2) and you wondered why not, after all, you had a blog (discernible turn-off #2 {ironic, no?} the first being the hat). you went on to talk about grad school and working in a restaurant (turn off, again).

and i felt bad judging you harshly for those things that i myself did. but then you did it. you said you were off to the Met with a friend where you'd smoke pot and wander around the galleries marveling at all the artwork.

and there it was.

i have passed the point of finding such cliche's attractive (though i'm quite sure that was never a line that impressed me).

but bottom line is this: you're a boy. you're still a boy.

it's funny how taste changes over time.

but it does.

quickly, sometimes.

and you wake to find you want something else entirely. because the things that used to draw you in now serve as warning signs. index-finger-ring? keep walking. silver pocket chain? not for me. the brain has evolved into a multi-layered thinking device. step one: tatoos, heavy scruff, no nine-to-five job? immediate interest (and this is where it used to end), but now, the mind continues on to step two: that interest muted by other more pressing matters. like the knowledge that in the past, men with those things never provided any kind of meaningful relationship.

and believe it or not i do learn from mistakes.

yes, i want adventure. and yes, the bad-boy will always hold a certain lure, but i want so much more than that.

i had a conversation with a male-friend a few months back where i spoke of a changing set of attractions--one where stability ranked much higher than a proclivity for the grunge-band look.

and said friend said i was settling.

and instinctively (female intuition once more) i knew he was wrong.

this biological clock thing isn't just about wanting children. it's about needing to provide for those children. about choosing the right partner to bear children with. and as a woman you start preparing for the final step (children) years before you've ever even met the man.

(i think.)

because it's biology. evolution, even. it comes down to a working science that we don't even realize is in operation until long after the plates have shifted.

my friends used to joke about what high standards i have. and i would balk and say no. take me to a ballgame, feed me a hot dog and call it a day. i'm easy in that sense. but you know what? maybe they were right. take me to a ballgame, yes. but the guy sure as hell has to be worth it.

no floppy hats here, please.

reason #983 how you know you're living in nyc and still figuring your life out

you commit yourself on a daily basis to figuring out how to best keep track of your finances.

today, it's in the ledger that you get at the bank (upon request).

and the doppelganger saga continues.

remember when i posted about my intellectual elitist tendencies (regarding the word doppelganger)? and then you all made me feel much better because you knew the meaning of the word--along with others that i had to then go look up?

well, the saga continues.

the word has served as the catalyst for a sort of treasure hunt within my family. we look to find the word written, spoken aloud, published--anything, and then we attempt to use it ourselves--to casually drop it into conversation.

the first night my parents were here, we were sitting around (my largest nyc bedroom to date) drinking champagne out of my brand-new-violet-colored flutes when my father relayed a story he had seen on oprah (this is confusing to me since my father doesn't usually catch a 4:00 showing of the reigning queen of day-time). but, for whatever reason, he saw an episode in which a former play-boy model (god is in the details) suffered from sex addiction (details), but only went for guys who were the (wait for it) dope-layngers of her father.

what? you say.

dope-layngers?

i had the same thought too.

and then the brain mushed it around, processed, and the revelation came out as good solid-week of laughter.

my dad was trying to say doppelganger. he did not. he said dope-laynger. and my father is an intelligent man.

so now the question (and thus the quest) is: do you know what it means? do others know what it means? and can you say it correctly?

the picture?

you can actually buy one

of these little guys at

urban outfitters. they're

called doppelgangers.

said co-worker in

the initial post got me one.

it sits on my desk as

an omen of good-tidings (though

doppelgangers are thought to be

bad signs, i decided i would turn

this idea upside-down.)

all around.

it's beginning to feel a lot like christmas.

i bought my own tree. my first tree.

i am blogging now under the glow of the tree lights. and only the tree lights.

17 days till i go home.

and for those 17 days i sure as heck am gonna enjoy this tree.

in defense of real books.

i feel guilty buying books.

there.

i said it.

i who value words above almost all else feel guilt when buying a book.

(though it should be noted that i who value words above almost all else also rarely know how to use them when it matters most).

the thing is, i believe in books.

not kindles. not ebook readers. not nooks.

but books. real-life, flip-the-page, spill-the-coffee-on books.

i know that as a woman who has no sustainable source of income (euf) books are a luxury that not only can i not afford, but i can easily navigate around--i mean, nothing is easier than borrowing and lending books--whole buildings have sprung up around this concept! (we call them libraries).

but i am selfish. and have no monetary foresight where stories are concerned. i want the paper. and the breakable spine. i want to scribble and write and underline and dog-ear to my heart's content.

the stories on my bookshelf are now my singular story. they are a part of me. and i want to be able to take them down again and again.

they are my proof of passing time. they are my life made tangible.