I Almost Forgot what My Scarf Tasted Like

I have wanted to write for some time now- days actually, but this season has kept me very busy with rehearsals and parties and time with friends. I’ve really enjoyed this Christmas seasonhere in NYC. We are all moved into our spacious one-bedroom apartment and I absolutely love it. We bought a real Christmas tree last weekend in the pouring rain. And it looks pretty good for a tiny, $25 tree.

I bought two packs of .99 cent ornaments at Jacks (which was an entirely new experience for me as well) and put a big red bow on the top. I have a strand of white Christmas lights, of which about 10-15 of the bulbs don’t light up. Luckily, it’s the bulbs closest to the plug that don’t work, so I wrapped the tree in the ¾ of lights that work and plugged that electrical fire hazard right on into the wall. --- Oh, and the best part, I “borrowed” the lights from my worship director’s office. Thank for the lights, Beth, by the way… I’ll return your broken lights after the first of the year.

I’ve lost a glove twice now, but I’ve found it twice too, so that makes me extremely happy. Once, leaving the subway I dropped it climbing the stairs up to the street level and the girl behind me was nice enough to pick it up and stop me to return it. I had my iPod on so she had to tap me. I was perplexed at her niceness. People are not this nice in the city. I think I told her “Thank You” like three times. Then, I dropped my glove again outside my friend’s apartment building and upon doing a clothing inventory when I got inside her warm place I realized I was missing a glove. I found it lying outside the glass door downstairs.

I get wool fuzz in my mouth and in my eyelashes. My nose runs so I carry those pocket Kleenexes with me at all times. I don’t care about being fashionable, just warm. Warmth is the number one priority. And like my sister realized when she visited here, no one is going to see what you’re wearing underneath your coat, because your coat isn’t going to come off much.

Like Saturday. I went to the grocery store in my pajama bottoms, goulashes, over-sized sleep t-shirt that says, “Texas on Tour” and my big poofy coat. No bra, no make-up no hair washed. But no one could tell because my coat comes down past my knees and my goulashes up to my knees and with my big pink hat on, I looked pretty pitiful anyway. But at least I was warm.

If necessary, I will leave my house fifteen minutes earlier to catch the cross town bus to avoid walking in the wind and rain. This morning the snow was still piled up on the curbs and I considered taking the bus, but I get rather impatient waiting… and waiting… and waiting. So, I walked this morning and it wasn’t so bad. There was no precipitation, just sludge.

In the winter the subways can begin to stink as homeless people move their home from the streets to the train cars. The subway station I get on at each morning has started to smell a little like a cattle trailer. I think it’s because the homeless have moved in. Kind of sad and gross, but what can you do? (I’ll write another blog about this tomorrow.) One cardboard sign that a guy was holding as he sat outside Grand Central Station read, “Homeless, Please Help, Bad Heart.” Same guy, same time, everyday.

In the winter people are less likely to pick up their dog poop, especially in the snow. And the sanitation department is less likely to pick up the trash when there’s a blizzard and so the trash sits covered in snow on the curb.

It’s dark at 4:00 and my serotonin starts to wane. I want to go to bed at 7:00. I don’t want to eat fruits and vegetable which are imported from Florida or Mexico. I want to eat legumes and root vegetables and oatmeal and Campbell’s tomato soup made with skim milk in a saucepan on the stovetop.

I don’t want to run errands like I usually enjoy doing: CVS, Hallmark, dry cleaning. I mean heck, I haven’t even been to the gym in a week- and for no good reason. I just want to go to work and go home. I’m in hibernation mode. I’m settling in for a long winters nap.

Boogers, Rasberry Blistex and Bleeding Knuckles.

I know I keep telling you cold wintery tales. However, I am still facinated by the weather up here- and actually having to "be out in it." It amazes me that I do what I do. Every single day. (Except for Sunday. I skipped church because of the snow. And I still had a holiday get together thingy, sorry God. I'm a bad Christian I know.)

Where I from we don’t have winter. We don’t have snow or salt covered sidewalks or Uggs. People don’t wear winter coats that look like full body-length sleeping bags. I had never seen chains on the tires of a city bus or people shoveling their way out of the driveway until I moved here. The Salvation Army bell ringers don’t wear suits or sing Christmas Carols or yell at you like the emcees on the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon from the karaoke machine sitting at there feet.

And it’s cold outside, real cold. I never realize the unavoidable nose leakage until that clear snot hits me in the upper lip. Why does that happen? And my eyes water. I wear knee-high hosiery underneath wool socks to work each day with my big ugly shoes where I change into my heels.

High heels. Black, platform, pho-snake skin, tall and pointy-toed heels. I’ll admit, I am a bit discussed at the way I have to come into work each day, all 5’6” with no added height whatsoever, in leather shoes with a good grip- but again I say, it’s all about staying warm- and being able to walk down the sidewalk as well. The higher the heel and the pointier the toe the more feminine (read “sexy”) I feel.

Well, I just feel confident. Even if my pants are hand-me-down’s (hand-me-up’s??) from my younger sister and I got my blouse from Housing Works, at least my shoes are nice. Oh, and my handbag. Those are two things I spend money on- shoes and handbags.

And Merry Christmas to me, because I just bought a $200 purse yesterday at Banana Republic for $90. Thank You pre-holiday Sale.

Dubonnet or Vintage Red?

Have you ever experienced a Christmas morning like this? How about simply a morning like this. Nothing is going your way: your oatmeal runs over the side of the bowl in the microwave leaving a huge puddle of goop which will be the consistency of concrete when you get home tonight, you can't find your other glove, and when you get to the train station you realized your Metrocard has expired and you are forced to stand in a line twelve people deep. Now you will be late for work. My morning did not unfold into such a traumatic episode today, however I am feeling a little spoiled. (Kind of like Jonathan, here, about six years ago.)

This is my brother when he was about six or seven and he will be thirteen in April 2010. I don't even recall the reason he got so upset, after all this was the Christmas he got his bike, but I do remember wondering why he was so upset- he had everything. Being the only kid in the house, Christmas was about him. My sisters and I were out of the house, in college, in grad-school, getting proposed to and trying to make car payments. He had four "mothers" to spoil him and he was still somehow ultimately disappointed.

I don't have deep troubles or stresses and yet, I still somehow manage to wake-up with the same headache I went to bed with. I think a chiropractor could solve this problem with a quick alignment, but finding a new chiropractor in NYC sort of weirds me out. Not that there aren't good ones, but I know there are tons of bad ones. I don't take risks when it comes to my musculoskeletal system. Gynecologist, Opthamologist, Dermatologist- I have a whatever attitude. I've given more thought and research (via asking girlfriends, Internet searches & of course investigating the wonder that is YELP) to who cuts my hair than who does my pap smear. Seriously.

Anyway- I don't have a hard life. The hardest decision I made this morning was choosing between oat bran for breakfast or hot Grape Nuts. (I love hot Grape Nuts- they smell like my childhood and taste oh, so, so good!) Deciding to wear MAC's Dubonnet Red lipstick, or Clinique's Vintage Red? I realize that these lip colours are over $20 a piece, but as I thought of this staring in the mirror at my soft pale lips I remembered that both of these were given to me. One by a friend who got didn't like the bold Vintage Red included in her free gift during Clinique bonus time, and the other by a friend who has a fabulous job as Asst. Beauty Editor at First for Women. She gives me marvelous tid-bits: eye color, lip gloss, nail polish- colors that just aren't her.

I have wonderful friends, a great relationship with my family, and a husband who I've loved for almost half my life. (It's all about relationships & people...) Once, after reading a short essay I wrote about Chris, one of the comments I received was, "Stefani, I want to marry your husband." Sorry girls, he's mine. I realize the enormity of all that I have been blessed with. To walk down the sidewalk in New York City, leaves crunching underfoot, to smell pine in the air, candle wax, and exhaust.

I will have a new apartment this weekend. A beautiful space that "we will live in until we die," which I told Chris this morning. With my next paycheck I want to buy a $25 tree from the guy selling trees outside the park entrance on Second Ave and 91st Street. I sort of feel bad for deciding what to buy myself this time of year- with money that's not even in my account yet. I have everything and sometimes still, I'm disappointed. I get the most joy, the most pleasure from giving. Giving it all away: time, money, cups of coffee, dinner, trinkets- dresses I only wore once and purses that just aren't me anymore. I don't feel like I have much. I was raised simply, I am frugal, I do bring my own tuna (in an washed out sour cream container) and bag of Dole Romain lettuce to work to eat for lunch. But, I am so, so blessed.

People, People Everywhere

This is an elf I passed yesterday morning right outside Grand Central Station on my way into work. This is a prime location for marketers to "petal their wares" so-to-speak and I'm amazed at the oddities that I so often see. A couple of weeks ago there were about 50 Santa's wearing shorts beneath there long jackets promoting Augusten Burroughs' new book You Better Not Cry. Hilarious.

Usually, it's just people passing out fliers, pamphlets, and brochures, but I have received a free sandwich from Pepperidge Farm, free chocolate- with coupons attached, and free flavored water.

There are so many people in this city that at some point, things stop surprising you. When you live here, sadly enough you do start to ignore it all. You begin to think that everyone looking at you saying, "Excuse me, sir" is about to ask you for a dollar. Chris told just this week a man was standing on the sidewalk and motioned for Chris's attention. Fighting his desire to keep shuffling past, Chris stopped. "Which way is 86th Street?" the man asked.

You never know. Things may not be as they appear to be, or they very well may be. But does that matter? Last night Chris and I were discussing one of our pet-peeves we have with the Christian religion. Religion with a capital R. Christians always want to convert people, people far, far away- like in Africa. They want to go in and tell people what's right and who's wrong. And not that I'm against evangelism, but shouldn't we start by loving our neighbor. The boss that you dislike, the person in the apartment above you that plays really loud music at 3:30AM, the neighbor who's dog poops in your yard, the friend who quit calling you so she must be a snob. We have to be peacemakers. We have to.

I'm just saying that in New York there are so many freaking people that need love. I want to smother them all with fresh flowers and Starbucks gift cards, and dinner over at my house (even if it's just taco soup and just a one bedroom apartment.) Because after all, it's not our choice who God loves. He's not like us. "He loves because that's the only place real life is. He dwells in love. It's not our right to NOT love."

Sunday, our pastor shared a sermon that really, really shook me up regarding relationships and people and how we interact with everyone we come in contact with, daily. (I will write more about this later- I've been marinating in it.) I think about this city, how big it is and how many souls- lives- people live here. There are a lot of opportunities to hug, smile, listen, buy a coffee. I truly believe in being called to cities- and NYC is mine, for now anyway. I don't need to go to Africa.

December, Week Two

Whew, it's December isn't it? Life gets a little crazy and all seems turned on end from time to time. We've had our first snowfall, so now it feels more holiday-season-ish. And tonight is supposed to be messy which will mean a sludge-commute in the morning. Those are not so pleasant for trouser cuffs.

So, I've been designated the "photographer" for our church Christmas Concert because I "just have an eye for it." So, tonight more photos at the church. Mostly, I just submitted photos that I had already taken, however, I did enjoy taking pictures in Grand Central Station yesterday during the morning commute. There are so many people hustling and bustling about. I'm usually one of them, so to just stand still and watch the mayhem ensue- it was a little overwhelming. Not that this is news to me, but I've never just people watched during "rush hour."

Tonight, more photos, and tomorrow rehearsal. Thursday is our company "Holiday" Party and Friday more rehearsing. Saturday and Sunday are the nights of the Christmas Concert. And perhaps somewhere in all of this Chris and I will be moving across the hall to 32C. Although Tuesday is truly Dec. 15th we are hoping to be able to begin moving this weekend simply to have more time. We will not be taking off work. Then there's the cleaning and organizing and re-organizing and putting back together and hanging and arguing about what goes where. (Not too much of that, really.) I only have a couple of house rules:

1. No TV in the bedroom. Ever. This is a non-negotiable.
2. Most meals eaten/ prepared at home need to eaten together at the Dinner Table.
3. No clothes on the bedroom floor. (Except if they're getting worn again- jeans, hoodies, workout shorts, put them somewhere neatly.)
4. There do not need to be shoes in every room of the house. (Which we will now have two.)

These really aren't rules, just things that make me Me, and Chris knows that. So far, so good. He really is a great husband. He puts the toilet seat down, takes out the trash and loads the dishwasher- as well as puts dishes away. Most anything else he will do, if I ask him to because otherwise, he doesn't see it. And I honestly believe that.

Beer bottles on the coffee table, toothpaste in the sink, cobwebs and hair and fuzzy lint balls that seem to form overnight- he doesn't see them. He doesn't notice that there's half a pot of coffee left in the decanter from four days ago or that there are take-out menus by our front door that some delivery guy has shoved underneath. But when I ask, he'll start the washer and put away clothes in the dryer, except for his white undershirts which he says I fold perfectly. He'll pre-heat the oven and even wash the sheets- if I ask. Once, he even stopped at Trader Joes and bought my favorite soup and Clif bars and stood in that horrific line.

Yesterday he even did some of my Christmas shopping for me. HELLO, how did I get so lucky? Mostly, I love my husband for loving me as fiercely and un-relentless as he does. And because he calls me Super Sexy. Mostly every day.

Perspective

This is me and my Thanksgiving Pecan Pie. I did well- besides the totally fake crust. I made Chris take a picture of me because I was so proud. And on my first try too! Yay.

So, there are things I'd love to say today, but I will refrain because this is the Internet and if you Google "Stefani Chambers" this site is the first thing that comes up. I try to be "good" and refrain. To not tell it all- I try to journal and write and vent to my friends, but sometimes--- there are stories I'd love to tell you but I just can't.

I was reading another blog today and she commented on why we actually write and why (we think) people want to actually read what we write. She says - so much more eloquently than I ever could:
It seems for me that writing forces me to respond to my life instead of merely letting it wash over me. I wonder sometimes what makes people want to read my writing. Is it a form of voyeurism? Curiosity? The need to connect to another human without making a commitment?

I wonder about this alot. Like, oh, whenever I am writing or not writing or people ask me about something they read, or someone they read about in my blog. For instance, one of the elders at my church reads my blog. He's read about my dad, and my self-indulgence and my not wanting children, and the time I peed in the woods. I mean seriously, why do I have this desire to write about any/ everything that I think any/ everyone can probably relate to?

Today, on my way to the train I thought about this when I saw a yellow plastic shopping bag hanging from a bare tree filled with rain water. It hung there like some sort of water balloon just waiting to splat someone. When I see peculiar things. When I experience peculiar things, I think, "I should write about this."

Like the fifteen-year-old-looking girl I pass on most mornings when I leave my apartment. No lie. It's an odd thing in the city to pass the same stranger more than once. But on most days I pass this brunette, long-legged, girl in glasses. And every day, she's eating Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. The second, even the third time I found it so odd. But today, as we walked past each other in front of the guy selling Christmas trees, I knew she had probably never even realized that we crossed paths every single day. I only recognize her as the Reese's girl. What a well-balanced breakfast, a little protein, a little fat. Or the guy selling Texas Pecans right off the subway stop. He sounded Texan. He looked Texan. His cardboard boxes stacked on his card table said, "Texas Pecans." I squinted as I rushed passed to see if I could see what city they were from, but I couldn't.

I write about strangers, about people I'm getting to know better and people I already know well.

One of those I'm getting to know better is this lady who started attending our church sometime late last Spring. She joined the choir this fall. I now know her name. I know her British accent and I've prayed with her. I know she comes to choir just to have somewhere to go, to have a community to be involved in and that's fine. She is a travel/ entertainment/ food critic type writer. Wednesday we discussed restaurants and the expensive private school her daughter attends. (Seriously, I had no idea!) We talked writing and how she had met Jack Canfield and after our ten minutes of sharing I seriously wanted to go to brunch with her. Yes, she is broken and has problems and hurts, but don't we all. Even if her problems are obvious and apparent and not secret sins, she is no less one of God's creations than I am.

When we left rehearsal Wednesday night her face was streaked with mascara and her hands black, appearing soot covered, and damp from snot. I hugged her and told her I'd see her Sunday morning. Oh, but for the grace of God go I.

O Christmas Tree

This is the Christmas Tree from The Chambers's First Christmas together. Our friends the Stockhammer's let us borrow it for the season because they prefered to have a real tree. Isn't it splendid and big and colorful? Look at all the decorations and presents. We even had a real live mantle and stockings by the fireplace and a window that looked out onto our manicured yard that the lawn service professionals tended to each week. It had a sprinkler system and azalea bushes. Wow, what a nice life.

This is a pile of stuff we sold in our "We are moving to New York City" Garage Sale. Although I did get rid of lots of garland and candles and Hobby Lobby-esk type decor, most everything else I left in Texas. (All those, "Our First Christmas" ornaments & our nativity set & our Christmas dishes that I have never even used!)

This is me trudging through lots and lots of stuff preparing to move. (Ah, my red couches, I miss them! And look at that spacious living room- not to mention the dining area and huge kitchen.) We left a two bedroom, two bathroom, two car garage duplex with a front yard and a backyard that we paid $815 a month for! The problem is it was in Texas and we want to live in NYC.

A dear friend once told me that she moved to NYC, one of the craziest, most hectic places in the world, to live the simplest life she has ever lived. I find that statement to be very true.

Weighlifting, Two Cups of Coffee & a Quicky

... all before 8:00am. And thus my day began.

I wore all black today- just so I could dawn my red, velvet heels for the winter. They may seem a bit eclectic, or non-practical, but I wear them quite a bit each winter. They really help me get in touch with my inner sass & I think every woman should have a pair. (Or at least the comparable for those who are not as bold as I am, like lacy undergarments or a big hat or fifteen silver bangle bracelets. Something that says,"I own this room. I'm confident. I'm bold. I'm alive.")

It was 37 degrees as I walked to the subway this morning - (not in my red velvet heels, but in my Borns--YIKES!!) but, I enjoyed it. The cold, crisp air and not working up a sweat before climbing into the MTA pit with all the other people headed to work. It's a funny thing, cramming your body into a subway car with total strangers. There were more people on my subway this morning than there are in the town I grew up in. Eustace, Texas- population 800-something. Weird. And even weirder still is that sometime in the past two and a half years, this has become normal to me.

Thanksgiving was good. My pies were good. Turkey and dressing and sweet potato rolls- all good! Wednesday night I cooked, Thursday I ate, Friday and Saturday I tried to catch moments outside in the sun, and Sunday- more singing, relaxing, and trying to catch more moments in more sun. I walked through Central Park and found myself taken aback by how much had changed since I'd been there last. Seasons- there an amazing thing- and something totally new to me, being from Texas. Something about that place- knowing you are minutes, mere footsteps even, from thousands of people, but feeling so alone in that moment. And Monday--- it was back to work. December is always so busy with parties and dinners and concerts and out-of-town guests and moving.

We moved last December from Astoria into Manhattan and this December we are moving again. Across the hall to a true one-bedroom. Hopefully, sometime around December 15th we can scoot all of our things down the hall. We are really looking forward to it because we get to keep our fabulous view, we don't have to hire movers, and we get more than one closet!! Chris is looking forward to the pass-through bar so he can eat & watch TV at the same time, which is not currently allowed in our home. (I like to have a quiet dinner time at the table where we "discuss our day.") But, living room dinners may be acceptable from time-to-time.

So, sometime after December 15th we can put up a tree (hopefully). I have been promised a hand-me-down tree, which I do not oppose, however, it still sits in a basement in Jersey. But, I have recently started rallying for a real tree.

In NYC the day after Thanksgiving the tree salesmen pop up overnight across the city. Currently, my argument for buying a real tree vs. getting a free tree are:

1. If we got a small, real tree I would not be tempted to decorate it with ornaments and lights and garland - none of which we have, all of which are in storage in Eustace, Texas with our Christmas dishes, nativity set, stockings, etc.
2. If we purchased a real tree we wouldn't have to store it.
3. I wouldn't spend additional monies on lots and lots of ornaments, lights, and garland for our small tree. It would be more like a large house plant.
If not a tree, then maybe just a swag with berries or a wreath or something, ANYTHING to denote Christmas.

I moved to NYC with two ornaments, a fall/ holiday garland thing I got at Pier One, and a penguin candy dish. The penguin is wearing a hat and scarf. Pretty pitiful. I know I'd rather have a new apartment than a new silver necklace or new lip gloss or a new journal, but I want Christmas to be somewhat festive.

I want it to feel like Christmas. For the same reason I'm wearing my red lacy undies that Chris got me- the ones that match my red heels and red lipstick. It's merry. It's holiday-ish. It's glad tidings of great joy (okay, maybe not.) Watch out world, here I come.

Why buy a pre-made pecan pie for $8.00 when you can buy two cups of pecans for $7.99?

Ok. So, I know that is a long title, but bear with me. To our Thanksgiving gathering I am taking English Pea salad & Pumpkin Pie. Well, not a real pumpkin pie, but a healthier version. I've never made this particular recipe, but chose it because it is a baked pumpkin pie. The other "light" versions of pumpkin pie I've tried were simple and chilled. This one is baked, so I'm hoping it tastes more authentic.

In all the preparation and buying ingredients Chris asked if I would make a pecan pie too. Now, pumpkin I can do, and a healthy pumpkin alternative, I can do. But, real pie scares me. Real pecan pie that is served after a real turkey and dressing meal really frightens me. I asked Chris if I could make something else, anything else: cookies, cheesecake brownies or lemon squares. I asked if I could buy a pecan pie next door at this authentic bakery that pumps the scent of pound cake right out the front door at all times. He said no. He said that buying a pie is not in the spirit of the holiday (I think he's been listening to me too much. Sounds like my own teachings.)

So, I found a few recipes online and fumbled around and emailed my mom three times. She told me the one that was most like her own and told me to go for it. (Oddly, this recipe from the Oct. 2007 Southern Living magazine is called Mom's Pecan Pie.) She told me the key is to be patient and let it set. Letting it set is the name of the game & she told me "this doesn't mean turn up the heat." She instructed me to put foil on the edges of the pie crust to protect it from burning and keep that pie a-cookin'. An hour if it takes that long. Or longer.

List in hand, I stopped at the grocery store on my way home yesterday evening. I couldn't just buy one pre-made frozen pie crust, they only come in sets of two. (I guess there will be more holiday baking between now and Dec. 25th.) I couldn't just buy one pie tin, they only come in packs of four for $4.99, and the way I see it, this late in the game I am not comparison shopping all over NYC. Pecans set me back $7.99. The other ingredients were reasonable and in stock.

Except for dark corn syrup & baking Splenda (marked at $8.99 a bag!!!). The Splenda is for the pumpkin pie, don't worry- the pecan pie will be 100% real.

At this point, I'm beginning to wonder if I will find either one of these items before nightfall. If I don't we will have a pecan pie made with LIGHT corn syrup & real sugar in the pumpkin pie. Cause I'm gonna make this work- one way or another. Even if it doesn't taste like Momma's.

Not Myself

"I just don't feel like myself." I said this to Chris last night as we stood on Third Avenue waiting on the M101 bus to take us up to 91st street. "Not that I know what I feel like, or that I feel like someone else I just feel blah."

Sunday and Monday, I just felt blase. Bland. "Poopy" as Chris and I say, which has no inference to actually needing to use the bathroom, it's just an emotion. Sunday I took a nap and Monday morning I didn't go to the gym. I wore brown instead of black. I wore my hair pulled back. I ate a slice of pizza for lunch instead of my usual Hale and Hearty or soup/ tuna combo I bring from home. Pizza is not me. (It was vegan pizza on whole wheat crust, but pizza nevertheless.)

And I had to work yesterday. What I mean is I had to actually do work at work. I didn't even get to check my Facebook account until after 2:30pm and I still haven't responded to an email that I would like to respond to. I thought I'd get to edit that piece I wanted to submit by November 30th. I mean seriously. I thought this was a low key work week. I thought I was just a measly receptionist who did a little of this and a little of that, gee whiz.

Then, when my co-worker told me to have a glass of wine and relax when I got home after work I let her know that after work I was heading to choir rehearsal. (Monday night instead of Wednesday night this week: our modified Thanksgiving schedule.) My usual routine when I get off work at 6:00pm and have choir at 7:00pm is to wander uptown to church, taking my time, stopping at Ann Taylor or Sam Flax Stationers. But yesterday I walked myself right down to the subway, got off at the first stop, and walked straight to church at 6:20pm.

When I got into the sanctuary there was no one there. Everyone was sitting at Starbucks, or grabbing a burrito, or picking up toiletries at Bed Bath and Beyond one block over- or so I assume. I laid down (or, did I lie down, or lay down?) the first pew in my sweater dress and boots, wadding up my scarf as a pillow. I had no energy. I had no money to spend on stuff. I had no want to. I was tired and lethargic and didn't feel like myself. And I don't think God has a problem with us coming to Him like this.

So, laying (lieing??- Listen, I'm a writer not a grammar teacher. And yes, my masters is in Journalism, but I don't have my style book handy.) on the pew at church was just where I needed to be. (For those of you haven't, I wish you could be inside Trinity for just a moment. It's beautiful. Mystical. Old and cave-like.) Growing up in a "gym church" I appreciate the architecture and design and meaning behind each pillar and painting and stained glass window. The ceiling in the sanctuary is a dome which has smallish windows that let in ample sunshine. Directly in the center of the dome is a triangle that has an eye in it. I realize that it sounds creep and new-age and a bit non-Christian, BUT the designer intended it to represent the eye of God, looking down on his people. Laying on the pew, I looked into that big eye.

I could hear Dave playing his guitar and singing upstairs in classroom C. I could hear Beth singing along to the worship song pumping out of her computer speakers, "Fill up my lungs with air, my voice with prayer and my mouth with praise...." Downstairs I could hear metal folding chairs colliding as the monthly prayer team circled-up. And I liked it and I knew this is where I was supposed to be.

And when I did get home, sometime after 9:30pm, I did have that glass of red wine.

Holding Back

This photo was taken on Christmas Eve of last year. Chris and I sang at the 7:00pm Christmas Eve service at church- which was something totally new to both of us, a Christmas Eve candlelight service. That is not something that most Baptist girls grow up doing- but I truly loved it. So much so that we will be singing again this year. The service ended last year with everyone singing Silent Night as they left the church, their candles still glowing. By the end, we were left singing in an empty sanctuary- Chris playing guitar- and "sleep in heavenly peace" echoing off the stone walls. I cried.

BUT, before we can get to Christmas Eve we must first have Thanksgiving. Sunday is our Thanksgiving service at church- which is pretty darn marvelous! It's full of music and people sharing what they are thankful for. Last year I shared. It was pretty much one of the bravest things I've ever done. Within my effort to let other people know that they are not alone, or weird or completly messed-up, I realized the same. So many have said "Thank You for sharing, and being real." So many have said, "I've been there."

Despite someone recently telling me that they feel as if I'm "holding back" I think I'm pretty transparent. Or at least that is my intention- to all persons at all times.

Honestly, I was taken aback by the statement, especially when this person "did" me, with the crossed arms and head turned to the side, facing slightly upward. Then, there was the hair toss. I don't toss my hair! And I sure don't try to come across so snobbishly. And I don't even think that this person meant that I was snobbish, just stand-off-ish. That I was distant, vague, a shell of a person without a soul! I don't know, but I feel like I'm very, VERY real. Yes, I still have my issues, my hang-ups, my personal struggles where I'm like, "Seriously, this shouldn't be an issue for me anymore..." But I have to live in this flesh suit until the day I die, so... I think sin will forever be present.

At any rate, it upset me and I kept thinking about it through the night and cried to Chris while I sat cross-legged on the couch in my flannel pajama bottoms, studying the backs of my hands. As he searched on Craigslist for apartments in Gramercy he said, "Don't worry about it." But I do.

All I know is I don't feel like I'm holding back. Not in the way I perform my daily tasks at my job, not in the way I manage my monies, not in the way I try so desperatly to let people know that they are wanted and needed. I'm trying to Love Well. And "holding back" - it does't mesh well with the goal I'm trying to achieve.

And today, two people have asked me if I'm sick. "You look tired," they say, "pale." "Your eyes are lower than usual." Although, I'm not sure what this means.... I think it's my red lipstick and pale skin. I don't know. But, I'm fine people. I'm really fine, I'm not holding back- This is Me.

I love lists.

And I love datebooks. You know- paper calendars? PAPER, yes, people still use paper organizers/ planner/ datebooks, whatever it is you want to refer to them as. Well, at least I do, and I'm assuming there are few other people who do, as well, since there is quite a fine selection of them for sale at various bookstores and stationary boutiques across this city. I like keeping lists in my datebook too.

I carry a smallish journal with me at all times, in case I get inspired, or that one great line runs through my head while sitting in the concourse of Rockefeller Center, or while eating sushi in Grand Central Station. I use it more for real writing. But, usually, I end up jotting down notes to myself in my datebook.

If one were to glance through the pages, flipping between March and September and into December, they would see some curious lines. In my 2009 planner, at some point or another, I have written: fix typos, 8:00pm ABC- Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, sign lease, order a gift for Shirley online, 11:15 massage- take coupon!!!, mandatory dress rehearsal, 9:30AM Penn Station- train to Long Beach, Chris unplugged AM Svc.

Additionally, I found it necessary to write that on Dec. 6th at 2:30 I was to buy moving boxes at The Container Store, Kim returned from Texas on July 13th, and that Lora's due date was July 31st. I took a book to Heidi on August 10th between 9-2, had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Shadlow on Sutton Place at 8:45 on September 21st (although, now that I think about it, I didn't go....), responded to Melissa's email on August 17th and mailed Rick's card on January 31st.

In my datebook I have written down Chris's vacation days from school for the 2009-2010 academic year, LB's newest address on Walton Drive, the phone number of the place I now work, and the pro's and con's of moving out of our current apartment. (This is actually something Chris and I did over a slice of cheese pizza while sitting in Gramercy waiting on a call from a broker. We were trying to decide why/ when/ if we really wanted or needed to move.) And in Chris's handwriting, the hours of our local NY Public Library on 96th and Lexington Ave.

I love lists. I love making notes. I don't see how other people can make it though the day without knowing what to do. And a datebook helps me keep all that stuff together: where to be and when, addresses, times, what to bring, numbers to call when I get lost. My datebook is a journal of sorts, it tells a story of where I've been and what I've been doing. Nothing is color-coded or uniform, however there are lots of highlighted days, bright colors, post-it notes, markers, and words in purple, green and red.

I know when booth pieces were do (for writing class), when I met Courtney for dinner at Taco Taco, when Laila was on the Today Show, when I had a "park day" or "motorcycle day," and what my mom's flight number is on December 28th.

And on Saturday, April 4th, the day before Palm Sunday, I have written, "Chris = Jesus 8am-1pm TBC."

While in the future I may not need to know what day I saw Wicked on, or bought hosiery on, or went to new member orientation on, I will keep this calendar throughout 2010- at least.

My mom's cooking is better than your mom's cooking

I can not believe that Thanksgiving is next week. It has completely taken me by suprise, and I guess since I have no real plans, that I have let the actual holiday sneak up on me.

Since my husband says that I write about food ALOT, I will not dwell on the subject, but I will tell you about the marvelous foods that I WILL NOT be having this Thanksgiving Day. My mom's food.

For starters broccoli, rice and cheese casserole & English pea salad- these are my favorites and have been ever since I was a child. Plus, this is the only time of the year that I get to indulge in such lovely dishes. My mom began feeding me English peas while I was teething. Her English pea salad is perfect- light mayonnaise, egg whites, celery and cheddar cheese in bite sized pieces. I hate it when the cheese pieces are too large. I will also not be having sweet potatoes. In our house we did not eat sweet potato casserole- with all that marmalade and marshmallow mess. My sisters and I like sweet potatoes with a little butter (preferably spray butter which is more like salt than anything else) and that's it. (It took my Nana like three holidays to finally get it. We DON'T WANT all that weird stuff with our yams. Got it? Nothing fancy, just a potato.)

My mom's dressing- which we referred to as dressing, not stuffing- is phenomenal, never dry AND it's sort of odd, but she puts chicken in her dressing. It's still really good though. And, sadly enough, I've never watched her make it or asked how or even know the ingredients. This is sad to me because I feel like I should, and I know my sisters do. I don't know if it's cornbread dressing or Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix or what. And I know my sisters do.

I will also not be having her homemade rolls (sourdough or whole wheat- which she makes both of), or green bean casserole (which she only makes if we ask- not one of her favorites for sure). Her green bean casserole is the kind with cream of mushrooms soup, not the one with French's, fried onion pieces on the top. We discovered that dish later in life, at another family gathering. Mom said she used to eat those fried onion pieces out of the can as a kid, or something like that- Potato Sticks I think, so she pretty much hates them.

I will also not be having her delicious pumpkin pie or pecan pie- both of which she makes from scratch, even the pie crusts which are flaky and picture perfect. I was never much of a pie eater growing up. I'd usually just eat the crusty part of my sisters pecan slice or something like that. Some years mom would make chocolate pie too, with meringue thick and foamy like a dense fog. Mostly, I like to pick at the meringue. But pies, pies never did much for me. I'd rather have a roll for dessert- warm with honey.

I preferred the desserts that she made at Christmas for us to give to our teachers and Sunday School leaders: fudge, puppy chow and this amazing thing with cashews, Ritz crackers and corn syrup that you bake in the oven until it makes a sort-of brittle. Oh, and I guess there was turkey and ham too (but meat, ah, who needs it...?) Anyway...

This Thanksgiving, I'm not sure where I'll be or who I'll be with at this point. But I know I'll be Thankful. And probably full too.

Another Sunday

Yesterday the weather was a balmy 63 degrees. I found myself wandering down First Avenue toward Perfect Shape Threading salon on 79th to get my eyebrows threaded for $7.00. I love the art of threading because it leaves my brows in the perfect arch- not too thin or shapeless. Plus, there is less redness and I don't get those little pimples on my brow bone the following day.

Afterward, I headed toward 71st street where I planned on purchasing a couple smelly candles from Bath and Body Works. However, I stumbled upon Kate's Paperie which I have always wanted to go in to, but never have. I had such a nice time gazing at various weights of paper, in shades like Dahlia and Smoke. They had the most creative envelopes and envelope liners and tri-fold mailers. I fingered pearly, Christmas cards and white, laser cut snowflake notecards. Stickers, stamps, gel pens and stencils. I love stationary and I did buy some things for $15.

After purchasing a scent that is supposed to smell of Winter in both candle and plug-in form as well as a lotion named Optimism, I headed up back up Third Avenue. I liked the white, glass bottle that Optimism came in, as much as I like the clean, sheer scent. The whimsical orange font promised me favor and positive thoughts.

I looked in shop windows: children's boutique clothing stores with tiny, plaid button-up shirts beneath logoed navy sweater vests, baby corduroy skirts in cranberry and little-bitty army green galoshes. Snowflakes and glitter and blinking white lights- all reminded me that Christmas is coming. I was comfortably dressed in yoga pants, one of Chris's white, V-neck undershirts (the same one I slept in- of course), a gray hoodie and a baseball cap- the perfect lazy Sunday afternoon wear. A Sunday that I missed church. A Sunday when I slept until 11:00AM after staying up until after 3:00AM and woke up in a less than happy and healthy condition- but that is another story.

I love walking through my neighborhood. And yesterday was the perfect day for strolling NYC. I stopped in Orewashers Bakery and was lucky enough to get a cinnamon raisin roll. Usually by noon they are sold out- thus the reason I had never had one before this day. It was 65 cents of pure joy. But not as good as the raisin pumpernickel or the whole wheat. It was more roll-like and less dense bread-like, but good nonetheless.

My last purchase was at Pier One where I picked up four white, ceramic soup bowls for $3.00 each- and I did enjoy looking at the holiday decorations and ornaments and garland and stuff, but luckily was not too impressed by any of it. Somehow our previous eight bowls have dwindled down to four and it is soup season. The last one that broke was dropped from the microwave onto the granite counter top full of piping hot minestrone. I think I cried trying to clean it up.

So, back home with my bowls, lotions, candles and stationary I was ready to relax, eat some soup and catch up on my correspondence. It was a good, lazy, restful day. I made a bowl of Campbell's condensed tomato soup made with skim milk on the stove top and told Chris that tomato soup is possibly the only canned item I prepare on the stove instead of in the microwave. I'm not sure why, except that this is how one of my two best friends in high school made it- which is also why it makes me think of her. At sixteen-years-old canned soup was new to me.

I lit my candles, ate my soup and played with my stickers until I decided to go to bed at 9:00. Thankful for the simplicity of saltines and well-shaped brows and prana yoga pants.

Good Afternoon, How Can I Help You?

I actually stole this image from a friend, (who, like myself, also works as a receptionist but is really an artist,) who found it on the Internet, but I love it. It is currently my desktop image. It makes me smile- and this, this is how I see myself. "Hi, I am cheery, smiley, over-the-top receptionist here to answer phones, direct guests and type minutes from time to time."

While I do still love, and am very grateful for my job, I have not written in a long, long time. Well, not really. Journaled?-yes. Blogged?-some. Submitted?- wrote down some deadlines. Revised?- thought about it.

I just can't find the time. Bad excuse, I know. I realize that I do make time for things important to me. For example, I do get up at 5:45AM to go to the gym every weekday morning, and I usually find the time to go sometime during the weekend as well. I find the time to clean, do laundry, make cakes, buy Christmas cards... I am avoiding the writing thing. I'm staying busy with the nonsense again.

So, maybe I can't get as much writing done at work as I'd like to, but I know that there is some time here- oh, like a good two hours each day. I have a mental block- time, space, organization. I have to have the right music on and the right lighting and view and candles lit (you get the idea). I have to break though this. This isn't a real issue, I am the issue. My mental fog is the issue.

Somewhere, inside me, there are more stories that need to be told. More things that need to be worked through and pondered on and pilfered through- and I do realize this, even now. It's just starting. It's just doing it. I realize that only writing can fill that writers hole in my being - so, I might as well stop avoiding and do it already. Even if it means three less hours at the gym a week, or not making treats for choir rehearsal, or ordering dinner out a couple times a week. And seriously, it wouldn't even mean all of that. I just need to sit down and lay my fingers across the keyboard. Stare at the screen. Sit. Stare. Be still. Now that is a problem for me too.

I'd rather be smiley, cheery, over-the-top girl.

I love Libby.

Some may say I'm extreme. Or a bit silly. I say- I absolutely LOVE pumpkin. Anything with pumpkin I will try, at least once, especially this time of year. Living in New York, my pumpkin options are not limited to the average pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie.

This season alone I have tasted some exceptional pumpkin eats. First, the picture here, is of the pumpkin items that were in my house just last night: pumpkin ice cream (clocking in at 120 calories and 4 grams of fat per 1/2 cup serving), pumpkin fudge from Dylan's Candy Bar, and a pumpkin bagel with pumpkin cream cheese.

Knowing of my pumpkin insanity, a dear friend bought me this bagel yesterday in Brooklyn and delivered it to me last night. I am truly afflicted with this pumpkin thing. The bagel shop in my old neighborhood in Astoria features pumpkin cream cheese seasonally- but a pumpkin bagel is a whole new thing unto itself. And yes, those are pumpkin seeds in the lovely, orange pumpkin bagel. Chris said the ice cream tasted more Eggnog-ish than pumpkin-y, with all the cinnamon and nutmeg, but I could bathe in it. The fudge was my movie snack (A Christmas Carol) which I shared across the row and up and down the aisles. It's pretty amazing.

Alice's Tea Cup offers their famous pumpkin scones, which are more like a soft, warm, biscuit than a crumbly scone. Red Mango is currently serving pumpkin frozen yogurt- with graham cracker crumbs, and of course there is Starbucks with that pumpkin latte (which, I will admit, I have not had this year.) I don't like drinking my calories. I did have pumpkin ice cream at Braums when I was home in Texas, AND a pumpkin blizzard from Dairy Queen. (It had ginger snaps mixed in and was served with a dollop of whipped cream with cinnamon on the top!)

Most of these things I have once during the season, sharing bites and tastes with friends, lest I fall victim to the downward spiral of guilt and self-loathing (been there, done that). I've had pumpkin soup, pumpkin ravioli, and even pumpkin dressing on a beautiful salad. And, I've made ALOT of pumpkin mousse this year. I've eaten ALOT of pumpkin mousse this year. Recently, when I was in Texas staying with a friend, I made pumpkin mousse about four times. This was during one week. I've made pumpkin muffins too, which I like to send with Chris to work, keeping two or three for me. That's why the office staff likes me- I make treats. I even take orders from time-to-time.

That is why I love Libby. Libby's pumpkin - which is pureed pumpkin, not to be confused with canned pumpkin pie filling. I put this stuff in my oatmeal- with a dash of cinnamon and pumpkin pie spice and splenda, I put it in my protein shake, and in my Sugar-Free Jello instant pudding.

And, even though there has been a shortage, I keep my pantry stocked. I can't get enough pumpkin. I'll slow down my intake when my skin begins to turn orange.

Ignorance and Want

This weekend I saw Disney's A Christmas Carol in 3-D on the largest screen I have ever viewed a movie on. It was an IMAX Theater and it cost me over $20 to see, but it was worth it. However, as much as I enjoyed the movie- the graphics and sound- it didn't really get me in the holiday spirit as much as I anticipated.

A Christmas Carol is a pretty raw, sad, heart-wrenching tale. If I were a child under the age of twelve I would have been bored up until about twenty minutes into the film. I would have been pretty much lost in all the thither's, and thus's and ye's. And those ghosts. Yikes! - I mean I don't think most children would be scared to death of this movie, or even very frightened, but there is no way they could glean all that there is to learn from this classic story.

What continued to resonate with me were the characters Ignorance and Want. Early in the story Scrooge says that there are "prisons and Union workhouses" to take care of persons with these problems.

And I often, too, look upon people with these assumption, and these stereotypes, and these pre-conceived ideas of why things are the way they are- for them, anyway, not for me. Until last spring when I was awaken suddenly to the fact that we can't control everything. Sometimes, there is no cure, there is no warning, there is no fairness or reason or time to prepare before the world as it has always been comes crashing down.

I realized in those days and weeks that sometimes people are not to blame for their poverty, or physical conditions or mental ailments. I learned empathy, even on the days I was angry. Angry at the man with the healthy baby girl. Angry at the person who probably didn't complete high school working behind the counter at Dunkin Donuts. Angry at God. At unfairness. At circumstances that don't turn out like I think they should.

And in Dicken's A Christmas Carol, we are reminded. To give, but more than simply money and more frequent than just at Christmas. But often, and cheerfully. I did tear up, twice during this movie. It's such a great lesson and reminder, even for those of us who already know it.
....
"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit.

"As good as gold," said Bob. "And better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, who made the lame to walk, and blind to see."
....
And do we, see them in our church? The adulterer. The anorexic. The coke addict. The depressed. The pregnant teen. The one who seems to have it all together. Are we not them? I hope we can remember, as we enter into the Christmas Season, who can change us. Who has changed us.

Sixty-five Degree November Day

Still so Thankful

Last year I posted a piece on my blog inspired by a tradition of sorts at our church, Trinity. Each year, on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, we have our Thanksgiving service where members share what they are Thankful for. Last year, I was asked to share at all three services.

Sunday, we were given time during the service to fill out our orange cards that read, "I am Thankful for..." in script across the top, I thought about last year. And now. And all the places I've been in between.

A week after I shared my story with my church last year, I was laid off. God was like, "Here you go. Pushing you out of the nest little one." I had stood before as slew of people and said, with 100% passion and conviction, that I was ready. So, this was my chance. My God-given opportunity to do what I wanted to do, and what I said I was ready to do. What I believed I was put on the earth to do.

In the past year I lost my job, wrote a 50,000 word memoir and moved into Manhattan. I took writing classes and attended free lectures and book signings. My heart was ripped in half & I learned the pain experienced when you love someone so deeply but can't do anything to make anything better for them. Sleeplessness nights journaling, crying, praying, questioning everything I've ever believed.

I spent a month in Texas - with only a carry-on suitcase amount of clothes, no toiletries and two pairs of shoes. I spent six weeks alone in NYC while my husband took his motorcycle across the country. I spent spring break laying on the beach in Cozumel and a week jaunting in-and-out of mid-town office buildings interviewing for receptionist jobs that I am over-qualified for but desperately desired to have.

My middle sister got her pharmacy license and my baby sister got a miracle. One dear friend got pregnant- after much difficulty and many disappointing years of trying, one got off all her prescription medications, and another one got married. My husband turned thirty-years-old and I turned into a carnivore. I've seen true restoration in the life of someone I love dearly, so much so that she even changed her voicemail. Even her voicemail sounds more free, like she has forgiven & let go. Even without a job, for most of 2009, I was taken care of financially; often, in unexplainable, miraculous ways.

And I did get a job- September 28- I became an employee. And I did get published. A short story I submitted to Chicken Soup for the Soul: True Love will come out December 29, 2009. I am so so blessed.

But in all this, I am aware of the hurt and sin and tiredness around me. Last Sunday I found myself raising my hands in worship between someone who just found out her mother has ovarian cancer and there is nothing anyone can do, and someone who's mother decided to leave before she ever held her baby. I looked around and saw people who had buried their children, people who couldn't pay their mortgage, people who need surgery- but don't have health insurance, people who at some point each day consider throwing in the towel on the entire thing.

But I know, I know that even they are Thankful. I know they are because they have told me. We all have hurts- and questions that will never have answers, but our God is bigger than that. And, He's given us so much. He's given us each other.

Paperboy

If you rely on NY public transportation each and every morning like I do, you are familiar with the Metro and the AM New York. On our commute each morning, New York subway riders have the choice of grabbing a free copy of either paper. Or, even one of each- if one is so inclined. Hey, there aren't many things offered for free in the city, however I did get a sandwich once right outside Grand Central Station. Pepperidge Farm was publicizing their new deli flats- delish!

Granted, these publications are written on a fourth grade reading level and contain little actual news, but they are in full color and have a daily sudoku, which I do enjoy. And yes, sometimes I do get one of each paper- just for the sudoku. Each of these fine publications does give blurbs on actual timely news & as well as offer dining suggestions and list events going on in the city.

The most exciting thing about these papers, I find, are the actual guys who are handing these newspapers out. Not only are these publications free, but someone gets paid to had them to you. This is not the case at each subway stop, but at the larger stations- these guys take their job seriously. And I don't mean that in an annoying, critical way- they are so delightful.

There is the obvious, and most often heard, "AM New York" repeated over and over, or perhaps, "Morning Metro, get your Metro here." But my favorite are the two guys at the downtown 4-5-6 86th Street Station who holler out morning headlines. Today, "Let's go Yankees." "How about those Yankees?" "Bloomberg gets four more years."

It doesn't come across well here- in writing- as I try to relay what it is that I enjoy so much about their banter. They just rattle on and on, back and forth, handing out newspapers. It's in the dialect and continual lines that flow out of their mouths. It's entertaining to me, like an auctioneer. This morning I got the line, "Hey there baby. Headed to school this morning? Don't get sent to the principals office."

Marthon Sunday

I did not grow up an athlete. Or athletic. Or doing much anything that required running, sweating, ugly sneakers, or ponytails. I preferred the indoors to the outdoors. At a swim meet when I was quite young I was pleased when I got the sixth place ribbon. It was pink. I loved the backstroke and found it relaxing to make large circles with my arms, my shoulders rotating backward in there sockets. Pushing the water aside, my eight-year old body propelled down the lane and I counted the banners hanging from the ceiling. I was not in a hurry. For me this was mere pleasure, not a race.

I disliked bike riding, tree climbing and all things YMCA- but I did participate from time to time. In high school I discovered show choir and musical theater and never thought much about exercise. Really. And in college- yikes! I gained my freshman fifteen and my roommates too. (Her size 0's hung loosely around her bony hips.) It's only been in the past three years that I have gotten into an exercise routine (sort of).

I enjoy working out. Cardio was my first love- walking, then jogging, elliptical, and spin class. The first time I took a spin class was the closest I've come to thinking that I was going to surely die from over exhaustion. But I was addicted. Endorphins have changed my life! Then I discovered weightlifting, and after I stuck it out for some time- I noticed differences in body. So, I figured "they" must be right when comes to toning and resistance and the importance of incorporating BOTH fat burning cardio & muscle building weightlifting.

But I have never been a true runner. And I am fine with that. This summer I jogged alot around Central Park and up and down the East River. BUT, I don't consider myself a runner. It feels good though- the runners high. Like the time I did run almost seven miles. And I loved running The Loop in Central Park because everyone runs: old, young, fat, skinny, moms with strollers, guys with dogs, people in $300 shoes they ordered online and people in sweat pants with the legs cut off.

This Sunday was The 40th Annual ING New York City Marathon.

The marathon was like nothing else I've ever experienced. Over 40,000 runners filled the streets of NYC. If you are a New Yorker you can easily get trapped on the "wrong side" of First Avenue. Well, we live on First Avenue, so we were 100% effected by road closers, alternate routes, and bus delays. Sunday, after church, Chris and I headed over to the Queensboro bridge to see runners crossing over the East River and begin their run up First Avenue. This is about mile 17. It was so amazing to watch these people.

And the spectators lined the streets. Miles and miles of spectators. People handing out orange slices and pretzel rods. People yelling and cheering and clapping for complete strangers.

There were people running together. People running alone. We saw a guy in a wheelchair accompanied by two runners- all three wearing matching red t-shirts. There was a guy running with an Eiffel Tower the twice the size of himself. (This photo was taken in Paris, but I'm pretty sure it's the same guy.) There was a couple holding hands beginning the 19th mile together. And the cheering continued.

I just stood and watched how people encouraged and supported and rallied for other people they didn't even know. People who weren't their race, or religion, or nationality. It didn't matter.

Upstairs in our 32nd floor apartment I opened the windows. I loved the sound. The cow bells and air horns and whooping that echoed off buildings for miles along First Avenue. It was the sound of the human spirit. Of oneness. The sound that rang out "We all love what you are doing- this impossible, crazy, life altering thing- and we want you to succeed." Never before have I felt that people were genuinely good or caring. Where else do we see this kind of genuine support for one another? As the cheering continued- for hours and hours- I couldn't get enough of it and I couldn't get over it.

A woman participating in the marathon had been joined by two friends- who were spectators. They had crossed over the pedestrian barricade and had joined in the race with her. - I know this because the two ladies who were linked arm-in-arm with the bibbed runner, were in jeans and toting oversized handbags. They were like, "Listen, you can do this thing. Don't quit. We'll run along side you. YOU CAN DO THIS my friend." They were friends, just doing what friends do. I want, so deeply, to be a friend like that.

Hebrews 12:1 "and run with endurance the race that lies before us..."

A baby I love so much.. (and her momma too!)

Whoosh

It's almost November, oddly enough. So much has happened in the last month alone, and I feel I'm running to keep up these days. The city and I did not get off to a good start this morning and I don't think it got as warm as the weather guy told me it would be. Now that I stop and reflect, this entire week has been a bit strenuous. I think readjusting from my time in Texas has taken an entire week.

All before 9:00 today, I went to the gym, made a pot of coffee, stopped by a friends apartment to make sure her cat wasn't trapped in her bedroom (long story), got stuck underneath the city in a subway between 51st and 42nd "due to an earlier incident" for 12 minutes which made me three minutes late to work. Which is not too bad, all things considered. Tuesday, I was called at 7:00am and asked if I could make it in by 8:00am. Sure thing. I'll get right on it. So I was out the door by 7:30am and there were no cabs to be found, of course, because it was pouring. I hoof my way to the subway, stopping along the way to try and wave down a non-exist taxi-cab. I made it to the subway stop at 7:54. I arrived at Grand Central by 7:57 and in the doors of the office on the 19th floor at 8:04am soggy and sweaty beneath my synthetic tights, polyester-blend dress, and pleather knee boots.

And, it's okay now, but my first day back from Texas, last Friday, Chris took me to look at new apartments and I thought WW III was about to break out- or possibly he could just live downtown and I could live uptown. He could have the bachelor pad with the flat-screen TV, refrigerator just for beer and order take out every night. I'll keep my 10128 ZIP code and highrise studio, thank you very much.

I was kind of bratty. I hate moving. And packing. And cleaning. I just hate the idea of it. It wears me out. (And let's be honest, I do most of the packing and cleaning and quite frankly- it is a beating.) After a week of this unspoken tension, maybe unspoken is not the word but unknown tension, we have come to a resolution.

We can move. Chris's commute is a hassle and he hates it. And I realize this and I love him, I love him more than I hate the idea of moving. So, we will see what we can find. We can't move until our lease is up, we can't afford to throw away month's of rent- we agree on that. And we'll look closer to that date. There are great spaces for rent now, and there will be then too. So, even if we loose our washer and dryer, and our gym and our large kitchen-- I will make it work. And I realize most people wouldn't mind sending out their laundry or eating out more or saying "screw it" to the whole exercise thing, but I am not most people and I want what I want. Oh, wedded bliss.

I feel like once the page on the calendar flips over to November and I see that cornucopia spilling out with corn and wheat and apples and gourds, it will set in that the holidays are here. They are no longer coming, or something to look forward to, but actually upon us. We're in the midst.

Christmas in New York- so magical.

Where to begin...

So, you know when you join a gym and you are going, like, a consistent 4 or 5 days a week? I mean you are going strong. Feeling good. Feeling healthy. You meet someone in kickboxing class, Jennifer. She tells you where to get inexpensive sports bras. The girl at the front desk knows your membership number and the guy at the smoothie bar knows you like Soy Protein Powder. You look toned and radiant. Then, it's your anniversary weekend and you miss a few days. Then you go on a two week vacation- and miss two more weeks. Then, you return home and want to spend the weekend with your husband. This is a three-day weekend of course- he did take off work on Friday for you. And after all, if he did take off work for you then you shouldn't waste time at the gym.

Then you feel lethargic. Bloated. Lazy. And quite embarrassed for missing so much time away from the gym. You were good at the gym. You were the gym goddess. You looked forward to it and actually enjoyed it. People commented on how well you looked and how refreshed you seemed. Now, you wonder if you could ever go back there again. How pathetic.

After being away for almost a month (and people are noticing & asking) you decide to just start where you are.

So, here I am. Starting. It's not the gym for me--- it's this blog! I have a problem called an "all or nothing worldview." I am such a perfectionist that it often causes me to quit before I even actually give myself a chance. I am going to do it (the it being anything), do it good, do it right, do it until I give myself an ulcer or a hernia or a heart attack. (And by the way, I think everyone should do everything like this too. Yeah, you, why aren't you a perfectionist like I am?)

I am completely overwhelmed with where to start and what to say because I feel like I have so much to say, but obviously that must not be the case, 'cause I sure ain't saying much!

Someone asked me, "So, now you have a full-time job and can't write?" Sadly enough, that is pretty much the case. However, I will do this thing. I will get pictures up soon too, of my trip home and the people and places I saw while I was there. I missed home. I hated leaving alot this time. I asked myself why I was living so, so far away from the people who love me most. Then I remembered my current mantra- To Love Well. Love Well. Love Well. I am in NYC to love well. To love the unlovable and lonely and worn out folks. I do love NYC.

I have been writing though. In my journal. Only you can't read my journal, but I'll share an excerpt I wrote on my plane ride back to NYC.

"I am pretty sure the lady sitting beside me in 8F does not like the way I smell of patchouli and almond. She keeps covering her nose and is leaning purposefully toward the center aisle. But, I don't like the way she smells of curry and saffron (or turmeric, or whatever that smell is). So, I guess we're even. And stuck here for the next 2 1/2 hours."

(And now, as much as I want to go on and on, I must go back to work...)

Pictures

Follow this link to our old website to find pictures of our Fall Trip.

http://web.me.com/chriscchambers/Site/Welcome.html

Click on the 2009 Photos Link at the top of the page