eight.

sometimes i wonder if i'll ever wake up feeling any older than eight years of age.

and by sometimes i mean more often than not.

because it has yet to happen.

the kiss.

it had been so long since she kissed someone, she wondered if she had forgotten how.

because surely this was not how it was meant to go.

wasn't one person meant to go for the top lip, the other the bottom?

she couldn't figure out what was happening.

well, okay, she knew what was happening. sort of. she just couldn't figure out what she was supposed to do.

standing right there on 78th and Amsterdam, kissing.

she almost started laughing and gave up. she thought if she just disengaged, turned around, and walked away, she might be spared the embarrassment.

but eventually they figured it out. reached a tentative meeting of minds. and mouths.

she loved that he turned around right there on the corner--as if driven by his own wonder and curiosity. loved that he had to take his glasses off. loved that he was suddenly a boy, transformed by his own excitement.

because never had she felt more beautiful.

and so when it all ended, she would laugh about just how uncomfortable that first kiss was, but choose to remember that moment when he could just no longer wait--that moment when a grown man became a boy. and she began to fall.

whirlpool.

yesterday something hideous moved through me.

a mood.

a bad mood.

a bad mood to end all other bad moods.

i walked past the bathroom in the new apartment and stopped.

my love for this new bathroom knows no bounds. our tuscan bathroom, i call it. (something about the tan stones has led me to dub it as such).

our tuscan bathroom has a whirlpool bath. and because i've long longed for a bath in which to fall apart, i thought, hmmm... this tub will do. this tub will definitely do.

and so i ran the warm water. climbed in. prepared for some kind of release and pressed the whirlpool button.

rumble. bubble. rummmmmble.

and dirt.

an explosion of dirt.

yes, dirt.

i quickly turned the whirlpool button off.

and remained in the warm water as the brown chunks outfitted in various sizes and shapes swirled and pooled around me.

and i thought, yup, this is about right.

after all, it was release i had been in search of. and beggars can't be choosers.

dear one-day-pal,

i broke the candlesticks. the one's i knew you'd hate.

this last move.

they were on top of my bookshelf.

i was moving a picture frame and they fell.

and they shattered.

i didn't imagine they could make themselves so small. even in breaking, i couldn't fathom that there would be so many pieces. so tiny.

i was fine. unscathed. strangely enough the glass seemed to avoid me all together.

i should be thankful for that.

i know. i know that.

but the thing is, all i can think,

it's one less fight. one less fight we'll have.

a silly little fight about differing tastes.

one less memory.

one less moment for me to fall madly and deeply and desperately in love with you.

love,

the girl two-candle sticks short tonight

one regret,

dear world,

that i am determined

not to have

when i am lying

on my deathbed

is that i did not

kiss you enough.

hafiz

seeing in colors.

sometimes i like to go and just stand under the arched trees of central park.

and feel both small and big.

and safe.

to feel enveloped by green.

and remember that, while for one brief moment

i may not be able to see the blue of the sky, it's there.

it's always there.

and today i feel so darn full of blue.

(in the best possible way).

the cake

it should be noted...

(since comments were made about the cake in my latest post)

that i made it.

yes! i know! i who may not know how to cook, can whip up baked goods when push comes to shove.

that being said...

it should also be noted

that i made the frosting.

and that the frosting was not yet hard enough when i placed it on the warm cake.

(it has been a while.

since i baked.

anything).

and that i may have left the party with frosting in my hair.

on my left arm.

a tad on my boot.

and just a wee bit on my skirt.

and that victoria may find frosting in her kitchen for days to come.

that being said,

it was a hit.

(i think.)

{i hope.}

ps:

a word about plagiarism...

i love when people reference my blog. or cite it.

it flatters me to no end. lets me know that things are

relevant and relatable.

(and it always makes my giddy when someone tells me,

but it's not necessary--it's that person's prerogative.)

i get that the blog world is in many ways about

inspiration. and this lends itself to a certain

amount of passing of ideas. we borrow from people.

use their ideas as a spring-board for our own.

it's an amazing phenomenon.

and a lovely form of sharing.

plagiarism is not these things.

it is stealing. you know it when you

see it. you know it when you do it.

if you think maybe you've done it--if

you're unsure--chances are, you have not.

i hate that i'm doing this.

but let it serve as a little public-service

announcement:

this is what plagiarism looks like.

(note the sidebar. and then scroll down).

follow up: i was alerted to the plagiarism by a very kind reader. i love it that you all have my back--it means so much.

saturday night surprise party

just a slice of life here in the big city.

friends, drinks, cakes, and roofs.

and one very large princess balloon.

{happy birthday victoria. i love you so much.}

and he's dreamy to boot.

how to say this?

i think food and weight is one of the next great political issues in this country.

all you have to do is read the information out there.

for the first time in our history obese women are giving birth to children in huge numbers. and no one's really sure how's this is going to affect those children. but the studies done indicate that it won't be good.

sorry, that's an understatement.

it will be bad: predisposition to diabetes, brains that actually crave fatty, processed foods.

so you can see how this obesity thing might snowball. will snowball.

there is movement, across the country to legislate how we deal with food.

the new york city calorie count law. (which i happen to think is bad).

a tax on sodas and juice drinks. (which i happen to think is good--it's like taxing cigarettes, that extra money makes it slightly more difficult for people to buy. and the idea is more people will turn to water {good}).

to say we need a revolution in the food industry is not histrionic or hyperbolic. it's a fact.

diets do not work. over the long run, they do not work. people do not fail. the diets do.

processed food is bad. how food is manufactured is bad.

i've been watching jaime oliver's food revolution over the last few weeks. and i've been floored. by the lack of words like weight and calories. the emphasis on health.

the thrusts to his program are

1. eat real food

2. learn to cook

do you know that if people were to those two things (two things!) the obesity epidemic could be cut in half?

hmm. so maybe he's on to something?

it's the first and only reality television show i've ever seen that's gotten it right--that hasn't been a quick fix for one person or one family. that wants to make small and very possible changes that could actually, yes, revolutionize the way america eats.

this is all to say: the season finale is tonight. i think you should watch it. or dvr it. or hulu it tomorrow (as i will do).

(climbing off soapbox now).

image via google

another question?

how is one to deal with plagiarism?

must i take to public shaming? because i'd not like to. but i will.

you know?

the couch.

there's a spot, on the furthest end of the couch, where one can sit and see nothing but water and rock and the green of trees newly bloomed.

i sat here the first day and thought. this is where i will come. to sit and write and drink my coffee. to begin my day with a quiet prayer. and feel my body hum with gratitude.

i am slowly learning that things happen just as they meant to. time unfolds and reveals us to ourselves.

and for now, those are the only words i have.

so blogging and morality...

i asked the questions. mulled over all your gorgeous and insightful and contradictory but still valid responses and this is what i came up with:

i don't know.

that's my answer.

i don't know.

the decision of what to share, how much, to what extent--it's personal. and it's day to day.

that's about as much as i know.

i'm gonna have to assume that guys google. facebook stalk. use technology to dig around a little.

the next time i enter into a relationship i'm gonna be really honest. and upfront:

i write. i write about my life. and if you choose to play a part in my life...well, continue at your own peril.

if he chooses to read the blog. great.

but he has to tell me.

because the blog has to then be a discussion--something we talk about so that i'm sure he gets the whole story. straight from the horse's mouth. otherwise we run the risk of him reading it--thinking something's about him when it's not. (and this situation played out in about a thousand other variations).

he has to give me a chance to explain some things: just because i write about love and marriage doesn't mean these are things i necessarily want right now.

the blog can never substitute for face to face conversation.

(actually, on that note i'm doing away with all texts and phone messages as a means of conveying anything of any import. because what is life but one massive game of telephone tag, anyway? and the technology is just one more degree of distortion. you know? i might even transport myself back to the 1800's when letter writing was the truest form of courtship. everything that needed to be said could be. on paper. in ardent language. because, let me ask you this, how can like or lust or love be talked about using anything less than ardent language? but i digress.)

the point is. the blog has done so much good for me. i really like the blog. and my mom's right and so i don't think i'll ever again change something i've published because some guy takes offense to it.

but i have to learn that the blog is not my first form of defense. or communication.

and because i tend to go quiet when i most need to say something, i can get myself into trouble. holding it in. getting it out only later by taking pen to paper (or in this case fingers to clickable keys).

some things need to be said. aloud. face to face.

so, okay. i will try that. and if it means i carry around a little spiral pad and golf pencil and sit there across from him and write what i cannot say, well then, so be it.

because i'm working on it.

the point is, at the end of the day we must answer to our own moral standards. and share that with which we are comfortable. and go with the gut. and realize that sometimes we'll fail, but such is life. and hell, it's worth a go.

retail therapy?

i was meant to meet the roommates at anthropologie yesterday. we were going to peruse the home goods section. take advantage of the sale.

i arrived early.

wandered over to the jewelry.

found a pair of earrings that i liked.

held them up and studied my reflection.

thought, wonder if he'll think they look beautiful on me?

(because this is what happens when i like a guy, shopping suddenly becomes an attempt to see things through his eyes as well as my own).

remembered that not only would he probably not care, he'll not see them.

he'll not see me.

so not therapeutic.

c-jane inspired post edit:

so glad i didn't get those earrings yesterday. found a much better pair today.

see, patience! (and metaphor).

a toast.

the first step towards getting somewhere is to decide that you are not going to stay where you are.

john pierpont

i've begun the slow and painstaking process of moving myself down the street. one suitcase at a time. and that's a form of movement, no?

sarah, amanda, and i toasted tonight to the many things just around the bend.

perhaps this chapter of blowing air through my lips to keep myself calm is just about to end. or shift, a little.

andy, andy..

naomi and i happened across this little warhol number when we toured the national gallery on tuesday.

i thought it a bit ironic, considering.

but it gave me a little chuckle. and hey, i'll take it.

blogging and morality. i have some questions.

my mother has decreed if ever i'm to date a man again (and one can hope) that i'm not to tell him i have a blog.

i think this foolish. after all, one google search of my name and it'd be all over.

my mother thinks men don't google.

i think in this era of facebook, they most certainly do google.

i've always been honest on my blog. but i do concede that it is my version of honest--my version of a truth. and therefore half the story (and admittedly a very skewed half).

and so my question is:

where is the line between what is our's to share and what belongs to someone else, even if they are inextricably bound to our own story?

where is the line between what we would write if the person in question were never to see it and between altering our content because of said person?

and as for dating:

is one to tell the guy about the blog?

should the guy then read the blog?

and what moral imperative is there for that guy to reveal the extent to which he reads it?

because it isn't a diary. it's a public forum. as i was recently reminded. and that's true.

my mother is so funny. the other night she told me that the moment i start editing my words for a guy i lose a little bit of myself. and then chastised that i should probably not write some of the things i do in the first place. this one-sided argument (on her end) ping-ponged across these two extremes for about five minutes before i, utterly confused, disentangled by telling her i'd call tomorrow.

someone recently asked why i choose to blog. what was the original impetus. and i said, well why does a person perform a play for an audience as opposed to alone, in their room?

but that's not really an answer. so here goes: i began the blog because it held me accountable. i didn't want to present an image of a person struggling with great sadness. the blog forced me to see things in a more positive light. reminded me to take things with a grain of salt and encouraged laughter. and as i cultivated those aspects of myself in my little corner of the internet they began to spill over into my life.

but as i find happiness, as life slowly comes back, how does one balance the line between privacy and truth?

i looked for obama. but i suppose he was, oh you know, kinda- busy with some important conference.

i had the most wonderful time spending monday and tuesday in washington d.c.

naomi, josh, and kingsley so kindly welcomed me into their home.

we picnicked in the park, cruised around town in the bug, headed to the docks for live crab, spoke about beliefs, visited the national gallery, carefully dissected cupcakes, (josh even attempted to illuminate the male mind for me).

but mostly naomi and i did what girlfriends do. we talked. at our picnic. in the car. meandering through museums. with mouths full of frosting (me).

and i returned to new york feeling new again.

it's funny that for as long as i've known naomi--as long as i've watched her grow and change and fall in love, and build a life, i am still constantly surprised by the depth of her goodness. because the thing is, it just keeps going.

naomi, josh: thank you for showing me d.c., making me laugh, and for filling me up with such love.

d.c.

it's funny how a little time and distance, a lot of girl talk, and (just a few) cupcakes provides that long sought after perspective.

thank goodness for early week getaways and a better friend than i could ever dare ask for.

lot's wife

on our first date i wore a navy scalloped skirt. i wore makeup. eye-makeup. concealer, even, which would have been a great comfort to my mother.

and i thought, what am i doing? i was so nervous. but so damn excited.

i entered the restaurant and asked the girl at the front desk if there was a man waiting for anyone. she pointed to the other side of the u-shaped counter in the bar.

i exhaled. audibly.

i had met him only two nights before and while i knew i thought him attractive then, i couldn't remember what he looked like. i feared i wouldn't recognize him. wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd.

but there he was. sitting at the bar. and yup, he was cute.

and god i loved how i felt as i walked toward him.

i always loved how i felt walking toward him.

it was the walking away that was hard.

when i called to tell him that i couldn't do it anymore i tried to make it very clear that it was not that i didn't want to. i just couldn't continue in this fashion. and oh how i listened for the moment of hesitation on his side, for the moment that he would fight me. fight for me.

it did not come.

but i had his book. and he had my earring. and such things needed to find their way home.

i offered that he leave it on his stoop and i would carry out the trade. he said such a thing was ridiculous. we could get a drink. be adults about this.

but somehow the drink didn't happen. and because technically it was i who chose to end things, i swallowed this and accepted the short window he provided in which to do essentially what i had suggested in the first place.

i found myself swallowing a lot over the course of our brief courtship. and never failed to be surprised (even in how it ended) by the extent to which he could disappoint me.

my mother told me to let the earring go. to just let it go. ask him to put it in the mail, realize he probably wouldn't and make peace with that.

but the thing was, he had all my secrets. i'd be dammed if he got the earring too.

and so i went. and bumbled there at the bottom of his doorstep for about two minutes.

and then i walked away. and never have i understood the story of lot's wife so well. we look back because we want to know that we're not alone. and oh how i didn't want to be alone. but i didn't. look back, that is. i gathered every remaining shred of self-worth and dignity and walked away without turning around.

(and cried as i did so).

i know i did the best possible thing. the relationship was unequal and unhealthy. he was selfish and i was overzealous. he was not the right guy, and i was not the right girl. and so i walked away. and i didn't look back.

and yet i wished all the while that he'd come up from behind, take my hand, and say let's try just a little bit harder for just a little bit longer.

because for each of his flaws i have my own. i know this.

but he did not.

i lack imagination. in life, i mean. i can't ever imagine things changing. or meeting someone else. and yet i know these things to be certain--more certain than anything else. but my horse-blinders are big, dark and all-encompassing.

perhaps the thing to remember here is that in walking away from him, i am walking toward someone else.

studying strangers.

she was in love with the skin around his eyes.

does that sound strange? it wasn't. it was the most natural thing in the world.

in love with its perfect fragility. its paper-thin translucence.

evidence of something deeply felt and known. evidence of an entire life.

but lying side by side on the floor of the dimly lit living room she looked at that area just around his eyes and wondered if there was not too much life before her--too much life before this moment. a life so full there was just no room.

in the days and weeks and months and years following his disappearance, following the slow withdrawl of his presence, she studied the eyes of many a man she passed. on the street. in a movie theatre. sitting in restaurants. she would get herself into trouble by looking for too long at strangers on the train.

she was fine.

really okay.

but every once in a while she would look up and catch a glimpse of him in a stranger. see those same careless lines leaning in. leading up and around. providing some kind of indiscernible road map.

and it was that that she missed.

that which would undo her.

this chapter.

i've been thinking a lot about what i might call this period of my life when i look back on it in twenty years.

(because this is the kind of thing one must think about. {obviously}.)

and i have decided, after much consideration, that it shall be called:

the period in which i learn to blow air through my lips in all directions and manners of fashion as an attempt to keep myself calm.

(and find that alone to be completely insufficient. {obviously}.)

better

i fell asleep last night with all my clothes on. (bra and makeup included).

i guess i was tired.

today is one of those days that i can't imagine ending: too much work, no time for self.

my room is a disaster.

(i can chalk that up to an april 15 move date, yes?).

i'm attempting at 8:25 am (now) to make food and pack for a day out and about.

oh goodness, let it be saturday.

let me be freshly showered and laundered and brushed and scrubbed.

let me have replied to all messages and emails and phone calls and comments.

let me be better at this.

all of this.

tomorrow.

just ahead.

i went to see someone.

just the other day.

about my... future.

and at the end of our time together she looked at me and said, you have a beautiful life ahead of you.

and never have more comforting words been spoken.

a beautiful life.

she didn't say successful, or happy. contented or lucky.

but beautiful.

and that was just the word i needed to hear.

i was wearing a cnn cap (you know the news network?).

spring skipped new york entirely today.

instead, summer arrived a few months too soon (or at least a few weeks).

but i was determined that zoobie and i would not stay cooped up in the apartment with the air conditioning whirling away. nor would we escape to the bookstore and the comfort of any even bigger central air system.

instead we would go in search of renegade breezes, neigh-neighs (horses), and a lolly-gagging afternoon walk. all to be found in central park.

but after walking, removing again and again our shoes and socks, traipsing up and down countless slides, we. were. pooped. any other day we would have still had some juice in us. but the warm air did us in. and we were ready for naps, both of us.

so i began a circuitous walk home. walking only where there was shade to be found. zoobie was nestled into the stroller a bit like a rag-doll--really back and in the corner. her cheeks were red and we were never far from an eye-rub or a yawn (universal sign of exhaustion). i had a lovely little sweat going. and was hiding behind my beloved red sunglasses and an orange cnn baseball cap.

it was around 80th street that it happened.

it's a funny thing with strollers. when you're pushing one, it's like your part of some club. and you suddenly look at all the other kids and you smile at them and then you smile at the parents and there is this mutual moment of understanding. and because i babysit, i'm an honorary member of said club on the days i take care of my eighteen-month-old-friend.

so back to 80th. i was pushing zoobie and there was another kid in a stroller coming toward us. pushed by their father. their cute father who took a look at zoobie and smiled and then looked at me and smiled, as if to say, cute kid--boy does she look wiped. and i smiled back as if to say, i know, i know. and somewhere in this .3 second exchange i though, oh huh. that's matt damon.

yes, that matt damon.

i'm just gonna thank the gods for that one.

it sure made the dry heat and sweat worth it.

(and i may have looked like a hot mess, but i bet that cnn cap made me look pretty erudite. {and hey, i'll take what i can get}).

"

to let go isn't to forget,

not to think about, or ignore.

it doesn't leave feelings of anger,

jealousy, or regret.

letting go isn't about winning or losing.

it's not about pride

and it's not about how you appear,

and it's not about obsessing or dwelling on the past.

letting go isn't blocking memories

or sinking sad thoughts,

and doesn't leave emptiness, hurt, or sadness.

it's not about giving in or giving up.

letting go isn't about loss and it's not about defeat.

to let go is to cherish the memories,

but to overcome and move on.

it is having an open mind

and confidence in the future.

letting go is learning and experiencing and growing.

to let go is to be thankful for the experiences that

made you laugh, made you cry, made you grow.

it's about all that you have, all that you had,

and all that you will soon gain.

letting go is having the courage to accept change,

and the strength to keep moving.

letting go is growing up.

it is realizing that the heart can sometimes

be the most potent remedy.

to let go is to open a door,

and to clear a path and set yourself free. "

unknown

cousin.

today is my cousin kevin's birthday.

how to describe kevin?

kevin feels like my three-year-old-soul-mate.

does that make sense? not really to me either, but that's the only way i can think to describe it.

he, more than anyone else, calls me out. he reminds me to laugh, to smile, balks at my particular brand of girl-crazy and laughingly guides me back to sanity.

but more than anything else he reminds me that life is fun. it's meant to be fun. and thank god for that.

happy birthday, kevin. and thank you.

white trim, wood floors, and french doors.

there's something about moving in new york city.

it's an event. an adventure.

i'm moving again. just down the street, actually.

but it has a living room (which i've been without for two years now), two of my very best friends, and views of the hudson.

(and did you see those french doors that open into the living room? swoon.)

i couldn't resist. it just made me laugh so darn hard.

happy.

before you read: this post

is really a continuation of this.

i'm sitting in the kitchen now.

it's cool in here. spring air kissing the countertops.

i'm waiting for my water to boil. for pasta. i'm having pasta. with a little oil, cheese, and avocado.

and i'm happy today.

can you believe that? that i'm actually happy today? isn't that just so perfect and ridiculous and funny, and so exactly the way life is.

do you know the greatest cause of pain is the avoidance of it--the railing against, the attempt not to feel it.

i awoke this morning feeling lighter. because i was honest. with him. with myself. and compassionate towards the two of us and towards whatever tenuous thing we had created.

i liked who i was when i was around him. that's how it began. that was the first feeling. he created a space in which i felt comfortable to assert my independence and confidence. to be sexy and light. and attempt humor. he quieted my mind.

i made so many mistakes along the way. misinterpreted so many comments. expected so much.

but today i feel again like the person i was when all of this began. like the person he allowed me to be. (i have to remember to thank him for this).

only today do i understand what it is he wanted. and oh how i'd like to go back, retrace my steps, and try again.

ah, life!

i'm chuckling as i write this. because this is life. and i'm finally finding my head above the water long enough to laugh about it.

i couldn't sleep last night. this is what i thought about. euf.

is it sneaky suspicion or sneaking suspicion?

because i have a sneaking suspicion that it's sneaky suspicion.

but wouldn't it be far more exciting if our suspicions actually sneaked?

i wish there could have been

an invention that bottled

up a memory,

like perfume,

and it never faded,

never got stale.

then whenever i wanted to

i could uncork the bottle

and live the memory all over again.

daphne du maurier-rebecca

via one of my new favorite

corners of the internet:

the quote book

point to the blog.

i was a little bit in love with him that very first night. standing at the end of the bar, scruffy beard, glasses, leaning in to be heard over the din of the restaurant.

it felt so easy. as if we'd been sitting next to each other at dinner parties for years.

but we hadn't. it was new--and the juxtaposition of the new and old--easy and not--set my stomach aflutter.

i can't remember the details of that first night, only how i felt.

certain things, yes. but for i who remember almost everything, the loss of memory held its own power, it seemed important.

and so i held on to my idea of it--to his deep set eyes, and the gentle brush of his fingers.

i've been trying hard to remember of late. or perhaps, to imagine. just how i felt the first time i saw him. what he thought when i sat down atop the barstool.

because i'm quite sure that whatever he felt that night has long since passed. but the thing is, i'm just ever so slightly--just a little bit--in love with him.

and so i clung to what i thought could have been.

he was busy. this much i know. and i attempted patience. but before long i discovered the line between patience and the pursuit of a man not interested to be small, thin, and unforgiving. and there i was on the unenviable side where pride came into play.

and i am too proud. this much i know. and not patient, but we've covered that.

and yet i'm a little bit in love with him. and how to say that?

and because i couldn't--because i can't, i do silly things like fall apart on the subway.

or in church this morning. or in the cab ride home while my mother listens and my father inquires as to how i can afford said cab. (i can't).

my brother once told me the blog is more interesting when i'm unhappy. i'm the girl who doesn't get the guy and for the sake of the blog i can't be.

well, blog, today you win.

(for the sake of kindness,

and because i want to be

classy about this (and stress

that this is only one piece of

one side of a story) please

refrain from commenting in

any way about the guy.)

the tub will wait.

so i got my cry.

on the subway, actually.

i'm starting to think all things in new york eventually come back to the subway.

i was that girl, in the corner, folded in on herself, falling apart.

someone handed me a stack of fast-food napkins, that's how bad it got.

but the tears were sweet and deep and when all was said and done, i stood up, climbed the stairs out of the station, and felt the cool, night air on my freshly-watered face.

dodgeball.

just so you know.

i joined a sunday night dodgeball league.

it begins may 1.

do. not. worry. i will keep you posted on this. yup.

yup, yup.