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.

Here's What Happened

Well. I'm not sure how to best start this. Maybe I should begin with a summary of events:

Pigs flew, the sky fell, I put on ten pounds, and I did the impossible: I moved back to New York.

Is the first thought that comes to mind, Shut the front door? Yeah. I feel you.

It took a full year to call it quits and get on out of here. When I finally did, something weird happened. Early one evening I was crossing a bridge over a river on foot, icy wintry winds whipping my hair in every direction when I got a text message. Did I have a minute to talk? There is news. I removed my gloves, my frozen fingers taking a while to activate the touch screen on my phone. Sure, I tapped back. A call came through.

This happened, that happened, you moved away, this is where we are now... Would you consider moving back to New York to do this?

I think I laughed. Or maybe I was stunned into silence? Either way, the idea was absurd. I mean, I had just left. Everybody knew the circumstances of my move.

By the time I made it to the other side of the bridge, I was standing there with lead feet, face still frozen, but my hair finally protected from the river's frigid gusts as I took shelter by a brick building where I had once taken a micro econ class. Rush hour pedestrians gingerly and patiently stepped around the girl staring with disbelief at the phone in her hand. Ha, yeah, right, I thought.

Conversations took place. Long phone calls happened. Excited texts came through. Lengthy internal dialogues took up residence in my brain. I thought through every possible scenario of what-if-Is and what-if-I-don'ts. I had trouble sleeping. An opportunity had knocked. I very much wanted to find a way to open the door and walk across the threshold. I made a decision and did the unthinkable. I submitted my resignation. I found an apartment. I re-sealed my boxes. I scheduled movers. And I crossed back through the Lincoln Tunnel.

I settled in. I tossed a window a/c unit. It looked like it was from the 90s. I found a dozen wayward dog treats under the fridge. The previous tenants had had a puppy. I scrubbed the bathroom floor tiles with three different cleaning agents to no avail. Then I tried a pricey and especially toxic grout cleaner I found at Home Depot. It helped a little, but I still wish the grout fairy would make a visit one night and just re-do it. My neighbor's cigarette smoke is a daily nuisance, but I've slowly adjusted and am finally getting used to jumping up and closing my windows whenever necessary.

I worked on some things while I was away. I got to spend some time with people I don't normally spend time with. On my first day back, I felt pretty good. Even with the unknown, it felt right. The timing of the events that brought me to this point in my life leaves something to be desired, but the choices that drove these events are ones that I like to think were sometimes prudent, sometimes necessary, and sometimes both. In that same vein, right now, this is what I choose. I choose here.

A New Window

I left Manhattan. I set a deadline for myself and when the time came, I walked away. Well, technically, I was driven away, huddled in a chilly heap at the edge of my mattress in the back of a van with the stupid knotted stomach I always have whenever I’m stuck in a car. Most of me was ready to leave, stoked, I'd even say, but a significant enough part of me was apparently not, as evidenced by the fact that I threw 80% of my belongings haphazardly into boxes in the last few days.

The world seemed like it could have been a touch more cooperative on the big day, what with wet snow falling steadily from the time we started loading the van to the time we pulled off the slushy highway more than two hours later. It was a safe journey, so maybe I have it all wrong and the world was actually quite kind to my needs that day. All I know for sure is that I annoyed the hell out of the people who stuck by me to pack at the eleventh hour. Not my proudest moment that was. Maybe we can laugh about it in say, another twenty years. Or, never. That’s a good possibility, too.

Right now, I’m trying to figure out what’s best for me. This thing called life isn’t supposed to be hard or unhappy, but that’s what it’s felt like, which is what prompted this move. They say that everything is a choice, from the way you feel, the way you manage your feelings, down to the very essence of who you are. I can see the truth in that. I just have one question: what happens when you aren’t sure which choice is meant for you?

Dad is Fat, by J. Gaffigan

It makes me sad to report that Jim Gaffigan's Dad is Fat was not very funny. I suspect that I feel this way because I'm not a parent myself and the entire book is a compilation of parenting anecdotes. I laughed all of one measly time. Once! And at what? A photo caption, of all things.

The author went on vacation with his family and, as many Manhattan families do, brought along their babysitter. In the book, there's a picture of the whole gang standing in front of Mt. Rushmore, but the sitter's face is blurred out. The caption reads something like, "Our babysitter quit the day we returned to the city."

Woe is the sitter duped into a travel job with five children. No matter how generous the compensation may be, there's a reason why some career nannies will not travel with their families. That reason is called sanity.

I caught Jim Gaffigan at a comedy club many years ago. His standup act was the only clean one the entire evening. In an era when legions of professional comedians make their living by simulating one crude sexual act after another on stage, Gaffigan is a class act. I admired his career that night and I still do. I just hope that I'll enjoy his next book.

My Bum Bum

I mentioned on Monday's post that my bottom was quite sore. A tender rump sure is bad news. Here we are four days after the most uneventful incident of all time, of sitting uncomfortably for too long on a hard bench while getting caught up in a book, and my bum has finally recovered. Hooray! I have no place to go with this overshare, besides stating for the record that the ability to sit on a toilet bowl without flinching and whimpering in pain is a sweet, sweet thing.

I saw the Chrysler building earlier this afternoon. It says hi and that it's not miffed that it doesn't get much attention anymore.

Changes

Let me tell you exactly what has changed since I took this snapshot in bed two weeks ago: 

1) I drank that pomegranate hyacinth tea lemonade. It was delicious.

2) I read two pages of the book upon which that cup of lemonade is sitting. I have my reservations about Ms. Wharton.

3) There is a sliver of a hair clip just barely noticeable - I dropped it and it broke into three pieces.

4) I tore a hole near the inseam of my most comfortable pair of jeans.

5) I tore another hole right through the inseam of my second most comfortable pair of jeans. 

6) I dozed off while standing in a checkout line at Trader Joe's. A lady way behind me in the other line yelled, "Miss, there are people behind you!" I opened my eyes to see twenty feet of open space in front of me. The ten people that were there before had suddenly turned to two. Surprisingly, no one seemed particularly annoyed at me, even the lady who called out. It's probably a good thing the woman addressed me as miss. Had she used ma'am, who knows what sass might have tumbled out.  

Let me tell you exactly what has not changed since I took this snapshot in bed two weeks ago:

1) The dust on the mirror.

2) My legs. They could use a wax.

3) Aquaphor. I rub a good dollop into my heels every night.

4) Sonograms. Way too many women in my circles are getting knocked up.

I'm writing this right now as a rowdy party is happening on the outside terrace of neighbors who live several floors down. This happens frequently on Friday and Saturday nights, especially when it's nice out, but on work nights, it's a real treat. Drunken screams abound and a catchy Of Monsters and Men tune is currently ripping through the air. Some girl keeps screaming for Ben and dammit, Ben, go to her.  Go to her and shut up her drunken screeching. Might I add that it is nearly eleven o'clock? I, for one, have to go to the office tomorrow morning. 

I hope their beer kegs are tainted and will give all their guests, but ESPECIALLY my neighbors, severe diarrhea that will render them useless and in painful gastric distress for the entire weekend.

Summer Feets

Tonight, I walked in, took my sandals off, and tiptoed to the bathroom. This is a part of the daily, end-of-the-day, summer routine: rinsing off bare feet stained by the city's grime. You get used to it. Darned if I don't gasp when I first catch a glimpse of my blackened heels at the beginning of every summer, though. There's something halting about seeing the undersides of normally very pale feet turned pitch black!

I stepped into the tub and bent over to roll up my tights a few inches before reaching for the faucet. Turning the handle to the left, my gaze fell on the spout as I positioned my right foot underneath it. Only, instead of the spout, the shower head above gushed a steady stream of cold water. I was FULLY CLOTHED. It would seem that a certain someone who shall go unnamed, but I will mention that this blog shares her name, failed to reset the knob that turns off the shower head after her morning shower. She's a real winner, that one.

I hope you're enjoying this slap silly amazing bipolar weather orgasm. It feels like an incredible beginning to my favoritest of favoritests east coast season of all (here's looking at you, fall!). There are simply no words to describe the incredible lightness all around except, perhaps, just maybe... AWESOMEMAZINGTASTIC.

Some Summer

I wish you could see this photo spanning the full width of this page.  It looks magnificent splayed across my gigantic home computer screen.  It's a little less dreamy on my office monitor, but still, I can't stop staring at it.  

This is the view of a rather sedate Grand Central from the long weekend.  As it often does on long holiday weekends, the NYC was pleasantly less congested than usual.  Still plenty of traffic and pedestrians and buzz to keep you on your toes, but less enough bodies so that you don't brush against too many sweaty shoulders to get to wherever you're going.  

Then again, there was that one incident walking through that street fair in Chelsea.  A couple's granny cart wheel clipped my bare heel.  The owners, a young couple probably in their mid-twenties, flung up their arms and shook their heads in bored annoyance as to why someone would walk into their cart.  My reaction was similar, dramatically throwing up my hands and giving them a dirty look.  They seemed to have missed the fact that their cart hit my heel, which would mean that they ran into me, not the other way around, because people, even we eclectic ones in New York do not walk backwards through bustling street fairs.  Also, bare skin vs. metal?  Even if it had been my fault, the decent thing to have done would have been to stop and ask if I was all right.  Instead, they kept right on walking and me, like a child, fought the urge to chase after them and yank –hard– the girl's long hair.  I was pissed.  I thought it might bring me some closure, you know?

It was hot.  We were caught in the middle of a steaming street fair soaking in our own sweat.  And boy, was I cranky.  

Hi, summer.  I see that you've arrived.  Welcome.  

Grand Central Terminal.

Friday.  1:27 pm.  5 July.  2013

The Things I Do

Surely, I'm not the only one who opened her front door this morning expecting to see the weekend paper.  Oh, man.  I'm still feeling a little sore about it.

Met rooftop.
27 May.  2013.

James Turrell

The Guggenheim washed me in violet, red, and yellow hues.  And then I almost threw up.  Sexy.

Guggenheim. Saturday. 22 June. 2013.
What you see here is an illegal (I didn't know. The museum usually allows pictures from the ground floor of the atrium!) shot looking upward, toward the skylit domed roof of Wright's famous round building, only the light source at the top is artificial and part of the James Turrell installation.  The installation is a beast, fitting just inside the perimeter of the museum's rotunda that, as some of you may know already, is formed by a long looping ramp that wraps around to the top. The installation, in other words, was hugely tall.

Despite its height, with all the people inside the newly narrowed width of an atrium area which I was accustomed to being much wider, I felt uncomfortable.  When the feeling of nausea intensified instead of dissipating as it usually does, I made my way to the exit hoping to explore the space behind, on the ramps of the museum.  That's when I found myself standing in a tiny walk space created by the exterior of the Turrell installation on my left and sterile-looking white walls to my right.  I felt like I was trapped inside a windowless sanitarium.  People were disoriented, unsure of where to go with no signs to direct visitors.  My stomach flipped, I tasted something that I would have liked to stay put in my stomach, and gave into the reality that I really must be claustrophobic.  So out into the summer sun I escaped.

If you don't mind closed, windowless spaces, this could be a very cool experience. It's around until the end of September, but if you ask me, I can't wait until the museum reverts back to its open atrium!

Eggleston

There is a set of amazing, new-to-me photographs on view at the Met right now.  This William Eggleston fellow, do you know his work?  Because his photographs stopped me in my tracks.  His tones are remarkably vibrant, saturated, and crisp.  His subjects are muted, but not as reserved as you'd think; they are not so intense as they are real.  His images capture so much of what I associate with America, its people, its places, its iconic materials.  How is that possible?  According to the plate next to this print, he took this the year I was born, but far away in another part of the country entirely.  Louisiana was no Pennsylvania, I'm sure.  And yet, the table caddy branded with the familiar red Winston logo brought me right back to the days I slunk away at my parents' Germantown dry cleaners.

I'd frequently be sent around the corner to fetch my dad his cigarettes.  One day, even though the lady recognized me, she sent me back to get a signed note from my father giving permission to let his daughter make the purchase on his behalf.  The handwritten paper slips worked for a while, but turned useless once the law forbade sales of cancer sticks to minors.  My lazy pops had a hard time registering this turn of events when I came back empty-handed one day.  But it worked out in the end because when he went, he'd sometimes stop by the Gold's Gym next door where they had a freezer full of real-fruit frozen treats.  On those days, he'd return with a strawberry for me and coconut for him.

At the Met. (Pardon the graininess.  Photo taken on my phone.)

The Way It Should Be, And Sometimes Is

I took this just moments before an elderly couple arrived at the bus stop today. They were probably in their seventies. The woman was aggressive, a little too loud, a bit wild even, when she asked if they could get to 39th Street on this bus.  He, however, he was calm and took his time getting around. He seemed so fragile. The two of them worked well together. He quietly listened and did as she instructed. Sit here while I check the bus schedule. Take your blood pressure. Do you want some water? This man, this white-haired old man, he was so willing to be led by this woman. He smiled pleasantly and thanked me when I told him that the bus was approaching. As he slowly got up and made his way to the boarding area, his wife was halfway up the block asking even more strangers for confirmation that this was the right bus. I watched as she whipped around to head back toward us. Jimmy, this is our bus! This is our bus! Jimmy!

Madison Avenue.
Today.*

A friend once candidly said that she'll be there to wipe her husband's ass when the time comes. As unpleasant and crass as this may sound, in the context of our conversation, it was a very endearing statement. This conversation is what popped into my head as I watched this loud, bossy woman direct her husband. She was clearly an excellent caretaker, right there by his side to make sure that he wouldn't miss a beat. It was a nice part of my day, to witness something so ordinary, yet so special. This, right here in front of me, was the classic story. A couple committed to looking after one another. This is it. And it was beautiful in its mundaneness.

When the bus pulled up, the rest of us lined up by the door, but none of us boarded. We patiently waited for Jimmy to make his way over and climb on first. Of course, his wife stepped up before him. She had to ask the driver if the bus would bring them to their destination. Twice.

* If you see an eerie face in the picture, it's of Henry Cavill in a scrolling bus stop advertisement for the new Superman movie, Man of Steel {+}.  Frightening how the impression turned out here through the glass reflection, but he's actually quite good-looking and the advertisement is not scary one bit.

The New York Bagel

I walked twenty city blocks for this monster. Correction: twenty city blocks and four avenues. The things I do! Only, uh, I had intended to get a bagel. As in one. And a couple more for the folks back at the apartment. But I walked out with a dozen. Technically thirteen, because you know, bagel shops do their business by the baker's dozen. The guy behind the counter made me do it. No, he didn't. But he asked and that's almost the same thing.

Bagel anyone?

Fifteen

I had a friend in college who turned to her out-of-state physician father when she was desperate. She needed a script for the morning-after pill. Awkward? Yes, but girlfriend maturely picked up that phone and asked mom to hand the phone to dad. Not once, but twice. It's tough being a girl.

It was announced last night that one brand of the morning-after pill, Plan B, will be available over the counter to women 15 and older. They dropped the age from 17 to 15.

Fifteen.

The fact that more childbearing-aged women now have access to Plan B is excellent. But am I in the minority as someone who finds the idea of girls being sexually active at this age downright scary? I mean, have you ever met a 15-year-old? One that was emotionally prepared for sex? Because I certainly haven't. And I interact with more kids in this age group than most people my age! Also, do you know how many pimples they have? Braces? How surprisingly awkward and gawky and downright kiddish they all look? Humans look like we're 13 until we near 20. I'll tell you what: the power of raging hormones sure is something.

It doesn't seem right that our bodies are ready to conceive at an age when we aren't emotionally prepared or socially ready to handle the task of raising offspring.  Why are our biological time clocks so off synch with our social expectations? There's not a single American in their right mind that would endorse a girl getting pregnant when she's fifteen, and yet, she could have been menstruating for years by then. In other words, why are we fertile when we are ourselves still children?

While evolution's catching up, Mayor Bloomberg is trying to scare our teenagers into not getting pregnant. The message is pretty brutal. NYC currently has a public campaign that plasters the faces of the most adorable, but miserable-looking toddlers inside subways and buses.  These children have been haunting me for weeks now. I try to turn my back to them when I'm on the train because they're that distressing. You can check out the ads here {+}. The one that hit me the hardest was the one that reads, "Honestly, Mom... chances are he won't stay with you. What happens to me?" Wow.

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.

A Man I Knew

Madison Square Park.
Yesterday.  7 April.  2013

I was so hurt last week.  You probably were, too.  The news of Roger Ebert's death left me a heaping pile of aching in a way that felt almost unnatural.  This is so often the case with me, that I remain oblivious to how strongly I feel about someone, or an experience, or an opportunity, or an idea, until our time together suddenly expires and the closest I can get to that goodness again is by reawakening memories.

I can't articulate why I'm grieving the passing of a man whom I had only ever known on a screen, and most recently and more memorably, via the written word.  This was a man who produced work so satisfying and accessible, his essays so full of humanness (is that a word?), that he'd carry you into, out of, and back into your very own senses.  How could you not fall for such a man, for someone whose work exuded such depth and candor?  I loved how this writer shared his own love story with us, the fact that he married later in life, to a woman whom he admired for her strength and wits and intelligence and beauty.  I loved how this husband who had lost his voice to cancer blogged a love letter to his wife last summer {+}.  I loved how eloquently this professional film critic navigated the impossible range of human needs and emotions, with a clear conscience and sure footing, no matter the topic or political or cultural climate.

It had only been a couple days since his last blog post had scuttled across my screen, his announcement that the cancer had returned and that he would be taking a step back, taking A Leave of Presence {+}, as he so cleverly called it.  A Leave of Presence.  This phrase, it's just so wildly beautiful.  I had grown accustomed to his way with words, the uncomplicated tone and cadence of his prose.  I will miss it.  I will miss him.

Defiance Pays

At the Guggenheim.
Friday.  22 March.  2013.

A short, round, elderly lady with a heavy accent scolded me when she saw me raise my phone to take this photo.  But because she didn't make eye contact as she delivered her tired speech in a dull monotone, I went ahead and tapped my phone's screen anyway as I paid her some lip service.  "Oh, I'm allowed from the ground floor only?"  [Click.]  "You got it."

I'm so glad I was in a defiant mood that day because I just opened the picture on my desktop and the first thing I spotted was the couple on the bottom right.  Too cute!  It's the best when I capture silly antics without even knowing it.

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.

It's decided to rain the entire weekend.  That's a bummer seeing as how this is my last free weekend for a while, but you can't win 'em all, you know?  After five hours of sleep, four of them on the living room couch in a failed attempt to mute the incessant thuds from the apartment above, and at least two spent begrudgingly inhaling the stink of wine and liquor that permeates from Soeur and her man when they return from a night out, I arose from bed the couch this morning feeling less than cheery. Sometimes I hate that I can't afford my own place.  And that my ceiling is my neighbor's floor.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I will move on.

I should be at the office today to mitigate the madness that is scheduled for next week, but procrastination slapped me hard this morning.  There is now a surprisingly tasty tray of scones hanging out on the kitchen counter.  After patiently working with the delicate demands of cold butter, I'm very pleased that these turned out so well.  The chocolate morsels, littered and smashed across the tops of each dough wedge at the very last minute, were a brilliant afterthought.

I think I'll put off my work for a little while longer and run to the market.  I feel like some chopping and sautéing in the kitchen will be good for me.