Quite possibly the two most beautiful creatures and generous spirits to have walked the earth...Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman.
If there is such a thing, I hope they are having a laugh together in the after world.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Ireland Fund
The Ireland Fund, established in 1997, consisted of dollar bills and random change crammed in a dark green wine jug. My old roommate and I religiously contributed a dollar a day for I don't know how long. We'd ask each other constantly, "Did you put your dollar in today?"
It sat prominently on top of the stereo in our Ludlow Street apartment with the red walls (Vintage Claret, I still remember the paint swatch). We were going to Ireland, one way or another, and a dollar a day was about all we could manage. On occasion, we were lucky enough to have a generous visitor throw in a buck or two for the cause. You wouldn't believe how much that thing held. We would wad up the bills, fold them, and roll them...and somehow we kept squeezing them in when it seemed the bottle could hold not a penny more.
At long last it was time to cash in. There was to be no delicate shaking of the jug to remove its contents. We took a hammer to it instead. Probably not the wisest decision considering the shattered glass and all, but very satisfying nonetheless. I don't remember what the total haul was - not enough to fund an entire trip, for sure, but we had a pile of money and we were on our way.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
It sat prominently on top of the stereo in our Ludlow Street apartment with the red walls (Vintage Claret, I still remember the paint swatch). We were going to Ireland, one way or another, and a dollar a day was about all we could manage. On occasion, we were lucky enough to have a generous visitor throw in a buck or two for the cause. You wouldn't believe how much that thing held. We would wad up the bills, fold them, and roll them...and somehow we kept squeezing them in when it seemed the bottle could hold not a penny more.
At long last it was time to cash in. There was to be no delicate shaking of the jug to remove its contents. We took a hammer to it instead. Probably not the wisest decision considering the shattered glass and all, but very satisfying nonetheless. I don't remember what the total haul was - not enough to fund an entire trip, for sure, but we had a pile of money and we were on our way.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Doing
Sitting on my bed
Warming up my toes
Listening to the rain plink on the air conditioner still in my window
Wondering how I can make a million dollars
Wishing I already did
Trying to get inspired
Writing some silly random stuff
Anticipating Spring and long sunny days
Straightening up my huge pile of magazines
Sniffing the perfume ads
Looking around at my room
Rearranging it in my mind
Sorting through old photos and artwork
Deciding which I should bother to frame
Daydreaming
Procrastinating?
Planning and plotting
Doing.
Warming up my toes
Listening to the rain plink on the air conditioner still in my window
Wondering how I can make a million dollars
Wishing I already did
Trying to get inspired
Writing some silly random stuff
Anticipating Spring and long sunny days
Straightening up my huge pile of magazines
Sniffing the perfume ads
Looking around at my room
Rearranging it in my mind
Sorting through old photos and artwork
Deciding which I should bother to frame
Daydreaming
Procrastinating?
Planning and plotting
Doing.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Oooooh, nooo, Mr. Dill!
There I was at lunch, reading my book and absentmindedly crunching on a dill pickle, when I happened to glance down. Staring up at me, a little concerned looking yet faintly cheery, was a face in my pickle.
Two perfect eyes and a mouth reminiscent of Mr. Bill.
I cracked up. For awhile. Obviously, I couldn't just continue crunching. (Or is that only obvious to me?!) In any case, I scooped him up and set him aside.
I considered sharing with my co-workers, but was fairly sure they wouldn't think it was quite as hilarious as I did. Oh well.
Yes, I saved him all day long. I even took him out of his Tupperware in the afternoon and cracked myself up all over again.
And, yes, I carried him home on the train in a paper bag, took pictures, and wrote a blog about him.
Because I'm a dork like that and easily amused, apparently. So here he is...Mr. Dill!
I'm thinking of introducing him to Mr. Mutant M&M Man...my find from a few months ago.
Oh, boy, how silly. G'nite, all...
Two perfect eyes and a mouth reminiscent of Mr. Bill.
I cracked up. For awhile. Obviously, I couldn't just continue crunching. (Or is that only obvious to me?!) In any case, I scooped him up and set him aside.
I considered sharing with my co-workers, but was fairly sure they wouldn't think it was quite as hilarious as I did. Oh well.
Yes, I saved him all day long. I even took him out of his Tupperware in the afternoon and cracked myself up all over again.
And, yes, I carried him home on the train in a paper bag, took pictures, and wrote a blog about him.
Because I'm a dork like that and easily amused, apparently. So here he is...Mr. Dill!
I'm thinking of introducing him to Mr. Mutant M&M Man...my find from a few months ago.
Oh, boy, how silly. G'nite, all...
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Betrayed by a Manwich
My mom made the BEST sloppy joes.
Hands down, the best. All my life I ate them. On softie buns from the bakery with a whole bunch of crinkle cut dill pickles. Potato chips and chip dip on the side. Glass of milk. And if it was a birthday party, there was Kool-Aid to drink. Other kids' moms made sloppy joes too, but they never measured up. Sometimes they were too sweet, or maybe they were stingy with the pickles.
Unfortunately, I never did learn how to make them. I could guess at some of the basic ingredients, I suppose, but in what combination and quantities? It was one of those "a little of this, a little of that" recipes that you can't really write down. Even after discussing it with my sister several times, we only came up with a vague recipe at best.
Then, while visiting my brother this December, something surprising happened. He made sloppy joes from a can of Manwich, with a little chopped onion thrown in for good measure. And with all the requisite side items, pickles and chips included.
They were really good. Dare I say, almost identical to my mom's. I realize that Manwich is not a revelation for most people, considering it's been around forever. But in all my 38 years, I'd never tried it (at least not knowingly). I couldn't believe it. Sloppy joes almost as good as Mom used to make...in a can?!
Betrayed by a Manwich. Sorry, Mom, hope you don't mind. hee-hee! ; )
Hands down, the best. All my life I ate them. On softie buns from the bakery with a whole bunch of crinkle cut dill pickles. Potato chips and chip dip on the side. Glass of milk. And if it was a birthday party, there was Kool-Aid to drink. Other kids' moms made sloppy joes too, but they never measured up. Sometimes they were too sweet, or maybe they were stingy with the pickles.
Unfortunately, I never did learn how to make them. I could guess at some of the basic ingredients, I suppose, but in what combination and quantities? It was one of those "a little of this, a little of that" recipes that you can't really write down. Even after discussing it with my sister several times, we only came up with a vague recipe at best.
Then, while visiting my brother this December, something surprising happened. He made sloppy joes from a can of Manwich, with a little chopped onion thrown in for good measure. And with all the requisite side items, pickles and chips included.
They were really good. Dare I say, almost identical to my mom's. I realize that Manwich is not a revelation for most people, considering it's been around forever. But in all my 38 years, I'd never tried it (at least not knowingly). I couldn't believe it. Sloppy joes almost as good as Mom used to make...in a can?!
Betrayed by a Manwich. Sorry, Mom, hope you don't mind. hee-hee! ; )
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
What's up, Crankyface?
I'm rarely cranky. At least on the outside. Sometimes I'm cranky on the inside but most people wouldn't know. Today was one of those cranky on the inside days.
Nothing particularly bad happened. It was a lovely, snowy, picturesque day, in fact.
Just tired. One too many snarky comments on the train. One too many indifferent souls marching along. I had ridiculously smushed hat-head all day and my lips are chapped. My TV screen was all static when I got home. The snow turned to sleet. I annoyed myself by eating some pizza instead of the salad sitting in my fridge.
Then my friend wrote me and asked what was up. She called me Crankyface and that made me smile. And she distracted me until I wasn't cranky anymore.
Thanks, ladyface.
Nothing particularly bad happened. It was a lovely, snowy, picturesque day, in fact.
Just tired. One too many snarky comments on the train. One too many indifferent souls marching along. I had ridiculously smushed hat-head all day and my lips are chapped. My TV screen was all static when I got home. The snow turned to sleet. I annoyed myself by eating some pizza instead of the salad sitting in my fridge.
Then my friend wrote me and asked what was up. She called me Crankyface and that made me smile. And she distracted me until I wasn't cranky anymore.
Thanks, ladyface.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Fancy
The word 'fancy' came up the other day, and it got me thinking about this particular story. Here 'tis...
It was my last year at Parsons School of Design. For anyone in the fashion design department, the senior fashion show was a major event. We'd spent the last several months working alongside designers like Isaac Mizrahi, Donna Karan and Michael Kors. We'd seen our ideas go from rough sketch to final product, and soon they would strut down the runway.
My family was coming to New York.
The show was to be held at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square, and it was a black tie affair. Designers and industry big-whigs would attend. There was salmon on the menu. My brother rented a tux.
One evening, my mom called, excited to tell me she'd found a dress for the occasion.
"Hi, Darling. I found a dress for your show. I think you will like it."
"Oh, good. What's it like?"
"Well, it's kind of a slip dress. It's black."
"Oh, that sounds nice."
"Yes, and it has spaghetti straps with little rhinestones."
"Oh, OK."
"Yeah, and then in the back there is a big ruffle that goes over the hips, and that has little silver sequins on it."
"Huh."
"And then there's a little jacket that goes on top with red feathers around the neck. It's kind of glittery."
"Oh, really?"
"But you will really love the sleeves. They're kind of gathered and really puffy. I think they're satin."
Nervous silence.
A few seconds went by and finally I said, quietly, "Um, I don't think you have to be quite that fancy."
Suddenly a burst of laughter exploded on the other end of the line and it didn't stop. My mom had been teasing me, of course, knowing that I would never ever say, "Mom, that sounds hideous!" She laughed and laughed and laughed, and so did I.
(By the way, her real dress was simple and elegant, and she was the most beautiful person there.)
It was my last year at Parsons School of Design. For anyone in the fashion design department, the senior fashion show was a major event. We'd spent the last several months working alongside designers like Isaac Mizrahi, Donna Karan and Michael Kors. We'd seen our ideas go from rough sketch to final product, and soon they would strut down the runway.
My family was coming to New York.
The show was to be held at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square, and it was a black tie affair. Designers and industry big-whigs would attend. There was salmon on the menu. My brother rented a tux.
One evening, my mom called, excited to tell me she'd found a dress for the occasion.
"Hi, Darling. I found a dress for your show. I think you will like it."
"Oh, good. What's it like?"
"Well, it's kind of a slip dress. It's black."
"Oh, that sounds nice."
"Yes, and it has spaghetti straps with little rhinestones."
"Oh, OK."
"Yeah, and then in the back there is a big ruffle that goes over the hips, and that has little silver sequins on it."
"Huh."
"And then there's a little jacket that goes on top with red feathers around the neck. It's kind of glittery."
"Oh, really?"
"But you will really love the sleeves. They're kind of gathered and really puffy. I think they're satin."
Nervous silence.
A few seconds went by and finally I said, quietly, "Um, I don't think you have to be quite that fancy."
Suddenly a burst of laughter exploded on the other end of the line and it didn't stop. My mom had been teasing me, of course, knowing that I would never ever say, "Mom, that sounds hideous!" She laughed and laughed and laughed, and so did I.
(By the way, her real dress was simple and elegant, and she was the most beautiful person there.)
Thursday, December 23, 2010
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
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
Saturday, December 4, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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.
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.
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