So This Is Christmas

Here are just a few of my favorite things about Christmas, past and present and always...

Christmas tree vendors in New York City.  All of a sudden you're walking along one day and a forest pops up in the middle of the city.  And that smell.

Red and green gumdrop wreaths.

A Charlie Brown Christmas.  Particularly the part where Linus learns that Sally has been cast as his wife in the play.  He glances over in distress only to find her clapping happily with a million hearts shooting out around her.  And the music.  And the singing at the end with their mouths in perfect 'O' shapes.  And the speech Linus gives.  And the dancing.  And the Charlie Brown tree, of course. 

It's A Wonderful Life.  Never fails to remind me that, yes, it is.  "Out you two pixies go...through the door or out the window!"

Burl Ives.  David Bowie and Bing Crosby.  Elvis.     

The box of ornaments my mom passed along to me.  Silver garlands that were once probably modern and fluffy, but are now completely matted together and intertwined with bits of Christmas past.  The red and gold beads, also tarnished and chipped, but perfect.  The gold glitter and red felt peace sign.  The paper dove.  The clothespin soldier.  The delicate glass balls that fill the jar usually occupied by old buttons.

Wrapping presents.  Almost always with my signature ribbon criss-crossed across the package. 

Making, sending, and receiving Christmas cards.  And seeing them all hanging up on my front door.

The windows in NYC.  I make a special trip to see Bergdorf's.

The gold angel chime decoration that comes in a flat box and you put it all together and light the candles to make the angels spin around and chime ever so quietly.  Yeah, that one. 

The teeny tiny house in my hometown that used to be covered head to toe in lights.

Caroling with the Madrigals in high school.  Mortifying and yet somehow a blast.  Plus, the floppy red hat and cape were essential.

And the meaning of all of it - my family and friends.

It's Christmas.  It only comes once a year.   

xoxo tara xoxo

Sweet Dreams

Last night I woke up in a panic thinking a bug had crawled in my mouth.  I could feel it there lodged up on the roof of my palate.  Horrified and still mostly asleep, I sat straight up and began spitting frantically onto the sheet. 

This morning I woke up, and after about an hour I remembered this incident.  God, did a bug actually crawl in my mouth?!  It wouldn't entirely shock me, but it was not a pleasant thought.

I poured myself a bowl of Golden Grahams and sat down on the bed.  Reached up to scratch my arm.  Stuck there, right near my elbow, was a sliver of red Ricola cough drop.  Leaning over, I found the evidence needed to ease my worried mind - several spots of pink scattered around the sheet near my pillow.

The dreaded bug?  Merely a mischievous cough drop.

THALIA-N-RAY

So the Queens bound N train platform was astonishingly packed tonight.  One of the doors wouldn't close so they took it out of service, meaning everyone ON the train had to get OFF the train and join the already huge crowd waiting there.  Not one to love being in the middle of an annoyed and shifty mob, I crossed the platform and jumped on the downtown N instead, figuring I'd ride for a few stops until things eased up.

It was one of the older trains with orange seats grouped in sets of three along the sides, and two more perpendicular to the windows.  I slid into a window seat and scrunched in my elbows so I could finish the article I was reading, an interview with Fran Lebowitz.  But, glancing out the window, something else caught my attention.  Scratched in the frame in deliberate block letters was this... 

THALIA-N-RAY   1-19-90 

My first thought: "They're still using trains from 1990?" and my second thought: "Who were Thalia and Ray?"

On January 19th of 1990 I was seventeen and a senior in high school, living in a tiny Minnesota town.  I had short hair, wore big earrings, made some of my own clothes.  It was my friend KJ's birthday.  I worked at the Dairy Queen.  I laughed a lot with friends.  Didn't drink or get in trouble.  Planned to go to art school.  Listened to U2 and REM.  Dated a guy who could be sweet but wasn't good for me or particularly good to himself.  Dreamed of moving to New York City. 

Strangely, I assumed that Thalia and Ray must've been the same age.  I imagined a couple kids from the Lower East Side.  Probably thought they were in love but it didn't last through the summer.  Bet she had long dark hair and maybe she let him braid it on the train.  She wore long dresses and a men's plaid topcoat in the winter.  He was too cool to wear more than a light jacket.  They skipped school a lot but got good grades and the teachers liked them.  Their parents all knew each other a long time ago when they were in school.  Or maybe not, but that's how I pictured it. 

I wonder what you dream of when you grow up in NYC?  Can you really appreciate it the same way?  Where can you go that doesn't pale in comparison?  I guess those that love it stay here forever, and those that are meant to be here find their way eventually.

Within a few months of graduation, I had moved to New York and started my first year at Parsons School of Design.  I've now lived here more than half my life.  I'm a New Yorker.  Still finding my way, but I have much to be happy about.  I hope Thalia and Ray are happy, too, wherever life took them.

Ladderless

I stepped into my room in Paris, exhausted but giddy.  It was a shared room in a hostel on the Left Bank, up four flights of creaky stairs.  After a long flight all I really wanted to do was lie down, just for a second, to try to process the notion that I was, indeed, in Paris.

I quickly scanned the room - small and basic, but clean and with a little character to boot.  There were two sets of bunk beds so I thought I'd settle in and claim one.  None of my roommates were in at that time, but one set of beds had clearly been used.  The blankets were rumpled and random pieces of clothing were draped over the edge.  I wasn't so sure about the second set - they both seemed neat and tidy but there was a duffel bag shoved under the bottom bunk.  With nobody around to ask, and not wanting to annoy my fellow bed mates, I decided to take the top bunk.

But, ummm...

There was no ladder.

I am 5' 1" and have never been described as athletic.  For a solid five minutes I think I just stared at the bed.  Surely I was missing something, right?  What was I supposed to do, take a running leap and hope for the best?  Suddenly I had flashbacks of the pommel horse in gym class...I never did make it over that stupid thing.  Eventually I put a tentative foot on the edge of the bottom bed and peeked over the top mattress.  I did a little hop.  There was no way on earth I could jump up from there.  Even worse than the realization that I was stranded, was the fear that one of the roommates would walk in as I was awkwardly balancing and hopping. 

Then I spotted a small stool in the corner, disguised by a jacket.  That might do the trick!  Dragging it over, I angled for the best possible position from which to climb.  Just about then, someone walked in.  She said hello and went about her business in the other room, walking back in periodically.  Certain that I did not want to make my first attempt at climbing while she stood watching, I nonchalantly looked through my bag, searching for nothing in particular, and made my best effort to look busy.  Hum-dee-dum.

Finally she left and I scrambled over to the stool.  It helped a little, but this was not going to be pretty.  I managed, barely, to jump up waist high, then scoot forward enough to swing my leg over.  With the other leg still hanging down, I did a little roll and somehow ended up on my back, safe and sound (sort of) on the top bunk.  I was up there, and I planned to stay up there for awhile!  But let me tell you, getting back down was no more graceful. 

That evening I came back after seeing some sights and two girls were in the room, the one I met earlier and a new one.  We all stood chatting, and suddenly the new girl sprang across the room, vaulted like some kind of circus freak, and landed ever so effortlessly on the top bunk.  I could not fathom in my wildest imagination how that was possible.  I was in awe and hated her at the same time. 

Then the other girl said, "Oh, let me move my duffel bag.  No one is using that bottom bunk.  You can take it if you want."

Thank GOD.

  

Oh, the Seventies



Oh, the Seventies.  This picture made me burst out laughing when I came across it this afternoon.

That's me.  Wearing a Shaun Cassidy t-shirt.  Yes, from the Hardy Boys.  I also had a light blue satin jacket with his picture on the back.  During Ms. Monson's art class, I splattered paint on it while washing my brushes.  Seemed kind of tragic at the time. 

That's my dad.  With a moustache.  My dad didn't normally sport a moustache and I think the reason is apparent.  Looks like he glued it on.  Quite humorous indeed...I don't think that lasted very long.

And that's my sister.  She just looks cute and cozy.  Seems about right.

Well, that's about it.  Just thought I'd share.  See ya. 

Springsteen and A Raspberry Tart

Today is October 4th, and October 4th is not one of my best days.  It's the anniversary of the day our mom died.  Even so, I was happy today and tried to do fun things that remind me of her.  So here's what I did...

Played a little Bruce Springsteen this morning - good and loud.  Mom was a big fan.  We both thought the "Dancing In the Dark" video was shot live at a concert, and didn't find out until years later that the girl pulled up on stage was actually Courteney Cox.  We were bummed.

Put on a pair of her earrings (she always wore big hoops).  I bought us both a pair one year - hers were olive green and mine were lavender.  Eventually I lost one of mine, so I wore the green ones today. 

Grabbed a coffee to go at Cafe Orlin.  When she visited NY while I was in college, we went to Orlin and sat outside on a warm spring night.  Two guys got in a fight directly across the street from us and smashed a beer bottle on a sign post.  Way to make a good impression of New York, guys.  She ordered a Cafe Latte and pronounced it with the accent on the last syllable of each word: caFAY laTAY.  Cracked me up.

Had lunch at Yaffa on the next block.  She liked it there too and it's one of my old favorites.  Wrote her a little note like I do every year.  When I finished writing, I checked the time on my phone and it was 3:06, the number of the house I grew up in.  Made me smile. 

Walked over to Veniero's and ordered two raspberry tarts.  The best!  This is my yearly tradition because my mom loved that place.  I take one home for myself (of course) and leave the other outside on the ledge along with my note.  Seems there is always someone standing there or sitting in a car watching me while I do this.  Suppose they wonder what I'm up to, but that's the way it goes.  Not to mention the folks at Veniero's.  I imagine they find it a little odd as well, especially if they ever bother to read the notes.  Heh.

Bought myself a pair of boots.  I stood pigeon-toed as I checked them out in the mirror.  For some reason that was my usual stance when I tried on clothes in high school, and my mom always teased me about it.  Apparently I still do it.

Just finished off my raspberry tart.  Deeeee-licious.  Night, mom.  Love you.

  

The Heat Is On

CLANG.  Kerchunk-chunk-chunk.  Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze.

The heat is on.  Despite my best protests and campaigning, fall has apparently arrived. 

Most apartments in New York City, at least every one I've occupied, have steam heat that rumbles up fitfully from cantankerous boilers hidden deep in the basement.  It's an angry and intrusive heat.  A heat that arrives in the middle of the night without calling first.  One minute you're sleeping peacefully, and the next you are shocked awake by what sounds like hammering on metal pipes next to your head. 

The radiator is always painted a fake dull silver, layer upon layer, curling at the edges.  If you're lucky, the knob to adjust the flow of steam hasn't been painted shut.  For the first several years I lived here I didn't even realize that was an option.  Maybe that was for the best, because now I spend my days and nights loosening and tightening this valve compulsively.  It's almost always too hot for my taste - the window stays cracked even in the coldest depths of January.  You can smell the heat the moment you open the door.

Let me just say up front that I am grateful to have heat at all.  Because I know that at some point the boiler will rebel and laugh as we sit heat-less for a day or two or three.  And no amount of sweatshirts and socks will quite cut the chill.  Happens every winter, just to remind us who's boss.

Growing up in Minnesota, we had quiet gentle heat.  Maybe it had to be to offset the malicious winter weather.  We had heat that blew happily from black iron grates in the floor that temporarily branded your feet with octagons when you stood on them.  As soon as we heard that puff of air, we'd run to sit on the grate in the TV room, a blanket tucked beneath us and over our shoulders.  We'd seal in the air until we became human Jiffy-Pop.  The best, though, was when our mom would wear her white fluffy robe.  She'd knot it at the waist and let the air inflate the bottom into a giant bell.  It never ceased to be hilarious. 

So for now I will lie awake and listen to this conversation of clunks and whistles.  Just about the time I think they're winding down and my lids are getting heavy again, a new set of sounds will be invited in to join the party.  After a week or two, they'll all be absorbed into my sub-conscious and I won't give them a second thought. 

Maybe.  It's possible.

Ker-chunk.

Surprise Me

Today I was reminded of a particularly fantastic birthday.  Nine?  No, maybe ten. 

My family set me off on a treasure hunt.  A series of notes led me through the backyard, to a neighbor's porch, our garage, another neighbor's wood pile, behind a compost heap, and finally to my awesome birthday gift...my first 3-speed bike, light blue. 

Thank goodness for cameras.  This group of photos sums up my excitement, happiness, disbelief and joy pretty perfectly.  (Dig the track shorts and knee-highs.)  And now I bet you're thinking about your own favorite birthday memory.  I like how that works. 

  

NYC

I haven't come across the right words yet to write about September 11th.  So I'll just say this...

First Class Fool

On a flight to Madrid, I was somehow lucky enough to score a seat in first class.  I'd never been seated in first class, then or since.  The ticket was purchased with obsessively collected frequent flyer miles, and I hadn't even requested an upgrade, so I have no idea how it happened.  But I wasn't arguing.

Clearly, I didn't belong.  In my black knit pants and bleach stained t-shirt, I strolled to my seat. Before I even had a chance to set down my bag, a woman was offering me champagne. A little startled and unclear whether it was free or what, I just opted for orange juice.  It was freshly squeezed.  These folks have it good.

I arranged my collection of magazines and bottle of Lipton iced tea in the seat pocket ahead of me.  Then I sat down in my enormous leather chair, fidgeted a little more, and finally buckled myself in.  So much leg room!  Only...I could no longer reach my magazines.  Or the cute little toiletries bag they gave me with the mini lotions and lip balm.  They were all up ahead in that distant seat pocket, completely out of reach.  So, click went the seat belt and I began the process all over again.

The woman next to me was friendly and seemed to be a first class regular.  She was well dressed with a cashmere scarf artfully thrown over her shoulder.  Her travel plans included Barcelona and northern Spain.  As we chatted, the flight attendant passed by with the menu and wine list for our perusal.

"Anything look good?" she asked.  "I hope the wine selection is better than it was last time."

Um, yeah.  I have no idea.  From rack of lamb, crab cakes or pasta, I chose the pasta.  Experimenting with lamb and seafood didn't seem like a good idea, even in first class.  They brought us warm loaves of bread with butter in a little dish, no foil packets.  Cloth napkins.  But before that, I had to figure out how to release my tray table, not an easy task.  I tried to look casual as I peeked sideways to see what my neighbor was doing.  Ah, it's hidden in the arm rest!  After some fumbling, I managed to get it together.  For dessert?  Ice cream sundaes with a choice of toppings.  I may not know wines, but I do know sundae toppings.

Time to relax.  I thought I'd just recline in my fancy chair and listen to some music, U2's The Unforgettable Fire, in fact.  Between the two seats was a control panel.  You could tilt your head back, recline, lower the foot rest, adjust the width at your knees - just about anything you could imagine at the touch of a button.  This was going to be comfy.

I push the button to recline.  Nothing happens.  I try to adjust the neck rest.  Nothing happens.  I try again to recline.  No good.  Maybe the foot rest.  Nope.

"That's just great.  My chance to live it up in first class and I have a rotten seat," I thought to myself.  "Oh well, let me try one more time."

Just about then I noticed a little something out of the corner of my eye.  My cheeks instantly blushed.  The movement I had detected was my neighbor's footrest going up and down haphazardly while her seat shifted back and forth.  I had been controlling her seat, not mine.  Oh, jeez.

After I had apologized profusely for what seemed an eternity, she politely said, "Well, that was unusual."

I was stuck in coach for the flight home.

                   



    

If You Meet A Shy Girl

This is kinda sorta maybe the beginning of a children's type book...or something. 


If you meet a shy girl,
you don't need to remind her that she's quiet.
Just say hello.

If you meet a shy girl,
she's probably funny
but she doesn't want to stand up and tell a joke.

If you meet a shy girl,
she could be wondering what you think of her.
A smile can ease her fears.

If you meet a shy girl,
she likely has a story to tell.
If you're patient, she will trust you with her secrets.

If you meet a shy girl,
she may have a fragile heart.
Please be kind.

If you meet a shy girl,
she's tougher than you think
but everyone could use a hug.

If you are a shy girl,
Hello.
I'm glad to meet you.

Oo La La

I love Paris.  I've been there twice, but could probably visit countless times without becoming even remotely bored.  On my second visit, I wanted to experience the city that locals know and love.  Sure, the Eiffel Tower and Louvre are must-sees, but I had seen them both the first time around.  This time I wanted to just wander and watch. 

With no particular destination in mind, I strolled the side streets, passing the inevitable markets displaying row upon row of strawberries and raspberries.  Fraise and Framboise, two French words that I actually know and blurt out with a proud smirk.  (Let it be said that rarely have I passed up an opportunity to purchase fresh berries and eat them straight from the carton.)  I bought a paper at the corner newsstand even though I couldn't read it.  The funny grey-haired gentleman took both my hands in his and said, "Thank you, Miss."  I stood in line with the businessmen and picked out a chocolate croissant from the bakery.  I'd have chosen something less obvious, but I became anxious when I started to hold up the line with my indecision.

Then I happened to find it - a nail salon, tucked away in the middle of the block, small but simple and chic.  That's what I'd do!  I'd get a manicure as if I were just popping by on my lunch break from Galleries Lafayette.  It occurred to me that I could ask for a French manicure, and I chuckled to myself at the dorkiness of it.  Surely only a tourist would make such a request.

Tentatively I stepped inside, hoping they would accommodate a non-French speaker.  Luckily there are only a few options at a nail salon, so after offering up my hands they got the idea.

"Manicure?" the woman asked in English.  Whew.  "How about a French manicure?"

I smiled and nodded.  How sweet of her to humor me.

There were no other customers in the shop, just the two women running the place.  They looked to me to be related, perhaps sisters, but maybe they just shared that lovely grace that French women seem to have.  I was directed to a small table by one of the women while the other straightened up and fluffed pillows in the reception area.  My nails were trimmed, soaked and buffed.  My cuticles were softened in a bowl of warm lotion.  The actual process was no different than any other, except that it seemed much more glamorous because I was in Paris.  Finally came the polish, applied expertly with a deft stroke of white across the tip, the hallmark of a perfect French manicure. 

The women chatted in their native tongue as I sat smiling.  A picture window provided the perfect vantage point for viewing the bustle of the morning.  Across the street, a woman appeared in the doorway of a dress shop.  Her presence immediately grabbed the attention of the two women and they looked up and exchanged knowing glances with one another.  They obviously had an opinion about her.  The shop woman emerged with a large bucket and proceeded down the sidewalk.  Reaching the curb, she poured out the entire bucket of, presumably, water.  It seemed innocent enough to me, but the action prompted gasps from both women, who then set off on a whirlwind of chatter and accusing grimaces.  Clearly she had done something completely unacceptable, and I doubt it had much to do with a bucket of water.  Oo la la, French gossip!

The women continued on, clucking and whispering with hushed urgency.  Every now and again they would nod at me as if to say, "Can you believe that woman?"  I would look back and give them a reassuring nod.  Meanwhile, I hadn't understood a word, but the tone was all that was needed. 

My manicure complete, I stood to leave and expressed appreciation with my best "Merci."  So maybe I didn't speak French, and maybe I wasn't really a local, but I had been privy that day to the neighborhood rivalries and jealousies that are present the world over.  I headed out the door, admiring my nails.  And as I passed by the other woman I gave her a suspicious stare - just for good measure. 

         

Clara and Carol

There was a little granny on our street named Clara Wilson.  A storybook grandma with a bun and a housedress. Petite and somewhat frail looking, but quite the opposite in reality.  She was strong.  She must have been in her late eighties but was light on her feet and full of energy.  Her yard and house were beyond neat and tidy at all times.  At the crack of dawn you would find her outside on the sidewalk sweeping up twigs and the tiniest bits of grass.  Those dang oak trees with their acorns dropping everywhere and the stupid squirrels making a mess of things.  God forbid she find a piece of trash left by some inconsiderate passerby. 

Lilacs grew in the alley behind her house.  Mountains of lilacs, ridiculously beautiful and fragrant for their short season every spring.  My mom and I were welcome to pick as many as we could carry, and we always did.  Then she'd invite us in for coffee and juice in her delicate tea cups.  It couldn't have been cozier. 

My mom idolized Clara and loved her independent spirit.  Of course, they were practically one and the same...my mom had all the same qualities and I'm pretty sure some of them rubbed off on me too.  Although I often wish I'd had the chance to know my mom as an old woman, I feel I got a glimpse of her in Clara.             

Word of the Day

Tarantism

tar·ant·ism Spelled [tar-uhn-tiz-uhm] –noun; 

a mania characterized by an uncontrollable impulse to dance.

Pun Intended

I've always loved Washington Square Park.  In college I spent many afternoons there and met quite a cast of characters.  So when my family came to visit during my senior year, it was one of the spots that I most wanted to share with them. 

My mom, my sister and I were sitting on one of the cement benches that fan out from the center of the park.  Almost immediately we noticed a peculiar man having an animated conversation, seemingly with himself.  He was quite tall and gangly, with a suit of clothes about two sizes too small and too short.  Rather Pee Wee Herman-esque.  But he wasn't there to draw attention to himself, and he wasn't putting on a show for spare change.  He was just going about his business and was extremely involved in this conservation with no one in particular.  We continued to watch his antics for a good twenty minutes, chuckling to ourselves, never taking our eyes off him.

Then a stray branch from one of the trees overhead brushed his shoulder as he spastically moved about.  Suddenly, and with tremendous conviction, he whipped around and shouted at the offending limb...

"LEAF ME ALONE!"

I think we nearly fell on the ground with laughter.  You probably had to be there, as they say, but I think of that day every single time I pass through the park.  And it never fails to make me laugh out loud, just as it did today.

Taking a Dive

Every morning I have to pass through a glass enclosed corridor that connects two buildings in our office complex.  Cobwebs and a variety of little dead bugs lurk in the corners. Upon opening the door, there is a small step - no more than two inches, a minute detail, seemingly insignificant.  I believe it was my third day at a new job when I noticed that step.  Unfortunately, not until I was sprawled out ever so clumsily on the cement floor.  Thud.  Ah, yes, to take a nose dive your first week of work is a joy.

What I really noticed, though, after the initial shock and as I lay face down on the glossy grey concrete, is that this particular corridor smells exactly like the Blue Earth pool.  Whoosh.  Transported in an instant back to 1981 and a nine year old me.  Oh, the pool.  With that unmistakable smell of industrial paint and dampness, Hubba Bubba gum, chlorine and Coppertone.  (Why our office building smells like this, too, I couldn't say.) 

We'd collect a wire basket for our meager belongings and tiptoe into the locker room, the floor of which always seemed a tad slimy.  Pre-swim showers were supposedly required, so we'd poke our head under the freezing water for a split second, just enough to pass inspection in case anyone was checking.  No one ever was.  Under the metal bannister and up the stairs...we had arrived.

There was no cooler job than lifeguard, in my opinion.  Gods and Goddesses sitting there all golden brown and glistening in their elevated chairs, wielding the power of the whistle.  I was somewhat starstruck.

In the summer I essentially lived at the pool, and had a swimsuit collection to match, one for nearly every day of the week.  One started out red, then faded to barely pink after wear and tear.  It was white on top with three narrow stripes across the front.  Another was a jade green halter with some sort of drawstrings at the hip.  Possibly my favorite was a plain bronzy-brown tank.  Keep in mind that I had had an operation to place tubes in my ears in order to cure some chronic ear aches.  This required that I wear ear plugs and a swim cap in the water, leaving an obvious white stripe across my otherwise tanned forehead.  Luckily, that was before I knew enough to be self-conscious.

We would jump around giddily, complete perfect underwater handstands topped off with a gymnast's salute, dive for pennies, play tag, and actually do a little swimming.  During the hourly breaks, we'd reluctantly climb out of the water while the lifeguards took a dip.  There were always a few random adults swimming then, too, and we were never quite sure how they gained that special privilege. 

If we had any extra allowance tucked away under our towels, we'd gather it up and run/hop across the searingly hot tar of 14th Street to the Swim-Inn.  A few coins could buy you Zotz, Tootsie rolls, snow cones or chips.  We'd sit with our still dripping suits around the cedar picnic tables until the heat became unbearable on our burning rumps.  Then we'd scurry back again to the awaiting water.  At closing time, we'd ride our bikes home and get ready to do it all again the next day. 

That's all I really needed back then - a few friends, sun, some candy, and the pool.  I guess the same is still true today.  And if it took a face plant to make me remember that, so be it. 



 

Here's To You

Today I'm starting a blog.  This blog, in fact.  I've been thinking about it for quite some time, but that's as far as it got.  I worried that I would need to have profound insights and wildly entertaining stories.  I wondered what I had to say that hadn't already been said.  And I just plain procrastinated. 

So then I got to thinking about my Mom.  She died from a stroke a few years ago, but everything in my life still circles back around to her.  She was funny.  She was tiny.  She was immensely talented.  She hated her hair.  She was more stylish in her jeans from Goodwill than any supermodel in a Chanel suit.  She could be impatient waiting in lines.  She gave huge hugs.  She always took off her glasses before getting her picture taken.  She let us stay up all night when I had slumber parties and never told us to go to sleep.  She loved gum drops and gummi bears.  She was super nice to all my friends.

And she wanted to hear all about my life.  She read my journal when I traveled through Europe.  She didn't mind when I'd call her at 4 a.m. just so I could tell her something funny that happened that night.  She rooted for my friends to do well.  She anxiously awaited pictures and letters.  She felt the impact of September 11th as if she'd been here herself.  

Now that she's gone, I find myself at a loss sometimes.  I still ache to tell her about every little thing.  So...here's my chance.  I'll imagine that she's reading this along with all of you.  Hope you like it.

Oh, the title of the blog? Well, that's a reference to her too. It's how she'd always answer when I'd call.

"Hi, Mom."
"Hi, Darling."