The View from Here

28: A Still Life

Calcium chew, multi-vitamin and aspirin for caffeine deficiency/hangover. All that’s missing is the handful of mini-Milky Ways that I had for breakfast.

“They Win Halloween”

Halloween makes me cranky.

I’m sorry but it does. Some of my negative feelings toward the Day O’ Candy & Mirth are personal (at the tender age of 12, we moved from New York to Boston on Halloween Day. I think ‘wrenching’ would be an adequate word for my feelings about that particular Halloween) and others- well, the blame belongs to the masses. Basically, anything you find at a store called “The Spirit of Halloween”, plastic masks, “sexy pirate” costumes, the racks and racks of unoriginal, uninspired ideas. Cheap, cheap, cheap. That’s what makes me especially cranky about Halloween. I feel like my mother when I used to complain there wasn’t a Kids Day. “Every day is Kids’ Day,” the patented response. Well, every day is “Unoriginal Day.” Can’t you put in a little effort?

But. BUT. It had never occurred to me before that, just like discounted candy and costumed-walk-of-shame stories, the best of Halloween can be found after-the-fact. Like this.

From Towleroad

And these- lovingly, achingly handmade by Wood over at Sweet Juniper for her munchinkins. “What a cute owl” doesn’t cut it, indeed. These are incredible. I want Martha Stewart to call her and say, “Props, my dear.” And I hope she records such a call so I can hear Martha Stewart say “Props” before I die.

Any other cute ones you’ve seen? I’m talking cute like “Will restore Judi’s faith in Halloween” cute. Link in the comments if you’ve got one and I’ll add it here. We’ll have ourselves a little Best Of gallery. Or we’ll stick with ogling these three, I’m ok with that too.

Oh, well, ok maybe ONE more. Since you asked so nicely.

Joan from MadMen, with a special appearance from Dog Draper.

 

 

 

Game, Set…

I signed up for a popular dating site last week. Can you guess which one based on the title of this post?

Some things I’ve learned about this newfangled online dating situation (hi, apparently I’m writing this from the year 2003) and it’s only been a couple of days:

1) Getting your PROFILE rejected by hugely popular dating site isn’t the best way to start things off. And they don’t tell you WHY you need to rewrite it, they just list reasons that range from You stupidly listed your home address to You are a prostitute in disguise. It turned out to be rejected because I said the word “shit” in my profile which I was all defensive about until my sister was like, “WHY would you talk about ’shit’ in your profile?” I conceded her point and then let it go.

3) My coupled-up girlfriends are really excited about this endeavor. Probably more excited about it than I am because they get to pick over profiles with me and I actually have to go out with people.

2) Well, HELLO defense-mechanism-based-humor. It’s been so very long since we’ve seen each other. Had I known that by putting myself “out there” so publicly, that seeking this very vulnerable position would cause you to erupt from within me like the old dragon in Gringotts Bank*, I would’ve chained myself to a radiator before hitting “Submit Profile.”

3) Alarming: So many of these guys’ profiles look exactly the same. Dude in backwards baseball hat. Likes sports bars, “diet and exercise” and Seinfeld reruns. If you lean toward Bro-town for your dating needs, run, don’t walk to Match.com. (Did I ruin the surprise? Sorry about that.)

4) For the girls out there- if you looked at a guy’s profile and he listed “cuddling” as one of his favorite activities, do you automatically cough “ass-kisser” or is that just me?

5) Really? You’re 37 years old and your range for a girl starts at EIGHTEEN? Was that merely an oversight? Because ew. And no.

As you can see, this is going to be a disaster. And I would apologize for the uncharacteristically cynical tone of this post but see #2. And just for a dash of hopefulness, I will say that a couple of guys actually made me clasp my hands in joy as bird twirled and sang overhead.

 

*It’s time to play “Count the references that make me still single!” Winner gets s custom-made Spinsters Forever kit and a very used copy of Bridget Jones’ Diary.

Yellow Kind of a Girl

A few weeks ago, I had to get keys made.

This post will be riveting. No, really. Stay with me.

So, I go to one of those old hardware stores, the kind that look like they’ve been around since The Dawn of When Man Declared He Would Need A Place to Buy Nails. Everything inside is cluttered and dusty, there’s a strange coo-coo clock on the wall that sings when I push open the 80 lb door.

The little shop is narrow and filled to the brim with Things, keys and business cards and nails and ancient, yellowing advertisements. The man behind the counter is old, lean and purely no-nonsense. He gives me a grunt from behind the counter and when I smile and tell him that I need a few keys made, he grunts again and holds out a hand for the keys.

He takes them and I notice the little index card that’s hanging over the register. CASH ONLY. I wince as he leans over the key-maker and I say, hesitantly, that I need to come back with cash. “I’m going to the supermarket,” I tell him and I point across the street to the massive supermarket, like maybe he never leaves his store and didn’t realize there was a jumbo-mart- right there! The whole time! Well, snip my whiskers!

He grunts again and just hands me back the keys. I do a major food-shop, remember the Cash-Back option and hurry back to the store, this time laden with bags.

The man doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s hunched over the counter and scowling at nothing when I walk in. Still, I smile and say, “Me again!” And I hand him the keys.

He makes the keys and starts to ring me up. $15 for six keys. Inwardly, I wince and wonder if the new dog walker could just climb through my 3rd story window every day instead. I’m about to hand over my $20 when I notice the key tags for sale in the display. I point to them. “Can I have two of those too please?”

He grumbles, “What color?” And I shrug and tell him to choose, it made no difference to me. He scowls down at the array of multi-colored key tags and then grabs a yellow one, saying, “You look like a yellow kind of girl to me.”

I’m so surprised that I let out a little laugh. He rings me up and hands me the bag and says gruffly, “You keep smiling now.”

I thank him and leave. I’m sorry if this post sounds like something your aunt would forward you but I’m just still amazed how somebody, anybody can surprise you.

All photos from this collection. Scroll through and be amazed.

Most Improved Female

It’s a funny award. I mean, it just SOUNDS funny. “Which of the females has most improved? JUDI. Yes, I agree. Most improved female, indeed.” That’s out of context, of course. When we’re right smack in the middle of Context Town, it’s for soccer. We had our last outdoor game yesterday and this award, lovingly crafted by our captain, was my own personal highlight.

Once I, you know, got over the initial, “This means I was absolute crap when we started” line of thinking. But whatever. It’s Monday and cloudy AGAIN so the office is incredibly dark and I feel like we now live in Norway and no one told me. How do the people of Norway get anything done, I ask you?

Nilly Landao

Greetings from my lunch hour. Have you missed me? Don’t feel bad. Since I started New Job on Monday, I feel like I haven’t spoken to anyone in my personal life.

Conclusion: transitioning back into a full-time work schedule is a teensy bit more complicated than I thought it would be.

[Needless to say, if you called me over the last few days to see how my first days have gone, may I just say- a) I love you and b) I'm retarded and will you call you back I SWEAR]

ANYWAY, one of the benefits of New Job is that I get to find stuff like this. I GET PAID to find stuff like this.

Meet Nilly Landao. She’s a designer from Israel and I. Love. Everything.

Enjoy.

This On Top Of That

Settled Here

A Very Slim Table

12 X 9 Meal

Airy Cocktail

About Meg

If you head over to Creme Kitchen, you’ll notice something strange beneath Lindsey’s recent post on delicious Creamy Cajun Chicken. A recipe for Whoopie Pies by someone named Meg…

Let me tell you how the last few emails between myself and “this someone named Meg” have gone:

Email #42

This Meg Person: And finally, I promise promise promise to post my recipe for whoopie pies. I swear.

Me: Ok. I don’t believe you. But fine.

Email #48

Megan Mullally Maybe: Going to do it!

Me: Whatever, Meg! I’ve been burned before!

Email #643

Megan Who: No, really. Today, I’m going to do it. Today. I swear. Today. Going to post it today. Today. I mean it.

Me: STILL NOT BELIEVING YOU.

Finally, finally, finally, I check out my Reader and ‘lo, we have ourselves a whoopie pie recipe! And MEG did it! I was so shocked, I did a chocolately delicious-double take.

Meg, in case you’re wondering (and oh, I know you are) is an awesome person who currently lives in Baltimore (and hates it with the kind of spastic fury that makes her rants hugely entertaining), working at Johns Hopkins and doing research on brain waves or something and, in her spare time, selling her tasty treats to some very lucky B-More patrons (who, luckily, do not know that she wishes the whole city would be cast out into sea). And those people are very, very lucky because she sent me brownies for my birthday and they were so good that I, in my impoverished state, started imagining scenarios where I could send Meg oodles of money and packaging and stamps so she would send those very brownies ONCE A MONTH for the rest of my life.

Welcome to the table, Meg. Looking forward to your next recipe in the next five years or so.

Oct. 15: Wave of Light

I have a God-awful memory. My friend Kate says it’s because, as a writer, I have too many details of imaginary people swimming around in my brain and it pushes out the unnecessary information like, say, what I ate for dinner yesterday or where I put my wallet. I believe her because she’s studying to be a doctor and, because she’s studying to be a doctor, her memory has gotten terrible too. The pair of us will probably end up wandering around in our robes in the middle of the night when we’re 40. Good times.

There’s one thing that sticks with me though. Occasionally, I’ll be sitting somewhere and I’ll blink and I’ll feel this bundle in my arms. I look down and I’m not where I sit at all. I’m not on the bus or at the movies or in my desk chair. I’m sitting on the old futon in my sister’s basement. It’s dark and my two-month-old niece is in my arms. She’s a bundle of soft and her little body is pressed against my stomach. She’s wearing a little onesie, I don’t remember what it looks like or what color it is. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember that part because I can feel her there. That’s all that matters. I hold on to that memory tighter than you could ever know.

I don’t need a day to remember her. (Lord, I could use a day to remember everything else though) Still, it’s nice to know that there is one. It’s nice to know that, today, we’re not alone.

In an odd turn of events, earlier this year, Kate’s mother asked me to help her with a project. She’s a grief counselor who deals specifically in the loss of infants and children and she’d written a book, a folk tale about such a loss and how to incorporate the memory of your loved one into your life. She asked me for help in editing and publishing the book so she could pass it on to parents going through a loss similar to what my sister and brother-in-law experienced, what we all experienced.

Here is the link to the book at Blurb.com and a preview below (there’s also a preview of the book on Blurb). My brother Lee did the illustrations in our niece’s name.

Splinched

“Transitions” is an irritating word. It should be reserved for things like group therapy and graduation speeches. But it really is the most accurate word for a week like this one as next week, the landscape will be much changed. Back to work, dog-walker, blogging in the morning, writing at night… It’s been a long time and I’m having difficulty easing back into it.

I am not taking advantage of this week as I once planned. The hours and days are slipping through my hands. I feel loose and distracted and scattered and happy. I’ve run out of coffee and I’m waiting for my second-to-last unemployment check before I can go to the supermarket (please, PLEASE let it come today). I’m stuck between my unemployed life and my soon-to-be-employed life and, to use a JK Rowling word, I feel splinched, a word Wikipedia helpfully describes as “being physically split between the origin and destination.” Even Wikipedia is poetic today.

I’m worried about Charlie, which is probably silly, but I haven’t really been apart from him on the regular since he got here. I’m flummoxed by the cost of dog-walking ($14 for a half an hour? Really?) and already I can see my new salary bleeding, which is probably a good thing. It’ll keep me from losing my head, once I no longer equate a check with guilt and self-pity.

See? Rambling. I’m in all directions today, this week, every day. I’ll get better, I promise, but until then… splinched.

The View from 28

I turned 28 yesterday. This number means various things to various people. It makes my cousins who watched over me when I was an infant feel old. It makes my brother smirk that I’m one year closer to 30 (bring it on, I say. Doesn’t 30 mean I’ll actually have money and not care about stupid stuff anymore?).

But what it means to me is that I am officially romance novel age. According to Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel, I SHOULD be one of the following at 28 years old:

- Slim and lovely with long, shiny brown hair that curls over my shoulders

- The totally competent owner of a charming bed & breakfast in New England. I’m so good at making scones and keeping guests comfortable that it’s not even funny. It makes you want to go out and open your own bed & breakfast IMMEDIATELY.

- Mother of an adorable, not-at-all obnoxious four year old son who’s not even remotely emotionally damaged by the fact that his father was an abusive bastard and we had to go into that underground railroad for abused wives. He’s even going to be ok with the new hot guy who lives next door and comes over to fix my water heater- no, gutters, crap, everything sounds dirty, and ends up fixing, that’s right, my broken heart.

- The daredevil pilot who still doesn’t have her father’s approval even though she’s breaking all these damn flight records (Oh, yeah- and it’s 1935) who then falls in love with her older flight instructor/father’s younger best friend so it’s slightly hot and only slightly creepy.

- A brilliant art historian who finds a map that will lead me to a lost Leonardo sketch but not if the sexy art thief GETS TO IT FIRST.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Belgium for a mad-cap romantic caper with a guy named Jasper. Or Grayson. Or Jake. Or, you know, to the kitchen for another piece of birthday pie.