Break

[written on 11-21-08, 1:27am]

I have a bed I visit, on the third floor of the store, on crowded Saturday afternoons and empty Tuesday nights when the tears feel too familiar. Wrought iron cottage style frame, red patchwork quilt, sheets with crocheted ends, folded over to let the deep red fleece catch a breath of fresh air. Standing in front of the bed, my bed... I can see myself...

-- I am lying in it, high above the ocean below, waves crashing against the jagged gray rocks. I can smell the sea air, taste the salt, feel the spray. A chilly afternoon in mid-October, in my bed, between the glossy floorboards and rugged dark beams holding up the high ceilings. Cozy under the patchwork quilt, the only softness among the hardwood floors and towering ceiling. Centered in the vast open and empty space, devoid of daily clutter and tumbling thoughts. Light from the clouds, room to breathe, the crashing waves, sweet solitaire moments --

Standing in front of the bed, my bed, I effortlessly find myself lost in the future moments of calm and understanding. I have a bed I visit, on the third floor, on crowded Saturday afternoons and empty Tuesday nights.

Emile Zola

"i came to live out loud." written in bold next to bright colors splashed across the front. i pack, unpack, display, each time i move, over the years. a greeting card i keep. for myself. "i came to live out loud." it says. i am not loud. i am an introvert. i am an infj. this means i am quiet. and complicated. but i intend to live my life out loud. not with the loudest voice, screaming, screeching, bursting, demanding attention. yours and yours and yours. but i will express who i am. find my voice. to share. perhaps quietly, but still out loud. not kept to myself. living always means changing, growing, encompassing, pruning and blooming. life's circles. "live out loud." change out loud. grow out loud. even when i don't know. even when i am scared. but i am here. and here. so "if you asked me what i came into this world to do, i will tell you: i came to live out loud."

Iced Coffee

i got an iced coffee at dunkin' donuts today. i got an iced coffee at dunkin' donuts today, because:
- it was in the mid 60s in december. (december average here is usually 25.)
- i can fiinnaallyy pay my bills and not think twice about buying a coffee.
- immediately following my purchase i had to convince my advisor (and whomever else) that i do have enough credits to graduate in may, once again pioneering my way through what I thought was a well established program. (wrong.)
- i am stressed out over inconsequential work "details" that are not part of my job description.
- i have to attend a prestigious, all day event tomorrow and put on a smile for too many high profile people that have come to know me as cool, calm and collected, when all i really want to do is sing "i've got a lovely bunch of coconuts" in falsetto while standing on my bed.
- it's almost finals time. i'm not sleeping much. i'm listening to modest mouse and the killers, pretending it is '03 and '04 when i liked finals, didn't worry about grades, loved my classes, and didn't have to concern myself with enduring anything else during finals.
- i'm trying to find a job that will launch a career in may. enough said.
- i'm worth the chance. i am worth the risk. i'm not apologetic that i do not come with a light-up billboard. it's not my style. i am worth investing in.
- i haven't gone grocery shopping since before thanksgiving. i have entirely given up on cooking. my meals are once again from whole foods' buffet supplemented by random items from my bare cupboards. i know i have to go soon - i am actually dreading it.
- i haven't cleaned my bathroom as recently as i would like. i share a bathroom with a boy. enough said.
- i know i am not the only twentysomething with these reasons.
- i know i am not the only one who got an iced coffee on this december summer day.
- sometimes the only thing left to do is get a coffee.

Goosebumps

[9/4/07]

Goosebumps tickle,
a hollow stomach cavern forms,
from resistance to shivers,
traveling up and down and out,
head to toe.

Air conditioned dark space wide open almost empty,
and too cold for late August.
Thunder claps outside, and he sees a flash,
but rest assured, it's not lightning.
I am - lightening.

My heaviness evaporates and rises;
I would follow it up,
into the bright lights,
but shivers hold me to the floor.

Rock to the guitar's rhyme,
three melodic voices,
and an out of place "shaker."
From Cuba?
Cold shivers and music's tingle combine,
inseparable.

An arm around my shoulders -
warmth to the left, warmth to the right.
Familiar friends -
it has been too long,
a new tune in an old soothing voice,
highlights of new sweetness,
sugary touches of chorus.

The old and the new,
sweet combination of warmth and chill.
Lightning outside.
Lightning inside.

That First Night

We promised we would go to the mstrkrft concert. He purchased our tickets, and honestly, we wanted to go. That first night out in D.C. required something, anything, different from our sweatpants Friday, Saturday nights of the weeks prior. My train pulled into the station three, four hours late. Her flight landed five, six hours late. Broken trains, skin rashes, thunderstorms, and standing room only, we collapsed into our dorm-room apartment with only enough time for Thai food and a quick get-away to the concert. Black lighting, techno beating, bright lights flashing, we had finally arrived in our summer city. Exhilarated until yawns, heavy eyes arrived. A projected three a.m. appearance of the main act sent us in a cab back to our dorm-room apartment before mstrkrft even arrived at the venue...

Our delayed arrivals eliminated the time for our planned Target run. Carefully packed suitcases full of t-shirts, shorts, suits, shoes, didn't allow room for blankets, sheets, pillows, towels. Our beds stood bare in our rooms. Dorm-room mattresses on dorm-room frames under dorm-room lights. Without sheets, pillows, blankets... We stood for a minute, evaluating the situation, chilled by the airconditioned air. And then we did the only thing logical in a situation like that. We unpacked our suitcases, made pillows with t-shirts, and blankets with our suit jackets. We slept under our clothes that first night. Exhausted from a day of traveling, a night of techno beats, and a year of struggles, we couldn't be more pleased with our arrival in our summer city, and nothing felt more right than that first night asleep under our clothes.

Thankful

I sat on the hard, wooden chair in an almost empty Starbucks, gulping down a pumpkin spice latte, eyeing the comfy chair in the corner, reviewing fiduciary duties, and trying to determine what I actually needed to know of Sarbanes-Oxley. The late hour would deter most people from caffeine, but the looming night-before-thanksgiving-drive brought a crowd to the drive-up window. As the evening wore on, I moved to the comfy chair in the corner, now vacated by the college students in sweatpants and uggs, telling stories of "wild" nights and name dropping types of alcohol. I had moved on to corporate take-over prevention strategies when the manager walked over and asked if I wanted the heat turned up. I politely said no, that I was fine, and he nicely ignored my polite response and turned the heat up. Two years ago, I was thankful for the kindness in the offer to turn up the heat.

Brooke and Andre hosted thanksgiving that year for those of us that were too far away and too swamped with work to travel home. Curry pumpkin soup, moist turkey, and all the trimmings covered the table. I devoured the home-cooked meal, curled up on the futon with a man who prefers men, and fell asleep before the blueberry pie. After dessert, dishes, and a second nap, Brooke sent me home with many hugs and left-overs. Two year ago, I was thankful for the love and care of close friends.

This year, I am thankful for thanksgivings at home with our families.

Red

Red fires blaze through dreams each night. Dancing flames spreading, contained. Smoldering embers glowing. I watch without fear as flames take center stage, enveloping my nights and perplexing dawns with meaning unknown.

Red walls of a teen's room, lined with records and charcoal artwork, flicker on-screen during our Tuesday mornings with the DVR play button. Red lining of our black coffee mugs match the on-screen walls, passion, blood, fireworks, love and lust. Centered Tuesday mornings in the arms of red.

Red background peeks out from behind my inbox until I lower the screen... corner to corner crimson appears with painted black streaks, notes, lyrics spattered in the crimson galaxy, random and aligned. Notes, lyrics, rhythms, beats umbrella the room from the deep red ipod reflecting my crimson desktop, and on certain evenings playing the same black painted notes across the crimson spread. Steadied, steadied, steadied by red, red, red.

Other Plans

I make plans. I list. I organize goals, priorities, action-steps. I always have a five week plan, five month plan, five year plan... ten year plan. I calculate course credits, finances, time. And then I dream... in the recent years it is in the form of craigslist.org apartments, realtor.com properties, google maps of cities, potential weekend activities and evening events. My ten year dreams usually include furniture, travel, financial investments, clothing...

At fifteen, my ten year plan included an office with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and a desk with student midterm papers dispersed among my own research.
At twenty, my five year plan included a gorgeous condo in southern CT and an office with views in Manhattan. A publishing hot-shot, I intended to split my time between the states and London.
At twenty five, I spent most of my time in sweatshirts carrying heavy books, drinking too much coffee, cherishing the time spent with friends, and proudly walking across a stage, diploma in hand.

Sometimes my plans unfold as orchestrated. Often my plans meander and morph as new opportunities emerge. Occasionally I run face first into brick wall. Ouch. Although the brick wall collisions don't occur frequently, I have hit them enough to know that I'll eventually get my breath back. So, I still run full force ahead with plans, knowing that the fork in the path and the brick wall emerge eventually.

In the past year, craigslist and realtor searches have spanned multiple cities, and calculations have accommodated many altered finances and time frames. Five week and five month plans remain in tact, but the one year plans change and fade... The one year plan fades, and the ten year plan becomes abstractly more vivid - a comforting occurrence. The forks in the road, the detours in life, the brick walls - they may change geographical locations, budget restrictions, and short-term time frames, but they do not change goals, priorities, or dreams.

I plan. When life directs me, I readily alter my course, but I plan again. I will always be a planner. My dad constantly tells me, "Emmy, life is what happens while you're making other plans." And I'm okay with that.

State House

[originally written 2008]

2-12-08
Warm, yellow, light wraps its arms around me. Almost gently whispering, encouraging, a distant dream that I crawl towards on scraped hands and knees. Warm, yellow, light raises me to my feet, an arm around my shoulders, it provides support, absorbs my chills and uncertainty. It bounces off the marble floors, as if it pours straight down from the high rise dome. Softly encouraging a path not clearly marked, pointing out how far I have come already. In the warmth and embrace of its arms, I can set aside the doubt and appreciate the grace of this house, the pages bound in maroon, the decades of framed photographs, and picture the rocking chairs on the balcony. Surely wide-eyed, and infatuated with the architecture, the people, the issues, even the coffee in the Styrofoam cup he hands me. Reluctant to depart, but encouraged and uplifted. A loosely connected goal dancing in the distant future. For a moment, I could almost reach out to it, in the warmth of the yellow light.


4-9-08
I find the steps myself this time. The clank of my heels almost familiar, but the Appropriations sign hangs above my head, and I have to spiral up one more flight. A sea of faces, I scan for familiar ones, but I find none, so I take a seat in between. In between the House and the Senate.

This time I don't notice the light of the third floor, until we travel down a floor or two, stopping in the doorway of a darker hallway. A familiar face, and it takes me a little while to place why. A familiar con law issue, and it takes me a minute to remember why. A familiar admin term, and I know why. We pass through the doorway. Upstairs, I now have a friendly face to sit with, a reassurance that I understand more than I think I do, and a place in a conversation about a Bill I had never heard of. Sitting between two attorneys, I am not an attorney. Do I want to sit here as an attorney?

When they depart, I am left to watch my own thoughts run a treadmill race. Division into legislators and onlookers. I am somewhere in between. Lost in a sea of their pilot language, I try to translate with involuntarily squinted eyes. I know the importance of understanding the language, understanding the process, even if I never plan to stand in their place. I do not want to stand where they stand. Do I want to stand beside them - not on the floor, but in theory – helping to shape the conversation?

We leave for lunch, and I willingly sink into the familiar, concaved, red couch and look around. A coffee machine that that leaks water, books filled with rainbow highlights, and a hanger that probably once had a home in the car. Familiarity became an understatement as soon as we passed through the doorway. I wait for a comment about the lack of protein in my lunch, but he lets it pass. We let our conversation wander. To others it may seem like our own pilot language, but this one comes naturally for me, no need to translate. With two people it seems impossible to sit in between, but even when an additional friendly face arrives, I'm not worried about the in between.

At the end of the day, I'm not sure where I belong, but not I'm entirely lost either. At least I can find my way to the stairs.

Suits

In my closet, I have a row of suits. Black, navy, gray. Dark and light. Tailored to show tiny curves, with sleeves that hit below the thumb joint, and pant legs to just above the high heel. Heel height no more than 2 inches, with a slight point for elongation, but not enough to make a fashion statement. Comfortable and confident in a suit, I automatically feel capable and successful.

In my closet, I have a shelf of hooded sweatshirts and beside them a pile of jeans. Pullover, zipper, plain, and letter imprints. Some sizes too large with room enough for another person and sleeves well over the finger tips. Jeans of different washes, many worn in the knees, pockets ready to fray, but always the clothing item of choice. Below them sneakers I never bother to untie or consider replacing with heeled trends. Comfortable and confident in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I automatically feel lovable and safe.

I have spent weeks in suits. I have spent weeks in jeans and hooded sweatshirts. I have come to love my bipolar wardrobe. This year, the suits emerge once every few weeks, usually for a trip to the Capitol's judicial center. Jeans and hooded sweatshirts emerge on weekends and the occasional weekday, usually for meeting-less days spent researching, or before class due dates. The other days I spend blankly staring into my closet, looking for a business casual wardrobe I do not own yet, wishing I could grab a suit from my right side or hooded sweatshirt from the left. Missing that comfortable confidence.

We're Still Our William Smith Life

I still read Cisneros with a pen. Contemplate starting a paper at 11pm with a fresh cup of coffee. Try to catch the moon beams reflecting off the water with my lens. She'll tell me "We don't have to make sense," and I'll sit in her passenger seat listening to that song. Time as only a suggestion and convention only a passing thought.

I still search for the right words and bright colors that soothe. Eat ice cream for dinner. Think of life in terms of circles, journeys and stories. She's still the person I call at 2am while the world sleeps and we never do. Sleep as only a hassle - altering perceptions and dreams - and nights as an extension of life rather than a mimic of death.

I still tape up lists made on white paper with colored magic markers. Write to understand what I know. Crawl into an open lap. She and I escape and return together, flee and face it together. Life as an experience and the passing moments only as opportunities to feel alive.

These April Days

[originally written 4/09]

Powerpoprock in a hip, bright, warm venue. Ginger ale in hand, surrounded by twentysomethings on the crowded dance floor. "Have you met..." and "Who are you here with?" Sans ring on the left hand, increasingly friendly, small talk over loud music, "Are you from here?" until he abruptly walks away. Apparently, an hour drive from one small city to another overwhelms any possible interest. Merely amused, I laugh out loud, a chuckle carried away on guitar strings and belting lyrics. Friends on stage and another in the audience, I'm not here to meet my mr. right. Or my mr. right now.

*****

Crisp, cool, night air with a promise of spring, and the sound of the crashing waves up against the city walls, even if only in my head, prompt an involuntary smile. I return a phone call as I walk through the well-lit parking garage, and the smile disappears. Break-up despair, I can hear it in his voice immediately. I can only respond with that sinking feeling of knowing any words I utter can never make it better. I listen. I can only listen.

******

A wall of white dresses, dressing rooms built for two, and seating to accommodate an entourage of familial females bound by bloodlines and heart-lines. A bride with a flush and a smile, expectantly overwhelmed, she twirls and scowls. Perhaps finding her perfect dress will not come as easily as finding her perfect man.

******

Mincing garlic without the warning that my fingers would radiate the smell of garlic for days to come, despite numerous washings. I can offer no authority on the progress of the cooking chicken, but I can stir the two cans of diced tomatoes and chop the basil. We are feeding four a balanced meal, a delicious meal, a meal from scratch. A meal without the fear of salmonella.

********

With perfectly pressed seams, this suit makes its first re-appearance since last summer. Tailored to fit my petite portions, it adds years to my youthful appearance. The click-clack of my heels echoes louder than I remember, and a momentary inspection reveals metal poking through the heels. I wore through my heels last summer. This jeans, sweatshirt, sneaker lover wore through her high heels last summer, most likely walking through the halls of Rayburn. Now, walking through the halls of the district court house, clickclack, early for a meeting, clickclack, I run into a classmate. Court administrative week, we are both surprised to see each other. I am swept in and out of a chaotic meeting-type, waiting in the hall for the next time slot, hoping for less chaos, when a friend clickclacks down the hall towards me. Surprised and relieved to see her, she offers a stress alleviating hug, chats for a bit, calls me a champ, and resumes her meeting. Hours later, with unintentional creases now apparent in my suit pants, as I clickclack out of the courthouse, I run into another classmate I have not seen since last semester. Court administrative week - what are we all doing at the court house? Dressed in suits, on official business, I see as many classmates in the courthouse as I do in the round hallways of our school building. A transition out, certainly.

******

Still overwhelmed with assignments, due dates, rainbow highlighters and a pile of books. Early evening turns into late night, early morning comes too soon. A swat at an alarm clock, a sleepy 5:30am phone call to the broken-hearted, and a fast shower pries my exhausted body from sleep into the land of the awake. Or semi-awake. An 8:45am Conflicts of Law class means semi-awake at best. Another day of clickclacking through the courthouse in a suit, means an honest attempt at fully-awake. Fully awake and exhausted.

*****

"This must be for you." He hands me my banana-chocolate milkshake with a smile. I nearly melt with gratitude. Clickclacking out of the colorfully decorated whimsical haven, I know how out of place I look in my conservative navy suit, but I could care less. I am too busy inhaling my perfect chocolate banana milkshake.

****

A 1:30am phone call from the new mother, because she is breast feeding and thought I might be up. I don't have the heart to tell her that I collapsed into bed hours ago, immediately following the chocolate banana milkshake. I mostly listen, incapable of forming a coherent thought, and try to picture my friend from high school now at home with her three week old daughter.

***

Twenty-something: a time period of change and transition. If I had to pick a specific cluster of days to represent my twentysomething life, it would be these April days.

"I carried a watermelon."

The statement slipped out before I could catch it. Before I could determine that it made zero sense in the context of our casual and introductory conversation. Before I could pause to tell the back story, give it context, explain its real meaning. It just popped out; a statement that I usually close a longer story with just asserted itself without the rest of the story. How dare it do that! And why couldn't I stop it?!

It fits at the end of a story about new beginnings, challenges, perseverance, belonging, self-reliance, resourcefulness, comfort, and humor. Standing alone it felt nonsensical, naked, awkward, and out of place. It came out quickly, before my car door shut and he walked around to the other side. I didn't have time to elaborate or explain, which is probably why the statement came out unaccompanied in the first place. By the time he took his place behind the wheel too much time had passed. I couldn't help the awkward statement without appearing awkward myself. So I betrayed it in the same manner it betrayed me - I left it alone. Perhaps the night air swept it away or perhaps it still stands out in the parking lot alone waiting for companionship by the rest of the story. I'm not sure I will have that opportunity.

So for now, I just shake my head and laugh, make a quizzical face and repeat my absurd statement in the same way Baby does in Dirty Dancing:

"I love my car; I would live in it if I could."

Untitled

I can't breath. The reflection in the mirror, the eyes staring back at me that usually keep me steady, steady, steady... are held open in panic. I recognize the face, but vacancies stand where softness once called home.

She's in the doorway, evaluating my red-rimmed eyes. She could have moved away, carrying her own stage of grief. But she asked me if I was okay. I had to say yes. I had to breath to speak and breathing equated with okay. So I was okay. Breathing. In and out. Even when it felt like I couldn't. Despite my vacant, red-rimmed eyes. She told me it was okay to cry. I felt the tears slide down, fast and with momentum. Built up sorrow. She told me she would be upstairs if I needed her.

I didn't dry my hair before I crawled onto her bed. Examined the re-arranged furniture and her personal stages of spite and sorrow and healing. I felt safe. With her. My vacant stare now fixed on the television with the softness returning and my rib cage rising and falling.

Realities

Sticky, sweaty, elbows jab. Strangers lean against each other, and the crowd sways in required unison. You're up there, on stage, and I'm down below. Trying to close my eyes, feel the beat, move alone, experience alone. Down here below your seldom gaze. Bodies packed tightly, the crowd steals my shut-eye-balance. So I look down at my feet, laugh at my worn attempt at polished nails, and promptly get dizzy, disoriented. Toes, heels, rocking, springing up, inching forward, tapping to the beat I'm searching for. A failed attempt, I look up. Face up the band, to you, with a strained neck, petite has not served me well this evening. Giving up on solitude, I join the masses watching your fingers hit note, after note, after note...

The crowd roars. Sometimes in waves, sometimes steadily. A constant reminder that I'm not alone here, even when lost in thought. And I am, lost in thought. What could be your reality - years of screaming, waving fans? Stampeding affirmation of crowds and wanderlust love thrust upon you - regularly? Yet, perhaps you love toast or despise olives? Crinkle your nose at sour milk? Common and everyday. Death and love, they must feel the same to you and I. As same as to you and he and to he and I, to us all. Most things must feel the same; a paper cut doesn't hurt less in front of a screaming crowd or from within the masses.

And then I have myself thinking, that I should ask you these things over coffee. I'd like to listen to your thoughts on realities and love and death and toast. Are you older than I? I could ask you so many things, and I, too, could tell you stories... And I have myself thinking that it's too late for caffeine; I'll have to have decaf. And I look up smiling. To you up there. And I realize I'm still down here. Is that it? Our realities?

New Beginnings

I have freshly painted peach walls with white trim. I have translucent white curtains swaying, slow dancing with the wind. Smooth wooden floors bounce the sunlight onto the peach walls. New, warm, inviting. A new room to match my new beginnings. New space to breath, to dream... to list, to plan. The romantic notions of beginnings and endings always seem to wrap themselves up with the unromantic practicalities. Arranging the to-do list of items that never change - grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning, oil changes. New beginnings always come with organizational hazards, planning dates, re-configuring communications... I just want to dream. I just want to lay back on my bed, stare at my peach walls, and watch my dreams paint themselves across the ceiling.

Summer Rain

I wonder how I will remember this summer.
Will I think of the steady downpour of rain?
Jeans rolled up, collecting sand in the cuff,
Dragged in from the puddles in the parking lot,
Smeared onto the chair in the lecture hall,
Where I sit and swivel and sigh,
A deep sigh.

Will I think of the rain drops pounding the dark window?
As I toss and turn,
Searching for sleep,
Loyally abandoning consciousness,
Only to the betrayal of my unconscious,
Thrashing and gasping with fisted hands,
Not strong enough to fight,
The demons of my night.

Will I think of the steady streams flowing down the glass,
Over my right shoulder, in front of the dark gray sky?
Matching the dark gray circles,
The rows of penciled in bubbles,
Rules and exceptions,
Perfectly laid out in baby blue books.
A test I never wanted to take, for
A dream I never had.

Is that how I will remember this summer?

Promise

I will return here soon(ish). I promise.

Voicemail

Some days (okay, most days) I feel compelled to change my voicemail greeting to something like this:

"Hi, you've reached Emily. If you actually need to get in touch with me please send me an email or text message. Chance are, I won't check my voicemail messages until well past midnight, upon which I will feel the sting of jealousy knowing that you are asleep at that time of night, and refuse to return your call under the guise of "politeness" towards those who have schedules different than mine - as in those of you who do sleep. I will then delete your message, make a mental note to call you back in the morning, and promptly forget. I'm sorry, but it is true. I have a problem admitting that my memory bank is fuller than my voicemail. So in all seriousness, send me an email. And don't judge me if I respond past midnight, just be happy I didn't wake you up with a return phone call. Beeeeep."

What Happens To A Dream Deferred?

"What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?"
-Langston Hughes, A Dream Deferred

Employment Opportunity

For Hire: Grocery Store Runner
Qualifications - Must be able to: find a parking space that doesn't have an unreturned shopping cart already occupying the space; remember to grab everything on the shopping list - or, you know, just remember the shopping list; push the squeaky-wheeled-mind-of-its-

own shopping cart through the obstacle course aisles, nearly colliding with no more than three persons per aisle; reach the last box of granola, sitting on the tip top shelf, a foot back from the front of the shelf without losing your balance and toppling over the small child grabbing for Lucky Charms on the bottom shelf; stand in line reading the tabloids headlines without making an over-expressive disgusted face; chit chat with the check-out person without addressing the thousands reasons why you look like you have not slept in weeks or why your purchased items are so random that it is possible you slept-walked through the store grabbing items within reach every third aisle; find the car in the parking lot; and arrange the groceries in the car so that they actually stay in the bag and don't end up scattered around the back seat.
Monthly bonus for anybody who can put the groceries away and figure out what to do with all those plastic bags week after week after week after week after week after week.

Good News, World

I survived today.


That is all.

Cappuccino Brownie

Today is the type of day where I had to have my delicious, rich, heavenly, cappuccino brownie before dinner. I intended to have only a bite, just to take the edge off - my edge, not the brownie - and accidentally ate the entire thing. oops. Oh, but it was so heavenly, so relaxing, yet euphoric. Of course, now I am sitting with a Whole Foods take-out-box of shepard's pie in my lap less than halfway finished. I knew this would be the consequence when I took that second and third bite of the savory, sweet, chocolate love (otherwise known as a Whole Foods cappuccino brownie), but by the time the fork met my lips for the fourth and fifth time, I was a goner. There was just no turning back. It was worth it. For about thirteen blissful bites, I forgot entirely that I have a midterm, a paper, a presentation, and so many other things due in less than 48 hrs, and I melted away with the espresso chocolate in my mouth. Mmmmm... if I could only go back to those thirteen bites....

Later, I will be finishing the shepard's pie (so no worries those of you who are concerned that I consume too much sugar and not enough protein), drinking coffee and snacking on edamame. Who knows, maybe I will come back here raving about my late night snack, but I'm pretty sure that not even the coffee will meet the bliss of that cappuccino brownie...

Afternoon Sun

I love afternoon sun streaming through the window, even on single-digit afternoons. Falling over my shoulders and spilling onto the desk top, it comforts and warms. From this tower window, the snow and ice sparkle, forming an enchanted kingdom below. Inside, the retro yellow bookshelves reflect the light and warm the space more than the humming heater beside me. The sun soothes and dissolves caffeinated anxiety. Years at this carrel, I have come to treasure the warm blanket of the afternoon sun.

Confession

I've developed a slight obsession with The Pioneer Woman. I, the d.c-bound-can't-wait-to-put-on-a-pair-of- black-heels-and-sip-wine-at-an-art-gallery-opening-after-spending-the-day-in-a-suit-and-deep-red-heels, have a soft spot in my heart for tractor wheels. Ms. PW lives on a beautiful cattle ranch, homeschools her four children, concocts dinner dishes for the ultimate carnivore, grows beautiful gardens, and tackles home improvement projects with more spitza than Bob Vila. I, on the other hand, had to give my plants to my mom, because they kept wilting on me. I guess you have to water them. Oops. I'm an accidental vegetarian; I'm terrified of undercooked meat, hardly capable of using my oven or stove (where exactly do you cook meat?), and hate the feel of raw meat slithering up my fingers. Eck. I have a "room of one's own," but I don't think it is quite what Virginia Woolf meant. I tend to adore the people I live with (most days), but I can't wait for a "bathroom of one's own" or a "kitchen of one's own." Home improvement projects are not at the top of my to-do-list. I wish law school had a homeschool option, but other than that, I'm not really into homeschool brilliance. So what is it about Ms. PW that keeps me signing into my blog just to see if she has updated hers?

She doesn't think she has all the answers. She laughs at herself. She loves her life. --It could be that simple.

Yes, I'm drawn to the fact that she is madly in love with her husband, Marlboro Man. In fact, she would probably wouldn't mind being referred to as Mrs. MM rather than Ms. PW. I'm going to stick with Ms. PW, however, because I'm an incredibly single twenty-something independent, and I appreciate Ms. PW for personality and not her marriage to Mr. MM. That being said, she radiates the joy that comes from a partnership grounded in love, butterflies, sparks and fireworks; how could anybody not be drawn to that? Yes, I'm drawn to the gorgeous views on her cattle ranch. I can almost inhale the fresh air and watch my perspectives change. The reviving powers of rural life - I thrive in it. I love her trampoline. I love the pictures she takes of people on the trampoline. I love the pictures she takes. I love all of these things, but I don't think these are what keep me coming back to her blog.

I keep coming back, because of the simple. She finds the worth, the humor, the love, the joy in the everyday.

Do I want a life on a cattle ranch with four children, a cowboy husband, fields of wild horses, and a barrel full of calf nuts? Probably not. Although, I have spent a considerable amount of of time wondering if my slight obsession with her means I should re-think a city life and a suit-required career. Probably not. Do I want a life with an appreciation for the simple, a lot of humor, more questions than answers, love, joy, and a trampoline? Absolutely. I'm not ready to trade in black heels for tractor wheels. At least not yet...


[links to The Pioneer Woman blog under "For The Love of Blogs"]



Update: Apparently, I am not the only one slightly obsessed with Pioneer Woman - Time named her one of the Top 25 Blogs 2009.

2/16/09 12:55pm

goals


Snow Day Lost

Snow falling behind her so quickly that it comes across the television screen as thin white lines. Car headlights few and far between, slowly move down the one lane highway, the other lanes covered in snow. Despite the camera worthy smile, it is clear her teeth chatter, and she can't wait to get back into the van.

We're please with our snow day plan and the decision to implement it. Cars safely parked off-street in snow ban compliance (another indication of a certain snow day), text books left unopened, homework assignments incomplete, sweatpants packed in preparation for a day of sorting through principles, definitions, black letter law. We will drink pots of coffee to compensate for our disregard of an appropriate bedtime. We are in no hurry to sleep - grogginess is acceptable during study days in ways that the socratic method does not permit. We check the "stormline" before finally heading to bed - the scratchy voices offers no new information, we'll have to wait for morning confirmation.

Only, we never get it. I wake up to the sound the rain hitting the windows and the news that "all classes, events and activities will be held as scheduled." ugh. Tired eyes, quick shower, hooded sweatshirt, drained body, unprepared mess, I drag myself to school. Grateful for delicious travel mug coffee, a bulky warm hooded sweatshirt, and a friend who also grumbles but goes. Three degrees colder, and we would have had our snow day.

2/20/09 1:36pm
coffee addict, exhaustion, plans, wherever you are it is your friends who make your world


Domestically Challenged

Pop it, drop it, slam it. Pop it, drop it, slam it if you want the washing machine to start. I can never, ever get the washing machine to start. Standing in the basement raising and closing the lid, raising and closing the lid, slamming the lid, apologizing to the washing machine, raising and closing the lid... completely domestically challenged, I can almost hear the washing machine chuckle. oh, but won't you please just start! I have to seek out a roommate, pick one any one, to pop it, drop it, or slam it and the washing machine starts - first try. Oh yes, the machine is chuckling, I can just about hear it.

Thursday Night Drives

dark streets with blinking traffic lights, billy bush's hollywood over the radio, always the perfect companion to my thoughts on my thursday night drive across town. meredith grey's closing statement hanging in the air as i try to fit, compartmentalize, box in, failures and successes in life, love, and learning. vermont memories and l.a. moments collide. so many years later, and they still creep into my thursday night thoughts, along will billy bush's voice and a pop tune not heard in years. on thursday nights the thoughts sprawl out on the dark pavement and dark night in front of me, finally free from the restraints of casebooks, to-do lists, and daily routines. ten minutes, across town, are all i have to watch them in an orchestrated ballet, each move intentional and precise, but with a meaning i can't quite make out yet

Another List

I really do like lists. However, I promise that this blog will not become a compilation of the many lists in my life. (Although, that is a neat idea...) This is the 25 Random Things About Me list that everybody is posting on facebook. I love, love, love reading everybody's lists, but I can't bring myself to post mine on my facebook page. The reasons why I hesitate could probably be covered in no less than three hours of analyzing with my girlfriends, so I won't try to go into it here - but I will post my list here.

1. I love fried green tomatoes, but I've only had them once, and I can't remember when it was or who made them for me.
2. The Kogod Courtyard is one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon with a cup of coffee and a pen in hand.
3. I have an extremely high tolerance for sugar and probably eat more candy than most people you know.
4. I can't wait for Midnight Sun.
5. I hate to clean. Unless something is bothering me, then I clean compulsively and excessively.
6. Going to William Smith was the best decision I ever made, going to law school was the best mistake I ever made.
7. I am fantastic at living in small spaces.
8. I want Stacey London's wardrobe.
9. The year I spent in "Rural State" as an AmeriCorps VISTA was one of the hardest, most rewarding, and most worthwhile experiences I have ever had. It has become a core portion of who I am.
10. I have given some serious thought to becoming a truck driver.
11. I slept through the entirety of Red Dragon and the remake of Chainsaw Massacre (which we saw in the theater). This sleeping-through-movies-habit is part of the reason why I have probably not seen most of your favorite movies.
12. I could write pages about the amazing people in my life. I am trying not to reference anybody in this simply because there are too many important things to say about so many people that there is not enough time or room. That being said, I have amazing people in my life.
13. I learned to drive on a standard car, took my driving test on a standard, and have now driven a standard for about 10 years.
14. I love the hws bank of Seneca Lake, especially on a clear night.
15. I once taught a course called "LifeSkills" to middle schoolers. But I learned more from them than they ever learned from me.
16. I have an infatuation with capitol buildings and the work that goes on in them.
17. I've never been to Alabama, but when my cellphone is on "ring," the tune is "Sweet Home Alabama." (And has been for years.)
18. Oh, I could tell you stories...
19. Pandora's avant garde jazz station and a cup of coffee make Sunday afternoon homework tolerable.
20. Currently in my bag (aka purse), I have my keys, cell phone, wallet, LLBean slippers, and a Research Design text book. Normal, right?
21. I have had 18 roommates since I graduated high school, and I think that every single one of them would agree on at least one thing - I am never home.
22. I spent a semester in L.A. learning how much I hated the inner workings of the entertainment industry, a lot about myself, and not much of anything else.
23. I'm not "well traveled," but I hope to be someday.
24. I love to read, but I can't find the time to read during the semester without cutting into precious sleeping time. Blogs almost fill my cravings and allow me to sleep.
25. There was a time in my life when I could rotate my own tires, change my own oil, and predict an appropriate play during a football game. That time has passed.

Slightly Sick

irritated sore throat, scratchy voice, warm to the touch, orange juice, chicken noodle slurp slurp, waves of chills, spearmint cough drops, warm to the touch, weak cough, weak body, cherry flavored nyquil waiting for me if i can just make it through this slightly sick day...

By 30, You Should

Mid twenties and I have many lists of goals to accomplish by thirty. There is one list that always stands out with personality. Ripped from the pages of Glamour magazine and color photo copied, framed, tucked away in the corner of my room. Found by a friend, ripped by a friend, framed by a friend and gifted by a friend - yet it is this list, my adopted list, that stands out among the many, many lists I have. A cartoon image of a fabulous woman in stilettos and a peacock feathered skirt, carefully holding a martini glass, sits fashionably on her very own modern, pink chair. It exudes glamour and sophistication. In my over-sized, gray, AmeriCorps sweatshirt and LLBean slippers, I do not. But this list has become one image for the future and at the very least, something to think about...

By 30, you should have:

1. One old boyfriend you can imagine going back to, and one who reminds you how far you've come.
2. A decent piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in your family.
3. Something perfect to wear if the employer or man of your dream wants to see you in an hour.
4. A purse, a suitcase and an umbrella you're not ashamed to be seen carrying.
5. A youth you're content to move beyond.
6. A past juicy enough to look forward to telling in your old age.
7. The realization that you are actually going to make it have an old age - and some money set aside to fund it.
8. An e-mail address, a voice mailbox and a bank account - all of which nobody has access to but you.
9. A resume that is not even the slightest bit padded.
10. One friend who always make you laugh and one who lets you cry.
11. A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill and a black lace bra.
12. Something ridiculously expensive that bought for yourself, just because you deserve it.
13. The belief that you deserve it.
14. A skin-care regimen, an exercise routine and a plan for dealing with those few other facets of life that don't get better after 30.
15. A solid start on a satisfying career, a satisfying relationship and all those other facets of life that do get better.

By 30, you should know:

1. How to fall in love without losing yourself.
2. How you feel about having kids.
3. How to quit a job, break up with a man and confront a friend without ruining the relationship.
4. When to try harder and when to walk away.
5. How to kiss in a way that communicates perfectly what you would and wouldn't like to happen next.
6. The names of the secretary of state, your great-grandmother and the best tailor in town.
7. How to live alone, even if you don't like to.
8. How to take control of your own birthday.
9. That you can't change the length of your calves, the width of your hips or the nature of your parents.
10. That your childhood may not have been perfect, but it's over.
11. What you would and would not do for money or love.
12. That nobody gets away with smoking, drinking, doing drugs or not flossing for very long.
13. Who you can trust, who you can't and why you should not take it personally.
14. Not to apologize for something that isn't your fault.
15. Why they say that life begins at 30.

[Glamour Magazine, September 2005, p379]

Snow Days

I love that I still get snow days. At the age of twenty-five, I still get to turn off the alarm, flip on the television, identify my school as closed, squeal with delight, and burrow back into the covers. For me, snow days still mean a postponed homework assignment, a break from lugging my l.l.bean backpack up and down the school stairs, hot chocolate at home, and at least the potential of daytime television.

Of course, there are some differences. The aroma of my mom cooking pancakes and bacon doesn't creep into my room and coax me awake. My l.l.bean backpack sitting by the door is not the traditional bookbag type. I now carry the "day hiker" with me, complete with its own hydration system. It is laughable, I know, but apparently code books are even heavier than grade school science books - who knew?! And although I always think about it, I have not yet gone sledding in my backyard during my "adult" snow days. This is probably due largely to the fact that I don't have a backyard, or that I have to dig my car out from under a foot of snow and drive the unplowed roads to the local sledding hill.

My snow days are now filled mostly with catching up on never-ending homework assignments, case reading, and cleaning, but I can't complain. I still get to ignore my alarm, spend some time on the phone with a friend, and sit in the cozy warmth watching the snow fall outside the window.

New Year of Last Year

Champagne glass full of bubbles from last week's new year, a pair of orange tinted nerf glasses, a boa from halloween... I bounce around the kitchen while she perfectly places the lasagna strips over smears of ricotta cheese. Slippery socks on the smooth kitchen floor, the champagne ignites a twist and a twirl and a dip and drop, bounce, bounce, twist, twirl, twirl. Guitar picks aimlessly at the strum string as I tip the champagne to my mouth. A moment of silence, held, held, held, until a unified explosion of guitar cords, beat, pop, rock, lyrics emerge from the basement. My bounce, twist, twirl, dip now have a beat, a rhythm, a pattern and a head full of champagne bubbles. Lasagna baking the oven, music below my feet, the new year starts on an upbeat with an orange tint and a feathered boa.

January 15th, and I can't wait to see how 2009 finally begins...

Two-Thousand Nine Begins...

I usually make my new year resolutions in March. It works so much better for my inner calendar. While the rest of the world contemplates the best steps for self-improvement on January 1, I spend most of my January on a nice break from reality. I eat home-cooked meals made by somebody other than myself (usually a two-step improvement from my daily diet); sleep at least two, if not three, times more than usual; watch more television than the rest of the year combined (usually in the form of marathons); and spend time with friends and family that too often wonder whether or not I have lost their phone number. Expending energy on anything other than eating, sleeping, visiting, and watching mindless television just doesn't happen. When March rolls around I'm finally in a place to make resolutions, and expend the energy necessary to attempt holding on to them for the certain whirlwind of the next ten months.

This year I have decided to come out from under the pile of Christmas cookies and turn off the John and Kate Plus 8 marathon long enough to make some resolutions. "Renew some resolutions" is perhaps a more appropriate phrase to use. I did not do such a fantastic job of meeting any of the resolutions I made last year - although I'm not particularly worried about it; I met many more important personal goals in the past year. As a product of getting older (I think), my internal calendar has started to work on January to December framework rather than a September to August framework, despite my never-ending full-time student status. It finally feels natural to make resolutions on January first. So, without further ado, my new year resolutions:


Resolution #1: Write in the blog I created years ago. At the rate I am going, I will be thirty-something before I have two consecutive posts within six months of each other. Must write more in the new year.

Resolution #2: Take more photos. My favorite photos taken by others are of simple, everyday life. I don't have (or want) a lot of glamour in my life, so I shouldn't wait for it to appear before pulling out my camera.

Resolution #3: Invest in healthy habits. Oh you know, the usual, eat better, exercise more, stop drinking so much coffee. I can't even type that last statement with a straight face. With the help of a close friend, my infatuation with coffee has become a sincere love affair that I'm not willing to part with anytime in the near future. I will have to stick with eating better and exercising more - I have high hopes for these!


We'll start with those, and perhaps re-visit them in March... Happy New Year to you and yours!