I am the most impatient person I know. And that’s saying a lot, being that I come from a long line of watch-checkers and toe-tappers.
It’s not so much that I’m impatient while waiting for my turn to order a tall, skim, caramel macchiato (see how I did that, other Starbucks patrons? I properly ordered my drink in a concise fashion under the general guidelines of the Starbucks menu so as not to confuse the cashier. WHY CAN’T YOU DO THAT? WHY DOES IT TAKE YOU 25 MINUTES TO ORDER A “MEDIUM” COFFEE, THUS SETTING OFF A FIVE MINUTE CONVERSATION WITH THE CASHIER ABOUT HOW THE MEDIUM IS REALLY A GRANDE IN STARBUCKSLAND.) (Ok, so maybe I am a tad impatient while in line at Starbucks.)
But generally, I’m more impatient with life.
Example:
Last week, M and I found ourselves in a cute and charming New Jersey town just 20 minutes outside of the city. We were there for dinner with my family but arrived early because, without fail, the one time you plan for Lincoln Tunnel traffic there will be NONE.
A quick note about New Jersey, for those of you who are still stuck on how I used “cute” and “charming” in the same sentence as “New Jersey” without adding a “not”: New Jersey is where I grew up. New Jersey is awesome. And, yes, while I have developed a minor elitist complex because I am now a Manhattanite, I kind of just know that I’ll end up back in Jersey. Kind of like my dad just knew he’d end up back in Jersey when he and my mom were living in Manhattan. My mom, born and bred in Brooklyn, scoffed at the idea of moving across the Hudson. She’s now been in Jersey for 28 years so, Dad: 1, New York: 0.
Similarly, M has scoffed (in his sweet, I’m-scoffing-but-it’s-so-cute-that-I-might-trick-you-into-thinking-I’m-kidding way) at the idea of living in New Jersey. He and I share the belief that we’ll move to the suburbs once we procreate and I get sick of whipping out the antibacterial wipes anytime the little ones touch anything on the subway. However, M has always assumed Westchester. Which is still technically New York and therefore not a total sell-out.
We’ve had “New Jersey v. New York, OMIGOD, M, YOU ARE SO IRRATIONAL!” showdowns before. M has always held his ground. Since he didn’t grow up in New Jersey, the state still carries the “armpit of the nation” stigma.
Rather, carried the “armpit of the nation” stigma, as things seemed to have changed a bit since we parked in the cute and charming New Jersey town last week and walked around to kill some time.
“Huh, this is kind of nice.”
“Yeah, wow, look at those homes. Those are gorgeous.”
“The yards are so big. And it’s so clean.”
I remained fairly silent as he progressed through his revelation about New Jersey, a revelation I was born with: it’s the country’s best kept secret.
Then, the money sentence: “We should totally live here.”
Aaaaaaand cue my impatience. Because I suddenly wanted to live there right then. Right that moment. I wanted us to get back in his car and drive up to our 3-bedroom house with the manicured lawn and well-tended rose bushes and declare ourselves home.
All day today I’ve been looking into real estate in the town, drooling over houses I know we can’t afford because M hasn’t even started law school yet and me? I’m 25 and I buy 8 pairs of shoes in one outing. We are clearing NOT at the touring-3-bedroom-homes-in-cute-and-charming-Jersey-town stage yet.
But…but…I want it! I want it now! I want the suburban lifestyle and the cute kids and the safe but sexy Volvo and the nights on the sofa sipping wine with M and watching television and basking in the glow of our AWESOME LIFE.
Don’t get me wrong, I love where I’m at right now. I love my job, I love my apartment, I love my relationship, I love my city. And I’m also very much looking forward to the milestones that come between now and the suburban family life, such as the getting proposed to, and the moving in with M, and the planning of a wedding, and the getting married, and the moving up in the industry.
It’s just, as we were walking around the town, there was a part of my soul hopping up and down, flailing its arms, screaming “this is it! This is it!” I just knew, as if it were simply a fact, that I was getting a glimpse into our future: walks through our suburban town as the sun begins to set, perhaps with a few little beans of our own in tow, headed back to a home that is expressly ours. I was suddenly overcome with a desire for it all to happen at that exact moment. Marriage, kids, house in perfect town. All of it.
Luckily, the feeling has since begun to fade into the future goal that it should be.
A lot of my life has been spent drifting without adhering to some master plan (see: my entire career). I don’t particularly set goals for myself – I tend to just let things happen to me and then I go with it. Luckily, mostly good things have happened to me.
But that was one of the few moments in my life – standing in front of one of the massive but lovely homes in the cute and charming town – that I felt a goal make its presence known physically. I knew innately that it was something I wanted to achieve. I just had to remind myself that it’s not something I have to achieve tomorrow. It’s something that I will be happy achieving in 10 years, when I’ve wrung all I can get out of Manhattan, when I feel satisfied with my career or satisfied with my decision to be a stay at home mom, when I’m married and when M and I are secure enough to make the sort of investment, emotionally and financially, to commit to both a house and a community.
But still, that little part of my soul continues to hop up and down, saying “I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” And truly, I can’t. But I will.
Impatient. April 12, 2007
Two years. April 12, 2007
I realized today that this month marks the two year anniversary of Such Great Heights. (I still love that Postal Service album. Just in case you were wondering.)
Two years ago, I was so bored at my second job out of college that I would leave my desk for long periods at a time to read US Weekly in a locked bathroom stall. (I don’t think anyone noticed; that’s how in demand I was.) Two years ago, I had also just started dating a handsome guy. Two years ago, I didn’t know if the handsome guy would turn out to be anything other than just that – a handsome guy in my life. But I sure was hoping that he would. Two years ago, my primary concern was the status of the relationship. Two years ago, I never could’ve fathomed that in 2007 my primary concern would be my upcoming engagement and what kind of ring to commit to.
My, my, how things have changed. And that change is all recorded, forever and ever in all perpetuity worldwide, here on the very public internet, where anyone can not only read about it but also comment on it.
Amazingly enough, I still don’t think anyone from my “real life” has found the blog. (And writing that right there? Means my grandmother will stumble upon it tomorrow. Guaranteed.)
When I started the blog, I made a decision to remain anonymous. Some people can still write freely knowing that their boss, their neighbor, that chick they knew from chemistry class in high school read—and judge—everything they write. I am not one of those people. Anonymity is essential in order for me to feel comfortable enough to write about things other than the weather! And the Yankees! And my bad hair day! (Though, really, what is going on with the weather. I left my apartment this morning and practically swam to work in the midst of a veritable monsoon. Spring is most unfashionably late. Get on it, weather gods.) (Speaking of weather gods, and I apologize for the tangent, but someone I work with – someone who has graduated from college and by all accounts is a fairly bright individual – actually asked me if we still believe in “Zeus and stuff” upon finding out that I am Greek. He was serious.)
Moving on, I’ve been asked many times whether or not I feel like I’m keeping a secret, mostly from M. And yes, in some ways it does feel like I have this whole “blog life” that he doesn’t know about. But, the truth is, I treat the blog like a personal journal. Would I allow M to read any one of the handwritten, personal journals that I have kept since I could first construct sentences on paper? No. This journal may be public and accessible on the internet, but to me it’s pretty much the same thing. Technically the fact that I maintain a blog could be considered a “secret” but it’s a necessary secret. I can’t afford therapy; blogging is the next best thing.
If the truth came out, I think M would understand. I know M would understand, because he understands layers of myself that even I am afraid to poke around in. He would get it. And that is why I’m choosing to be with him forever.
(Which, if I didn’t think you would gouge your eyes out with a ballpoint pen at one more post about rings and weddings, I would segue into a tangent about how we’re going shopping for rings on Monday night. But since I have immense consideration for you and your pretty eyes, I’ll stop here and start doing the work I have been avoiding all day under the guise of “I’m too drenched to work!”)
Addicted. April 11, 2007
On the list of things I’d ever thought I’d be addicted to, exercise ranks somewhere below black licorice and paper cuts. Which is to say, at the very bottom.
However, something happened on the way to deciding to tone up: I became certifiably addicted to working out. Rather, I became certifiably addicted to the results of working out.
(If we were real-life friends, I’d probably tell you to “feel my bicep! No really! Give it a little squeeze!” right about now.)
I used to take pride in a day planner booked with evening commitments: drinks with friends, dinner with my boyfriend, the movies with my cousin. Now, if events are penciled in for Monday and Wednesday, I consider the rest of the week booked, as Tuesday, Thursday and Friday evenings are reserved for the gym, in addition to Saturday and Sunday mornings.
Last night was reserved for dinner (and spontaneous shoe shopping! Which is the best kind of shoe shopping there is! I scored two pairs of flats, bringing my “spring shoe shopping spree” total up to a solid 10) with M. I was feeling guilty about the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to go to the gym, so yesterday I created an impromptu workout for myself at work.
You see, I do a lot of traveling between the basement of the building and the 4th floor, where my office is. Usually, I just take the elevator. Yesterday, I decided to find the stairs. I made about 10 round trips in all and my thighs and hamstrings and ass are burning today and now I don’t feel so bad about having not gone to the gym last night. Guilt absolved!
The change for me really began with taking classes. When left up to my own devices, I am brilliant at justifying not doing that last set of bicep curls or cutting out after 20 minutes on the elliptical. However, when held accountable to both an instructor and a class full of people, I amaze myself with how far I’m willing to push my body.
Also, regular viewing of Work Out on Bravo (do any other females in the audience think Jackie Warner is kinda, well, HOT? Anyone? No? Uh, me neither. I was, uh, just curious) has helped to keep me motivated. Which may seem like bizarre logic but I tend to catch bits and pieces of the show almost every day which means that almost every day I see amazingly hard bodies at work and it makes me want to have an amazingly hard body so that maybe Jackie Warner will think I’m hot I can feel good about myself.
And I do feel good about myself. Even if the numbers on the scales refuse to budge, which of course just means both the one at the gym and the one in my boyfriend’s bathroom are broken! What a shame!
All this ”feeling good about myself” couldn’t come at a better time, either, as this Saturday is the book release party I’m throwing for M and I am planning on wearing his favorite article of clothing of mine. Which, unsurprisingly, is also a very tiny and very sexy article of clothing. Now at least I can feel somewhat tiny and somewhat sexy while donning it.
Oh! Did I tell you what I ordered? I didn’t tell you what I ordered, because I placed the order yesterday and yesterday I wrote about money woes and I didn’t think it would be very appropriate to just throw in there that I spent a small fortune on cookies for the party. Custom cookies.
You see, I sent the bakery a jpeg of the cover of M’s book (I was very proud of myself for not only being able to send the jpeg but for also figuring out – all by myself! – if it was the right resolution), which they will superimpose onto rectangular cookies. And then put in decorative bags and tie with ribbons. (Thought I’d add that part so that you realize that the $200 I spent for 20 cookies also includes the bags! With the ribbons!)
I know it’s a lot of money, but I wanted to do something special, and what is more special than everyone taking a big bite of M’s book? (Not funny to anyone else? Ok. Fine.)
Anyway I’m excited. About Saturday. Also about the Cadbury chocolate that my British friend at work brought back from London for me that I am eating right now. Yes, it’s not even 10am yet. Yes, I am eating chocolate for breakfast. Yes, I will be taking the stairs all day today.
Freelancing sucks. April 10, 2007
Lately, I’ve been having mini-panic attacks before bed. Silent mini-panic attacks, so as not to disturb my boyfriend. I may be anxiety-ridden, but I am also very polite.
You see, my job ends in early June. Just – poof – gone come June 1. The project will be over and suddenly, unless someone can come up with something else for me to do, there will be absolutely no reason for me to receive a paycheck or sit at my desk or go shopping for shoes on my lunch break. I won’t HAVE a lunch break because for someone without a job, the day IS one long lunch break.
I’m not cut out for the freelancer lifestyle, which is something I knew when I took this job. But I also knew that if I stayed at my old job, I surely would’ve ended up in Bellevue, in the “extremely mental” ward. So I gambled and while it has been an absolute joy so far, the end date looming on the horizon casts a foreboding shadow.
They like me here, which bodes well. I know that if they have something else for me to do, they will keep me on. But there is a large chance that they won’t have something else for me to do, in which case I either have to a) find something else to do or b) hope M doesn’t mind me taking on a sugar daddy.
Planning for this spring/summer has taken a hit. Which, yes, I realize, not the most tragic thing in the world, but annoying nonetheless.
Tickets to Greece? Not yet bought because I do not know if I will be employed.
Tickets to London? London, where my boyfriend wants to take me and London, where my boyfriend MAY PROPOSE TO ME? Not yet bought because I do not know if I will be employed.
Shoes? Okay, okay BOUGHT (in copious amounts), but not without a heaping serving of GUILT, which I really don’t need when shoe-buying.
I’m the type of person who likes to be able to peek five months into the future and take comfort in the fact that it looks like I’ll still have a job. That’s all I ask for! A job! Hell, I’ve been living without benefits for over a year. I’m not particularly high maintenance.
I just don’t like the feeling – the one that comes on at night. The tingling and tightness in my chest. It makes what I do during the day so much less enjoyable, because I’m constantly worried about when I won’t be able to do what I do during the day anymore.
Many people get into television because they like the opportunity to constantly work on something new, constantly be challenged. TV is certainly not stagnant, that’s for sure. I, however, did not get into TV for the opportunity to flit around; I got into TV because I like watching it and therefore thought I would like working on it. Please don’t ask me to defend that logic; I was, like, 21 and probably drunk when I made the decision.
I should just enjoy the moment and cross the possibly-unemployed bridge when I get to it, save for stashing away some cash so that I don’t get evicted from my apartment. The truth is, since 21 I’ve never been without a job. The end of one has always led to something new and better. So, at that rate, maybe I’ll be running a network in a few short years, in which case I will probably finally have benefits so yeah, that might be nice. Maybe change isn’t such a bad thing.
But still, please cross your fingers that the folks at this fine corporation come up with something for me to do come June. Even if it’s just giving foot massages to the executives; hell, if it means employment…
Greek Easter April 5, 2007
My knee-jerk response to “what’s your favorite holiday?” is always “Christmas.”
But that’s not necessarily true. While I enjoy presents and the birth of the savior as much as the next person, I’m kinda really into Easter.
It could have something to do with the appearance of Cadbury eggs (everywhere but IN THE CITY. Damn you Duane Reade and your imposter Snickers eggs! Why oh why do you thwart my attempts to expand my ass with sugary Cadbury goodness!) Or it could be that the Easter church service and subsequent Greek traditions are some of my favorite.
I’m not a particularly religious person, but the Easter midnight mass is breathtaking. My entire extended family (all 30 of us) trek over to my beautiful childhood church right in the heart of Newark. (Using beautiful and Newark in the same sentence is a bit of a stretch, but trust me). As midnight nears, the church lights go off and candlelight is spread from row to row until every pew is illuminated.
As a kid, holding a candle in a dark church was akin to being let loose in Disneyworld after the park closed. We had candlestick wars and wax dripping wars and once my cousin Christopher set my aunt’s hair on fire (it was the 80’s; hairspray was very in and very flammable). Now, the candlelit church offers a chance to reflect and find solace in a religion I am oh so quick to find faults in.
At midnight, we keep the candles lit as we drive out of the city and into the suburbs. That’s the good thing about driving in a car with lit candles through downtown Newark: no one messes with you because everyone thinks you’re crazy.
We all end up at an aunt’s house in the wee hours of the morning, feasting on pasticcio and Greek meatballs and cracking red eggs. The cracking of the red eggs is a longstanding tradition in my family, one that we take very seriously. To the point that once one of my uncles arrived with a marble egg that did NOT look like a marble egg and cracked all of our eggs and declared himself the King of Easter until someone had the smarts to order him to eat the egg and then we were all pissed.
The early Sunday morning feast is repeated late Sunday afternoon, at a different aunt’s house (we’re Greek; I have hundreds of aunts). Since there are still some little ones roaming around, us older cousins hide the candy and money filled plastic Easter eggs (we used to get pennies in our eggs; these kids get freakin’ five dollar bills) in the backyard. Another longstanding tradition that once, circa 1998, became a tragedy: the kids from the neighboring backyard snuck in while we were eating dinner and took all of the eggs. A confrontation ensued but no eggs were ever returned. We may or may not have toilet papered their backyard a few months later; I admit nothing.
What I’m trying to say is that I’m thrilled about going home on Saturday morning. I’m thrilled about seeing my family, even if M will be stuck in the city, working. I’m thrilled about eating my weight in Greek sweet bread and helping my tiny (and only girl) cousin pick up the most eggs. I also have a very good feeling about my chances in this year’s Red Egg Cracking War. And I’ll be doing it without marble.
On rings and weddings. Thought I’d try something new for a change. April 4, 2007
You’ll just have to take my word for it, but I had no intentions of writing any further about rings or weddings because whatever, the ring and wedding thing has been done to death in these parts and aren’t there starving children in Africa we should turn our attention to?
But then, last night, M suggested looking at rings online.
And then, this morning, I spent 3 hours sifting through footage of a bridal salon, where one of the brides just happened to be wearing my wedding dress.
And here am, writing a post about rings and weddings. And there you are, rolling your eyes because again? With the rings and the weddings?
I can’t help it! Life keeps throwing rings and weddings in my face. They’re inescapable.
So, yes, last night. M decided that since we couldn’t browse rings this past weekend, we should at least look online so that he could get an idea of what I like. As he pulled up the various websites, I tried to play it cool and not at all like I had ALREADY MEMORIZED THE URLS OF MY FAVORITE RINGS.
We hadn’t discussed a budget, of course, as there’s nothing romantic about logistics. But somewhere between Tiffany and Tacori, M let his price range slip, all casual-like. I can’t believe the following words escaped my mouth, but they did: “Baby, DO NOT spend that much.”
“This is one of the most important purchases I’ll ever make. I want us to do it right.”
“We can do it right without spending what it would cost to purchase a small country.”
“Okay, okay,” he waved me off. When he has his mind made up, there’s no use.
He’s really done his research, that boy. He not only knew all about the four C’s (cut, clarity, color and carat), but was such a wealth of knowledge about diamonds that I felt efeminated (the female version of emasculated). I am clearly lacking in diamond smarts beyond “ooooh shiny! I like!”
As I mentioned, I spent this morning sifting through footage from a bridal salon that we’re potentially using for a show. I was supposed to be taking notes, but I watched most of it entranced. Our subject was a stunning, slender brunette bride who just so happened to be wearing my wedding dress.
Monique Lhuillier. Lacy. Body-skimming. Gorgeous.
I’ve never been a poufy dress kind of girl. Some women can really carry it off; I am not one of those women. I’m tall and, when I’m at my slimmest, I have an hourglass figure which lends itself well to a LACE, BODY-SKIMMING MONIQUE LHUILLIER DRESS.
I got lost in a wedding fantasy. I’ll admit it. In fact, I’ve spent most of today looking up reception sites online because I am crazy and also a lunatic. I am not one of those girls who has kept a wedding binder since age 7. I’ve thought about my fantasy nuptials, in passing, but I certainly haven’t put much thought into the specifics, so this wave of “what would I like my wedding to be like? Let me think about it! Down to the very last detail!” is new to me. And also kinda fun and exciting.
I’m starting to cobble together a vision. Something in Manhattan, something intimate. A loft-like reception site with floor to ceiling windows and amazing views. A small bridal party wearing tea-length strapless, chocolate brown dresses with champagne bows. A band and a big dance floor. Food that M and I love (though maybe more food that I love, as I’m not sure McDonald’s caters wedding receptions). Lots of flowers, lots of candles.
What I’ve learned just today is that while blogs are a great distraction at work (especially yours, you pretty thing you), The Knot is the Distraction of All Distractions. The bride-to-be (or, almost-bride-to-be, in my case) mothership. It’s like, you go in to take a quick glance at reception sites and you emerge 3 hours later, hair tousled and dying of thirst, with 120 new “favorites” and the scrawlings of a madman in the margins of your work notebook.
Tell me it’s not just me.
Tequila is evil. April 3, 2007
The other night, while out with friends, I had to decline tequila.
Since I was not let off the hook simply by saying “I don’t want tequila,” I had to tell the story about why tequila and I are no longer on speaking terms. It is also the story of the first time I got fantastically drunk. You can see where this is going.
It was Greece, August of 1996. I was about to be a sophomore in high school and I weighed about 10 pounds (and still thought I was fat) and I had just been kissed by a boy for the first time and my parents had finally agreed to let me go to a club in the capital city on the island with my cousins and my summer friends and I was kind of on top of the world (except, of course, I still thought I was fat).
We all piled into the back of someone’s pick-up truck (quick tangent: the island, Kefalonia, is very mountainous and the roads carved into the mountains are very windy. Also, they have not yet heard of “street lamps” or “guard rails”) and drove the 45 minutes or so from our sleepy beach town to the bustling (another tangent: ‘bustling’ on the island means a population of about 5,000) city of Argostoli to go to a club called “Music” or “Heat” or “Life” or something equally ridiculous.
The club was situated outdoors and, since apparently I’m related to exactly everyone on the island, the owners turned out to be long lost cousins of mine who called me, affectionately, “the American” and introduced me to Bay Breezes, “onto the house.” “On the house?” “Yes, onto the house.” “Awesome!”
I was dressed in shorty short shorts and a tiny tank top and heels I had bought in Athens and even though I thought I was too fat to live (AHH! I HATE YOU 15 YEAR OLD CLINK AND YOUR PERFECT BODY THAT YOU DESPISED AT THE TIME!), a group of Australians took a liking to me.
And, seeing as the men in the group were blonde and gorgeous and had those amazing accents that made me just want to, like, lick their faces, I took a liking right back.
There was one in particular – Jack – who would rest his hand in the small of my back and who would catch my eye and smile and omigod, I was like soooooo in love with Jack. Jack was 25 and had been traveling since graduating “university” and Jack thought I was beautiful. Jack did not know I was only 15.
“How about some tequila shots, love?”
I had never had tequila. I had barely tasted any alcohol up to that point. I did not yet know that tequila is the drink of Satan and that it tastes of pure, unadulterated evil. I just knew that I wanted to be near Jack.
He led me over to the bar and ordered four tequila shots, doubles, even though there were only two of us.
He licked the back of his hand and began to pour salt onto the moistened area and I must’ve given him a look like “what the fuck? Is that how you roll in Oz?” because he laughed and said, “Virgin?”
Heh. In more ways than one, Jacky boy.
“Um, yes. Teach me.”
He licked the back of my hand for me (I cringe now, but at the time I think I experienced my first mini-orgasm) and poured salt and then gave me the rules: “Lick, drink, suck.” He pointed to the wedge of lime on the bar.
I repeated the instructions in my head, not wanting to suck before I drank and come off looking like an idiot.
So I licked the salt. And I poured the tequila down my throat. And I went to suck the lime (oh god did I need that lime, oh god did I need ANYTHING to take away the TASTE and the BURNING and the EVILNESS) but it was no longer on the bar. It was in Jack’s mouth. And when I moved towards it, he let it fall from his mouth and he kissed me and then I could taste HIS tequila and I kind of wanted to barf but I thought that maybe that would turn him off.
We did another shot of tequila. And then another. And then the next thing I knew I was dancing on the bar, my tank rolled up to just below my bra, my hands running through my hair, singing along to “Train In Vain,” as the Australians chanted “USA!USA!” It was when I started to flash everyone (flash them my boring little white Gap bra, ooooh, titillating) that my cousins intervened and decided – it being 5am and all – that it was time to go home.
I do not remember how I got from the bar to the pick up truck, or why there was a half-eaten gyro at my feet and tzatziki sauce on my face, but I do remember driving back down the mountain and puking out the side of the truck, only to have the wind kind of spray everything back in.
The next day was OF COURSE a major Greek holiday and OF COURSE we had to drive halfway across the island to go to church and see relatives and OF COURSE I was stuck in the backseat of the car, sandwiched between my sister and my babbling baby brother and OF COURSE I had to ask my parents to stop the car a few times so that I could vomit up the sparse contents of my empty stomach in the blazing hot sun. (My parents did not allow me to go to a club for the rest of the summer; it was fine with me.)
I was convinced I would die. I was convinced tequila was responsible. I was also convinced I’d never see Jack again (I was right). To this day, it was one of the worst experiences of my life and every hangover I’ve ever gotten since has never measured up to the Great Tequila Hangover of ’96.
I’ve never had so much as a sip of the stuff since. I have, however, gone on to dance on many bars in my youth and perhaps even flash some people (though Gap bras quickly gave way to Victoria’s Secret which quickly gave way to much more expensive, frilly lingerie). However, neither vodka nor gin nor beer nor wine nor even whiskey has ever been as cruel to me as tequila was.
Because tequila is evil. The end.
(What about you? First time you got drunk? Comparable experience or am I just a lunatic?)
Weekend Recap. April 2, 2007
I bought eight pairs of shoes this weekend. Well, five pairs of shoes and three pairs of flip-flops.
I’m having a hard time uploading the photos, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that they are gorgeous (yes, even the flip-flops).
(That sound you hear is my Visa, whimpering in the corner, muttering something about “being violated” and “Vaseline.”)
It may seem weird to say that it was a good weekend, considering that the majority of it was spent in Massachusetts, at the home of M’s best friend’s family.
We weren’t sure what to expect, as strength on the phone can be misleading. I thought it would be a somber experience and that both M and I would feel awkward, searching for words and expressions that would convey comfort but not pity.
It was actually quite a joyful experience. The house was full of food, laughter and people telling stories about M’s best friend’s father. It was exactly how I’d want my impromptu memorial service to be – a celebration of life with very little focus on death. Of course, the conversations were punctuated by long silences, when death made its presence known and reminded everyone why they were gathered in the first place. But, overall, the strength of the family – especially since it was a sudden death, not a long, drawn-out one – was a surprise, I think even to themselves.
M’s best friend kept telling us how much it meant to him for us to have driven 3 hours just to see him and support him, just to be there. That alone made the 6am wake-up call the next day (so that M could get to work on time) worth it.
Sunday morning, once we were back in the city, I had M drop me off at a Greek Orthodox Church on the Upper East Side. I can’t say I’m particularly religious, but it was Palm Sunday and – especially after recently being confronted with just how temporary life is – I felt I could use a little comfort. Lighting a candle at church has always brought me comfort.
The rest of the evening was spent entranced by the “Planet Earth” series I had DVR-ed, which is great fucking television and I highly urge you to watch it just like I highly urge you to see “The Year of Magical Thinking.” Yes, I sobbed. And then I sobbed some more. In between the sobbing, I marveled at the wonder that is Vanessa Redgrave’s acting and the wonder that is Joan Didion’s writing and about what a brilliant decision it was to put the two together. As the lights came up after three (3!) standing ovation curtain calls for Ms. Redgrave, I noticed that I was not the only one with red-lined eyes and a splotchy face. Even M admitted to almost losing it, and M does not cry, not even when the beautiful Impala gets torn to pieces by a pack of hunting dogs (Planet Earth! Watch it!).
In other news, it’s going to be a lonely week here at work. And by lonely, I mean AWESOME.
-My Big Big Boss? Is in England.
-My Big Boss? Aruba.
-My Boss? Florida.
Basically, there’s no one around to notice when I come in (10am, 10am-ish, OK FINE 10:30am) or when I leave (4:59pm, at the latest) or what I do when I’m here (oh hello MySpace, my old friend).
Also, it means I get to watch Opening Day (gah! Pavano!) at 1pm without pesky work-related interruption.
Also, I just got a phone call from my mother, who is in the city for an appointment. She wants to take me to lunch at some fancy schmancy place that I could never afford on my own.
Basically: welcome, April. Welcome, baseball. Welcome, very light week at work. Welcome, Best April Ever (copyright Clink + Boy).
