These Lights

I opened my blog admin panel to find this draft:

Two people in the last week have taken one look at me and commented, "Man, you look TIRED." That's the cleaned-up version without the expletives, screaming caps emphasis the speakers', not mine...

I guess all those all-nighters were finally starting to show.

During that same time, fall was settling in, and then winter, nudged along by spells of cold rain. At the end of one particularly long day, I made a random turn to cut through a street in my neighborhood that I don't normally take and stumbled onto this:

Every tree on the block was lit up. I hadn't checked the forecast that morning and was jogging home eager to get my sopping wet shoes off my feet, but when I turned that corner and looked up, the twinkling tree boughs forming a pretty archway above the full length of the street, it was all so pretty, I stopped in my squeaking tracks to put down my borrowed umbrella and take a photo.

When I returned to the city, I had never felt so solidly right about where I was. I was exactly where I had to be. And wanted to be. Even on that wet street fussing with my camera phone. Even as exhaustion incessantly crept in, it felt right. 

I haven't skipped through this street recently, and in fact, don't actually remember which street it is, but if I have to, I'll walk up and down the gridline streets block by block until I find it again. I will do it because you can't beat twinkly lights against a night sky.

Get Me Some Cinnamon and Raisins

I woke up feeling refreshed today! This is a big deal because it's the first time I can say this in all of 2014. Today is July 29th.

It may have had something to do with the fact that I conked out for nearly ten hours after months of under-sleeping and poorly executed emergency catnaps, the moments immediately prior to these naps known as I-am-going-to-fall-over-if-I-don't-put-my-head-down-right-now-shiiiiiiiit episodes. It may also have helped that it was actually cold last night. Like, brrr, the hairs on my legs are standing. What is that all about (to be clear, not that there is hair on my legs, but that the hair is standing)?! When the glorious, chilly breezes flooded my room, I groped around for my blanket and gasped at how cool the sheets felt around me. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with the task of falling back asleep, I would have happy cried at the thought of the autumn ahead. (Damn, it's going to be good this year.)

While I'm in the process of filling you in on the dull happenings of my bedroom last night, allow me to ask: Has anyone suggested to Apple that they employ their technological prowess to automatically dim screen brightness at night? My eyes would thank them. It's bad enough to learn that you only have three more hours of shuteye. It only adds insult to injury when checking the time also shocks your eyes into temporary loss of sight.

Three hours later, I opened my front door to find a card. Angel had written back, with his opening line an apology for the card he was writing on. It was the only one he had, he wrote. I laughed, because the envelope had looked so funny that I couldn't help but think that it took a special kind of man to use stationery like this!

This is what I learned:

Angel is one of those rare beasts who do not like chocolate. (Chocolate chip was not the way to go. Mega fail, Juls. Like, big time.)

He was, however, very popular at his office when he showed up bearing cookies. (Well, that's something at least.)

The dude does enjoy his oatmeal raisin cookies, though. (Roger that!)

And thus my initial gesture of thanks failed, but the universe can suck it because failure is my middle name and I know how to deal with it. I've added cinnamon and raisins to my shopping list. Angel is going to get his cookies, dammit! I may not be able to ship boxes to out-of-state people whom I actually know, but I sure as heck can get things to a stranger whose front door is two feet from mine.

A Little Greenery

Can someone explain the mechanics of installing a hook in the ceiling from which to hang a potted plant? How does one tell where to safely install the hook? In particular, how can Julia be sure to avoid tearing a hole in her rental apartment's ceiling? She does not ever want to exchange text messages with her landlord about a ceiling damaged by her own hand. These are the times I need a Bob Villa in my life.

Beautiful, leafy, dreamy, hanging plant project on hold for reasons mentioned above, I've taken to the pretty little succulents that have been popping up everywhere. They're cute in their tiny-ness and look hearty enough to possibly survive my being their mom. So off I went to bring home a cute family of succulents. But every one I picked up, be it at a bodega, nursery, or Trader Joe's, a leaf would be broken or there'd be a funny-looking bruise like someone had accidentally squished the tip of it. Alas, I'd walk out of the store succulent-less, but usually with a pint of ice cream in hand. You know, because ice cream tastes good in times of sadness. And joy. It's an all-occasion food, really.

I know what you're thinking: It's a plant! It will heal itself! But truth be told, this kind of thing bothers me. It just does. I've become much less neurotic (I think the kinder word choice here might be particular, ahem) over the years, but every now and again, I pull one of these nutty numbers. 

And then my sister showed up with a ton of a heck of a lot of them, potted in fresh soil and all. I hope they stay alive. My track record with plants is kind of spotty, but I want to change that!

Tonight, This Feeling

10:21 was a fine time to be walking home tonight. I mean, it wasn't just fine. It was fiiiine, said with a long and pronounced Southern drawl or whatever you can muster up to fully appreciate the need for emphasis here. Golly, is it beautiful out there tonight.

I want to record this feeling that I'm experiencing right now and right here. I can't explain it, other than to say that there are thousands of poofy clouds scattered against the moon at this very moment, a moon whose light I'm convinced is keeping the neighborhood birds chatty at this hour. The sky and the moon and the birds aside, what is exceptionally beautiful, the thing that is doing me in right now, is the sweetly perfect air. It's that just-a-touch chilly night air that arrives before spring fully unpacks her luggage and stays a while. Do you know it? She's here tonight, and she caught me off guard with her scent because it colors every city differently and it had been so very long since I've experienced a spring other than New York's. The cool night air is impossible to describe, but I can say that it smells like... here. And it is wonderfully delicious. And calming.

On those days when I need to dig deep and find my strength, I'll come find this post, close my eyes, and bring myself back here, to tonight's walk home.

This Man

I spent the day at a local cafe / gourmet market / coffee shop this week. Aloof hipsters with their bold smears of bright red lipstick and nose piercings and oversized glasses played barista and charcuterie sandwich makers behind the counter. The girl who took my order seemed annoyed, but only insomuch as her coolness would allow. I felt her pain, as I, too, was in it for the long haul, with a work deadline later that day. I set up shop at a table in the corner, plugging in my laptop and giving my coat its own chair without a second thought. There is a certain luxury of space availability here that I have greedily embraced. Is this what happens after living so long in the most densely populated city in America? Yes, indeed it is.

A man, one of only two patrons when I walked in, was seated at one of the tables. A large coffee in front of him, his legs were draped to the side, crossed comfortably as he clumsily tapped his fingers around a messy array of dirty coins. Three colorful plastic lighters sat atop a napkin, as though they deserved special consideration that his pocket change did not. You know the complimentary kind that gas stations used to provide with your pack of smokes? The kind you rarely see any more since smoking has become déclassé? Those. Despite the lid on his cup, coffee had somehow managed to spill. The crumpled napkins littering the space around his lighters were oddly still clean. It was hard to tell when the man had last bathed, but it was clear that his clothes were in bad need of a wash.

Somewhere along the way of these past few years, my sensitivity has begun to surface more readily. Where I once only cried at movies, now, whenever I sense people's need for kindness, a tear escapes. Sometimes, two or three before I realize what's happening. Watching this man stare at his muffin, the tears started up again. He just kept picking at the streusel on top, rolling the little mounds of brown between his fingers, the sugar flatly falling on the table. I occasionally glanced up from my screen to watch him play a solitary game of musical chairs without the music. Every fifteen minutes, he'd pull up a new chair from a different table, test it, and then settle for another ten or fifteen minutes before getting up to do it all over again. He repeated this act for four hours straight. Every few rounds, he would relocate himself to a new table, taking his various sundries along with him. When he landed at the table across from mine, I very deliberately forced myself to keep my butt firmly planted in my seat. It didn't feel right to pack up and leave. What right did I have to sit here that he did not? This much was clear: I had the option of going home or to another cafe, armed with money to pay for whatever time and space I wanted. This man did not. He probably didn't even have a place to sleep that night. Life is unfair, isn't it? And so I willed myself to stay, covering my nose and plucking away at my keyboard until it was time to go.

The girl from behind the counter eventually came over and told the man that he needed to leave if he was finished with his food. I think the dismissal stung me more than it did him.

Here I sit, days later, unable to shake the thought of this man. I want to know his story. I want to know why all of a sudden I feel incredibly privileged to be in my own shoes: my wits about me; my mental faculties intact; people in my life who lend their support; friends who pick up their phones when I call; and the choice to do or not do as I please. My life is good, but why am I sitting like a weirdo in a random cafe tearing up over a man I don't even know?

My friend's five-year-old made a funny request. She repeatedly asked that I send a picture of myself to her mother's phone. I didn't ask why, as I generally oblige when children politely ask for things, regardless of how random the request may be. Like a good-for-nothing adult, I kept forgetting to send it, so after she brought it up for the third time, I pulled and texted this one, the last picture I took of myself from some time ago earlier this winter. I was trashed from little sleep, on FaceTime messing around with the phone, clearly reacting to something that made me uncomfortable.

I should ask that little girl what she plans to do with this. Kids know how to do all sorts of things on iPhones these days. Will she PhotoShop out my mole? Will she crop my head onto a Disney Princess? She's pretty fond of that Disney Frozen movie. We once watched the same four YouTube movie clips on repeat for an hour straight. That is an hour that I will never get back, but if we're going to talk about return on investment, watching her two-year-old brother belt out the movie's theme song at the most random of times is priceless.

It's been really nice to be around children again. That they are my friends' kids is a double perk. They never fail to energize my spirits. They are wonderful little things, busy being honest and real. As lovely as they are, I have been making a concerted effort to limit my time with them and their parents. They welcome me openly in their home, but I quietly straddle that fine line, wary of that one day when they will surely have had too much of me. As all my friends now have life partners and kids, I try to be sensitive to the family unit dynamic, recognizing that life is busy all the time, and that they only have so much time to spend exclusively together. So, I make appearances regularly enough, but make sure to build in breathing room, too. It's been a few days, which means that I'm due for a live musical rhapsody performed by a certain toddler. I can't wait. It's the sweetest thing in the whole wide world right now.

Awe, Nuts

I have been known to navigate through pints of Ben and Jerry's ice creams in the most curious of ways. With no shame or regard for the hungry children that suffer from malnutrition across the world, I will eat just the ice cream, working around every solid morsel that requires chewing. It turns out that half of every pint of Chunky Monkey, for example, is comprised of walnuts and dark chocolate. It shouldn't legally be called ice cream if half of it isn't actually ice cream, is all I'm sayin'.

As I feel about food stuffs that infiltrate my creamy dairy confections is how I feel about walnuts. I'd really rather they give me some space. Distance is what I think most adults would call it, in the context of relationships. So what to do when someone generously offers you a helluvalotta them?

You say thank you, but no thank you and gently refuse their offer. But in this case, I had already turned down a bunch of other stuff and if you have any manners, you know that there are only so many no, thank you's someone can utter in the span of a single conversation before coming off as an ungrateful brute. A girl can't repeatedly reject the kind gestures of someone who wishes to share something that they think she would like. It's mean, you know? So I gave in and accepted graciously.

So now you know the story behind the large container of walnuts in my kitchen. And the truth about how I don't mind setting aside things I don't like. And about how I sometimes have trouble saying no to people who have kind intentions.

Babe

It turns out that while a baby pig looks sweet and charming in a landscape shot, up close in a cropped frame of the same photo, his snout is wet and slobbery and covered in a little too much erm, dirt (if it's something else, let's not focus on what that might be). But still, a total cute babe, this pig is!

This photo is from the image gallery that accompanies a story I saw in the Times today {+}. The article's about a woman who went gangbusters on the trending food movement à la Michael Pollan and is now, with husband and family in tow, five years into running her very own sustainable farm. Because, you know, when you have a few million to invest and a newfound passion, that's what you do. Naturally.

Photo by Drew Kelly for the NYTimes for this piece {+}

In the article, the farmer is quoted with a line that stirs up the sweetest image in this city girl's head:

“The most amazing thing happens when a sow is in labor down in the farrowing pen... The laying hens will go and gather round her and make sure to drop an egg right near her face for a little added protein to keep her energy up. How cool is that?”

Cool, indeed. Farm life suddenly sounds so dreamy and magical and everybody, let's gather around the campfire for a little kumbaya action.  When I think about these hens moseying on up to their animal friend and popping out an egg, I can't help but wonder just why Anne Shirley had such a difficult time adapting to life at Green Gables.  Farm life sounds pretty sweet to me.  Inspiring, really.

I love stories about communities that take care of its members.  Even our friends in the animal kingdom have them. It's a universal phenomenon present across all living, breathing things, this ability to act on our generous inclinations, to share our resources and support our neighbors.

All this talk makes me want a cute baby chick. One of the wee yellow ones that Joey and Chandler had in their apartment comes to mind. A little squealing piglet doesn’t sound so bad either, perhaps the runt of the litter, because I’m a big fan of the underdog. I'll tell you what: if the chick and piglet happen, I’ll make it a point to keep the plum pudding covered and go easy on the raspberry cordial.

People of Massachusetts, You're A Little Bit Awesome

Do you sometimes forget about the kindness of people? I know I do when I'm feeling blah. It's probably because we've hit the peak of what I call ugly summer syndrome. No explanation is necessary as I'm sure you feel me if you're anywhere near NYC. But trust me when I say that people are amazing anyway...

A customer pulled up at a donut shop and decided to pay for the customer behind her. That customer then paid it forward and did the same for the next customer. Repeat FIFTY-THREE more times. Yes, 53! This is what happened at a donut shop in Massachusetts this past weekend {+}.

I had been to this town outside of Boston once, a long time ago. I remember thinking after one day, Hmm, I'm all right without suburbia. I'm ready to get back to the city now. After hearing about this sweet string of goodness, though, I'm thinking maybe it wouldn't hurt to spend some time out there every now and again. For the donuts, that is. I mean, the people! Totally to be around good, kind people.

Hee hee. :)

Carry On

I know this sounds unimportant and trite, but I am impossibly tired right now.  I feel hungover and if I'm honest, a bit loopy.  I was up until 3:30 working late on Tuesday night and then working late again until 5:30 last night.  Not enough sleep is a bitch, yo.  I don't remember the last time I sunk into my pillow as the sky woke up. This must be what it feels like caring for a newborn, only add to that your lady bits healing and your breasts feeding that newborn and well actually, no, I guess I'm wrong - that's probably much more trying than my current state of exhaustion.

This morning, thrilled that it was finally Friday but unable to scrounge up the willpower to act like an adult, I did something that I'm rather shameless about sharing here: I opted out of my daily shower in exchange for fifteen more minutes in bed.  That all the senior folks were out of the office attending a conference several time zones away was all the justification I needed.  When I finally stepped into the shower tonight, I turned the knob to the maximum hot water setting.  I drowsily leaned against the tiled wall.  After a few minutes, I turned my back to the water and sat down in the tub.  It felt odd sitting there facing the back wall, but I was off my feet which felt heavenly.  Before long, I closed my eyes and let the steaming stream pelt my back.  I massaged my neck, in the best way one can manage on her own.  I could have sat there all night.

And now that I've deliberately stayed awake for as long as I have, midnight is finally near, which seems like a reasonable time to turn in so that I might awake refreshed, bright and early for my day tomorrow.  Saturdays are my hardest days, but they are also days when I witness a lot of good people doing good things.  Especially this week, with all that's been going on, it seems right that this is how my week will end.  On the train home tomorrow evening, I know I'll be spent and maybe even unusually quiet from the tiredness, but I'll also have spent the day being reminded that among humans, as ruinous and harmful as some may be, there are also those, too, that carry on with the radiance of love and kindness and respect.

Entrance to the Met.

I Could Live Here

I spent my afternoon at the Met today.  The special exhibition wasn't keeping my attention, so much so that I was considering making a run for the exit.  Luckily, as I started scooting around all the grannies (seriously, so many sweet old ladies today!), a painting stopped me in my tracks.  I couldn't place it at first, but it looked so familiar, I couldn't walk away until I did.

You see, this piece lives in the Musee d'Orsay.  I had last seen it in person maybe, ten years ago?  The image had stayed with me all these years.  There was something about the woman's facelessness, about the wind pulling on her white dress, and the lightness that surrounded her.  Do you ever see something and then suddenly feel like you haven't breathed in a while, but don't realize it until that very moment?  And then you start breathing?  That's what seeing this painting again did for me.  I inhaled slowly.  And then I smiled.  It felt good to reconnect after all this time, even if we were an ocean away from where we first met so long ago.

On my walk home, some good news arrived in my news feed. The Met had announced earlier in the day that they will open seven days a week starting in July.  This is big, people.  Huge, for me at least.  Now when I have a rare weekday off, the Met will always be an option.  What a wonderful gift to the public.

The Met {+}.  NYC.
2:08 pm.  Today.

The Dance

Matisse at the MoMA {+}. 3:43 pm.  Sunday.  10 February.  2013.
Does anyone else get sad thinking about what life would be like without blissfully spur-of-the-moment MoMA visits?  Or echo-y strolls through the Met's Greek and Roman wing after nightfall?  I don't know how or when I'm going to leave this city, but my mouth quivers at the thought of the emptiness I will inevitably feel when it happens.

If you've been meaning to go, go now.  I will even bring you.  And if you want to go alone, that's cool, too.  Just go.

Paths

Remember how much I dislike the Facebook (yes, the Facebook)?  Well, there was a flurry of conversation around photos in which I was tagged this week.  I sat and watched my inbox's message count rapidly climb from two, four, seven, to eleven, and then some.  The next morning, more.  I finally clicked to see what was stirring the lively thread.  What was my login again?  Right.

Little squares of little people faces looked out at me.  Yikes.  My first and second grade class pictures.  Who has time to scan and upload these things?!  Mothers of two young children, apparently.  As I took in the photos, names I didn't know I had tucked away suddenly resurfaced, all but two whose first initials were all I could manage.

I thought about what might happen at a potential reunion.  Many years ago, my sister bumped into a former classmate of hers.  George openly shared about what he had been up to.  His line of work was lucrative; all cash, little work, easy money, with a touch of risk.  "Good for him," I remember saying as she told me about her run-in.  "Not really," she had responded.  "He deals crack."  Oh.  We grew up in a working class neighborhood of West Philadelphia.  At school, the bathroom stall doors were missing.  Poor district > poor kids > poor career choices.  Heck, even wealthy district > wealthy kids > poor career choices.  It was more than plausible.

My science teacher opened homeroom one day with the announcement that our classmate Roxanne had perished in a fire the night before along with her five younger siblings whom she had been taking care of.  Her parents, who were not home at the time of the fire, survived.  She missed so much school already that none of us thought twice about her absence that morning.  Roxanne, the one who would never do her homework, the one who was always lost in class, the one who uh, was far more mature than us physically, yeah, that Roxanne.  It wasn't until this turn of events that I realized that this poor chum had been preoccupied running a household.  No time to do schoolwork or even go to school, only time to feed the babies.  We were eleven, twelve, maybe?  Gah.  I think about Roxanne every now and again.  It's hard not to.  What she'd be doing now, had a responsible adult been at home with them that night.

Years later, on my way to my parents' one day, I bumped into a close friend of Roxanne's.  A baby not yet old enough to hold its own head up laid in the stroller Shannon was pushing.  I was so happy to bump into this old school friend.  She was a kind soul.  As I heard myself ask whose baby she was watching, it clicked.  We were so young.  I was in college.  She blushed as she explained that she was looking at community college.

It's amazing how different our futures looked at that very moment.  Shannon may be leading a very fulfilling life right now, but there's a part of me that wonders how much easier it might have been to get there had she waited to have children until after school.  And George, how much more rewarding a career he'd have today had he pursued a different profession at so young an age, one that didn't harm his community or threaten his own safety.

It's hard not to wonder why my path wasn't theirs.  Or theirs mine.

Eve

This table has gotten a lot of action these past few days.

Seven dined here on Sunday.  An early Thanksgiving.

Five dined on Monday.  A working night.

Three more dined last night.  A belated birthday celebration.

Frankly, I'm a little pooped from all the cooking and cleaning.  And if I'm being honest, from the eating, too.  Digesting is hard work.

Tonight, on the eve of the one holiday Americans dedicate to the mindful act of giving thanks, I am relieved for this opportunity to quietly re-focus and re-center myself.  I have been counting down the days to this moment when I can strip down and run around in my birthday suit.  (No, I don't really do that because, ew, that's so unsanitary, but metaphorically, you understand, yes?)  Thanksgiving Eve 2012 marks the beginning of an extra long, uninterrupted weekend for yours truly wherein I will do as I please, whenever I please, however I please, and with (or without) whomever I please.  This here, right now, is a time all for me, myself, and I.  This might sound very anti-Thanksgiving, I know, but trust me when I say that it's not a bad thing.

I hope that you have something in your life, just one thing, for which you are positively bubbly with thanks.  If you're having a difficult time coming up with that something, e-mail me and I bet we can come up with something together.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Dear You

Let's talk about you guys.  I have had the pleasure of meeting some of you in real life, which is absolutely crazy pants.  Crazy pants, I say, because in what world do we live that Julia accepts invitations to meet strangers who stumble onto her blog?  When people take the time to regularly visit this space and start a nice conversation, when an invitation's extended to meet up, the right thing to do is accept.  It's called manners.  Darned if you haven't turned out to be the nicest people ever, time and time again.  Just downright good people.  If the rest of y'all are anything like the blog buddies with whom I've hung out in person or who did something really sweet like send a package of goodies including the creamiest, softest, chocolate caramels I ever did taste because I did oh, absolutely nothing to deserve it:

You're just more proof in the pudding that I am one lucky girl.  I am so grateful for what this space has become.

So the story goes: A bunch of you found me and I found a bunch of you.  Because that's how this blog voyeur thing works, you know?  I may not know you per se, and maybe we won't ever meet face-to-face, or maybe we will, but I'd like to say here and now that it's so nice to have you here.  You make up a rare part of my life that is consistently positive.  You will never know how much this means to me.  Thank you.

Happy Election Day

Back in Philadelphia, my local polling place was a little church a short walk from my place.  Tiny grandmothers manned the ballots.  There was rarely a line, if any.  My walk home was along quiet residential streets sprinkled yellow with November ginkgo leaves.  For living in the heart of the city, the calm, unharried setting made voting a pleasant and reassuring experience.

But now I live here.  Let's just say that they don't do here what they do in Philly.  I stood in a line two blocks long four years ago.  But as it turns out, I had nothing to worry about today.  Why didn't anyone tell me that there's no line at 12:30 in the afternoon?!  I zoomed in, signed my name in the registry, scanned my ballot, and hopped next door to the pizzeria run by my former landlord and his family.

Vinny, the landlord's son, was amused when he discovered that my sister and I had managed to polish off five whole slices.  His pies, you see, are humongous.  One slice is usually enough for a girl.  We had a good chuckle as we got ready to roll ourselves back to the subway.  Then Vinny's father walked in.  Always ready to give us girls a hug, when he leaned in this time, I hesitated ever so slightly.  It had been a few years, but I remembered how strong he was.  He's probably pushing eighty, but I've seen him carry wooden bookcases twice his size down four flights of stairs.  He doesn't even break a sweat.  Sure enough, I think I tweaked my neck a bit when he pulled us in for today's squeeze.  Ha.  Vinny and his pops are good people.

Lunch in the old neighborhood.  UES.  NYC.
12:43 pm.   Today.

Over our delicious pizza lunch, I was telling my sister what a good life we have.  How privileged we are to have the right to play a part in our government's election.  How nice it is that we can take a safe subway ride a week after a major natural disaster hits our region.  How awesome it is that it's not a big deal to throw down twenty bucks for a hot piping pizza whenever we want.  How fortunate we are that both our jobs allow us the flexibility to step out midday to exercise our right to vote.  As women, as citizens, as humans, no matter how tough we might find things every now and again, on the whole, our standard of living is quite grand.  We are so very fortunate to be living this good life.

Back

Oh, this?  This is just a snapshot of the fridge this morning.  WITH THE LIGHTBULB ON.  No big deal. 

There I was lying in bed last night, shivering under all my layers.  It had been hours since I had turned in.  I was tired and wanted sleep to come desperately, but couldn't shake enough of the cold to get comfortable.  I didn't think another night without heat would be so trying.  Had the temperature dropped into the thirties?  My mind wandered.  Now would be a good time to have a big bear of a man wrapped around me.  I dreamed of huddling in his warmth.  But dreaming of such things doesn't do much.  I curled myself into a ball and massaged my cold feet.  I started feeling sorry for myself.  Just then, as my sister and her boyfriend noisily pitter-pattered around the apartment, making every minute that ticked by even more grating, a floor lamp in the living room lit up.

Just like that.  It was almost as pretty as a trimmed Christmas tree.

I felt like I should probably kiss someone.  Or slap a high five.  Maybe a fist or chest bump.  Something.  But no.  I couldn't move.  Did I mention that I was frozen?  Instead, I refocused my eyes on the light coming from the living room.  I smiled at its soft yellow and willed myself out of bed.  It was past one.  With the lights on, the cold felt more bearable.  I busied myself with the task of cleaning.  I started with inside the fridge.  It was past three when I returned to bed, but when I did, I left my bedside lamp on for a little while, to take in the imagined warmth from its lovely glow.

Herbert

The building my company occupies happens to be the one freak facility that actually has electricity on a block otherwise blacked out.  It's a good thing that my office is open, mainly because I can have human interaction with people who aren't related to me.  It's important to exercise your vocal chords and jaw muscles and mental thought filters, lest you forget how to talk and carry on a real conversation, you know?

Every evening since this whole ordeal began, I've been lucky to have company.  Yesterday, a couple girlfriends swung by with enough junk food to feed a small army.  In the broad daylight of the morning, I saw chocolate cookie and Doritos crumbs sprinkled atop the dining room table.  It's amazing what you can't see by candlelight.  Especially when you're busy stuffing your face with Reese's peanut butter cups.

I learned this afternoon that our building's staff has been camping out this entire time in one of the vacant apartments!  Cots, they said.  I am a privileged idiot for not piecing that together on my own.  I can't imagine what it's like not to see your kids for a week because your job requires you to stay behind and take care of rich needy people.  I am so grateful for their presence and perseverance this past week.  Their patience has been extraordinary.  Even the gruff ones that usually do the bare minimum, they're much more human this week.

There is one female on the building staff.  She's more proper and prim than not, so it didn't seem that far off when she mentioned that she's been crashing at a resident's apartment, separate from the boys.  I totally feel her; who would want to share a bathroom with a dozen grown men without their wives to keep them in check?  Gross.  I asked Marilyn if she needed anything.  PJs, she said.  Only, uh, I stopped wearing proper PJs a long time ago.  It's usually a tank and undies for Julia.  Still, I climbed the stairs back up to my apartment and threw some oversized tees into a bag.  I rummaged through my closet looking for some tights or comfy pants that might fit her, but Marilyn is considerably hippier than I and all my loose lounge pants were in the laundry pile.  I grabbed a pair of mid-calf knit socks and underwear (don't worry - they were both new with tags still on).  I handed her the bag with a note including my phone number in case we could provide anything she might need during her stay.  She nervously thanked me with a hug and promised to launder everything before returning the items.  Like, really, Marilyn?  Stuck at work for a week straight taking care of us brats?  Please don't worry about it.  I don't know how she's doing it.  I'd be a heaping mess by now if I were in her shoes.

I'm dreading sitting in the cold and dark with candles for another night, but the good news is that ConEd will restore power by 11 pm tomorrow night.  At least that's what they say.  Tonight will be the first night I'm on my own.  I told a friend at work that I will be drawing a face onto a volleyball and naming it Herbert.  For company.

(Won't you be glad when the electricity's finally restored and I finally shut up about it?)

Gentleman

I stepped onto an uncrowded train today.  By uncrowded, I mean that all the seats were filled and only a handful of people needed to stand.  A man jumped up.  "Would you like a seat?" he asked.  "Oh, no, I'm all right, but that's very nice of you, thank you."  He remained standing.  "Please, take my seat," he offered gently again.

What's happening?  Where am I?  Is this Manhattan?

People here aren't typically generous with gestures of this sort.  We are entirely self-absorbed, consumed by our next professional deadline and the consequences of last night's terrible date, rarely about the standing girl on the train.  And even then, it is only because she just stepped on your foot and didn't bother to apologize.

But I had been careful not to step on anyone's feet.  I cautiously glanced at the newly vacated sliver of bench.  The cynic in me half expected to see spilled juice or sticky crumbs.  But no, it was clean.  I preferred to stand, but it would have been in poor taste to refuse at this point.  "Are you sure?" I asked.  He smiled.  "Yes.  Please sit."  So I did.

Even before both cheeks hit the bench, a brassy passenger declared, loudly enough for the entire car to look up and notice, "You are a TRUE, TRUE gentleman."  He screamed TRUE so it seems appropriate to write it out in caps.

As I sat, I remembered a friend from way back when.  For five years, every time we walked into a classroom, left the cafeteria, or got into his car, he always paused and held the door for me.  I was always first.  Always.  I don't have a friend that does that anymore, but gee, would it be nice if I did.  Because when a stranger offers his seat or waits for me to step off an elevator first, I'm reminded how the smallest of gestures can often be the kindest.

Thanks, stranger man, for standing all the way to 59th & Lex.  Your gesture was as warm as the view of yesterday's setting sun was spellbinding.

The view from the Met {+} rooftop.  NYC.
6:04 pm.  Yesterday.

The Cake Was Good, Too*

4-inch satin heels + Julia + 6.5 hours
               = Rare.

4-inch satin heels + Julia + 6.5 hours + no blisters or sore calves
               = When pigs fly.

But fly they did.  Fly they did in all their porky glory.  Over a pretty little island we know as Martha's Vineyard, they squealed and oinked as my dearest of friends joined the ranks of the blissfully wed.  To see her at her happiest, at her most beautiful for as long as I've known her, dancing around and around, I thought to myself, This must be what they call euphoria.  This was her day, but true to her form, she was still busy giving; unknowingly giving me the purest of gifts as I watched her radiate a joy so palpable that I could almost reach out and scoop some into a jar.

Oak Bluffs.  Massachusetts.
10:12 pm.  Saturday.  6 October.   2012.
When a tiny sliver of alone time opened up the morning after, I found myself standing along the water's sandy edge.  That unhurried sensibility, that delicious ocean smell, that calm from the sound of lapping waves, they were all there patiently waiting: more gifts on the most generous of weekends.  Time after time, the waters that surround this island give me something that no other place, no one thing, no one, has yet - a deeply soothing sense of serenity.  I am smitten with it and it me at every visit.  I think I'll be ok this winter.

*So good that I had two slices.  But not before all the guests had their firsts.  I might be greedy, but I still have manners.