Just in case you are having a hard time finding something to be happy about this holiday season, I thought I would share a message that Austin left on my voicemail this afternoon.
"I just finished my Christmas shopping. It was terrible. It took two hours. I bought everyone gifts. I'm kind of depressed because my bank account is now empty. I'm glad it doesn't have to happen for another year."
Clearly, Austin was already looking on the bright side, but his grandmother also pointed out that being able to complete all of your Christmas shopping in one two-hour trip was quite an accomplishment. Nanny then told Austin that since he was so quick, he could do her shopping next year, in addition his own. Maybe she will feel differently, though, after she sees what gifts the speedy shopper picked up today. Maybe she will feel the same. I for one am just keeping my fingers crossed that I will not be unwrapping any tents this year. But that is a whole different story/blog post.
Happy holidays. And to all the grinches out there, just remember, this doesn't have to happen for another year.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Word Gems
Well, after a magical NY Giants moment last Sunday, thanks to JPP, today was kind of a let down. Tonight, I was cleaning out my email inboxes (I have four emails—don't ask...) and text messages (my phone's inbox actually fills up—thank goodness they won't be making "dumb phones" much longer, right RKsoPitted?), feeling kind of bummed, and I found a few gems that made me smile.
A text from a boyfriend to his girlfriend: "We made so many bacon cheese fries last night haha. All the guys hooked up with chicks haha not me though."
A text from a friend, quoting another friend: "Do you think I actually wanted to punch him? I'm on a low-protein diet."
An email from an uncle: "I actually tried to comment on your blog, but it rejected my comment with some bogus error message. If I had a blog - I would have made a ranting, raving blog about how annoying your blog is..."
A text from a boyfriend to his girlfriend: "I know you well. You randomly pull out your phone every 3 hours and ask the bf what he's doing to keep hope in his mind. I'm not falling for it."
An email from a dad:
On plane and having glass of champagne before taking off.
Noticed it was flat and not very crisp.
Politely returned glass to steward. He brought me a new glass, which was much better.
Later I commented that the first not so good glass might have been due to soap residue on glass.
He fessed up that first bottle was an imitation sparkling white and for my second try he opened a real champagne.
Sometimes you can not fool good old dad!
Share your word gems here. Greg, I know you have an email chain that is ripe for the picking...
A text from a boyfriend to his girlfriend: "We made so many bacon cheese fries last night haha. All the guys hooked up with chicks haha not me though."
A text from a friend, quoting another friend: "Do you think I actually wanted to punch him? I'm on a low-protein diet."
An email from an uncle: "I actually tried to comment on your blog, but it rejected my comment with some bogus error message. If I had a blog - I would have made a ranting, raving blog about how annoying your blog is..."
A text from a boyfriend to his girlfriend: "I know you well. You randomly pull out your phone every 3 hours and ask the bf what he's doing to keep hope in his mind. I'm not falling for it."
An email from a dad:
On plane and having glass of champagne before taking off.
Noticed it was flat and not very crisp.
Politely returned glass to steward. He brought me a new glass, which was much better.
Later I commented that the first not so good glass might have been due to soap residue on glass.
He fessed up that first bottle was an imitation sparkling white and for my second try he opened a real champagne.
Sometimes you can not fool good old dad!
Share your word gems here. Greg, I know you have an email chain that is ripe for the picking...
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Something Special
Do you ever have those moments when you realize that you're seeing something really special or that you're a part of something truly special—something bigger and better than you could ever be on your own? Don't worry, I'm not going to get all woo woo on you. (I wouldn't want my uncle to make fun of me all week long. Good thing the technology wizard hasn't figured out how to comment on this blog website yet...)
But surely you know the feeling. It's the times when you feel as a New Yorker that you really are living in the best city in the world—when you're looking at thousands of tourists smiling, staring up at a lit up Rockefeller tree and for once you're not annoyed at all to be surrounded by thousands of tourists, maybe because the tree is that beautiful, or maybe just because you believe in that instant that the city is actually kind of magical during the holidays. Maybe it's when "Empire State of Mind" comes up when you're listening to your iPod on shuffle as you run through Central Park or along the East River esplanade on an uncharacteristically warm winter day.
When I went to Colgate in upstate New York, the moment was looking down at the campus from the top of the hill, near the library (but definitely not inside it), when I realized for the first time that year that summer had turned to autumn and the trees had changed to brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow. A better moment was walking through the halls of an unimpressive (by almost all standards) athletic center, but feeling like I was walking to a place as familiar as a home could ever be—even if it was a smelly, cramped locker room, just big enough to be deemed a walk-in closet. Even better was riding around campus, windows down, girl power song up, feeling suddenly so strongly that I wouldn't change my friends in the car for anything, even if they couldn't have been more annoying the night before.
This weekend, after a pretty crummy week (aren't you glad I'm a weekend poster?), I had a few more of just this kind of "moment":
One came on Friday night, as I ate a three-course meal (after a cocktail hour) at the restaurant, One if by Land, Two if by Sea. It was a holiday party hosted by Austin's company, but as the speeches kept flowing from the owner of the company, the managers, and later, even from Austin, the unpaid intern, the fact that I wasn't actually an employee of the company kind of slipped my mind. Because with everybody laughing, celebrating each other's achievements (and anniversaries that hadn't yet occurred), and making fun of one another's outfits, it really did feel like the family that everyone said it was in their speeches. And yes, there was drinking and yes, the Kool-Aid did taste good. Unfortunately, though, my bank account reminded the next day that I work in book publishing and not for Austin's recruiting company. But, the moment was special while it lasted.
Another was when I took a taxi from the upper east side with a few friends and then we found out that the people who we wanted to meet up with were actually headed to midtown west, and then $15 later we were headed into Times Square traffic. Oh wait, there was no moment there.
Today, it was realizing that even if I don't believe in Santa anymore, I still think the Nutcracker is a beautiful ballet. It was being close enough to the orchestra to see the strings of the harps quivering and near enough to the stage to hear Clara's ballet shoes sliding across the wood floor.
And tonight, if the Giants pull off a win that few think likely, there could just be one more moment to round out the weekend. And even if don't believe in Santa, this might just make me some sort of believer again.
But surely you know the feeling. It's the times when you feel as a New Yorker that you really are living in the best city in the world—when you're looking at thousands of tourists smiling, staring up at a lit up Rockefeller tree and for once you're not annoyed at all to be surrounded by thousands of tourists, maybe because the tree is that beautiful, or maybe just because you believe in that instant that the city is actually kind of magical during the holidays. Maybe it's when "Empire State of Mind" comes up when you're listening to your iPod on shuffle as you run through Central Park or along the East River esplanade on an uncharacteristically warm winter day.
When I went to Colgate in upstate New York, the moment was looking down at the campus from the top of the hill, near the library (but definitely not inside it), when I realized for the first time that year that summer had turned to autumn and the trees had changed to brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow. A better moment was walking through the halls of an unimpressive (by almost all standards) athletic center, but feeling like I was walking to a place as familiar as a home could ever be—even if it was a smelly, cramped locker room, just big enough to be deemed a walk-in closet. Even better was riding around campus, windows down, girl power song up, feeling suddenly so strongly that I wouldn't change my friends in the car for anything, even if they couldn't have been more annoying the night before.
This weekend, after a pretty crummy week (aren't you glad I'm a weekend poster?), I had a few more of just this kind of "moment":
One came on Friday night, as I ate a three-course meal (after a cocktail hour) at the restaurant, One if by Land, Two if by Sea. It was a holiday party hosted by Austin's company, but as the speeches kept flowing from the owner of the company, the managers, and later, even from Austin, the unpaid intern, the fact that I wasn't actually an employee of the company kind of slipped my mind. Because with everybody laughing, celebrating each other's achievements (and anniversaries that hadn't yet occurred), and making fun of one another's outfits, it really did feel like the family that everyone said it was in their speeches. And yes, there was drinking and yes, the Kool-Aid did taste good. Unfortunately, though, my bank account reminded the next day that I work in book publishing and not for Austin's recruiting company. But, the moment was special while it lasted.
Another was when I took a taxi from the upper east side with a few friends and then we found out that the people who we wanted to meet up with were actually headed to midtown west, and then $15 later we were headed into Times Square traffic. Oh wait, there was no moment there.
Today, it was realizing that even if I don't believe in Santa anymore, I still think the Nutcracker is a beautiful ballet. It was being close enough to the orchestra to see the strings of the harps quivering and near enough to the stage to hear Clara's ballet shoes sliding across the wood floor.
And tonight, if the Giants pull off a win that few think likely, there could just be one more moment to round out the weekend. And even if don't believe in Santa, this might just make me some sort of believer again.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Pet Peeves
Austin often asks me what my pet peeves are. You'd think he would know all the things that he does that annoy me by now, but hey, some things take longer to click than others. Anyway, I have two new things that annoy me to an irrational degree. And here they are:
One, when people wear headphones on the subway, but play their music loud enough for everyone around them to hear. And usually it's not even good music. And sometimes it's embarrassing. Celine Dione, on the way to work, really dude? Not that my iPod has good music on it—I haven't downloaded a cool song since the last time I was cool and let my infinitively cooler younger cousin drag me to the mosh pits at Warped Tour a few years ago. But, I don't offer my iPod up for party music, and I certainly don't play my iPod loud enough for the guy sitting next to me on the subway to hear. I'd be mortified (if "Mmmbop" came on). And that is sooo annoying. If I wanted to listen to your music, I'd ask to share your headphones.
Two, when people don't turn the resistance up on their spinning bikes as directed by the spinning instructor. I realize that the class is "what you make of it." I know that the bike resistance of the spandex-clad woman spinning next to me has no impact on "my ride." And yet, when I am spinning, i.e. barely moving the pedals, at a resistance level of 8 out of 10, and that spandex woman is cruising along so effortlessly, her pedals whipping around in rapid circles, her short ponytail just barely bouncing—I really am annoyed. Now, I'm not talking about the sixty-plus-year-old women who take the bikes in the back of the room and blatantly have no intention of following anything the spin instructor has to say for the 45-minute class. These are the women who regularly come to class 10 minutes late, pump their arms above their heads as the instructor is calling out "stay connected to your bike," and stay seated on their bikes while the rest of the class is jumping between positions. These women do not bother me in the slightest. If my grammy went to a spin class, she should be able to do whatever she wants to do. I am talking about the spandex-clad woman who seems to hear everything the instructor says with the exception of "turn your resistance up." Faker. Cheat. Do you think we don't see you over there, right next to the full-length side mirror?
One, when people wear headphones on the subway, but play their music loud enough for everyone around them to hear. And usually it's not even good music. And sometimes it's embarrassing. Celine Dione, on the way to work, really dude? Not that my iPod has good music on it—I haven't downloaded a cool song since the last time I was cool and let my infinitively cooler younger cousin drag me to the mosh pits at Warped Tour a few years ago. But, I don't offer my iPod up for party music, and I certainly don't play my iPod loud enough for the guy sitting next to me on the subway to hear. I'd be mortified (if "Mmmbop" came on). And that is sooo annoying. If I wanted to listen to your music, I'd ask to share your headphones.
Two, when people don't turn the resistance up on their spinning bikes as directed by the spinning instructor. I realize that the class is "what you make of it." I know that the bike resistance of the spandex-clad woman spinning next to me has no impact on "my ride." And yet, when I am spinning, i.e. barely moving the pedals, at a resistance level of 8 out of 10, and that spandex woman is cruising along so effortlessly, her pedals whipping around in rapid circles, her short ponytail just barely bouncing—I really am annoyed. Now, I'm not talking about the sixty-plus-year-old women who take the bikes in the back of the room and blatantly have no intention of following anything the spin instructor has to say for the 45-minute class. These are the women who regularly come to class 10 minutes late, pump their arms above their heads as the instructor is calling out "stay connected to your bike," and stay seated on their bikes while the rest of the class is jumping between positions. These women do not bother me in the slightest. If my grammy went to a spin class, she should be able to do whatever she wants to do. I am talking about the spandex-clad woman who seems to hear everything the instructor says with the exception of "turn your resistance up." Faker. Cheat. Do you think we don't see you over there, right next to the full-length side mirror?
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
#11
Due to popular protest, I have added a #11 to the list. I don't like to admit when I'm wrong, but seriously, you would not believe the hate mail I have been getting since Sunday's post...
And, no, RKsoPitted—I am not moving you from your mention at #10. First of all, there wasn't any significance to the numerical order of the list. Do you think I value flowers more than our mother and grandmother...? Second, you said it would be okay to keep you at #10 if I shopped for some joint Christmas gifts that we could give to others "from us." Seeing as you still owe me money from the last time we gave a "joint" gift, I think you're just fine at #10. Don't you?
Without any further ado, here it is, #11:
11. I am thankful for Austin. I am thankful that he cooks me whole wheat pasta—do you think he actually wants to eat "that shit"? I am thankful that he is taller than me in all the heels that I can walk in (and any shoe that I cannot walk in). I am thankful that he likes to wander around, like me. I am thankful that he can talk to anyone so that I don't have to talk to everyone. I am thankful that he doesn't play video games or like watching TV, except for sports. I am thankful that he can always explain why a flag is thrown in a football game. I am thankful that he can almost always answer the question, "What's his deal?" with the following stats for the particular athlete in question: height, weight, college/high school, number of years in respective league, relevant records; and usually a story or two from the athlete's personal life. I am thankful for his friends, who I happily call my friends, too; and who, to quote one of them, "made [my] senior year memorable and at times forgettable." I am thankful that Austin, like me, isn't a pet person. And I am thankful that he will read this.
And, no, RKsoPitted—I am not moving you from your mention at #10. First of all, there wasn't any significance to the numerical order of the list. Do you think I value flowers more than our mother and grandmother...? Second, you said it would be okay to keep you at #10 if I shopped for some joint Christmas gifts that we could give to others "from us." Seeing as you still owe me money from the last time we gave a "joint" gift, I think you're just fine at #10. Don't you?
Without any further ado, here it is, #11:
11. I am thankful for Austin. I am thankful that he cooks me whole wheat pasta—do you think he actually wants to eat "that shit"? I am thankful that he is taller than me in all the heels that I can walk in (and any shoe that I cannot walk in). I am thankful that he likes to wander around, like me. I am thankful that he can talk to anyone so that I don't have to talk to everyone. I am thankful that he doesn't play video games or like watching TV, except for sports. I am thankful that he can always explain why a flag is thrown in a football game. I am thankful that he can almost always answer the question, "What's his deal?" with the following stats for the particular athlete in question: height, weight, college/high school, number of years in respective league, relevant records; and usually a story or two from the athlete's personal life. I am thankful for his friends, who I happily call my friends, too; and who, to quote one of them, "made [my] senior year memorable and at times forgettable." I am thankful that Austin, like me, isn't a pet person. And I am thankful that he will read this.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
ten things I am thankful for
- My best friend Carrie is coming to visit this month.
- I feel relaxed and rested right now because I spent the past five days being pampered by my family.
- My super got a new refrigerator for my apartment. The old one was a combined refrigerator and freezer with just one door. The freezer was an ice box that needed to be defrosted once a month. Milk went sour after two days in the refrigerator. And chunky after a few.
- The Christmas tree lights in my apartment —that my parents bought and my boyfriend put up. I only wanted white lights, but I figured I was making out pretty good with the deal so I gave in to one string of color lights, which my (color blind) boyfriend really wanted.
- Living in NYC.
- Family parties that are fun. Family members who are fun. (You know who you are.)
- Fresh flowers on the kitchen table right now.
- Being a part of a (too) close knit group of girls in college, who: made me more understanding of the cliques of girls who seemed strangely obsessed with themselves in high school; made me laugh; made upstate NY weather bearable; made Poland spring bottles filled with Vodka an accessory; made the best quote book ever.
- A mother who supports my shoe addiction. And a grammy who doesn't mind being dragged along on shopping excursions.
- Writing materials, like the never-ending adventures of @RKsoPitted, and reading materials, like the book I just started, The Tiger's Wife.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
new title, first judgment
Titles are not my strong suit. But I guess you already knew that. I did name my blog, "things i think about." However, in my defense, I never intended to keep this title. Kind of like the time I named a Facebook photo album, "I can name this later." Except whereas I never did actually get around to changing that Facebook album name, I have given my blog a new title. Inspired by one of my bosses laughing out loud when I told her the name of my blog, I decided it was time. And now, if I change the title again, you know why.
My first weekend judgment is a resounding positive one—and yes, it merits the use of the word, "resounding." I normally try to be spare with adjectives and adverbs, but I don't believe I can do without them here:
Gretchen Holt Witt is a lovely woman. She is generous, determined, smart. She is a mother for whom there are no limits when it comes to her children. She is a woman for whom there are no limits. 96,000 cookies. She organized a team to bake them. Cancer kills more children than any other disease, primarily because of lack of funding. Gretchen founded an organization, Cookies for Kids' Cancer, which donates millions of dollars to doctors at leading cancer research centers.
About one out every four children who is diagnosed with cancer dies, and Gretchen's handsome son Liam was one of them. But here Gretchen is, still (and always) fighting for Liam and so that children like him will have a better chance to live to see their seventh, eight, ninth, tenth, and someday twenty-first birthdays. And if that isn't reason enough for you to click on the link below and vote for Gretchen for a Loreal Women of Worth and help Cookies for Kids' Cancer win $25,000...well, there is no real way to end that sentence, so just click on the link and vote. And, thank you.
Vote for Gretchen
My first weekend judgment is a resounding positive one—and yes, it merits the use of the word, "resounding." I normally try to be spare with adjectives and adverbs, but I don't believe I can do without them here:
Gretchen Holt Witt is a lovely woman. She is generous, determined, smart. She is a mother for whom there are no limits when it comes to her children. She is a woman for whom there are no limits. 96,000 cookies. She organized a team to bake them. Cancer kills more children than any other disease, primarily because of lack of funding. Gretchen founded an organization, Cookies for Kids' Cancer, which donates millions of dollars to doctors at leading cancer research centers.
About one out every four children who is diagnosed with cancer dies, and Gretchen's handsome son Liam was one of them. But here Gretchen is, still (and always) fighting for Liam and so that children like him will have a better chance to live to see their seventh, eight, ninth, tenth, and someday twenty-first birthdays. And if that isn't reason enough for you to click on the link below and vote for Gretchen for a Loreal Women of Worth and help Cookies for Kids' Cancer win $25,000...well, there is no real way to end that sentence, so just click on the link and vote. And, thank you.
Vote for Gretchen
Friday, November 11, 2011
Located: RKsoPitted
The last time I saw my brother, Rob he was sitting at a table, at a bar, on the lower east side of Manhattan, with his friends, a lot of Irish beer, and plans to catch a 5:45 a.m. train back to D.C. where he lives. It was midnight. His train was leaving in less than six hours. He was supposedly due money upon his safe arrival to D.C. that morning. This was Friday, a week ago. I left the bar with three questions: would he make his train, would he convince anyone to go with him, and would he win this bet money.
I thought it was a little strange when Rob didn't comment on last week's blog post about him, respond to my Twitter shout out, call, or text on Saturday. Then Sunday went by. And then Monday. Feeling a bit like my mom, I called her.
"Has anyone actually heard from Rob? I mean, he did get back to D.C. Right?"
Mom hadn't heard from him.
So on Tuesday she sent Rob an are you alive? e-mail, and not for the first time. He was alive.
And here's what happened:
He did get on the train on time. Of course, I knew he would all along...
Two of his friends went with him.
All three of them got off at the D.C. station. But Rob's phone did not.
He didn't get paid the bet money. But his friends did support the party. And if I could bet my money on something, I'd say it was probably a pretty good party.
Rob will back in NYC next weekend.
I thought it was a little strange when Rob didn't comment on last week's blog post about him, respond to my Twitter shout out, call, or text on Saturday. Then Sunday went by. And then Monday. Feeling a bit like my mom, I called her.
"Has anyone actually heard from Rob? I mean, he did get back to D.C. Right?"
Mom hadn't heard from him.
So on Tuesday she sent Rob an are you alive? e-mail, and not for the first time. He was alive.
And here's what happened:
He did get on the train on time. Of course, I knew he would all along...
Two of his friends went with him.
All three of them got off at the D.C. station. But Rob's phone did not.
He didn't get paid the bet money. But his friends did support the party. And if I could bet my money on something, I'd say it was probably a pretty good party.
Rob will back in NYC next weekend.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
My brother, RKsoPitted
My twenty-six-year-old brother's Twitter name is "RKsoPitted." I am not sure what that means, but I do know that it says a lot about him.
Rob called me at 6 p.m. last night. I was still at work. It was Friday, so I assumed he was an hour into a happy hour, on his way to a "sick" concert, had just discovered some "crazy" article online, aced a big test ("ballin'"), or was stopping at his D.C. home to get ready for a book party that someone he knew just happened to be throwing.
But he was actually on a train to NYC and would be pulling into Penn Station at 8:30 p.m. Of course he was. One of his best friends (from kindergarten) was celebrating his birthday. I don't know anyone who has more friends than Rob, or more friends in more places. If Rob were to take a map and stick pins into all the cities where he currently has friends living, the world would be littered. But, I digress...the interesting part wasn't that Rob was coming to NYC for his friend's birthday or that he was calling me when he was a couple of hours away to see if I wanted to meet up. The interesting part was that his return ticket to D.C. had him leaving NYC at 5:45 a.m. on Saturday.
"Are you kidding, Rob. Why are you leaving at 5:45 in the morning?"
"Well, we're having a party at my house tomorrow night. And I need to be there."
Of course, his house (think frat guys, but the charming, hilarious kind who cook gourmet lunches to accompany beer pong games, name the raccoon living in their background, and who cannot really relax unless everyone in their sight is having a good time) was having a party tomorrow. And of course he needed to be there in the morning. There were probably ribs to be slow cooked.
I did meet up with Rob at McSorley's, an Irish bar where they serve "light" or "dark" and there is no room to move and no music but it's so loud you can barely hear anyone, anyway. Rob and a crew of his friends—one of whom I had never met, but who told me several times throughout the night that he was Rob's best friend—were posted up/squashed into a small table in the corner. I (barely) made my way over to the corner table, with my tight, puffy jacket pushed up against the back of the bar. (My brother reminded me that I was not Gloria Estefan. Thanks, Rob.) My friend, Steve, sans puffy jacket, also made it into this small space by the bar with me. There was little hope for my 6'4" (his one redeeming quality—just kidding, babe) boyfriend.
But soon Rob and one of the server's—an Irish man with a thick accent and white hair, who I swear can hold more than 20 mugs in his hands at a time—are cursing back and forth at each other like they are old, Irish friends.
Server: "You f*ng said you were going to have 5 friends. Now, look at all of you."
Rob: "Well get us a f*ng bigger table."
Server: "It's not my fault you're so f*ng popular."
And a few minutes later, the server was clearing off a big, round table for us, and holding his arms out against the hungry drunks trying to sit down at it. Rob hugged one of the women, who looked to be in her mid fifties, as she left the table that we were now being given. From the bits of their conversation (yes, they had a conversation) that I overheard, it sounded like they knew each other. But maybe Rob was just thankful she was giving up her table. So thankful that he ordered 20 lights and 20 darks for the eight of us.
Then Rob got to work trying to convince everyone to take the 5:45 a.m. train to D.C. with him. By the way Steve's face lit up, I was a little worried that he was going to be convinced. Steve did buy a plane ticket to Seattle last Friday night while in a bar, via his iPhone. Mostly I was worried, though, because I didn't want Rob convincing anyone to buy a 5:45 a.m. ticket to D.C. because I was worried that Rob wouldn't actually be getting on that train.
Rob: "No, I'm going. If I get on that train, I get $1,500."
Me: "And how does that work?"
Rob: "Three of my friends are betting against it. They each owe me $500 if I make it."
Me: "And they're really going to pay you?"
Rob: "Hell yeah."
I left McSorley's a little after midnight. As curious as I was to see if Rob would make his train and if his friends would give him $1500, I decided that I was a little too tired to spend the next five hours in a bar, and definitely too tired (and sane) to get on that train with him.
Sometimes, with Rob, you just have to wait and see what happens.
Rob called me at 6 p.m. last night. I was still at work. It was Friday, so I assumed he was an hour into a happy hour, on his way to a "sick" concert, had just discovered some "crazy" article online, aced a big test ("ballin'"), or was stopping at his D.C. home to get ready for a book party that someone he knew just happened to be throwing.
But he was actually on a train to NYC and would be pulling into Penn Station at 8:30 p.m. Of course he was. One of his best friends (from kindergarten) was celebrating his birthday. I don't know anyone who has more friends than Rob, or more friends in more places. If Rob were to take a map and stick pins into all the cities where he currently has friends living, the world would be littered. But, I digress...the interesting part wasn't that Rob was coming to NYC for his friend's birthday or that he was calling me when he was a couple of hours away to see if I wanted to meet up. The interesting part was that his return ticket to D.C. had him leaving NYC at 5:45 a.m. on Saturday.
"Are you kidding, Rob. Why are you leaving at 5:45 in the morning?"
"Well, we're having a party at my house tomorrow night. And I need to be there."
Of course, his house (think frat guys, but the charming, hilarious kind who cook gourmet lunches to accompany beer pong games, name the raccoon living in their background, and who cannot really relax unless everyone in their sight is having a good time) was having a party tomorrow. And of course he needed to be there in the morning. There were probably ribs to be slow cooked.
I did meet up with Rob at McSorley's, an Irish bar where they serve "light" or "dark" and there is no room to move and no music but it's so loud you can barely hear anyone, anyway. Rob and a crew of his friends—one of whom I had never met, but who told me several times throughout the night that he was Rob's best friend—were posted up/squashed into a small table in the corner. I (barely) made my way over to the corner table, with my tight, puffy jacket pushed up against the back of the bar. (My brother reminded me that I was not Gloria Estefan. Thanks, Rob.) My friend, Steve, sans puffy jacket, also made it into this small space by the bar with me. There was little hope for my 6'4" (his one redeeming quality—just kidding, babe) boyfriend.
But soon Rob and one of the server's—an Irish man with a thick accent and white hair, who I swear can hold more than 20 mugs in his hands at a time—are cursing back and forth at each other like they are old, Irish friends.
Server: "You f*ng said you were going to have 5 friends. Now, look at all of you."
Rob: "Well get us a f*ng bigger table."
Server: "It's not my fault you're so f*ng popular."
And a few minutes later, the server was clearing off a big, round table for us, and holding his arms out against the hungry drunks trying to sit down at it. Rob hugged one of the women, who looked to be in her mid fifties, as she left the table that we were now being given. From the bits of their conversation (yes, they had a conversation) that I overheard, it sounded like they knew each other. But maybe Rob was just thankful she was giving up her table. So thankful that he ordered 20 lights and 20 darks for the eight of us.
Then Rob got to work trying to convince everyone to take the 5:45 a.m. train to D.C. with him. By the way Steve's face lit up, I was a little worried that he was going to be convinced. Steve did buy a plane ticket to Seattle last Friday night while in a bar, via his iPhone. Mostly I was worried, though, because I didn't want Rob convincing anyone to buy a 5:45 a.m. ticket to D.C. because I was worried that Rob wouldn't actually be getting on that train.
Rob: "No, I'm going. If I get on that train, I get $1,500."
Me: "And how does that work?"
Rob: "Three of my friends are betting against it. They each owe me $500 if I make it."
Me: "And they're really going to pay you?"
Rob: "Hell yeah."
I left McSorley's a little after midnight. As curious as I was to see if Rob would make his train and if his friends would give him $1500, I decided that I was a little too tired to spend the next five hours in a bar, and definitely too tired (and sane) to get on that train with him.
Sometimes, with Rob, you just have to wait and see what happens.
Hi there
After a long hiatus, and many requests from my readers (i.e. Grammy), I am back. Readers—you are still there, right? Mrs. Arnault? Mom? Mom, can you please show Grammy how to get to my blog again? Mom, you do remember, right?
Just to catch everyone up to speed, I moved to April in Manhattan. I live on the fifth floor in a walk-up, so I have been pretty busy walking up and down the stairs. But the apartment is great because it has an exposed brick wall and a chocolate-colored wood floor. Sure, there are pieces of gum stuck to the brick wall that I cannot get off—yes, I tried a steak knife—and the wood floor is slanted, which makes you feel a little funny and crooked at times...but, these are minor details. The (small) cockroaches are what you might call, "character builders."
Besides walking up and down the stairs, I have been busy at work, which sounds grown-up (read: boring), but is usually pretty fun. The summer was an all too quick blur of trips to our family's bungalow in Breezy. And autumn has been dotted with some lovely trips and visitors to NYC. The latest visitor of which deserves a blog post all his own, so I'm signing off here...
Just to catch everyone up to speed, I moved to April in Manhattan. I live on the fifth floor in a walk-up, so I have been pretty busy walking up and down the stairs. But the apartment is great because it has an exposed brick wall and a chocolate-colored wood floor. Sure, there are pieces of gum stuck to the brick wall that I cannot get off—yes, I tried a steak knife—and the wood floor is slanted, which makes you feel a little funny and crooked at times...but, these are minor details. The (small) cockroaches are what you might call, "character builders."
Besides walking up and down the stairs, I have been busy at work, which sounds grown-up (read: boring), but is usually pretty fun. The summer was an all too quick blur of trips to our family's bungalow in Breezy. And autumn has been dotted with some lovely trips and visitors to NYC. The latest visitor of which deserves a blog post all his own, so I'm signing off here...
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Things I am enjoying right now
Words of wisdom
- "This is way worse than Britney. This is serious." -- A reporter, on Charlie Sheen
- "Why does anyone care about Charlie Sheen?" -- My mom
- "Maybe this is just a big scheme and CBS is in on it, and they are going to put Charlie Sheen back on his TV show. And then they would make a lot of money." -- My mom, again
- "My personal philosophy...I've just never been into sports, never cared about them. With so much going on in the world, I really don't see the point." -- The guy sitting next to me at a bar, talking to his silent date. It was a sports bar, across the street from the Verizon Center in Washington, D.C. A Wizards NBA game had just ended.
- "It's all about making sacrifices. I make sacrifices everyday. You've got yourself, your boyfriend, and your family. Not necessarily in that order." -- The same guy. I almost fell off my bar stool when he said this. First, because, apparently this silent woman was not on a blind date, but his girlfriend. Second, because he felt the need to add, Not necessarily in that order. How humble.
- "We should get rid of all the Republicans." -- A woman in her sixties, who was walking past the White House and turned toward me, looked me in the eye, and began speaking as if we were in the middle of a long argument. I didn't bother to tell her that I am a registered Democrat, didn't vote in the last presidential election, and learned about politics by reading novels.
- "That's the people house, right? Well then all the homeless people should move in?" - - The same woman, said while pointing at the White House. I actually thought this was a more sensible idea than getting rid of all the Republicans. I mean, where would we put them? But I laughed when she said this about the White House. I think it was because an image came to my mind of sleeping bags and garbage bags and brown shopping bags, and cats and dogs, and people wearing over-sized flannel shirts covering the floors of the White House.
- The new logo of Starbucks. According to a news article my dad sent me, the company decided to get a face lift for its 40th anniversary. (Dad, what is your job again?) Of course, I rushed out to see it on a cup for myself. Four dollars and change later, skim chai tea latte in hand, I know it's true. There is still the image of the mermaid/princess/goddess with long wavy hair and a crown. But, the image is green and white now, not black and white. The company's name, "Starbucks Coffee" is no longer there at all. I guess they assumed we were all smart enough by now to put two and two together.
- Lauren Groff. I've read some of her short stories from the collection, Delicate Edible Birds. Now, I'm reading her novel, Monsters of Templeton, and you should, too. Family secrets and scandals, a hometown that comes alive on the page, a prehistoric monster, and a central character that you find yourself willing to make sense of it all. Best yet, the writing is good. No, great. Its lyrical, smart, not overdone, pulls aspects of the mystery together, and makes it seem believable - even the monster.
- Forbidden Lessons in a Kabul Guesthouse by Suraya Sadeed, a memoir coming out this summer. This book will take you to places in Afghanistan you never knew existed, and change what you think (or don't think) about the country, its people, the Taliban, humanitarian aid, donating, education, and maybe even hope.
- Not lying or fibbing, which includes white lies and fibs for simplicity sake.
Colors
- Black. My boyfriend - who inspired the above life value (although I prefer not to go into the details about that right now) and who will probably fall off his bar stool when he reads his name in my blog - points out to me four or five times every week that I always wear black. Austin, I know, I like black clothes.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Riding the train
Today I'm thinking about trains. For the past few weeks, I have been riding the Metro North line from Connecticut to Grand Central. To put it in the least whiny way possible, this has been a tough winter for Metro North. The trains are (again, being as least whiny as possible) outdated, and the snowfalls up until late have been relentless. Of course, I mean relentless for southern Connecticut. In central New York, on the campus of Colgate University, I would call this weather, a mild winter. But in any case, because of the amount of train cars that were somehow damaged by the weather and in need of repair, Metro North had to reduce its New Haven line peak a.m. and p.m. trains by 10%. A letter put forth by Metro North explained that there simply was not enough space in the repair shops for all the damaged cars.
Yesterday (Monday), the New Haven line trains returned to their normal schedule. Today, the 6:33 a.m. train from Darien was canceled. "A train will be arriving in 15 to 20 minutes," a male voice came over the speakers and into the cold air of the tracks. I went inside the station house and as the minutes passed, I waited for some explanation to come over the speakers. Why was the train canceled? When the train came, 21 minutes, (the regular 7:54 a.m. train out of Darien), no explanation had been given. They didn't even tells us, I thought, as I sat in a train car with no heat (apparently the only one on the train, a different voice told me over different speakers).
It only occurred to me later, after I was off the train, had taken a subway ride, and was walking through downtown Manhattan, that I didn't know who "they" was and that it didn't matter at all why. At a comedy show I went to last year, a comedian was talking (joking, which I'll butcher) about traffic: Do you ever notice how you always need to know why there is traffic? And when the report comes on and you find out the reason --traffic is due to an accident at the bottom of the exit ramp--it's like yes, OK, uh-huh.
One could probably devote an entire year to blogging about Metro North. A train-ride-a-day-experience. It is always something. In the mornings, in the evenings, peak, off-peak. Off-peak, evening might make the best blogging material, though. I've seen someone take a baloney sandwich to the face. Actually, I sat behind that person and was splashed with Coke when a different person threw a paper cup in the baloney guy's direction. Actually, actually, though, the subway might make better blog material, entirely.
Two weeks ago, I was standing on the express train at the Union Square subway station, surrounded by many people (an understatement, but let's keep things simple). Nothing was strange about it until nothing happened. The doors were closed but the train did not move. No announcements were made. Why is this train not moving?, I thought. (But you already knew what I was thinking.) From one corner of the back part of the train that I was standing in, a jumbled, stuttering voice called out.
"Everybody wanted to go to work today. Because. Nobody went to work yesterday. No. Yesterday was President's Day. Well, you know what?" Pause. "Fuck the President. Today is February 22. My bills are paid. I didn't go to work. I stayed home and got drunk. But, no, everybody had to go to work."
Seven or so minutes and many more Fuck-the-Presidents later, a different voice called out.
"Folks, Union Square is this train's last stop. The doors are not operating properly. Everyone must get off the train."
Several seconds later, the doors opened, and several more seconds later, I stepped onto the platform. Claustrophobic, feeling a little air deprived, worried I'd miss the next train out of Grand Central, but somewhat satisfied because I had not one, but two explanations. The doors weren't working and too many people decided to go to work today and ride the subway. Now, if I could just figure out why that Metro North train was canceled today...
Yesterday (Monday), the New Haven line trains returned to their normal schedule. Today, the 6:33 a.m. train from Darien was canceled. "A train will be arriving in 15 to 20 minutes," a male voice came over the speakers and into the cold air of the tracks. I went inside the station house and as the minutes passed, I waited for some explanation to come over the speakers. Why was the train canceled? When the train came, 21 minutes, (the regular 7:54 a.m. train out of Darien), no explanation had been given. They didn't even tells us, I thought, as I sat in a train car with no heat (apparently the only one on the train, a different voice told me over different speakers).
It only occurred to me later, after I was off the train, had taken a subway ride, and was walking through downtown Manhattan, that I didn't know who "they" was and that it didn't matter at all why. At a comedy show I went to last year, a comedian was talking (joking, which I'll butcher) about traffic: Do you ever notice how you always need to know why there is traffic? And when the report comes on and you find out the reason --traffic is due to an accident at the bottom of the exit ramp--it's like yes, OK, uh-huh.
One could probably devote an entire year to blogging about Metro North. A train-ride-a-day-experience. It is always something. In the mornings, in the evenings, peak, off-peak. Off-peak, evening might make the best blogging material, though. I've seen someone take a baloney sandwich to the face. Actually, I sat behind that person and was splashed with Coke when a different person threw a paper cup in the baloney guy's direction. Actually, actually, though, the subway might make better blog material, entirely.
Two weeks ago, I was standing on the express train at the Union Square subway station, surrounded by many people (an understatement, but let's keep things simple). Nothing was strange about it until nothing happened. The doors were closed but the train did not move. No announcements were made. Why is this train not moving?, I thought. (But you already knew what I was thinking.) From one corner of the back part of the train that I was standing in, a jumbled, stuttering voice called out.
"Everybody wanted to go to work today. Because. Nobody went to work yesterday. No. Yesterday was President's Day. Well, you know what?" Pause. "Fuck the President. Today is February 22. My bills are paid. I didn't go to work. I stayed home and got drunk. But, no, everybody had to go to work."
Seven or so minutes and many more Fuck-the-Presidents later, a different voice called out.
"Folks, Union Square is this train's last stop. The doors are not operating properly. Everyone must get off the train."
Several seconds later, the doors opened, and several more seconds later, I stepped onto the platform. Claustrophobic, feeling a little air deprived, worried I'd miss the next train out of Grand Central, but somewhat satisfied because I had not one, but two explanations. The doors weren't working and too many people decided to go to work today and ride the subway. Now, if I could just figure out why that Metro North train was canceled today...
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tips I learned from Liam (plus a few from Mary Kay)
I thought about writing about all the things I recently learned from a Mary Kay beauty consultant. For example, if you don't wash your face for one night, your face ages somewhere between 7 and 50 days. (This is partially due to the way pores expand throughout the day and how quickly skin cells die). Always apply your moisturizer in upward motions on your face. Never pull your face down, it adds wrinkles. There is one exception and that is when you are applying foundation. I think. Also, make-up does expire, although it seems that most people actually already know this.
But, what I really want to write about is what I cannot stop thinking about. Liam's service. Liam.
On Valentine's Day, Prince Liam was remembered at a memorial service that carried a majestic air. Liam's friends, FDNY firefighters of Engine 1, Ladder 24 (and others from across NYC) stood guard outside of St. Francis of Assisi Church in midtown Manhattan. After the choir sang, "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep," the firefighters proceeded into reserved pews. Later, one firefighter of Engine 1, Ladder 24, where Liam has an honorary locker, spoke about Liam and the "firefighter ice-cream" that Liam used to eat at the firehouse. Along with another fireman, this speaker presented Liam's parents with an FDNY helmet. The choir included members of the cast of Lion King (Tshidi Manye, famous voice of Rafiki, among them). I've seen the Lion King (twice) but I didn't get goosebumps until Manye's renditions of "Circle of Life" and "He Lives in You" on Monday.
Everyone wore orange, Liam's favorite color. There were orange scarves, orange ties (Liam thought everyday was a good day to wear a tie), orange jackets, orange nail polish, orange dresses, orange headscarves. The flowers were orange. Bob Woodruff (ABC News Anchor and family friend); Liam's surgeon, Dr. Michael LaQuaglia (chief of Memorial Sloan-Kettering's pediatric surgical service); and a nurse practitioner from Liam's medical team spoke. Dr. LaQuaglia said that Liam was the only child that yelled his name across the playroom and the only one who could pronounce it right. Linda, the nurse practitioner, remembered how Liam and his sister used to claim to be "scooter-walking" when she reprimanded them for riding their scooters through the hallways of Sloan. Gretchen, Liam's mother, who spoke last, said that as far as she knew, there was never a rule about scooters until Liam came to Sloan. As Gretchen talked about Liam - how he was curious about everything (machines, medicine, gems, people) and how he made friends wherever he went (hospitals, offices, museums, school, playgrounds) - members of the choir wept silently. Most of them had probably never met Liam or Gretchen before.
Just a few avenues away, a reception followed the service. On the twelfth floor of Studio 450, cookies, Liam's favorite food, lined the counters and filled the table tops. Take-out containers, like the ones found in Chinese restaurants, were piled near the cookies. More people talked about Liam's scooter, his curiosity and inquisitiveness, his ability to draw people in and make them feel comfortable and loved. Another mother talked about the way Liam could make his classmates feel at home during play dates he hosted at Sloan, even if it was the first time his friends were visiting the hospital. And about his Superman costume, and the time he sang the ABC's at a Halloween party after he was discharged from the hospital that day. The mother of Liam's best friend, (a girl from school), stood in front of all the guests and talked about the adventures Liam and her daughter went on, and how Liam liked to buy her daughter jewelry.
"Liam had good instincts," the young girl's mother said, smiling.
Liam didn't understand the concept of later. If not now, when? he always asked one of his teachers, who could not completely hold back her tears as she stood in front of the podium and talked about Liam. Before speaking, the teacher had promised Gretchen, Liam's mom, that she would try not to cry.
Instead of sharing the Mary Kay beauty tips I learned, I'll leave you with a few things I learned from the service, reception, and Liam:
- If you care about someone, tell them.
- Be curious. Ask questions. Learn.
- Make friends in unlikely places.
- Complain less.
- Dress up when you want to.
- Make others feel special.
- Approach the world with an open mind. It will open itself to you.
- Do because you can.
- Now is a good time.
- Don't let the rules keep you from scootering. And scooter-walk when you have to.
- As Gretchen says, love like Liam.
But, what I really want to write about is what I cannot stop thinking about. Liam's service. Liam.
On Valentine's Day, Prince Liam was remembered at a memorial service that carried a majestic air. Liam's friends, FDNY firefighters of Engine 1, Ladder 24 (and others from across NYC) stood guard outside of St. Francis of Assisi Church in midtown Manhattan. After the choir sang, "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep," the firefighters proceeded into reserved pews. Later, one firefighter of Engine 1, Ladder 24, where Liam has an honorary locker, spoke about Liam and the "firefighter ice-cream" that Liam used to eat at the firehouse. Along with another fireman, this speaker presented Liam's parents with an FDNY helmet. The choir included members of the cast of Lion King (Tshidi Manye, famous voice of Rafiki, among them). I've seen the Lion King (twice) but I didn't get goosebumps until Manye's renditions of "Circle of Life" and "He Lives in You" on Monday.
Everyone wore orange, Liam's favorite color. There were orange scarves, orange ties (Liam thought everyday was a good day to wear a tie), orange jackets, orange nail polish, orange dresses, orange headscarves. The flowers were orange. Bob Woodruff (ABC News Anchor and family friend); Liam's surgeon, Dr. Michael LaQuaglia (chief of Memorial Sloan-Kettering's pediatric surgical service); and a nurse practitioner from Liam's medical team spoke. Dr. LaQuaglia said that Liam was the only child that yelled his name across the playroom and the only one who could pronounce it right. Linda, the nurse practitioner, remembered how Liam and his sister used to claim to be "scooter-walking" when she reprimanded them for riding their scooters through the hallways of Sloan. Gretchen, Liam's mother, who spoke last, said that as far as she knew, there was never a rule about scooters until Liam came to Sloan. As Gretchen talked about Liam - how he was curious about everything (machines, medicine, gems, people) and how he made friends wherever he went (hospitals, offices, museums, school, playgrounds) - members of the choir wept silently. Most of them had probably never met Liam or Gretchen before.
Just a few avenues away, a reception followed the service. On the twelfth floor of Studio 450, cookies, Liam's favorite food, lined the counters and filled the table tops. Take-out containers, like the ones found in Chinese restaurants, were piled near the cookies. More people talked about Liam's scooter, his curiosity and inquisitiveness, his ability to draw people in and make them feel comfortable and loved. Another mother talked about the way Liam could make his classmates feel at home during play dates he hosted at Sloan, even if it was the first time his friends were visiting the hospital. And about his Superman costume, and the time he sang the ABC's at a Halloween party after he was discharged from the hospital that day. The mother of Liam's best friend, (a girl from school), stood in front of all the guests and talked about the adventures Liam and her daughter went on, and how Liam liked to buy her daughter jewelry.
"Liam had good instincts," the young girl's mother said, smiling.
Liam didn't understand the concept of later. If not now, when? he always asked one of his teachers, who could not completely hold back her tears as she stood in front of the podium and talked about Liam. Before speaking, the teacher had promised Gretchen, Liam's mom, that she would try not to cry.
Instead of sharing the Mary Kay beauty tips I learned, I'll leave you with a few things I learned from the service, reception, and Liam:
- If you care about someone, tell them.
- Be curious. Ask questions. Learn.
- Make friends in unlikely places.
- Complain less.
- Dress up when you want to.
- Make others feel special.
- Approach the world with an open mind. It will open itself to you.
- Do because you can.
- Now is a good time.
- Don't let the rules keep you from scootering. And scooter-walk when you have to.
- As Gretchen says, love like Liam.
Friday, February 11, 2011
fitting room etiquette
I am not going to talk about how annoying it is to go into a dressing room (as a customer or employee) to find that someone has left panty hose, tank tops, jeans, sweaters, and headbands in lumps on the floor, on top of a chair, and hanging (but not from hangers) on the hooks on the walls. Although that is quite annoying, we all already know it is not proper fitting room etiquette. This is about a piece of fitting room etiquette that is much less well-known.
The other day I was in Talbot's with my grammy in search of a white cardigan that was just like the pink one she was wearing and the t-shirts that she saw on sale in the catalog. We found the white cardigan on one of the shelves by the entrance.
"I don't know if that is the same cardigan," Grammy said.
I checked the label on the sweater she was wearing, which was hidden beneath the brown puffy North Face jacket that used to be mine, but now is Grammy's.
"Grammy, they are made out of the same materials," I said, holding one of the folded white cardigans in my arms.
"Maybe it's not the same quality," Grammy said.
"Why don't you just try it on?" I asked. "What size are you?"
"Medium, medium or small."
I am just 5'7" (on a good day) and my grammy is at least four inches shorter than me - and that is taking into account the large brown curls that sit on top of her head. Sometimes I worry that the wind or an ocean wave will blow her right over if I don't reach out and grab her hand. But Grammy says that no one needs to worry about her and that she was the tallest person in her graduating class. My uncle says she went to a school of midgets. My mom buys Grammy clothes from the petite section for Christmas and every year Grammy holds them up and says, Oh I love this, but Suzanne, I don't know if this will fit me.
I found a size-small sweater in the pile and thought I would probably be coming back for an extra small.
Ten minutes later we were walking toward the fitting rooms.
"OK, I'll wait out here," I said. I couldn't remember the last time that I had been shopping with my grammy when she tried something on. It would have taken me hours to count the minutes she had spent outside the fitting room waiting for me, though.
"You can come in," Grammy said.
She took off her coat, scarf, and pink cardigan, and was just about to slip the white cardigan over her head and on top of her tank top, when she put the white cardigan down.
"Oh, I need my cover thing," she said, and started combing her hands through her purse. She took out a small plastic bag and turned it over in her hands looking for the opening. "Can you open this?"
I pulled the bag open. Something clear and also plastic was inside. I handed the opened bag back to Grammy and she unravelled a clear, plastic shower cap. I looked at the cap in her hands and then at her eyes.
"Oh, it's so I don't get make-up on the shirts," Grammy said. "Don't you hate when the person who tried something on before you left make-up marks?"
What make-up? I thought. Your dime-size dab of foundation cream?
Grammy placed one edge of the shower cap below her chin and pulled another edge up to her forehead, so that the shower cap covered her face from ear to ear and chin to forehead.
"Wait, you really do this? You put a shower cap over your face so you don't get make-up on the stuff you try on?"
She nodded. "Just let me know if I turn blue," she said in a muffled voice. She pulled the white cardigan over her face, slowly, though, so as to not catch the edges of the shower cap. She took the shower cap off her face. "Your aunt and cousin know I do this," she said.
Text Samantha after this to confirm that she does not think this normal and ask why she never thought to share this with me, I thought.
"OK, Gram."
Grammy tried on four or five t-shirts, different sizes and styles, before I convinced her to try a size-small from the petite section. Maybe she was tired of putting the shower cap on and taking it off so many times, maybe she just forgot, or maybe she didn't want me to stare at her in disbelief again, but she didn't place the shower cap over her face this time. After she pulled the t-shirt over her head, I noticed a smudge of beige about the size of a thumbnail on the collar.
I opened my mouth and then closed my lips. Couldn't tell her.
P.S. Thanks for the headscarf, Grammy. Talbot's isn't so bad after all..love you.
P.P.S. Valentine's Day is on Monday. And Cookies for Kids' Cancer is just a click away... http://www.cookiesforkidscancer.org/default.asp
The other day I was in Talbot's with my grammy in search of a white cardigan that was just like the pink one she was wearing and the t-shirts that she saw on sale in the catalog. We found the white cardigan on one of the shelves by the entrance.
"I don't know if that is the same cardigan," Grammy said.
I checked the label on the sweater she was wearing, which was hidden beneath the brown puffy North Face jacket that used to be mine, but now is Grammy's.
"Grammy, they are made out of the same materials," I said, holding one of the folded white cardigans in my arms.
"Maybe it's not the same quality," Grammy said.
"Why don't you just try it on?" I asked. "What size are you?"
"Medium, medium or small."
I am just 5'7" (on a good day) and my grammy is at least four inches shorter than me - and that is taking into account the large brown curls that sit on top of her head. Sometimes I worry that the wind or an ocean wave will blow her right over if I don't reach out and grab her hand. But Grammy says that no one needs to worry about her and that she was the tallest person in her graduating class. My uncle says she went to a school of midgets. My mom buys Grammy clothes from the petite section for Christmas and every year Grammy holds them up and says, Oh I love this, but Suzanne, I don't know if this will fit me.
I found a size-small sweater in the pile and thought I would probably be coming back for an extra small.
Ten minutes later we were walking toward the fitting rooms.
"OK, I'll wait out here," I said. I couldn't remember the last time that I had been shopping with my grammy when she tried something on. It would have taken me hours to count the minutes she had spent outside the fitting room waiting for me, though.
"You can come in," Grammy said.
She took off her coat, scarf, and pink cardigan, and was just about to slip the white cardigan over her head and on top of her tank top, when she put the white cardigan down.
"Oh, I need my cover thing," she said, and started combing her hands through her purse. She took out a small plastic bag and turned it over in her hands looking for the opening. "Can you open this?"
I pulled the bag open. Something clear and also plastic was inside. I handed the opened bag back to Grammy and she unravelled a clear, plastic shower cap. I looked at the cap in her hands and then at her eyes.
"Oh, it's so I don't get make-up on the shirts," Grammy said. "Don't you hate when the person who tried something on before you left make-up marks?"
What make-up? I thought. Your dime-size dab of foundation cream?
Grammy placed one edge of the shower cap below her chin and pulled another edge up to her forehead, so that the shower cap covered her face from ear to ear and chin to forehead.
"Wait, you really do this? You put a shower cap over your face so you don't get make-up on the stuff you try on?"
She nodded. "Just let me know if I turn blue," she said in a muffled voice. She pulled the white cardigan over her face, slowly, though, so as to not catch the edges of the shower cap. She took the shower cap off her face. "Your aunt and cousin know I do this," she said.
Text Samantha after this to confirm that she does not think this normal and ask why she never thought to share this with me, I thought.
"OK, Gram."
Grammy tried on four or five t-shirts, different sizes and styles, before I convinced her to try a size-small from the petite section. Maybe she was tired of putting the shower cap on and taking it off so many times, maybe she just forgot, or maybe she didn't want me to stare at her in disbelief again, but she didn't place the shower cap over her face this time. After she pulled the t-shirt over her head, I noticed a smudge of beige about the size of a thumbnail on the collar.
I opened my mouth and then closed my lips. Couldn't tell her.
P.S. Thanks for the headscarf, Grammy. Talbot's isn't so bad after all..love you.
P.P.S. Valentine's Day is on Monday. And Cookies for Kids' Cancer is just a click away... http://www.cookiesforkidscancer.org/default.asp
Friday, January 28, 2011
For Liam
I think I have been about to create a blog for about a year and a half. Maybe more. In that time, my Colgate soccer team won a Patriot League Tournament, I went to Nassau for spring break (where Karen did a number of blog-worthy things), my younger cousin graduated from high school, my older brother finally moved out of the house (congrats, by the way), I graduated from college, and I went to Europe. But none of these things seemed to shout to me, "Start your blog today," quite loud enough. No, that shout came from a young boy, just shy of seven years old. It is fitting, though, that this boy, who spent his entire life inspiring others, was the inspiration for this blog.
Disclaimer and promise: My mom tells everyone we know not to listen to my book advice because I always recommend "the saddest books." I know I told you I would start giving you some happier stuff to read, Ma, but this probably isn't what you were thinking of. I do promise, though, that if you read to the end of this post, I will not leave you feeling like how I feel after I watch a video on global warming - depressed, doomed, helpless. Keep reading and I'll tell you exactly what you can do, and maybe you won't be so sad for so long.
Liam, known around the world as Prince Liam the Brave, was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma in February of 2007. He was not yet three. Neuroblastoma is a solid tumor cancer of the sympathetic nervous system. It is the most common cancer found in infants and it accounts for 14% of cancers found in children under the age of five. Today, there is no known cure.
But one would be hard pressed to find someone who knew Liam who did not think that he would be cured one day. Liam had a smile that could light up a dark chemotherapy cubicle and a laugh that could fill an empty hallway in the hospital of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. After every scan - good, bad, or ugly (and normally some combination of the three) - there was Liam, in the playroom, at Sloan, a brave, stoic look on his face, ready to start the next treatment.
And Liam had a pretty good supporting cast. Soon after Liam's diagnosis, his family founded Cookies for Kids' Cancer, which has since raised millions of dollars to support pediatric cancer research. (To say that pediatric cancer is underfunded by the government and pharmaceutical companies would be a gross understatement that will not be made on this blog.) Cookies for Kids' Cancer grew out of a bake sale organized by Liam's mom, Gretchen. I use "bake sale" in a loose sense - Gretchen and about 250 volunteers made 96,000 cookies and raised $400,000. I used to think that Gretchen was super human, mostly to make myself feel a little better about how little I have accomplished, donated, given, and loved compared to her. Some part of me always knew, though, that Gretchen is not super human. At her most ordinary, Gretchen is a mother who loves her two children, Liam, and his younger sister, Ella. It is, perhaps, this love that has inspired her to do extraordinary things for many, many children with cancer.
On January 24, 2011 Liam passed away. I am grateful that I got to see Liam's smile in person, watch him help a janitor clean the floor at Sloan, and see him curled up in his mom's lap before he left this world. I know that Gretchen is not super human, but sometimes I still think that Liam is. He had a grace, wisdom, and heart that is hard to imagine in a six-year-old boy who was in and out of hospitals, doctor offices, surgeries, and treatments for most of his young life.
The world will never know what Liam would have been when he grew up, who he would have loved, where he would have gone to college, what he would have discovered, made, traded. The truth is that everyday the world loses another child, another son, another brother, another chance to see what some other kid who just wants to live, could be. Cancer kills more children every year than any other disease; more than asthma, diabetes, cystic fibrosis, and AIDS combined. Every year, 13,000 children are diagnosed with cancer in the U.S. The National Cancer Institute has a $4.6 billion budget - 12% for breast cancer research, 7% for prostate cancer, and less than 3% for all major pediatric cancers.
What can you do? You don't have to write a report, just talk to your friends. Tell someone you know that gold ribbons are for children with cancer. You don't have to find the cure, just support the race. This Valentine's Day, forget Lindt, Russell Stover, and Godiva. Send cookies from http://www.cookiesforkidscancer.org. You don't have to figure out which centers and grants to donate to. Cookies for Kids' Cancer and its prestigous medical advisory board has already done this. Just donate to Cookies and they will do the rest for you. Host a bake sale, raise thousands of dollars - Cookies makes it as simple as possible for you to help. Have another fundraising idea? Do it.
This week I spent $65 on a hat. A hat. Yesterday, I complained about the weather. 18 inches of snow. I am not asking you to never complain about the trivial things in your life. I am not asking you to give everything you have, in every sense of the saying, as Gretchen has, and as I know she will continue to do. I am just asking you to stop for a moment, think about Liam, and give something. Honor him. Help his friends. Help the 40,000 children around the world who are being treated for cancer right now. Help those who will be diagnosed tomorrow. I'm no mathematician, but I know that if we all just give a little, there will be a whole lot of cookies and money for pediatric cancer research going around. I know that more children will start surviving cancer, and that their mothers and Gretchen will thank you. And I know that Liam will be smiling down on us.
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