Smitten

I couldn't tell you what it's like to fall in love or be in love or fall back out of love, but I can positively tell you what it's like to be smitten.  Can't stop thinking about it.  Can't imagine life without it.  Can't fall asleep without scrolling through those beautiful images just one last time.  Ok, maybe just once more.  But then I'm really going to turn off my bedside lamp and go to sleep.  I mean it.

It's happened.  I'm a wee bit enamored with Instagram.

I think what put me over the edge were these stunning image sets of all things wintry, both rural and urban.  For all the bleakness I associate with dark winters, Norway's snowy forests and landscapes are breathtakingly airy and bright.  It's magical, all that winter against that piercing blue sky.  And Germany, too - there are some fantastic images from Berlin.  What is it about Europe that's so attractive?  Instagram is stirring something within that I didn't mind missing until now - a reminder that I once yearned to leave everything behind to explore beauty in places far, far away from where I called home.  It's possible to fall in love...I mean, be smitten...with the lure of the unknown again.

I'm still pecking at my iPhone like a grandmother would learn how to type for the first time, but if you have an active Instagram account, I hope to find you before my infatuation wears off.  My handle is (how'd you know?) @juliaipsa {+}.

  
Images from the weekend.

Method

If you give me a jigsaw puzzle, I will not eat, drink, sleep, or pay any mind to the fire burning down the building until the last piece is locked in place.  That's not entirely true; I will head to the nearest fire exit, but not before I carefully pack up the puzzle and carry it out with me.  This is not news that I get a little obsessed over puzzles.  This is why, when Soeur walked in the door with a 1000-piecer the day before she left for Europe, I asked her to keep the box sealed and put away.  Otherwise, that sucker would be framed and hanging on the wall by the time she returned.  She split for the airport and the first thing I saw was, whaddya' know, the puzzle box sitting on the dining room table.  I quickly tossed it into her bedroom and forgot about it.  Out of sight, out of mind, as they old adage goes.

Within an hour of her return yesterday, all one thousand pieces tumbled out of their box and onto the table.  We quickly got down to the business of pulling edge pieces and identifying the corner ones.  At least that's what I thought we were doing, because isn't that how everyone starts a puzzle?  When I noticed Soeur attempting to fit pieces together so soon, I asked if she had pulled the edge pieces already.  She replied, "I'm kind of just putting random pieces together.  That's my method."  No plan, no organization, no system.  Just plunging right in and tackling it head on.  Yep, that sounds like my sister all right!

I thought about Photoshopping out the dust on the table. And then I came to my senses.
7:40 pm.  Sunday.  25 November.  2012.  

About That

Here's the thing.  I have, erm, an odd little first-world problem.

You know when you have your heart set on something really nice and special?  A little taste of luxury?  And then, if you're so lucky to finally have it come into your possession, whether by your own hard work, or maybe through the generosity of someone in your life, or hey, maybe even thanks to a piece of plastic with a high interest rate, you can't get enough of it?  You're smitten.  Obsessed, even.  It's constantly on your mind.  It becomes your newest BFF.  As it most certainly should, gosh darn it.

I am the polar opposite.

When something nice comes into my possession, I usually need a minute to catch my breath (because it's usually a gift and catches me by surprise) and then just stare at the pretty in front of me.  I can barely bring myself to touch the item, nervous that I might somehow tarnish its pristine state.  I am not that person who clenches a newly acquired item with her chubby little hands and slobbers all over it immediately.  Instead, I admire from a distance.  And I wait.  And wait.  And wait some more.

The problem is that I can wait an eternity.  And never actually use it!  It's just that it's so...nice.  And extravagant.  How can I make room in my frumpy, plain little life for something so spectacular?  Indulging in anything beyond the practical washes me in guilt.

I've decided that this is not ok.

When I finished a bottle of conditioner this week, I went to the hall closet to retrieve another and spotted a set of my favorite hair treats.  I had forgotten about my delicious Bumble and Bumble seaweed line.  This shampoo and conditioner were the single big ticket items I had once allowed myself.  I stopped cold turkey when I lost my job, unable to justify twenty dollars for eight ounces of shampoo.  This pair hiding in the closet was courtesy of my sister who found them in a Duane Reade.  She proudly rolled in the door that day announcing, "You won't believe who carries Bumble now!"  You see, back in the day when I first discovered Bumble, when it was still relatively unknown, I whined about how difficult it was to find retail locations that carried it.  To see them at a NYC chain as ubiquitous as Duane Reade was something of a big moment.  Despite my sister's kind gesture, I felt like I didn't deserve them and directed her to return the bottles.  She refused.

So here I was staring at these two precious things.  I snapped open the conditioner cap and inhaled.  The scent was just as I remembered: pure, clean, sea-y, and well, like my own locks from a time before now.  I moved the duo to my shower immediately.

I think it's high time to start taking in the luxuries I have.

Welcome to my bathtub. It's so good to see you.

Pact

At some point this spring, I realized that I had to get out more.  This would be a challenge seeing as how my ideal Friday involves me in cotton panties and a documentary, not Hanky Pankies and a sticky bar.  But it had to be done (and I say this second part in all seriousness without exaggeration) for my sanity.  I was spending too much time alone.  The winter was hard on my psyche and I couldn't keep going as I had been.  So I made a promise to myself: to every invitation, I must accept.  I must go.  Maybe it's for a half hour, maybe an hour, maybe even five.  It didn't matter.  I just have to make an effort to make an appearance.  And if there is a drink offered, skin hives and Asian blush included (I mean, it doesn't get any sexier than that), the same applies: I must imbibe.

To many, it will sound trivial and absurd that I'm talking about the familiar, routine acts of socializing, but if you are as scared of falling into a deep depression as I am, you will understand how paramount a small effort like this can be.  This little pact between my mental health and myself might even sound a smidge laughable, especially because one defines so much of the other, but trust me when I say that it's necessary.  Admittedly, preparing for each event feels like a test of stubborn souls, but I trust that in time, things will reset to what they should be, to what they once were.

Headed to the West Village {+}.  NYC. 8:34 pm.  Last Night.

Then maybe I won't stall by talking to myself and playing with the camera at the entrance of my bathroom when I should have left for the bar a half hour earlier.  I know I sound like a headcase, and I might be a little because don't we all have our own demons, but for the most part, I promise I'm not.

Pax

You know how they say Paris is the City of Lights?  That's because it lights up like a Christmas tree at night.  The view from the Seine, if you are ever so lucky to take a ride on a bateau mouche, is seriously dreamy.  It turns out that Manhattan has something to say about this.

The tip of Manhattan. From the water.
8:51 pm. Yesterday.
How peaceful the city appears from the water.  Its gentle twinkling speaks to the quiet intimacy that is possible, but easily lost, when you're caught up living deep inside this forest of lights.

Away I Went

Menemsha.  Martha's Vineyard.

12:14 pm.  Monday.  2012.  28 May.

Clumsily toddled along nippy shores and murmuring waves.
Sunk my bare feet into sunkissed sands.
Goodness.
What I'd give to start each day with a walk along a quiet beach.
The salty edge.
The still calm.
The soft breeze.
I'd be a whole new person.

Stood on a narrow bridge over the stillest pond I can remember.
Heard a plump little frog plop squarely into that pond.
And then another!
Couldn't quite put my finger on the sound.
Maybe it was my first frog plop?
It's quite delightful.
That curious perfection ringing in my ear.

About kitchen-ing.
I'm one impatient little diva.
Let a few tiny drops of yolk into the separated egg whites.
Cheesecake turned out more than fine.
Thank you very much.

Fresh pasta.

I can understand the hype a little better now.

Baked panko-crusted eggplant.

Yum.

It had been a long time since I had been away.

A proper trip.

One that requires extensive time on a moving vessel of some sort.

As someone pointed out.

Six hours is like.

Europe.

Or Cali-pohr-nia.

(Hab you seen that dairy campaign?

Featuring a talking cow with a Korean accent?

It's good stuff.)

I'm proud of myself.

For acknowledging that I'm still learning me.

That maybe I'm not always able.

But this time.

For trying.

And for being able.

Verbatim

Where: Lincoln Center, Avery Fisher Hall
When: Sunday, November 27, 2011 (Thanksgiving weekend)
What: Handel's Messiah

Before the performance, after being seated...

Soeur: What exactly is this music?
Me: You know...Handel's "Messiah."
Soeur: [blank face]
Me: Haaaaaal-lelujah, hallelujah...?
Soeur: Uh-oh.  I'm definitely gonna fall asleep.

At the beginning of intermission...

Soeur: Is it intermission now?
Me: Yep.
Soeur: What does that mean?  Another hour?  Wait.  What are you doing?
Me: I have GOT to start recording what you say at these things because it's just too good to forget.

I sort of love live classical music.  Orchestras, choirs, symphonies - love, love, and love.  I don't know why.  I just do.  Get me to a performance hall.  Let me dress casually.  Turn the lights down.  Leave me be.  I'm going to revel in the sounds.

My sister, on the other hand, as you can see, is not much of a fan.  And yet, she will sit semi-patiently next to me through a performance.  I think she takes pity on me and does what she can.

You should have seen her at Carnegie Hall when she sat through a tenor singing romantic German songs all by his lonesome self (well, and a piano accompaniment).  Neither she nor I knew what to expect.  I had gotten the tickets from my company so we agreed that at intermission we could leave if we didn't like it.   When the lights came on, she declared, "Thank God it's intermission."  I'm pretty sure I killed her a little bit when I told her that it turned out that I kind of liked the music and would stay for the second half.  She was dumbfounded that I could stay awake through the performance, no less enjoy it.  She stayed, but I think she took a nap.  And if I remember the night correctly, I think we took the subway home (totally something I would do) instead of a taxi (totally something she would do).  Suffice it to say, that night probably wasn't her favorite.  But my evening was just swell, thank you very much.

That's Morimoto

I hadn't had a celebrity moment since Paul McCartney brushed right past me with his hand stuffed down the back of his girlfriend's pants heading into the Hampton Chutney Company on the UWS this past spring.  (Have you had their dosas?  They're pretty tasty.)  They were like two young lovebirds.  It was sweet, minus the public buttock cupping, although it was more like buttock massaging.  Two days later they officially announced their engagement and then I forgave them their public display of affection.  Sort of.

But Paul McCartney ain't no Iron Chef Morimoto!  You might recognize him from the Food Network.

The Japanese chef and restaurateur put on a neat cooking demonstration and Q&A.  He's a funny guy and engages with the crowd easily.  He told us that his chef at his restaurant in New York, who was assisting him on stage, was not Japanese (he was white), but that his girlfriend was.  Ha.

Wavy. Who Knew?

Saturday, December 11, 7:24 p.m.

Turns out that I kind of like my hair wavy.  Do all the girls with pin straight hair say that?

Manicured nails make me feel sorta put together.  It makes me laugh that the shade on my fingernails is called "Starter Wife."

Nothing's like having a longtime friend ring your doorbell at 11:30 on a Friday night.  It had been more than fifteen months since I had seen her.  Things happen when you're in cahoots with Soeur.

A Good New York Summer Night

Even though I don't own a raincoat or galoshes, this scene says so much about how I've been feeling that for a little inspiration, I made it my desktop background today.

Because I lead an impossibly exhilarating life in the big city, that was the highlight of my day.  Really.  I kept staring at it and staring at it some more until I got hungry and started making dinner.  As I was reading the label on a can of cannelini beans, my phone received a text.  Would Julia be interested in seeing American Ballet Theater's production of Swan Lake this evening at the Met?  I dropped those beans and headed for the door so fast it's a miracle that can didn't land on my bare feet.

Lincoln Center on a summer night is one of those awesome trademark I-love-living-in-New-York experiences.  When you surface from your venue after the show, the warm breeze outside greets you soothingly.  The scene of gathered people, showgoers and locals alike, chilling by the lit fountain is remarkably calming.  The fountain sound, the low din of voices, and the soft moonlight together breed a serenity unknown to my New York.  Maybe I was still high off my luck of enjoying a live ballet performance instead of finishing the documentary Man On Wire at home tonight.  I don't know what it was, but now I want to sit outside Lincoln Center every night.  If only I lived in the neighborhood.

I leisurely made my way home on foot.  Sauntering through Times Square, I smiled at the colorful collage of lights glowing around us. I passed by many crowds patiently gathered behind stage exit gates.  At first, I didn't understand but then I did.  Broadway shows had just let out and the fans were waiting to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars as they left the theater.  Maybe they'd get an autograph or a picture before the stars stepped into their big chauffeured black SUVs.  One of the most hyper crowds was the one gathered behind the theater for Promises, Promises {+}.  The people love their Sean Hayes (Jack of Will & Grace).

Tonight's ballet made it a good good night.

John Mayer. Really.

Thursday, February 25th, 2010, Sometime between 8:30 - 9:00 p.m.

New York City, Madison Square Garden, 5th Floor, The Green Room

(Image from www.johnmayer.com)

This one often causes ruckuses.  There's no getting around it: Mr. John Mayer has a very bad case of the verbal runs.  You know it, I know it, we all know it.  Lucky for him, he's on a great big ole' tour during which he entertains a live audience almost every night of the week to which he can also publicly deliver apologies for his less-than-admirable choice of words.  In mere minutes, his message from the stage finds its way from some lovestruck fan's all-in-one digital phone/camera/blackberry/camcorder/nose hair clipper/swiss army knife to YouTube for all the world to see.  Technology is on stardom's side.

All his missteps aside, in person, I thought John Mayer had a great aura about him.  Firstly, he's ridiculously handsome (I wasn't expecting that).  Secondly, he maintains eye contact with whomever he's talking (this is a huge thing for me - I think his parents or his agents have trained him well).  Thirdly, he has very kind eyes (another big thing for me).  Lastly, and what really captured my attention, was his remarkable speaking voice.  He's no James Earl Jones, but it's sexier than his singing voice.  He's also well-spoken.  Did you know that he contributes articles to various publications here and there?  He's a good writer, too.  Ladies and gentlemen, this package is not bad at all.

John Mayer and his music?  They're sort of awesome.  For living every professional's dream ---to make a good living doing what you love--- and every artist's dream ---to excel in your gift and share its beauty with the communities around you--- I truly admire him.  So much so that as much as I go on about how lame Twitter is, I've bookmarked John's Twitter account.  First Josh Groban.  Now John Mayer.  Oy.  After wishing the crowd safe travels home (Manhattan had been served a brutally long day of disgusting slushy rain and snow that turned to biting fast swirly snowfall by the time the concert ended), he posted to his Twitter account.

(Immediately after posting the comment at the top of this screenshot, he deleted it.  Maybe liability issues?)

Clever, that one.  He genuinely understands the power of social media.  And his fans are no fools - they eat it right up.  Even when he screams immaturity.

(Referring to his second show at Madison Square Garden tonight)

But he sure sounds like a lot of fun, doesn't he?

Nancy apparently has connections that insisted we not only enjoy the show in great seats (section 74, row G, seats 1-4 to be exact), but also be a part of the intimate meet-and-greet right before the show.  I thought it was funny that she and I were the only non-whites in a room of about thirty VIP guests.  I felt a twinge of guilt knowing there were so many die-hard fans that didn't have this opportunity.  I had no business being in that room.  Frankly, both Nancy and I kind of just wanted to get to our seats.  But that was not God's plan.  God wanted me to know that John's hand was a bit clammy.  Even rock stars get nervous, people.  Or maybe he just has naturally clammy hands.  I guess I'll never know.  Sitting just in front of the stage a few levels up, I was absolutely mesmerized by his performance, even when the guy behind me flipped on the guys smoking weed in front of us.  Something about how he had to take a military physical in two days and can't have that stuff in his system.  Oh, the drama.

In summary, there's just nothing like the energy of a night of live music, amazing guitar solos, and a sweet view of a talented musician rocking it out in his element.  How fun it was; my first experience at a Madison Square Garden event; all thanks to Nancy...and I suppose all the suckers who passed up this opportunity until it found its way to lucky me.

Martha's Vineyard 2009

Mia and her sister live in a treehouse of sorts. Their apartment's elevated so when you look out from inside, all you see are leaves. Peaceful.

US Open 2008

 

AWE MEE GAWSH. Me love me some tennis; especially court side on a sunny day in Flushing.

Thanks to a friendly audience member seated behind us, we learned that the older gentleman who was escorted to the row in front of us more than halfway through the second set was one Mr. Poncho Gonzales, a famous tennis player from way back in the day. His name might ring a bell to some of our parents. There was quite a flutter of commotion around us. People came from out of nowhere with their oversized tennis balls asking for autographs. And to top it off, a few moments later, another guest was seated right next to him. It turned out to be some famous transexual tennis player, a Renée Richards, formerly Richard Raskind. I didn't know of her either, but who knew that a man-turned-woman tennis star even existed?! Our world is certainly changing, isn't it?

But here's the incident at this year's US Open that "took the cake." A tubby 5'3" gentleman somewhere around 36 years of age dove not once, not twice, but three times for a fly tennis ball a mere five feet from us. There was a frantic display of slippery fingers followed by a spectacularly ungraceful lunge, and then fierce belly-flopping upon the rough cemented surface of the walkway behind our box section. Once the coveted neon green ball was finally resting in the man's chubby hands, the stadium commended the man's fantastic display with polite applause and soft laughter. Of course, Bammer and Bartoli took a mini break from their match as they, too, waited for the fiasco to end. Internet, I was raising my camera to capture a photograph of Mr. Tubby for you, but when he started the flopping like a fish out of water, his shirt lifted and revealed a ghastly overspill of unsightly white belly, and of course, I had no choice but to cover my mouth with both hands, dropping the camera onto my lap, thus rendering a photograph impossible.

Hair, A Summer Night in Central Park

I've never been to a Broadway musical.  I was this close to my first musical in seventh grade when my M.G. (mentally gifted - don't ask) class organized a field trip to the Arden Theater's production of Sweeney Todd, but alas, the admissions office schedule of the school which I would adopt as my home the following year took priority over my interests to partake in the outing.  Since that lost opportunity (Philadelphia was hot for Sweeney Todd as it had been decades since the play came to the city), I've never felt an urge to see a live musical, even when I transplanted my non-musical ass to the home of Broadway theater a year ago.

I know: some of your jaws just dropped; some of you are shaking your heads to the rhythm of your "tsk tsk tsks"; and the rest of you are more reasonable folks who have never expressed interest in watching grown men and women dance, sing, and strip naked on a stage three feet in front of you.  And you are now wondering what the heck I'm talking about.

Courtesy of a friend who celebrated his 32nd birthday on Saturday, I was the grateful beneficiary of tickets to the Public Theatre's Shakespeare in the Park production of Hair.  NOT Hairspray, but Hair.  To explain just how precious these tickets are: you either donate $160 to the Public Theater and receive a single ticket from the limited bucket of "for purchase" tickets, or you wake up at 6 am on the morning of the show and stand in a wickedly long line in Central Park for free tickets.  The Public's mission is to make theater accessible to all residents of New York City à la first-come-first-serve.  Only in New York, right?  As you can imagine, it's a huge ordeal to stand in line for these tickets.  It's not unusual for residents to begin lining up at midnight the night before the show to claim a prized pair.  I am ever so grateful not only for the opportunity to have celebrated a friend's birthday in such an extravagant fashion, but to have seen this show without having to wait in line, and especially to have been seated dead center in the second row of the outdoor amphitheater style Delacorte Theater.  [Despite the occasional whiff of mildew most likely from the turf lining the stage of the outdoor theater,] the show was fantastic, the company appreciated, and the music pumping.

Being the good citizen I am, I abided by the strict no-camera policy enforced by the hawk-eyed volunteer staff stationed every three feet along each aisle.  Therefore, I have no pictures from inside the theater or during the performance to keep my memory of the happy evening alive - I have only my own memories of the trippy dance sequences, catchy tunes, vibrant colors of the hippy costumes, and the rich voices of the cast to treasure.  After the cast took their bows, we fun members of the audience joined them on stage and danced to a couple songs as the live band rocked away.  So much fun - a night I'll cherish for a long time to come.

"Love" At The 2007 US Open

How can you not appreciate a game that scores with "love?"

I had the most delightful unexpected opportunity to attend the US Open today. Let me tell ya': the US Open sure beats those lame and slow amateur high school matches. With 123 mph serves, carefully calculated ball placements, and fancy racket techniques, watching live sets of a quarterfinal game between the 10th (Haas) and 4th (Davydenko) ranked best male players in the world is an unforgettable experience. I caught the second half of the women's singles quarterfinal where Svetlana Kuznetsova took Agnes Szavay out of the running, after which the intense men's singles began...

That German Tommy Haas? What a childish fool. Tantrums aren't even cute on a 2-year-old: they're no less cute when you're 29. I tore myself away from the match in the middle of the third set to avoid the evening rush and checked online later to learn that Nikolay Davydenko (who didn't throw his racket even once when I was there) beat Haas. Yay, Niko.

I knew it would be a good day when I inadvertently caught the express train to Queens. Being a good sun, Mr. Sun hid behind clouds for most of the day. After navigating around the grounds for a bit, I found that my seat in the Arthur Ashe Stadium was a sweet one. What a blissfully blessed day it was.