yum yum

i've eaten two apples this week.

this is a really big deal for me.

i don't really like apples. but i'm learning to love them.

take that ned.

confused as to who ned is? i know, me too, but this might help.

here's to taza

naomi at rockstar diaries has been doing some captivating features, asking people to list ten things that make them happy--and in turn getting us to think about the little things.

she emailed me. and you know how when the president calls, you answer?

that's what it felt like.

find my list here.

but. i'd like to add...

pasta strainers

lint rollers

pantaloons

pumpkin rigatoni 

and

naomi

ps: remember this list? well, im checking one off tonight. but i'm not telling--you'll have to guess!

love after love

I've just begun The Time Traveler's Wife (apologies, apologies to Krysta who advised against this book) and as of now I'm totally confused. 

But...

Just before the dedication page there is a poem by Derek Walcott. And I had to share it...

LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

Isn't that perfect? Isn't that exactly what everything is all about?

image at fffound quoted by Oh Joy 

in a corner of nyc in 1949...

after a lovely dinner thai dinner, with my friend angela, that ended in a search for mr. softie ice cream--i sauntered over to the bookstore to troll the aisles in search of some of your suggestions

i ended up getting The Time traveler's Wife because i was told that it's wildly sexy (and because it was a today show book club selection--and since i stood in line behind matt lauer at the ice cream shop yesterday--i took it as a sign)

after passing up countless books that i could have snatched up in a second if it weren't for my tight purse strings, i ended up in the postcard section

years ago, when i first became a wee bit sad my general practitioner sent me to a fantastic life coach in houston. life coaches focus not on the root of the problem but rather what can be done to improve your life immediately--little things: making lists and collages, identifying what makes you happy, and so on and so forth

one of the things this life coach asked me to do was cut out pictures from magazines that in some way lit a fire under me...well i'm doing this again. now.

above my work desk (in the corner of my bedroom) i'm gluing images right onto the wall. blogs are veritable treasure troves of delicious images so that's where most have come from.

but tonight, in the postcard section, this one struck me:

i flipped it over.

"Tanaquil Le Clercq, Donald Windham, Buffie Johnson, Tennessee Williams and Gore Vidal at Cafe Nicholson, NYC, 1949. Photograph by Karl Bissinger"

holy smokes. 

the quintessential Balanchine dancer, the pioneer of female painters, and three of the greatest, most prolific American writers. ever.

you think gatherings like this still happen anywhere? i sure hope so.

it's going up on the wall. now. 

books books books

i'll not forget the moment i learned to read. i was relatively young--preschool, maybe. sitting in the sunlit hallway--my legs dangling from the navy plastic chairs with slats--i pieced a sentence together. i sounded it out and made one word, then another, then another and just like that the code was broken. what had once been strange hieroglyphic symbols became moving thoughts. i understood. and so i spent that first weekend sitting in a multitude of different chairs reading that same book, max the cat, to anyone who would let me. 

the perk of living down the street from my elementary school was that i didn't need to wake up early. but i did. i'd set my alarm for six and spend a good hour (maybe more) curled up on the game-room couch getting in some good solid chapters before begrudgingly rising to dress. and i didn't mind the long afternoon ride across town to pick my brother up from school. i amused myself with books. i look back on these things now and laugh. you couldn't pry me out of bed before ten (if i could get away with it) and the motion sickness i now get from attempting to focus on anything in a car is enough to keep me from ever again trying. 

but the love of a good book. that just won't change. not ever. reading was the first thing i was ever good at. my greatest talent. of course, it's my greatest talent--it's the one thing that i get to be good at and never have to share with anyone else. i wouldn't be able to share it even if i tried. convenient, isn't it? no one can say that it isn't my greatest talent? no one can fight me on this one, you see?but what i mean is--my ability to fall into a story--for the words to fade away behind images that arise naturally without conscious thought--is this making sense? any of it? not to worry, in this thing (at least) words fail me. 

i only bring it up because...all my life i think i've striven to make manifest the talent lost to solitude. acting seemed the natural solution. and oh how i love to act. and any talent i have to acting i owe entirely to my love of reading. the love of reading that cultivated the love of words. the love of structure. the musicality of language itself. someone recently told me (i think it was his way of flirting) that i seemed to possess a musical soul, and did i? i laughed brazenly. i played the clarinet for over five years and was a disaster with it. and much as i love to sing--rhythm has never been my thing. i can't stand jazz (oh trust me i wish i did, i inherently get that it's just so damn cool) and i actually loathe opera (even if the note on my sidebar suggests otherwise). so i laughed brazenly, looked him in the eye and said,  do words count? because if they do then yes--yes, my soul is terribly musical. 

sometimes i would be asked, just what it is about the act of acting itself that you love so much? and i wouldn't know how to answer. there was no tangible reason. i swung miserably in the air grasping at straws. and then i would ask myself, why do i love this? why am i doing this? and slowly and surely i'd pick up a good play and read a brilliant passage and lose my breath because between my fingers i held the answer. the plays. the ideas. the words. oh, my god, the words. 

you know why shakespeare is so good? have you ever seen macbeth? well, there's this moment where the son of the slain king attempts to avenge his father by getting this other noble man who's just lost his wife and two kids to macbeth's hands on the merry bandwagon of revenge. and this guy--they guy who's just lost his wife and two kids--do you know what his response is? okay, ready yourself for this (i even pulled out an old signet edition just to be sure, Act IV, scene III, line 216):

He has no children. 

read it again. sound it out--as if you're learning to read. the line is gloriously monosyllabic! He. has. no. children. imagine this--as an actor you're thinking oh my god, i have no idea what it feels like to lose a wife and children. this man must be beside himself. how can i ever hope to act this part? don't. don't act it. for the love of god, please don't act it. just turn round, look the other bloke in the eyes and speak the words that shakespeare has given you--put them out into the space. He has no children. holy smokes. he's saying, there is no possible way to hurt macbeth as he has just hurt me. because he has no children. no flowerly language. direct to the point and absolutely deadly. 

it all seems a bit ridiculous now that it didn't strike me sooner--that i'd like shaping the words just as much as i loved to speak them. don't get me wrong--i am not a playwright. i have no intention of becoming one. but here i am a year out of school, no acting to be seen anywhere and words--the writing of them--no matter how silly or seemingly unimportant--these little words, their creation is saving me. saving my life. introducing me to myself. little gulps of air that i manage just before falling back beneath the rising water as my legs keep kicking me upwards. 

i don't know why i'm writing all this. perhaps as an explanation...if i've been a little absent lately it's because i've been working tirelessly at my penultimate talent. i copied down all of your book suggestions into my barnes and noble book journal entitled book lust, and decided to begin instead with novel on my roommate's shelf, Dancing on Thorns. The cover made it look a little trashy and quite a bit of fun and after weeks of sludging (ugh, the sludge) through The Emperor's Children, i felt entitled to a bit of fun. 

ohhhh, my friends, i'm loving it. i've spent hours reading it. it's quite long and i wouldn't have it any other way and I don't want it to end. i was up till three in the morning last night (and i had to be up at seven). it's all about the world of ballet and the genius of a true artist and the toll that takes and what must be sacrificed and is the sacrifice worth it--i could go on and on. i find that it's quite well written. and it is unbelievably, undeniably sexy--i've never read a sexier book. it's poignant and moving and far from perfect and i'm loving every second of it. so you put it on your list. and i promise to read the one's you've left me (my aunt texted me because she couldn't figure out how to leave a blog comment, so i'll pass on that she suggests Steinbeck's East of Eden). 

oh and did i mention this is set in london? i've been before but the constant references to the west end and covent gardens is...oh i just have to go again. and soon. 

Happy Sunday: front stoop found.

i took this picture at the start of last september. all the different lives that for just one moment fit inside the tiny lens of my camera. and the three front stoops--oh how i love them.

oh saturday night.

Since my Saturday night (following work) consisted of a trip to Duane Reade to purchase ant traps as well as the latest edition of Life and Style...

I'm thinking match.com doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

Really.

Because I don't want to end up as a cat lady. And the pervading feeling among my family members...

is that I just might.

PS: thanks for all the tips about the ants...I'll keep you posted on the success of the drugstore-brand traps!

image via fffound

about the ants.

this look of consternation? that's because of the ants.

there were five on the windowsill. the first night. 

about two nights ago.

i thought i'd deal with them in the morning. 

then in the morning they were all over the wood floor. 

many. many, many. 

even some in the kitchen.

tonight i found a whole slew on my dresser. 

my dresser for goodness sake!

hmph.

i'm not okay with this.

i have cucumber peels on the window sill. 

and cucumber peels on the floor. 

but there is no discernible trail to speak of.

traps are next. 

better ants than maggots.

i had maggots once. 

my first apartment.

three in the morning. insomnia. 

reorganizing room. move bed.

maggots. 

product of dead bird just outside my room.

 in the space where the air conditioner could of gone. 

the space that should have been covered. 

dead pigeon in fact. 

do you know that pigeons really do mate for life.

 loyal little lovers they are.

at the time i didn't know it was a dead bird. 

i didn't know what could have brought the maggots. 

so i threw out an old pair of sneakers. 

green sneakers. huge emotional attachment. 

huge.

maggots trump emotional attachment. 

i killed each one. each maggot. 

at three in the morning. all by myself. 

all by my lonesome. 

never have i wanted a boyfriend more.

 but need a boyfriend? nope.

 i took care of them, no boy

necessary.

i'd rather have ants than maggots. 

but ants move faster. 

and they seem to multiply.

what to do...what to do...

more room cleaning tonight...

explanation of above photo:

Helen over at the Museum Cupboard

(wish her luck on defending the

thesis for her MFA)

tagged me. 

Take a picture of yourself right now.

No preparing or primping.

Load the picture on your blog.

Tag some people to play along.

Well, I'm a little late in responding, 

but no primping was done. In fact this

is after a seven hour shift. And 

I didn't photoshop (sweet lord

above--never again will

you see unaltered photos)

your turn...

Thao at Prosecco and Lemonade who's getting married soon

Veronica at There's a Holiday Every Day--giving us a reason to celebrate, always

and Sarah-Lucy at My Brave New World--her writing is just that, brave indeed

have you read this too?

So I finally finished The Emperor's Children by Claire Messud. It took me ages and ages because I couldn't quite get into it. Drawn to it at the bookstore because of it's description as, "[a] brilliantly observed novel of fate and fortune--about the intersections in the lives of three friends, now on the cusp of their thirties, making their way--and not--in New York City," the book came with nothing but glowing reviews. It was even selected as A New York Times Book Review Best Book of the Year. All that being said, I didn't like it. Not at all. I was overwhelmed by it's pervading sense of--oh, I'm not even sure--apathy, maybe? Selfishness? A shallowness parading as grandeur? I never felt fully embraced by the book, it was rather as if I watched from afar as partially formed characters lived out tedious events. The last few chapters of the book dealt with September 11 and for a brief, glittering moment I thought the pervading sense I got from the book up until then was perhaps skillfully set up in order to give that event an even greater weight--a greater meaning. But in this I felt let down as well.

Has anyone else read this book? What did you think?

And any suggestions as to what I should read next...

Any ideas for a good first book for my book club? Should I choose one of my all time favorites to share, Beach Music or Lords of Discipline?

PS: my lovely little NYC apartment now has ants.

I hate them. My roommate is not bothered at all.

But they're concentrated in my room (at the front of the apartment).

Are they a product of Spring?

What am I to do--a few I wouldn't mind, but suddenly they seem to 

be everywhere (i feel like such a girl right now).

im feeling homesick.

today dr. bob compared regular eating to driving along the highway in texas. 

he said, can you tell me the difference between mile 209 and 541? no? well, that's what regular eating is like--it all kinda looks the same.

yes. texas is flat. and much of it looks the same. and it's not exactly scenic (well, not always). 

but oh how i'd love to see the bluebonnets growing along the highway right now.

as best as i can tell

this image is by Darrell Gulin/Corbis

(i found it using google image search--the larger

version is even more beautiful, find it here)

about *him*

last week i found the following:

After working a fundraiser at Mongolian BBQ -complete with the cheap hat, apron tied around his armpits (he's tall), and hair curling in every direction from the heat of the grill-- he gave me the slow look over, winked, and said "you know you like a man in uniform."

He dresses for his own entertainment. He showed up at my door wearing a pink paisley tie, vest, and a newsies cap. And he looked good.

I was falling asleep leaning against a wall- waiting for his friends to decide which bar to go to. He opened his arms and gave me a look. I stared at him blankly. "HUG ME." I walked up to him and dropped my head into his chest as he wrapped his arms around me. One of his friends commented that technically, I still wasn't hugging him. "I know. This is hug rape."

Last summer, he was bored. He then completed the Burning River 100 Mile Endurance Run. During the run, he hallucinated and a saw miniature horse and then a koala bear waving at him.

He gave me dancing lessons in Kohls. The dances included tango, waltz, and polka (to name a few). I think the polka was his favorite.

He once asked me if I would like to smell Egypt. I now know what Egypt smells like. There were no bodily functions involved.

After he does anything especially dorky- he'll look over at me, make sure he has my attention, then say, quite seriously, "you like me" while pointing at his chest. He thinks he's reminding me... like I could've forgotten.

i found it here, on technical support. isn't it perfect? it's entitled "about *him*"--doesn't *him* sound delicious?

it prompted the following letter:

dear husband-to-be,

i would like to smell egypt.

love,

you-know-who

fizzy water and twizzlers

It's raining here in New York. Raining so, that suddenly--for the first time--the phrase cats and dogs seems perfectly apt, but don't ask me what it means.

Edith Piaf is playing in the background (as she must when it rains). And I'm drinking diet coke (heretofore known as fizzy water) and eating twizzlers as I recover from a beast of a chest cold (hence my unusually prolonged blog world absence). This chest cold--cough and all (and I never get a cough) is most likely punishment for weathering the entire (yes the entire) winter season in near perfect health. It is also a product of allergies, the present day Greek mythological curse. Present day Greek mythological curse, you ask? Remember the story of Tantalus (that's okay, I didn't either and it took me a good thirty minutes of searching the web to find the following)... Well he chopped up his son and attempted to serve him to the Gods,

"Tantalus's punishment, now proverbial for temptation without satisfaction (the source of the English word "tantalizing"[10]), was to stand in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches. Whenever he reached for the fruit, the branches raised his intended meal from his grasp. Whenever he bent down to get a drink, the water receded before he could get any (Wikipedia)." 

My point is, the Gods gave us Spring to behold in all it's glory and yet it's near impossible to do (to behold) through bleary eyes and a running nose--it's like reaching down to drink the water and finding it gone.

It took me so long to find the Tantalus story that I've completely forgotten the original idea for this post. 

But.

This much I'll say (in the spirit of the rain),

I have been dreaming of English countrysides as of late. I love the rain. Desperately, I love it. The sound of it, the mystery. It's always struck me as a cloak for magic in the world. But rain in New York can be trying. Travel here undoubtedly involves being outside. No car to garage to house scenarios. And showing up to auditions or the work-place waterlogged is not always ideal. But in the English countryside, in the warmth of a house, where the doors and windows would stay open all day long (no threat of burglars or mosquitos) and the cool drops would stain the edge of the stone floors...can you imagine? Giant windows, thrust open. Shutters. And big doors. Big, wooden doors. Extra wide--an invitation to precipitation. Shorts and Wellies, a uniform of choice. And thunder, the rolling music of Mother Nature (a thing so rare in New York that tonight my roommate confused a glorious few thunder rolls for the fighting of our landlords overhead, a much more commonplace occurrence). Mmmm, a girl can dream.

And in other news when I was laid up in bed (the cold) I wandered over to facebook's networked blogs and attempted to register this little blogspot lover of mine. I found it had already been done. By an anonymous facebook follower. Well, thank you anonymous facebook follower. You're description of my blog as "real-life" and "writing" seems spot-on and tickled my flattery-bone to no end. So if facebook is anyone else's thing and you wish to follow me there, I'm adding a link to the side. Plus, I need nine people to confirm that I am in fact the writer of this blog so if you could do that, many thanks would be owed. 

Photos found on {this is glamorous} (slightly altered).

mmm. sunday.

i beg you...to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. don't search for the answers, which could not be given you now, because you would not be able to live them. and the point is, to live everything. live the questions now. perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

rainer maria rilke

i love sundays. the solitude. the quiet. the time to contemplate and revel in and love the questions. 

i'm about to crawl back into bed with a good book. 

perhaps my questions will be reflected on the pages and in the lives of not-so-ordinary characters. 

sunday perfection.

photo by Cig Harvey found at una bella vita

a deal with God.

I have an irrational fear of throwing-up. 

The possibility brings on something of a panic-attack.

So when I woke up this morning and thought that I might...first I lied on the cool wood floor of my bedroom and prayed. Then I moved to the tile floor next to the toilet and prayed. I splashed some cool water on my face and made a deal with God. 

It went something like this, Dear God, I promise I will never again drink. Please just don't let me get sick. Not only will I not drink, I'll never again misuse this wonderful body you gave me. 

{more water on face}

{more prayer}

And slowly it was revealed that my prayer was answered. The shaking subsided. And color drained back to my face.

So if the next time we go out for drinks and I get water, know this...I've made a deal and I fully intend to stick to it. All healthy food into the body shall go. 

The ridiculous thing is that I only had two glasses of wine last night. That's it, just two. But I'm a light drinker and the last three times I've had anything at all have resulted in bad experiences. Prosecco, as much as I love it, has been crossed off the list entirely. Wine itself, may be next. 

But Gottino was lovely and I'd highly recommend it. 

i spent my day trolling around central park with liam and bells (the babysitting charges).

we visited the castle (liam loves all things pertaining to knights) and marveled at the trees in full bloom. then we studied the ducks as they swam back and forth, back and forth.

and at one point during the day (against the screaming protests of my allergies) i thought, this is perfect. this moment is perfect. if only i could bottle this moment. 

and just as quickly as it came, it went.

now i'm off to dinner in the west village (my very favorite nyc neighborhood. doesn't this place i'm going look divine?

i'll let you know if the food is as good as the curbside appeal would suggest.

restaurant photo by brian kennedy.

via ny magazine.

reason #346 how you know you're living in nyc and still figuring your life out

you drop off 20 (yes, 20) lbs of laundry at the corner wash and fold. and you don't mind the $18 price tag.

i fear i was unclear in my writing:

my post-secret was what was written on the card.

the other news is staggeringly un-exciting

(and to be honest, i'm still figuring out whether

i should even post about it).

more posting to come soon...im a bit behind because

my three jobs are getting the better of me this week.

reason #347 how you know you're living in nyc 

and still figuring you're life out:

you have three (yes, three) jobs

my monday post-secret

inspired by the post-secret blog, which updates every sunday, i thought i'd pass on my own little secret. 

plus i have big news (well, big news to me) that i can't wait to share later.

happy monday, indeed!

an easter confession.

when i was little i wasn't afraid of death. i wasn't afraid of an afterlife.

i was afraid of the three days between those two things. the three days when one's body was stuck in a grave. underground. 

that's what i thought it all meant....it took Jesus three days to rise from the dead...so it would be three days between death and the afterlife. three days when even the soul would lie dormant, interred beneath the sun. 

how i long for that innocence. and clarity. and freedom from the fear of things not worth fearing. 

little scooter. big skateboard.

dear husband-to-be,

promise that when you take our little boy (or girl) to school and he (or she) wants to ride the scooter, you'll say yes.

you'll say yes because you'll ride right alongside. on your skateboard. yes, your skateboard. 

man, you are just so damn cool.

love,

your i-can't-believe-i-got-this-lucky wife-to-be

a letter, indeed.

this morning in my inbox i found this lovely little message from my old friend, sam.

Dear Meg Fee,

Do not become an adult. I repeat, do not become an adult. I can tell you that I take my hat off (when I wear one) before I sit down at the dinner table. Heck, once I enter a building.
But I am not an adult, simply, I perform actions that fool the world into thinking I am an adult, when truly - I am not.

At somepoint I'd like to get coffee with you and see if you still dream of the woods of new england.

Love,

Sam

it was in response to this. 

i copied it into my notebook because it tickled me to no end. and, because i think he might just be right.

sam was one of the first guys i ever fell really, really hard for (i was just entering high school). and maybe the only one i ever fought with another girl over. 

that being said, new england woods...i don't know what he's talking about...

i love this yogurt, i love this yogurt, i love this yogurt

i don't like yogurt. it has just never been my thing. most especially i hate the yogurt with actual fruit chunks (and keep in mind i eat almost anything, so this is saying a lot). 

but this morning i made the oh-so-very-adult decision to eat my dan active yogurt and pumpkin flax cereal. 

i believe you can learn to love things you once hated.

when i was little and i didn't like to do something (let's say math) my mom would say, "i love the 500, i love the 500, i love the 500"

the 500, you ask? you're confused, i understand. does anyone remember Dan Jansen? he was this speed skater who endured tragedy after tragedy--a speed skater who could never seem to win that elusive gold medal, or any medal for that matter. and he hated the 500 meters. with a passion. so he would repeat, "i love the 500, i love the 500, i love the 500" and do you know what...his last race, his very last one, ever...the 500...he won it.

that is the story as i remember it. wikipedia has a different idea of how things went down (the seem to think he won the 1,000), but that's neither here nor there (though there version is pretty good too).

guess what ned? i love the 500, i love the 500, i love the 500

and all that makeup, 

in the picture?

i know. but i had to

work for the makeup company

today and they like you to wear

quite a bit. quite a bit, indeed.

my "one day..." dream; episode III: new york's west village

one day i'll live in the village.

and i'll ride my bike everywhere. my bike will have a wire basket. (the west village calls for a bike, not a vespa).

there are cobblestone streets.

and the most beautiful stoops. 

an open letter to the woman who attempted to duck under our camera.

Dear ma'am,

It didn't work. 

Signed,

Meg

Dinner on Saturday night at Maria Pia

on 51st between 8th and 9th with

Dad, Mom, Cousin Sean, and the amazing

Sarah (Sean's girlfriend, and avid blog reader)

in an effort to make myself smile (and get that perfect, bikini-beach-ready body)

i'm going to jump everywhere. 

from place to place. 

so if you happen to be in new york and your eye lights upon a brunette who's bobbing up and down among a sea of strangers, know this...you've found me, friend.

becoming an adult. or: gentleman, take your damn caps off {a hat manifesto}.

My legs belie me. You see, they keep moving forward. And I am doing anything but. 

My parents passed through New York this weekend en route to other things. But we aligned our schedules just enough that we enjoyed a lovely family dinner on Saturday night and today (the lucky girl that I am) I got to spend all day with my mother. 

However, with the morning's downpour and an hour long session with Dr. Bob where the forecast of my face reflected the view out the window more than I'd care to admit, I felt anything but lucky. I wanted to crawl back into bed. 

No such luck.

Instead I met my mother on the corner of 68th and Broadway where I twisted my face into what I hoped would pass for a smile. 

Two blocks. That's how long it took for my mother to ask me why I'd been crying.

How to tell her that it's just been a rough patch. That the past two weeks have felt interminable. That getting out of bed has been a chore of great effort.

And so we stopped and stood under some crooked sidewalk scaffolding. And we both cried as the sky emptied out all around us. 

My mom said I could come home. If I need to. If I want to. For as long as I want. But I can't. Not this time. I did that once. But for now I have to grow up (or at least try). I have to make the decision to become an adult. To get out of bed in the morning, even when I don't want to and to brush my teeth. To floss. To shower and dress and walk instead of taking a cab. To smile at the checkout girl. To interact. To open. To bloom. Little things, every day. A few steps forward--and not just with my feet.

That's the thing about graduating from school that no one tells you: you have to grow up. Not immediately. It can be a slow, gradual process. But you have to make the decision. Because you're legs keep moving forward with or without you. You have to make the decision to keep up.

So men, when you enter a nice restaurant or a place of worship. When you go to dinner at a friend's house or attend a play at the theatre. Take...your hat...off. Full stop. No questions asked. This is one of those things that makes you an adult. And believe it or not, since fifteen year-old-boys are capable of it, so must you be. I do not hold this belief because I am from the South. I do not hold this belief because I am old-fashioned. I hold this belief because it's common courtesy--common decency. Frankly, I'm shocked that your parents never taught you as much. 

We all have battles we are fighting. I know this. So gentleman, I'll make you a deal. You take off your hats without a fight and I'll fight Ned as hard as I possibly can. 

the story of a letter. prompted by an email.

I'll never forget being sixteen years old and riding in the car next to my mother. She turned to me and said, you know that...if you were to ever get pregnant...you could tell me...right?

I don't know what prompted my mother to ask me that (bear in mind, I was well on my way to nineteen when I had my first kiss). Maybe she heard a story on NPR. Or had that afternoon shared lunch with her girlfriends. I don't know why she felt the need to offer up those words--I mean, I was so far away from sex. In both thought and action. 

And yet, that simple admission was this unbelievable gift. 

My parents would love me. No matter what. 

They would support me. No matter what. 

They would forgive me by imperfections and celebrate my humanity. 

I was loved. 

In that moment my mother gave voice to a mother's love. 

When I was newly arrived at school, and wide-eyed in the city, I met a boy. And my mom did something so incredible, so completely selfless, and (to be quite honest) relatively uncharacteristic. And when I say uncharacteristic I mean that this was the woman who didn't want me to move off campus and leave behind the 24 hour security guard. This was the woman who though sleep away camp was just not such a good idea. It was always my father who would convince her to let me fly (one step at a time). So, when the first year of college my mother wrote me a letter I was in awe (oh God, she's gonna die that I'm revealing this--I might even get an email telling me to take this down immediately). She wrote me a letter and made me promise not to speak of it with my father. It was an open love letter to womanhood. A letter encouraging me to explore and experiment--encouraging me to embrace love in it's many forms and to understand that the act of making love (though a holy experience) does not have to be reserved for marriage. 

Now I know we all have different views on this subject. And I know many (maybe even most) will disagree with my mother's letter and I respect your opinions--your decisions-- wholeheartedly, I even understand them. But what my mother's letter gave me was an invitation to trust my body. 

It's a funny thing about being with a someone. You might think you know exactly what to expect. You might have even have limits constructed for a much dreamed of hypothetical. But when you enter into that very tricky dance with someone, if you're listening, you're body will tell you exactly what it's willing--exactly what it wants--to do. And the body doesn't lie. I'm not talking about the ebb and flow of hormones. I'm talking about about a deep knowing that comes from the gut. The part of you that says, this is right, or...nuh, uh, stop. 

You see the point of my mother's letter...well...she wanted to make sure that I could understand (on an experiential level) the difference between having sex and making love. And that I would then spend a lifetime in pursuit of the latter, with the man so lucky as to call me "wife". 

That was the first half of the letter. The second half was classic mom all the way. She wrote something along the lines of, that being said, you sure as hell better be safe about it and why don't you get yourself a really good book that explains everything, but don't go to the Barnes and Noble across from school because someone there might recognize you and maybe you should try one on the east side. 

And so I did. Get myself a really good book that is. Took me a few years, but I finally got it. The Guide to Getting it On by Paul Joannides. This is not to say my mother didn't balk when, in ordering some books from Amazon, she found it in her cart. 

So I mentioned the book briefly in my last post, which I guess then showed up on Paul Joannides' google alerts, and don't you know I got an email from him today offering me a complimentary version of the latest edition. Oh my goodnes, did I laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. But then I started thinking. You see, the book is a pretty brilliant look at the nature of sex, physically and emotionally. It approaches it with a sense of humor, coupled with reverence. And it never loses sight of the fact that we are human. We need touch. And most importantly, we need love. And it is our responsibility to figure out what all of it means to us, as individuals.

Many of you will never give your daughter a letter, as my mother did. You will read this post and disagree with her decision. But let me say this...she raised a daughter who does know the difference between making love and the act of intercourse, and who has never once taken that distinction for granted. 

Though the stanza of her favorite book may read,

I'll love you forever,

I'll like you for always,

As long as I'm living

My baby you'll be.

...the letter was her way of saying, you know...it's okay to be a woman now, it's okay to grow up, and you get to make your own decisions...right?

Thank you Mom, I couldn't have asked for a more generous gift.

PS: Paul's email included some probing questions about what it's like to be a single woman after the college years have ended. I have my own ideas, but I think I'm gonna post about it later so that you all can weigh in on this subject as well.

AND please note...I in no way believe or advocate that sex/making love equates to womanhood. I simply believe that it is a decision that is different for each individual. It must be made factoring in beliefs, feelings, and the knowledge of the body.

i keep thinking of things i want to add to my list.

pretty soon my list will be out of control. 

keep nasty comments to myself. have a more positive attitude.

let things roll off my back.

attend church every sunday morning.

stretch first thing in morning. then turn on the radio and dance it out.

now the reason i decided to give up caffeine and soda...at work on tuesday the substitute manager came up to the greeter's stand (i'm a hostess {in case you didn't know} but we call ourselves greeters...don't ask me why, because we sure as heck are doing more than just greeting people) and started to tell us something, but i was distracted by her glaringly white teeth. "what do you use?" i practically shouted at her. she laughed, "well, i don't smoke, i don't drink coffee, and i don't drink soda." no smoking. check (though sometimes i have to admit it looks pretty sexy {but i think kissing someone who smokes tastes like a dry erase board}). but as for coffee and soda. oh boy. long way to go. but if these things also account for her perfect skin and lithe body...well added bonuses, i say! i told my roommate of my plan. he scoffed. so now i'm more determined than ever.

and to make it a bit of fun...i'm drinking out of a pasta sauce jar. it just feels so darn spring-y (even summer-y, if you'll allow). lemonade and ice cubes out of jar. perfection (technically it's crystal light, but hey, it's getting me to down that daily water intake).

this picture doesn't do it justice. 

and yes, that book in the background 

is The Guide to Getting it On.

everyone has given me such good 

advice and suggestions for my list.

i love that you all have your own!

and yes, i put "fall in love" 

last because i know that i have to 

love myself first and this list 

is made up of 25 stepping stones to

help me cross that chasm!

and maybe i will try to publish something...

happy almost half birthday Carlita!

PS...miss rikki came up with her own. check it out and be sure to read her "About Me"--so brilliant!

25 before 25

Inspired by the amazing Carolyn over at My Thirty Before 30 Journey, I decided to make my own list. I said I needed a change? Well, it's in my hands to make it happen. My half birthday is April 4, so I have a year and a half to begin these--to make them a priority. I've lost sight of how much fun goals can be (I say this now, we'll see how I feel three months, six months, a year from now {though I have a feeling I'm going to love these--how hard some of them are--how much of a challenge they'll present})

1. take a trip abroad

2. read 25 new books

3. fall in love with running

4. give up soda and coffee (and yes, that mean's saying goodbye to starbucks)

5. figure out how to get some swimming into my life

6. host a dinner party

7. finally start a book club (stop talking about it and just do it)

8. get a job that i truly love (even if it's only temporary)

9. see the elephants walk through manhattan

10. see the yankees play in the new stadium

11. explore and document different nyc neighborhoods

12. write a little. every day. stretch those creative muscles.

13. choose 15 of shakespeare's great female monologues. disect them. figure them out.

14. speak a little poetry--a little shakespeare out loud every day

15. improve my spanish speaking skills

16. stop buying tabloid magazines

17. unleash my inner fashion mavin

18. lower my cholesterol

19. figure out what my happy weight is

20. eat at least five fruits and veggies each day

21. treat my body with the respect it deserves 

22. get my finances in order

23. become a real--working--professional actor

24. say goodbye to ned. for good.

25. fall in love

What would you put on your list? Do you all have any suggestions?

thank you...or so i feel.

how can i thank you all for your unbelievably kind comments? your unwavering support. your understanding of something that is so far beyond understanding?

perhaps our greatest strengths lie in those things we think make us weak? perhaps it's all a matter of perspective?

one of the very first things i did at juilliard was attend a memorial service for a drama student who had been killed the year before. it was devastating. and i cried. i didn't know the girl, but i cried for lost love and lost life and lost beauty.

one of her classmates read the following during the service and i'll forever carry it with me.

my blogspot address (or-so-i-feel) is taken from it. so, as a thank you i want to share this once more (it was one of my very first ever posts {back when i had not a clue what i was doing or getting myself into}) but it's worth it to post it all over again...

A Poet's Advice

e. e. cummings

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through
words.

This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel—but that's
thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is
feeling—not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single
human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think
or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the
moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night
and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest
battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working
just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possible
imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like
somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the
time—and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and
working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem,
you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do
something easy, like learning how to blow up the world—unless you're
not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't.

It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

the photo is from on of my absolute

 favorite blogs, Una Bella Vita A Beautiful Life...

the images and quotes always move me.