Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
(Bellies portrayed are for representative purposes only, and may or may not be fans of the artistic stylings of Jeff Tweedy. No fetuses were harmed in the making of this post).
In any case, it seemed like at least 30% of the female population was visibly, hugely, ready-to-pop pregnant. Apparently unborn fetuses and their host bodies love the Wilco; you heard it here first. Shopping for an expecting friend? Try a Wilco onesie, it's sure to be a crowd-pleaser.
I was lucky enough to attend this event for free, as a volunteer. I wish I had been able to hold up my end of the bargain a little more effectively, but I ended up trailing Talia mutely as she worked her clipboard-wielding, signature-collecting, community-activating charm. (I did hold some brochures, though). What can I say, she's had a lot more experience at this than I have, and besides, there was only the one clipboard, after all. And, I like to think I provided some much-needed moral support. For our hard work and dedication we saw the show and drank for free, and as it neared the end of the over two-hour performance, we packed up shop and flashed our smeared hand stamps for entrance into the VIP area (apparently missing Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins by mere minutes). Upstairs it was an oasis of subtle lighting, potted plants, attractively padded benches, and more free food and booze. I took the presence of yet more pregnant ladies walking around as a good sign - more wine for me! (Although the tray of chocolate chip cookies I had my eye on disappeared in like a minute flat).
In short, volunteering rocks. Giving back to the community is so important, and I encourage everyone to do it. In fact, now that I have the taste for volunteering, I'm hoping to do it again soon, perhaps during the Regina Spektor concert tomorrow. But only because it's for a good cause, of course.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
If you can't read it, the fortune cookie states: Reconcile with an old friend. All has been forgotten. And ahhh, the bitter, bitter bile of a black pen. Look at me, spilling my innermost personal feelings on actual lined paper like that. How cute, how quaint it all is. What did I do before I had a blog and the Internet to reassure me, to tell me that you love me, no matter what? Well, I probably spent a lot more time crying alone in my room, that's for sure. Also, I probably spent a whole lot less time checking my spelling and grammar. Because did I spell deceit like receipt? Why yes. Yes I did. And though I know I was deadly serious at the time, I admit I did get a good chuckle out of it when I re-read it, once I had a bit of perspective and Tal was back on the Christmas card list once more.
But when I think of how differently it could have turned out, I am so grateful that it turned out in this way. Because when faced with an impoverished, unemployed, homeless, aimless, desperate and wandering (and only slightly whiny) ex-grad student, it takes a very special person to say, "Sure! Come on over and stay at my place for the next few weeks to a month and a half! It'll be fun!" And for someone to say those words and actually mean it, well, that's the mark of a true friend.
Tal and I are back together again, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Add in a summer of shopping, shows and shoes, New York City-style, and that's just icing on the talking cupcake. And remember, friends may come and go, but cupcakes are forever.
Cheers, everyone! Here's wishing you a sweet, sweet summer.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
After the before we slept close, so tight together that no paper could fit between, no particle of light shine through. I woke and he woke. Roll over. Shhh. Roll over. Go to sleep. Wake, turn, shift, sleep, all night long, with never a space between. Airtight and happy, belly to back, nose to neck, every sigh a tickle, every flutter of lash a butterfly kiss. Our bodies a matched set, curved lines traced by a steady hand, two long parentheses. Comfort in this. In three years, how many hours did we spend like this? Twenty-five hundred, perhaps. Three thousand. Perhaps more. Never counting, our time not measured in hours and minutes, but in beats and breaths, in shared body heat, in risings and fallings and the slow and steady pressure of a hand on a back, on a leg, on an arm. Our sleep was as infinite as our future, as vast as the horizon unrolling before us, until we came to the end of the world, and leapt.
A year and a quarter later and I am still not a solitary sleeper. Tonight I am a shadowy figure in a strange bed, an unwilling apostrophe longing to be made a quotation mark.