spring is hard.

ned gains strength in the spring. the shock of not being able to cover every inch of my body in making-winter-bearable-clothing steamrolls me each and every day.

today something broke. something deep inside me. and i couldn't stop crying. so i said, to hell with it, i don't care if my tub does need a good scrub--i'm taking a bath anyway.

i climbed in, silently sobbing with my too big breasts feeling uncomfortable as they touched my crouching knees and water rose slowly around me. the tub was only half full when the warm water turned cold. so i turned the faucet. and sat there as the water quickly receded.

i never wanted big boobs. i say this and most girls balk. lucky girl, they say. and i'm forced to explain. my mother didn't have them. growing up, my standard of beauty was a small-breasted woman and i thought it was perfection. mine were small. once. and then ned showed up. and everything became bigger. and as the pounds piled on, i grew breasts. but they don't feel of me. instead i feel an impostor. they are borrowed, stolen--unnatural in some way. i'd gladly give them away. i'll always have my big butt and that's enough for me.

i keep thinking about lady macbeth's speech where she offers up her womanhood. asks it to be taken from her. i don't think lady macbeth was singularly evil or greedy. i think she hated herself. desperately. i think she hated herself so much that she put all of her energy into the one outside thing she thought would change everything--the one thing that might just fix it all: power. she wouldn't mind killing her own child for it because how could she love something born of a person she loathed so deeply? and the thing is she never had a child. so she didn't know. she didn't know that she would love that child. that that child would grant her more power than any title ever could. and so when she does attain that power and nothing's changed, she loses it. she goes off the deep end.

i feel sorry for her. because on some level (albeit a much, much smaller one {don't worry mom, don't worry dad--i'm fine, just going through it this week}) i understand. for me my panacea is weight. if only i were skinnier. if only i was thin. then all would be right in my world. then i would be confident. then i would have the guy of my dreams. the dream job. the postcard picture of a life.

but maybe the thing to be learned from lady m is this: so i get thin and then what? i realize it's not the cure-all and i'm spent spinning even further off course. there is no solitary remedy. no single spoonful of sugar. no marry poppins magic here. just life. and sometimes you just have to weather it, spring or any other season.

that's not to say i wouldn't give my big boobs back. if given the chance.

i have inadvertently locked myself inside my apartment.

i can't find my keys. so i can't leave.

i can't find anything lately. keys. metrocards. motivation.

someone come get me.

please.

i really loved this...

and immediately had to buy Alexi Murdoch's, Time Without Consequence (the song in the trailer is from this album). and yes, he sounds like Nick Drake and since i can no longer listen to Nick Drake (makes me just a wee bit sad) this will be a lovely replacement.

ps: thank you Dia for teaching me how to post a video. i had no idea about the edit Html tab (and i've been blogging for how long?)

because many a comment has been made about my eyebrows...

i just thought you should know that...

the other night when i was babysitting....

the little girl asked to steal them (yes, my eyebrows).

she wanted my eyebrows and my painted fingernails.

so even a child of four recognized that my eyebrows are...something else, if you will.

p.s. i wax, that's all. and not even too often. but recently i've been introduced to something called an eyebrow pencil. this has changed my life. i used to think there was no possible way to use one without it looking fake. i was wrong. just adds a little color and clarity. 

as for the picture. 

sometimes instead of ridiculous faces, i make ridiculous poses. 

i'm not really picking my nose. 

or am i?

i need a change in my life.

so far this is what my list of strong possibilities looks like:

1. become singing tour guide on Salzburg's Sound of Music bus tour 

2.

3.

4.

5. 

okay so i don't have too many ideas. do you?

hmmm. hmmm. mmmm. mmm.

this morning i awoke and attempted to remove yesterday's mascara.

shower, scrub, wash. 

ah-ha. discovery!

not mascara. just dark circles.

im off to put on my war paint. i mean, face paint. i mean...makeup. 

hmmmm. hmm. mmmm. mmmm.

title explanation: hmmm. hmmm. mmm. mmmm. is humming

(in case you couldn't tell). my friend angela and i do it all the time

to signify things we don't really want to talk about 

but that we can still laugh about. my first experience with

this is when  asked angela how old she was to be turning. 

Response: hmmmmm. hmmm. mmm mmm.

i hate when people use their headshot as their profile pic for facebook. hate it.

But because you all gave me insight into what top I should wear, I thought I'd show you the end result. And since it's not on facebook, I'm not one of those people that I dislike so much, right?

Oh and the top that won out? Well, I got it for $7 the day of at H&M. Go figure.

I like this photo because I think it looks just like me and it captures my energy (well my energy devoid of all my neurosis). 

What do you think? I'm a lucky girl to know Joseph Moran (he took the photos), no?

the pocket of impossible

Yesterday I wanted nothing more than to unzip my skin and begin again.

Today, with the possible in tow, I will attempt the latter. To begin again. And to store up the courage to believe that in the pocket of impossible is exactly where I'm meant to live. 

Oh Ned, are you really still here?

photo found here by .littlegirlblue

roots.

i found this beautiful poem written by la chrysomele reveuse's Dia and just had to share it with you all...

I woke up with a sweet pain in my left arm.

I thought the vernal sun beams mistook their way to the soul,

trying to sneak in.

But when I touched the burning skin

I felt long delicate strands protruding.

Thin strands throbbing in the rhythm of my heart.

Touching them didn't hurt,

but gave me an agonizing feeling of longing.

And I remembered that these last two days

we stood close to each other, our arms touching.

Adventitious roots are growing to reach you.

a feeling i know so well in words i wish i had written.

and on another note: i cannot thank you all enough for your kind words, insightful thoughts, unbelievably touching comments--they mean more then you may ever know. i cherish my memories. i love them all, even the bad ones. and i thank God each day for this because i can't imagine a more agonizing death than simply ceasing to feel. 

photo found here; and they found it on flickr

if ever you should need to know.

if ever you should need to know the most profound and efficient way to exhaust one's self, it is my belief that the answer is this: cry. 

further study needs to be done so as to ascertain whether it is the actual act of crying, or the often futile attempt to hold back the tears which proves more effective. 

this morning i experienced both and am thus unable to give a definitive result of my findings.  

this much i can say: this morning a i had a whopping-good cry (though i can't really say it was good). it was very public, very unexpected and unbelievably draining. i spent the remainder of my day feeling as though someone had put me through the spin cycle of a washing machine working over time. 

i infiltrated enemy territory today. enemy territory as defined by my recent past. the blackened corridors stretched long and narrow and with each step i was assaulted by tangible memories. i became a version of my six-year-old-self who saw her future and wanted to run. but i'm not six. and it's not my future. and i can't run. 

sometimes the thing that's simultaneously glorious and impossibly hard about New York is that it's a living-breathing memory book where every subway stop, every corner deli, every intersection carries the weight of a memory. 

i first fell in love at the 125th street subway station. he was reading a book. and i knew.

my first boyfriend lived off the 191st street stop. i promptly broke up with him at a diner on the corner of 69th and Broadway. 

outside of big nicks, on the corner of 71st and Columbus, is where i told he-who-shall-not-be-named that i liked him. that night i dreamt of snow and rebirth.

at the lemongrass grill on 94th and Broadway i put my knee up on the empty seat between us and he played with my hanging pony tail. he held my hand under the table. no one knew. and a secret was born.

i made a mistake on 207th street.

and sadness became my sole companion on 104th.

most of the time when i'm walking the streets of my (sometimes) beloved city i choose to remember the good things. 

this morning i had to return to school for a meeting. so laden with memories is the school that it can be hard to breathe. i've only been back the once, to see the greeks, and i was left wondering why i feared going back in the first place. today i remembered. remembered. memory. memories. i feared the memories. walking the halls at school...well, it is hard to only remember the good. the memories come so rapidly my subconscious doesn't have time to sort through them. overstimulation in the worst possible way. too many memories, too closely placed. too many land mines to avoid. sit in the same chair, feel like a student all over again. and the torrent of memories is made manifest by the torrent of tears desperately making their away across the peaks and valleys of my face. i didn't mean to cry. the tears just came. silently. 

now I am left exhausted beyond measure and wondering what I have to show for a year where, for the first time, success isn't a ready-made box for me to check off. 

a fire red vespa. and a dream.

There's a fire red vespa that sits on the corner of 67th and Columbus. I want it. I want to steal it. I won't. But I want to. And this is not an invitation for you to do so either.

But sometimes, in my darkest moments, I dream up ways to surreptitiously flip the kick stand and peel off through the park, hair flying in every direction under the matching red helmet I just happened to have in my bag that morning.

However, if I had been riding my vespa last night instead of walking, would I have missed the gentleman in a suit stealing the tree-sized flowers from the Plaza Hotel's dumpster? Or the young boy practicing racquetball against the giant marble wall outside his doorman-guarded building?

Maybe New York is best seen on foot.

Not to worry, I'll get my vespa when I move to Rome. And all will be well in the world.

image found at this amazing little blog dedicated to scooters

sometimes I can't control the metaphors that come out. this can be embarrassing...

Two days ago sidewalk cafes were multiplying like bunnies in heat (I can't believe I just said that.)

Yesterday it rained.

Today I woke up inside a snow globe. It looks as though big hunks of kleenex tissue are plummeting towards the ground--violently. It might just be the most beautiful thing I'v ever seen.

That's spring in New York for ya.

what if....

what if i hung my feelings like  photos on the wall just to remember 

what if i was a detective and searched my body for fingerprints and traces of your touch

what if i stopped right here, planted my feet, lifted my arms to the sky and grew leaves

what if i was a poem chasing its tail across the page

what if i disappeared into the crowd and swung from palm to palm like Tarzan through the jungle until i found a grasp that wouldn't let go

what if my legs moved on without me and i just stood right here, head over shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up

image fount at FFFFOUND!

by Stefanie Augustine

tonight we had what some might call a summit. a blog summit, that is.

ahhh--hem (throat clearing): the free dictionary defines a summit as "a conference or meeting of high-level leaders, usually called to shape a program of action" 

Some famous summits you might have heard of: 

Chamberlain-Hitler 

Kennedy-Krushchev 

Reagan-Gorbachev 

Well tonight was another one for the books:

Davis-Fee-Hill

The program of action we discussed?

how to unleash the full potential of our feminine wiles without actually  obliterating all the men in our path...because our wiles are just that strong

As evidenced by the photo we were all business.

dear crush,

Dear Crush,

If you think I don't know your name. If I don't say hello or goodbye. If my eyes dart to the floor every time you look in my direction. If I scowl or pretend to ignore you. If I act like I'm much too good. If you wonder why I'm friendly and charming with everyone but you...it's because I like you. It's because my whole body gets warm when I see you. It's because I'm actually shy. It's because you've missed the countless sidelong glances I've thrown in your direction. And because I am completely terrified that if our eyes were to ever meet, it would all be over--that in that instant I would unwittingly confess to the thousands of little lies that kept you from knowing just how hard I might (and maybe want) to fall for you. 

signed,

the girl you think has a crush on your friend.

image found at ffffoun (of course).

i'm willing spring to come with all my might.

Because in New York, nothing beats it.

That being said...if ever there was a case to be made for winter... this is it.

{I so love the blushing hearts of their cheeks and the way they jump up and down}

And P.S. Ingrid Michaelson is maybe my favorite. Ever.

that's what she said...

"a man has to find a good woman, and when he finds her he has to win her love. then he has to earn her respect. then he has to cherish her trust. and then he has to, like, go on doing that for as long as they live. until they both die. that's what it's all about. that's the most important thing in the world. that's what a man is, yaar. a man is truly a man when he wins the love of a good woman, earns her respect, and keeps her trust. until you do that, you're not a man."

Well, technically he (Gregory David Roberts) said it in his book, Shantaram. The book is a veritable treasure trove of quotes. But this is the one that stuck with me.

Can you tell I've been thinking a lot about love lately? Must be all those peonies in my love corner.

 And  then, he (husband-to-be) will learn to love my feet. All size ten of 'em.

so maybe i like the kind of ice cream you can pick up in your fingers and play with.

It's called Mochi ice cream. Didn't you know? 

Sesame flavor? Yes please!

roman holiday.

The whirr of the espresso brewing. The lively Italian dialogue coming from the corner television. Three hours of my Sunday morning spent in the corner drinking mocha coffee and pretending I live in Europe. 

I may not be able to afford the real thing right now. But this is pretty good too. It might just be my favorite place in all of New York. For now. 

Arte Around the Corner

274 Columbus Avenue (between 72nd and 73rd)

photos by moi

i put peonies in my feng shui love corner, so i'm hoping my luck will change.

I have a crush on a guy who I'm quite sure doesn't know my name.

And I think he has a girlfriend.

But the way his dark, curly hair peeks out from under his baseball cap makes me swoon.

image via Le Love

and you're wondering what I mean by peonies? go here.

i'm ooshing all over the place.

When I first entered the blogging world the only person I really knew was taza and I basically would just click on all her links to see any other blogs (well that and pressing the "next" button at the top of all blogs--I saw some interesting stuff, okay). This is all to say that I've been a long time blog stalker, fan, aficianado (whatever you want to call it) of the gorgeous and extremely funny Natalie Hill over at (NO) Sex and the City. I want her hair. And her career. She seems to know everyone. You can just tell that she's courageous and daring and adventurous...and boy do I need some adventure in my life!

So...she posted about me. And I'm so floored. So honored. So humbled. 

We're going to be friends. I can feel it. 

And she'll have a nickname for me (in fact I think she already does and secretly this may just be what I'm most excited about!).

P.S. I cannot thank those of you who have left me comments enough...I love hearing your love stories, your wishes and dreams. It gives me courage and hope. And I'm constantly reminded that I'm not alone. That we're all connected. Virtually, at least. 

say blossom too many times and you start to wonder if it's a word.

Last night my friend Justine took me to Blossom, an organic vegan restaurant located on Columbus Avenue between 82nd and 83rd street. Did I mention I'm from Texas and that I love meat? Well...I'd go back again and again because they have the meanest cookie dough milkshake a girl could ever hope to have. And it's made from soy. So you feel healthy even when you finish and you're barely breathing because you didn't come up--not even once--for air. 

Justine attracts men like it's her job. I have another friend like this, Victoria. It's hard to go out with either of these girls because when I'm with them, I know the men sure as heck aren't lookin' at me. So last night every waiter in the restaurant nuzzled up close to our table. After one got a bit too close (yes girls, you're right close talkers are right up there with heavy breathers and noisy eaters) she looked at me and quietly said, he's odd. Yeah, he's odd, I agreed. Later in the evening she made some comment about how he was kind of attractive. I cocked my head and gave her my best look of bewilderment. 

Why did you say he was hot, then? she asked. 

What, I didn't say he was hot. 

Yes you did. Earlier, you said he was hot.

Replay in my mind. Stop tape. Brain clicks in.

I said he was odd.

Oh, I thought you said he was hot. 

And I thought you said he was odd.

There you have it. She said hot. I said odd. And we both heard what we wanted to.

I laughed and laughed. 

Maybe that's why she's dating like three guys and I'm...

not.

do it on the front stoop.

I have two recurring fantasies.

The first involves wood floors, clean white socks, and the song Isn't she lovely. He's wearing boxer briefs and I'm swimming in his oversized Hanes t-shirt, a relic from his college days that's about one wash away from complete disintegration. We both have the white socks on. Ankle socks to be exact.

He sings along to the stereo and we dance--slipping and sliding, unleashing the inner eight-year-olds who know how to turn any wood floor into a veritable slip-and-slide wonderland.

The second is this.

I want to find him on the doorstep. Unexpected. I want to turn the corner after a long day, a long month, a long year and find him half-smiling with a bouquet of flowers. He'll be sitting there. And when he sees me, he'll stand. At first I won't understand. Who is this man I knew a million lifetimes ago? I'll climb the steps and he'll step aside. I'll put the key in the door and pause. I'll feel his breath on my neck. And his silence will fill me, satiate me. I'll push the door open and he'll follow in step. And we'll begin our life together, as we've always known we would.

That's what I want. To find the man I dream of sitting on my front stoop. Waiting.

So my dearest, darling-est, dreamiest husband-to-be, know this...

don't take me to the opera. or the rainbow room. don't make it a carriage ride through central park or a weekend getaway. i'm not even sure i need you to get on one knee. but do it on the door step. on the front stoop. sitting next to me. on the same level. turn to me and ask me to be your best friend, your lover, your absolute equal. so that then we can go inside and begin our life together, as we've always known we should.

That being said, you sure as hell better ask my father first. I believe in chivalry. And I was raised in the South.

it is my personal belief...

...that when walking the streets of New York in Spring, one must always accessorize with an umbrella or a bouquet of flowers. 

Or a horse. That's even better. 

Image found here.

dear husband-to-be,

I hate noisy eaters. And heavy breathers. 

Just so you know.

Love,

your doting and delicious wifey-to-be

The quest for the perfect top to wear in my headshot. OR...an outlet in which to place all my neurotic, unfortunate, uncomfortable, ridiculous thought

s. Thougts, that is. The title of this post got so long that google blogger wouldn't let me finish it. I like that. Maybe all my post titles should be that long. A little act of rebellion on my blog's part.

Okay, so I've been going a little batty. When I first signed with my agent (or rather, just before) he ooohed and ahhhed over my headshots taken by the oh-so-lovely-and-talented Joseph Moran (did you see the New York Magazine cover with Caroline Kennedy {it was a month or so back just after she pulled out of the race}? He did that). 

The following picture is one that Joseph took in January of 2008. For some reason it's the only one I have on my computer. He had fashion photoshopped it--meaning it was high gloss, high glamour--not what one would use for a headshot, and sent it to me just for fun. I then put it through the poladroid program. {Just for fun.} And wha-la...

It is highly, highly edited, but you get the idea. Last go round I had about three tops to choose from--basic Ann Taylor knits. One in a reddish color, one in blue, and then just a simple, basic black t-shirt. Turns out I photograph really well in black. Agents don't really like this. They like color. The like pop--they like you to look as "commercial" as possible (please don't ask me what that means, I'm still figuring it out for myself).  

This is all to say that many moons ago my agent asked me to get new headshots. Not so serious. More fun. A little lighter, he said. And no helmet hair. 

Ouch.

I've been putting it off. Standing in limbo. 

No more. Action is being taken. I'm getting my headshots done again. Tomorrow. By Joseph, because I love him and would trust him to do anything with that camera of his. 

So, about a week and a half ago I began the search for the perfect top. I worried. I fretted. All other cares fell at the feet of this grand pillar of importance. East, West, North, South...I searched high and low and came up with these...

{purple top from Anthropologie}

{a pinkish/orange top from the Gap. simple. i love that}

{a mermaid green BCBG dress. i fell desperately in love with the color}

{a very fancy maroon dress from Theory}

{and finally, a navy top from Urban Outfitters that I wouldn't ever wear in real life but might just photograph beautifully. or hideously...we'll see...}

I did my best with the tops. But then of course there is the issue of my adult onset rosacea which is marring my once near perfect skin. I've used my metrogel. I've stuck to the course of antibiotics. It disappeared there for a time. But it's come back. I know, I know it can be photoshopped out. I know. But it's about how you feel...you know?

It's silly to worry about a photo. It's just a photo. I think what I'm really worried about is that in the time between when I first got my headshots taken and now...what have I really accomplished? What do I have to show for myself? The camera can't capture the changes that have taken place inside me. But perhaps Joseph can...

Here's to hoping! Happy Monday.

Last Friday Dr. Bob and I had a really good talk: Part II.

Dr. Bob did the unthinkable. 

He told me the great secret--how we as Americans will finally lose weight.

It boils down to this...

Food has to become harder to get.

I don't really understand this. Yet. But this is what I do understand. We tend to consume more calories on impulse food choices. And the world we live in conditions us to give in to those impulse food choices. Starbucks on every corner. McDonalds next door. Candy in the check out lane. 

Think about this. If you got the sudden craving for a big honkin' hamburger in the 1950's, how easy would it have been to obtain? How much easer would it be to satisfy this craving today? Food is easy to come by. Too easy. 

So the question then becomes...how do we make food a bit harder to come by? Well...we cook more meals!!

Yes, the great cooking (or rather learning to cook) extravaganza continues. And I must say I'm falling in love with it. My first two endeavors (avocado and lime soup and then curried potatoes) were not especially good, but I did enjoy making them--and I filled up faster. 

My new sidebar "wearing the suit" has to do with something Dr. Bob once said. He told me that the actresses he knows who manage the weight issue best are those that recognize that it's just part of the job. It's like wearing a suit to work--it really is just one component of the job, albeit a necessary one. Right/wrong--it doesn't have to be such an emotional issue. The pictures are the visual to show what 1,800 to 2,000 calories really looks like (I read somewhere that taking pictures of what you eat can be more effective than just writing it down). So right now this will be my little sidebar for the most important job I can think of right now--reclaiming my life, finding happiness.

The brook would lose its song if we removed the rocks. 

Wallace Stegner

Thank God for the rocks and a very happy cooking extravaganza to you!

PS: next time I cook I might just have to try these.

I am the Walrus.

Today I took Liam and Bells (my two babysitting charges) to the Natural History Museum.

At one point with my best fish face, I turned to Liam and between fish bubble noises I asked, "What am I Liam? Am I fish?"

He said, "No silly, you're a woman."

There it was. Life's great truth. Delivered by a three year-old.

Last Friday Dr. Bob and I had a really good talk: Part I.

The first time I met Dr. Bob he said, "there is no such thing as a bad food." Now we've all heard this before. It's Eating Well 101. But he explained it by saying, "when the body is starving a twinkie might just be the thing to save your life."

Well on Friday we leveled. 

I said, "I want to lose weight." 

He smiled and said, "I know." 

I said, "Help me. How do I do it?" 

And he smiled again and said, "You have to eat at least 1,800 calories a day. Eating 1,800 calories creates a deficit of 200 calories a day and that along with exercise will allow you to lose weight."

"Okay," I said slowly, eyeing him carefully. "How long will it take me to lose ten pounds?"

He did the math in his head, "About three months." 

Ah, three months. Long sigh. So long. Wait a second, silly (the italicized words represent the sane part of me) three months is nothing in the grand scheme of things. And you've been trying to lose weight for years with no success. This guy is actually telling you to eat more. More food! How exciting!

Eat more. 

Dr. Bob explained that (and I think this is what he was saying, but don't quote me or him via me on it) eating less than 1,800 calories changes how the brain defines pleasure when it comes to food. Example: sweet food becomes more pleasurable. The body adapts to starvation by becoming increasingly sensitive to rewarding foods like sweets and butters. The body literally prioritizes food by calories. Foods that are "bad" for you become more pleasurable not necessarily because they are off limits, but because you get a large calorie count for not a lot of consumption. 

So I'm going to try. To eat more. Turns out 1,800 calories is a fair amount. And I'm going to enjoy every single one of them, allowing myself indulgences as well as the pleasure of fruits and veggies (homemade guacamole--oh my!). 

I know it seems scary. And I know the question becomes, how can I lose weight when I'm actually taking in more food? Well, by taking in more food (but not too much) you increase your metabolism and allow your body to become more efficient with calories, so that even if you slip up and eat that whole chocolate cake, the body says, no worries--I don't need these calories, I'll just get rid of them. Because not every calorie carries an equal weight. And when you're not starving yourself then your body doesn't feel the need to hoard calories. The body becomes more forgiving. So while it may seem counterintuitive: eating more can help you lose weight. But more importantly it will get you to the weight where your body wants to live.

Part II of my conversation with Dr. Bob has to do with cooking. That will come tomorrow. For some reason I've been putting off writing this post. I'm not sure why that is, but I'm gonna end it here for now in an effort to not push my luck. Part II to come...tomorrow (as well as an explanation of my new sidebar feature).

Today the Nor'easter hit with a vengeance.

And since I had the day off, I decided what better time to tackle my spring cleaning? 

After all, my mom's been asking when I was going to post the after picture from this post.

Well Mom, here it is...

though I don't think the after photo really does the room justice. I mean...it looks impeccable now.

The thing about NYC apartments is you have to move fast. Not much time to mull over the details. Once it's on the market, it doesn't remain there for long (maybe a bit longer in today's economy, but even still). Lightning speed is a must. This creates the following condition: you never know what the problem with the apartment will be until you've lived there for a little while. Apartment #1: nesting pigeons in the void where an air-conditioning could've gone. This led to maggots. And me cursing the fact that I didn't have a boyfriend I could call up at 3 am to come help me kill them. Apartment #2: street noise and dust: so much dust, so--so much noise. And now apartment #3: I don't mind that the dishwasher is always off kilter or that I have to hit the microwave's side each time to get it going. I don't even mind the passionate fights that the landlords have directly above my room or that they move furniture around in the early morning hours. I don't mind that I don't have a closet--though a closet would be nice. The problem with this apartment comes down to the following: I have to clean every five minutes. I think it's due to the lack of storage space. But I am always cleaning my room. One thing out of place and the whole thing is shot to hell. So I'm hoping this go round I'll maintain the spring cleaning state of being. For longer than five minutes.

And the below is my blogging area. Well, I should say I blog here at the desk and in bed. That's the beauty of a laptop. It's movable! Who knew? I saw on someone's blog (and now I can't remember, ugh--so if it was you, speak up) that they were tagged to show off the area in which they blogged. And if you were reading the post, you too were essentially tagged--thus the reason for me showing off my own space. So if you're reading this, now you're tagged. I wanna see where you make the magic happen people.

I'm desperate to live in Rome.

Just for a little while anyway.

I'd wake up early every morning. With the sun. Or maybe even before it. I'd sip coffee at the cafe around the corner. And I'd go to church every day. Be the good Catholic I've always known I could be. I'd study the architecture. And listen to opera. I'd eat gelato every afternoon. And pasta every evening. I'd never eat alone. Or with anyone I knew. Always strangers. I'd eat cookies all throughout the day. And drink wine. So much wine. Red, not white. I'd parade around the streets in sandals and barely-there-skirts. I'd chop all my hair off in the style of the latest Italian movie star. And play futbol in the streets with the young boys before their mothers called them home for dinner. The people of my piazza would soon recognize the cadence of my gait or the peel of my fire-engine-red vespa. And I'd write. All day long, I'd write. I'd kiss the Italian air with my words. And then I'd be loved. By my perfect Italian lover.

Please, oh please, won't someone give me a reason to go to Rome?

PS: we all know when it comes to travel guides it doesn't get better than Rick Steves...but man, oh man, can he write...this is his delightful, little article on my much dreamed of city