the end.

she couldn't breathe.

it was as though the city was crumbling in on her.

it was on the subway when she first noticed it: the slow, inching end of her love-affair with new york. she had ceased to find any charm in the thousand little eccentricities around her.

she could no longer bear the plaintive cries of taxi horns or the cloying sense of loneliness in crowded elevators.

so she began to pull out detailed maps of the continental US. she traced the orange interstate lines back and forth, up and down, planning her escape. her fingers running over the rocky mountains, the great lakes, along the continental divide divining for answers, groping for meaning. the questions always, where to go?

she dreamt of closing her eyes, moving her hand along the folded ridges until she felt the need to stop. and that stop would be the beginning. the next move. the migratory edict.

but she lacked the courage to close her eyes.

and without an answer she was forced to stay.

the A train.

she clung to his dark leather jacket as he leaned against the subway pole.

one finger nestled into the deep v of his zipper.

she didn't know the A train then.

didn't know where it would go or end up.

only that he knew.

that he would lead.

and she would continue to cling.

sometimes life calls for a good ring-around-the-carousel.

and with it the reminder that new york city is meant to be enjoyed.

a point to the city please.

and to whitney, who reminded me.

sometimes it feels as though the whole of the universe conspires to teach me patience.

but i am not a patient person. and very resistant to new lessons.

my friend whitney came to town for the weekend. and determined to show her the best of all five boroughs i dragged her to brooklyn for grimaldi's coal-oven pizza. grimaldi's very famous coal-oven pizza. grimaldi's you-must-often-wait-in-a-line-for coal-oven pizza.

we arrived around four hoping the line would be short. it was not. we waited for an hour. in the cold. shivering and shaking.

when we finally arrived inside we watched as everyone around received their orders.

and then sat in shock as they shut down the oven. needed to be refreshed, they said.

and so we waited another hour, pizzas flanking us on either side.

and i grew grumpy.

(attractive, no?)

and our plates just sat there.

empty.

even whitney, cool-much-more-pulled-together-than-me-whitney, grew...frustrated.

and then. miracle of miracles. it came.

the relief. the sweet, sweet relief.

grimaldi's is good. really good. always good. but not necessarily worth the two hour wait.

so, go when the crowds do not.

clearly, i still have a thing or two to learn about patience.

okay. so.

dear husband-to-be,

i've been thinking a lot about deal-breakers lately.

i mean what is a deal-breaker?

what is that thing that will make you say to someone else, that's it, my love for you will never overcome this. because isn't love supposed to trump everything?

does love change the rules? and therefore change our set of deal-breakers?

so, do deal-breakers even really exist?

and then i sat next to a man on the train yesterday, and had my clearest thought in weeks: axe as deodorant? deal-breaker.

love,

the woman who is so glad you smell just the way you do. and would've kept walking had you been wearing said deodorant. don't believe me? just try.

happy fat tuesday!

(photo via telegraph.co.uk)

it's the final day of mardi gras.

the last day to indulge before the lenten period of restriction begins.

what will you be eating today?

king cake and pancakes?

i've been waffling between giving up cheese versus the ever-present in my diet, honey and peanut butter. but that's for tomorrow. today, i will consume copious amounts of both!

hmmm. jury's still out.

all i know is i desperately wish i was in venice today. enjoying carnevale. and indulging as only roman catholic italians can!

jeans.

before beginning:

this is a continuation.

of a story. about ned.

ned being my nasty, little eating disorder.

he's the worst.

for more information,

check my sidebar

(under the photo of me in

the winter mittens).

i liked him immediately.

because he was honest.

and so, i was honest.

immediately.

and yes, we've spoken about ned.

because ned is the answer to so many questions: why am i not acting? why didn't i like juilliard? why and why and on and on.

and where honesty is concerned, ned cannot be avoided.

and the thing is, he doesn't get it. at all.

not. at. all.

and i love that. his lack of understanding.

because it makes me feel healthy. and normal.

and the thing is, it's not for him to understand.

not for anyone, really.

my parent's don't even get it. and they know me better than anyone. and they were there. and for them--because they must heal as well--the process of coming out of this illness is coming to terms with the knowledge that they will never understand. that this thing--this, what i jokingly call ned--is an untouchable part of me.

last night he commented that he's never seen me wear a pair of jeans.

and i mentioned that i don't own any.

and in that moment i realized this was the first of the small things that would reveal ned with a certain, tangible clarity.

i can talk about it all until i'm blue in the face and i can answer all of his questions and it will be... just... words, a lip-service.

but it is the absence of jeans, the fact that i haven't owned a pair in going on four years that will reveal what i cannot--that will give way to his first glimmer of understanding.

but it is not understanding of the disease so much as the understanding that he will never understand.

and this is the understanding i fear.

because today it is a pair of jeans. and tomorrow it is the absence of photos in the family album. and from there... well, from there... i just don't know.

love, love, love.

{vic and i remembering to take a picture just as we were saying goodbye. it was freezing last night, can you tell?}

i spent this weekend celebrating valentine's day in the best possible way:

with my girlfriends.

saturday night brought a wine bar followed by dinner followed by sweet treats.

we spoke of boys and success and fear and all those things so important to women in their twenties who are learning and working and figuring it all out.

and when i got home. i turned out my lights, got into bed, and thanked the universe for the love of good women--for their insight and understanding, their strength and support.

and when i talk about my girlfriends yes i mean erin and vic who shared their saturday with me and angela who i always see on sundays and so many others, but you all too--you all who read this silly thing and leave comments that continuously floor me. you all who challenge me and make me want to work harder and fight harder and love more.

so thank you.

and a very merry valentine's day to you.

sometimes at the (almost) end of a long week, a girl has to don red lipstick and surround herself with good-looking men who can make her laugh.

rob, finn, and i all went to school together (and eli, we quickly adopted as one of our own). and at the end of the day i am still startled by the depth of my love for them.

ps: i feel like my hair is turning reddish. not sure if i like this or not.

happy almost valentine's.

there must be millions of people all over the world who never get any love letters... i could be their leader.

charlie brown

awareness can precede change.

i have seen my fashion future as a mother.

and it does not look good.

this week i'm babysitting full time.

so i woke this morning at 7. put on some faded grey gap pants, a $5 yankee championship t, and my burgundy danskos (which are always on stacey and clinton's what NOT to wear list), and NO MAKEUP.

okay, okay, so in the interest of full disclosure, i wear the pants a lot, but not usually with such a disheartening ensemble.

in her memoir, happens every day, isabelle gillies talks about being the mom in practical clothes who loses her husband to the woman in marc jacobs.

so if i know this is the direction i will lean. and i don't yet have a husband. perhaps there is still time for me to nip this in the bud.

right?!

little letters. as inspired by taza (of course).

introducing rob (former classmate, and dear, dear friend)

to levain cookies earlier this week.

levain has the best cookies in nyc. hands down.

to my day off:

why is it that you and productivity so rarely coincide?

dear little fingernails,

i just tonight realized that i can paint you a bright, blinding color since i won't be going into my restaurant job for almost a week. (bright nails are not allowed at said restaurant job. boo.)

dear ikea,

i'll never forget putting together my dresser in the fourth grade. my dad and i did it together and that light-wooded chest has lasted many, many years and still looks as good as the day we got it.

so why then is the dresser i got just a year-and-a-half-ago (from {yes} your store) falling apart?

dear subway conductor,

when you speak through my entire commute, it really (really) gets under my skin.

dear chocolate molten cake,

when my date last night didn't judge me (at least not too harshly) for consuming every last bit of you, i began to like him that much more.

dear sugar,

when i managed to eat the aforementioned dessert without once coming up for air, i realized it might just be time to take a week-long break.

a trial separation, if you will.

dear levain cookies,

don't worry, see you post-sugar hiatus.

(and i'll bring best friend rob along for the ride).

dear juilliard,

what has come to be our once-a-year-date this way a-comes.

interested to see how we get on this year, as compared to last.

dear bullet baked potatoes,

i love you.

paired with avocado, greek yogurt, a little cheese, and scallions? perfection.

plus that yogurt is a great way to sneak in the protein i no longer get from meat.

dear health,

so glad we're back on track. a rocky start to the new year, yes, but thinking we just got it all out of the way early.

dear olympics,

i am your devotee, your great lover--aficionado. i cannot wait.

dear little, letters,

i could go on forever. best to stop now.

little letters, as always, inspired

by my lovely, dear friend, naomi.

fitting. or not.

the mind wanders back.

and i find myself in australia. often.

sipping lattes as we americans cannot seem to replicate.

endless afternoons. countless cafes. the rich, dense sydney light angling across blank pages before me.

there are so many reasons i went to australia last august.

adventure. need. perspective. more that i probably can't even admit to myself, or here actually (here. yes, that's it. some secrets are just that.).

but the impetus was a phone call from my classmate stephen.

we had brunched (ha, doesn't that sound so pretentious and new-york-ish to make brunch a verb!) a few months back, just before he left for sydney (home) and he had spoken of a girl. so when in the message he said he had important news, i knew. he was getting married. of course he was, and i would go. i would be there for him, to celebrate, to meet this girl--this lovely girl.

friendship is a funny thing.

and for a very long time i was not particularly skilled in that arena because i, quite frankly, didn't have the energy to invest, nor the foresight to understand that friendships are relationships--relationships that take work. real work.

so it was important to me--to make up for all the lost time--to go. to fly across the world. and support a friend.

for a week and a half stephen allowed me to intrude on his australian-way-of-life. i met his gorgeous fiancee. and we embraced adventure and comfort simultaneously.

on the saturday before i returned to the states, stephen and i headed to luna park, just the two of us. giddy with expectation we practically skipped from ride to ride assessing the damage we could do in the few hours before the park closed.

not much as it turned out. the rides were exorbitantly priced. so we settled on the three-pack and set out. stephen and i, both amusement park aficianados--with a penchant for the thrill of terror, immediately agreed on the park's one true roller coaster: wild mouse. we would take on the small, unassuming child's ride. and i demanded we do it together.

the boys in charge pandered to my impish demands and said, of course, of course you can both fit in one mouse car. we could not. well, i could fit, plus one of stephen's legs. or stephen could fit. with one of my butt cheeks.

so, nope, there was nothing to be done. we would not be riding together.

and so stephen set off, leaving me to scramble into the subsequent cart, calling out for him to wait-up (what, was i five? and like he had any control over it?).

so off i went.

and it was there on the slow-moving mouse-trap, nestled right up against sydney harbor that i first thought i might die. as the car moved around turn after turn, i thought: it's just going to keep going. it's going to topple right off. and i will fall right into that-there water, spending eternity with nemo and company. i mean, surely no one has ever weighed as much as i. i will be the straw that breaks the camel's back. this is where the ego goes, you know?

needless to say, this was not the kind of terror that thrilled me. i became very quiet and thought very seriously about screaming out to those boys at the front. if i begged for them to end it--would they? would they even be able to hear me? and would they they climb up to retrieve me? no. no, of course not. instead i would be the one person who would just head right off the track, silently, eye's shut tightly. and the only sound would be that of the cart hitting the water. and i'd be gone.

when the ride finally ended i met stephen on the other side. and truly, in some ways it felt like that: the other side. and we both took deep breaths and then began to tell our tales of the mouse-trap-that-near-did-us-in. and the thing is, stephen had the same thoughts. he figured he would be the one--the one who would finally cause the cart to divert from it's pre-destined path.

and then he turned to me and said, meg, can you imagine where our minds would have gone if we had actually ridden together? how we would have felt knowing there were two of us--a combined weight, too much for too small a space?

and oh god, did we laugh.

i didn't actually see stephen get married when i was in australia. they decided, at the last minute, to elope to hawaii, as they should have. but it didn't matter you know? because i went.

and we had luna park. and i found myself thankful for the many, many different ways that friendship manifests itself.

ugh.

this morning found me cleaning moth larvae from my kitchen ceiling.

sometimes i wish i could accurately describe just how un-glamorous new-york-city-living is.

oh wait. i just did, right?

staircase wit as a means of evaluation.

i have slow reflexes.

impossibly late come-backs.

as a child i would practice long, drawn-out speeches in front of the mirror. my own what-i-should've-said lecture series. responses well-formulated weeks, months, years after the date of expiration.

i can be witty.

sometimes.

and let me be clear that i'm using this "sometimes" liberally. because more often than not, i am not.

witty, that is.

jokes, when thought of at the appropriate time, are mostly abandoned half-way through.

and come-backs come twenty minutes too late, leaving me wishing for the offender to do just that, come back.

come back. please.

there is a term for this.

a condition that i suffer from, if you will.

l'esprit de l'escalier. (it's french, which means i'm practically french, don't you know?)

now bear with me, most of the following info comes from wikipedia:

the term, coined by french philosopher diderot, roughly translates to staircase wit. what? you ask. fear not, i'll let diderot explain: a sensitive man like me, overwhelmed by the argument leveled against him, becomes confused and can only think clearly again [when he gets to] the bottom of the stairs.

staircase wit?

get it?!

isn't it brilliant, isn't it just absolutely perfect?

so i met this guy. and on that first night l'esprit de l'escalier fled my "sensitive soul" and my remarks were witty and quick and cute (might i add cute?).

at least, this is how i remember it. do me a favor, don't ask him, he might see it all a wee bit differently and i don't want to burst the bubble just yet, okay?

and this is how i knew.

that i might just like him.

diminished esprit.

or the flee of l'esprit, if you will. (credit to kate for this).

a very good sign.

today i went to the doctor's office in search of answers.

i found none.

nor did i find a tissue.

that's right, the doctor's office did not have tissues.

in the middle of cold and flu and h1n1 hysteria, not a tissue to be found.

can you imagine?

they offered me toilet paper or paper toweling.

and this doctor is supposed to be good, the head of female physicians in nyc.

the issue of tissue was the tip of the iceberg.

this is all to say...

i will not be returning. not ever. which i told them through tears as i {somewhat} stormed out of the office.

i have spent all day in bed. dreaming of spring.

historically, spring is a difficult time for me. the stripping of layer upon layer upon layer upon layer of clothing is abrupt here in manhattan. that being said, spring in the city is unlike anything you can imagine. the city is reborn, changed, and everyone comes out to play.

as of now, my number-one-must-have-accessory for the impending (i know, i know it's still like two months away, but a girl can dream) spring season: metallic gold sperry topsiders from jcrew. hoo-ahhh, yes please!

first photo via audrey hepburn complex

and then...

red & princess on flickr

pavlunka on flickr

fred baby flickr

katherine squier on flickr

empalagar on flickr

sabino

and finally...

j. crew

chicken soup and chest cough.

so among the 100 new year's resolutions i didn't make was the one where i promised myself i would post more often.

i'm not that girl who schedules her posts, who plans them in advance. i've tried. really, i have. and i'd like to be that girl, but alas...

i was good for about a week there. right? more pictures. more posts. and then i got the stomach flu, and then i got a little sad (which i'm not right now, thanks in part to all of your kind insight and support), and now i have the cold from hell.

about a week ago (sunday last to be exact) i felt it come on. by tuesday i felt normal. by wednesday night i was convinced i had strep and then again on friday i felt fine. saturday night brought an itchy throat and chest cough and yesterday ushered in a fever--my body trying to fry the virus. my poor, tiered little body kept trying to fight it, but each time it returned and nestled further into my chest. secured itself.

and the thing is... i'm a head-cold-kind-of-gal. this whole chest-cold thing is new territory. new, unwelcome territory.

so i have been soaking in baths, coating myself in vicks vaoprub, and downing copious amounts of chicken soup. it's all very glamorous. (it doesn't help that it's beyond cold in the city right now).

this is all to say... i am resolved to invest in my non-new-year's-resolution of posting more...just, once this cold has passed.

january was not really the month for my health.

here's hoping february is better.

can i let you in on a little secret:

the cold has flourished because of a lack of sleep.

lack of sleep in that i can't fall asleep at night.

because i have a new, wee of crush.

darn boys, keeping a girl from catching satisfying zzzzzzs.