you know you're getting up there when...

a few weeks ago, Michael's cousin Julie found me on the F train platform. it was early and I was not yet caffinated and at first I had no idea who was standing next to me wryly saying "boo."

Jules is 15 and I met her when she was only five so you could say we have a bond. I've watched her grow from an adorable, freckly little thing into a self-possessed, wise and witty high schooler.

she's one of my most favorite people in the world.

anyway it was a pleasant surprise to see her on the platform. it was pretty much a shock to step onto the train when it arrived to a chorus of teen girl squeals.

like six of her friends were on the exact car we got on, and apparently they didn't plan that ahead of time.

I confess I felt like a huge nerd, sitting there next to Jules among all her friends. they were dressed in that way I can't figure out: ridiculously cool but where did they learn? and how? why don't kids today have to endure tacky trends and hideous clothing that will cause them great shame, even two decades later?

the conversation was rapid-fire and I was hopelessly lost, but I didn't dare ask for clarification on whom or what they were talking about. I didn't want to embarass Jules. so I just sipped my Red Bull (do cool kids still drink that? probably not. it's the farthest thing from sustainable.)

I thought of myself and my friends at that age and what out conversations sounded like. I know they were laced with ridiculous inside jokes and plentiful gossip and gripes about teachers and classwork.

so maybe not much has changed in the last 15 years, excluding this preternatural fashion sense.

the friends got off two stops later but Jules stayed on, even though they were all going to the same place. she swore she preferred the F to the A, but I suspected she felt bad abandoning me.

at least that's how I probably would have felt when I was her age.

it gave us a chance to chat, at least, which was nice. I know six or seven years ago she looked up to me, but sometime in the last two years our roles reversed. she's a hundred times smarter than I'll ever be and I love it.

anyway, I saw her again the other night at a birthday shindig for my future mother-in-law. sometime between dinner and cake she hit me with this awesome bit: "my friends asked me that day who the lady was on the train with me."

I'm not even kidding, my heart sunk. I felt it.

lady?! LADY?

it's one thing to be called ma'am by a store clerk. to be referred to as a lady by high school sophomores makes it undeniable.

I am old.

or, at least, I'm not as young as I feel. I am officially in a whole other category from the youth in this world (aka People Too Sqare to Deal With). and obviously that's a good thing. I'm succeeding at seeming like a grown up, which is the idea, right?

still. one is never prepared for the Oz-like moment when the curtain is pulled back and one is revealed to be exactly what she is.

a lady.

mb


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memory dump

it seems to me that the passing of time is similar to a rip current. it is stronger than you and larger than you and the more you struggle against it, the more exhausted, out of sorts and out of breath you’ll be. if you just let it carry you, however, just enjoy the scenery as you zip along, you’ll be OK.

i’m contemplating the passing of time for many reasons right now. at nearly three weeks ‘til the wedding, i’m absolutely confounded by where the last year has gone. hell, where the last nine years have gone. the other night Michael and i were sorting through a ton of old photographs, pulling our favorites for a montage he’s working on for the wedding. almost a decade of photos. nearly a decade of smiles and silly faces and countless locations—ballparks, beaches, backyards, parties, weddings, road trips—and it was hard to comprehend it all.

have we really been together that long? done that many things together? it doesn’t feel like it.

where did the time go?

i had a similar “whoa” experience two weekends ago at my parents’. my dad has decided that ripping apart the basement and starting over is the perfect project to tackle a few weeks before his only child’s wedding. the guy lives on the edge. anyway, part of reclaiming the basement involves hauling out all the things we’ve stored there in the almost-three decades we’ve lived there.

a large amount of which is mine.

when i arrived home last friday, there were about eight Rubbermaid tubs waiting for me to dig into and i was to do one of three things with the contents: 1) save; 2) trash; 3) set aside to donate to the Salvation Army.

i approached the project with trepidation. not only was i about to see things i hadn’t laid eyes on in years, but it was also mostly mold-covered from its time in the basement. i am wildly allergic to mold—constant sneezing, watery eyes, scratchy throat. misery. but, it had to be done.

i started with my old theatre souvenirs: musty Playbills, autographed photos from my erstwhile heroes (Tommy Tune, Ann Reinking, Randy Graff, Barbara Walsh—all people no one but me and other theatre geeks of the world know), and four scrapbooks of mementos from my acting “career.” i even had a program, a script and various other scraps of things from my first-ever play, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, in which i performed as a “no-neck monster” in third grade.

then i came upon a tub of college mementos. i had saved the message pad my friend Geev and i shared when we were roommates the second half of freshman year. we’d written banal phone messages along with lists of inside jokes, movies we thought the other should see and even one “script” for a phone call our friend Kerri was nervous about making.

there were also cards and letters from friends and family, souvenirs from my doomed summer working at Disney World, old IDs, maps, news clippings, invitations, scraps of things i’m not sure why i saved.

my mom had preserved my high school uniform (i still fit into the plaid pleated skirt! my dad perversely suggested i bring it back to Brooklyn for Michael’s entertainment—there are no words), my baptism gown, the Princeton sweatshirt she and my dad had given me for Christmas one year when there was still a glimmer of a hope that maybe i’d become an Ivy Leaguer, homemade baby blankets and all the badges i’d earned as a Brownie.

the biggest tub contained true relics of my childhood. i seriously went mental when i opened the lid because you know how you think of thing sometimes? you get snippets of memories floating through your brain—you picture a toy or a doll or even a piece of clothing from bygone days and you wonder, “why did i just think of that? where has that tidbit been hiding?” well, imagine seeing all of those things in one place at one time. it’s pretty crazy.

most of my Barbies were in the tub, most of whom had their hair cut off. my Cabbage Patch dolls were in there, too, spotted with mold spores and wearing only their diapers. a stuffed mouse named Jilly was at the bottom of the tub—Jilly, given to me one birthday by my pal Kevin and who was the smoking gun the year i discovered there was no Santa Claus. (i used to leave Santa a stuffed animal each year to take with him so the elves had something to play with all year—because, you know, they worked in a toy factory and had no access to things to play with—and when Santa returned Jilly a year after i’d left him, i realized Jilly smelled unmistakably like our basement. and, now that i thought about it, Santa’s handwriting looked a lot like my dad’s... anxiety ensued.) Curious George was in there, too—with his gimpy stitched-up arm. (it's a long story, but my father and i dislocated George’s monkey limb during one of our nightly rituals that conditioned me to be the competitive control freak that i am today.) i also saw Tilly the Turtle and Lambikins the Lamb...

i dug through the tub as long as my eyes, nose and throat could stand it. i mourned the fact that i’ll never be a little girl again (do you ever have those moments? when you realize, “oh, wow, i’ll never be that carefree again. i so didn’t appreciate being eight!”) and i took photos so i’d remember it all.

and then i told my dad to get rid of everything. my reasoning was that if i had gone this long without needing to see, touch or sort through all of this stuff, why would i need it in the future?

memories, i decided, are intangible. yes, they’re connected to (and you’re reminded of them by) tangible items, but the items are not the memories. those Brownie badges were neat to look at, but i know i’ll always remember carpooling to the weekly meetings with Christine, and how at the start of every meeting we’d sing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and i never understood what America had to do with icing. i’ll always remember Camp Laughing Waters and the baked apples we made over the camp fire.

and even without having old scripts and props (and the silverware we stole from our many trips to Denny’s) to look at, i’ll never forget my high school drama days—the way the gym smelled during our rehearsals, the way my heart pounded every time a cast list was posted on the bulletin board outside the Activities Office, how i memorized my lines like a fiend, certain i was taking the first step to a career on Broadway. i’ll never forget the amazing, hilarious, exquisite friendships i had those four years.

and i don’t need to hold onto Jilly to remember the way my parents explained to me that Christmas that Santa isn’t not real—he’s just more of a spirit, one that resides in everyone’s imagination. the parents get the presents, yes, but Santa provides the magic.

anyway, it felt good to let go after all these years. to trust that the memories will come back to me as i need them, without taking up space in my parents’ basement.

and—this is the best part—not covered in mold.

mb

shhhhhh....

i found this quote on a friend's blog and had to borrow it and pass it on. i think it's pretty damn brilliant:

"there are two kinds of people in this world - first, the kind that thrive on speaking to fill a space because it's the only way they feel secure. the other kind, the secure kind, revel in silence. they feel the attraction between them and the world when there is quiet calm. it's the latter that have the most depth, as they are able to see the beauty in everything with their eyes. what happens to talkers is they begin to speak about nonsense, they speak and don't have enough positive to say so they talk negative. and the empty space is filled with bad energy. so talkers, here's a piece of advice: be quiet, open your mind, not your mouth."

slightly edited, from where there is love there is life

mb

that's the way the cookie crumbles

last week, after our dance lesson, Michael and i stopped at a little market in our neighborhood for some things for dinner. we waited in line at the checkout, right next to the cookie section, and i was reminded, again, of the windmill cookies i bought over the summer.

when i was little, my Grandma Bev always had windmill cookies in her big glass cookie jar in the kitchen (well, actually, she alternated cookies with those old-fashioned Charms lollipops—it was a win-win situation) and even though i don’t remember particularly enjoying them (they were too sophisticated for my Oreo-and-Chips-Ahoy palate), i always associated them with her, my beloved Grandma, who passed away far too early and just as i was really getting to know her.

sometime in june or july, i was in that same market in the neighborhood, waiting in line to check out, gazing at the cookie section (per my usual) and i spotted a package of Archway Windmill Cookies. i hadn’t laid eyes on them in probably 20 years—i’d actually forgotten about them until that moment. it had been one of those days, i was stressed or sad or out of sorts about something, and seeing those cookies lifted my spirits.

oddly enough, there was only one package of windmill cookies on the shelf. there were no others anywhere, and it was mixed in with other brands—totally out of place. i believed it was—embarrassing as this is to admit—some sort of sign. Grandma Bev was reminding me that she was still around, still with me, always looking out for me.

without hesitation, i grabbed the package from the shelf and put it in my basket. i had to have the windmill cookies. for a few weeks they sat on my kitchen counter, unopened, a comforting sight. eventually, because i thought they might go bad exposed to sunlight on a daily basis, i stuck them in the cabinet above.

i was still trying to decide what to do with them. i’m in possession of Grandma Bev’s cookie jar now, and thought maybe i’d put the cookies in there for old time’s sake but for the time being, i was satisfied just knowing i had what might’ve been the last remaining package of Archway Windmill Cookies in the world—meant solely for me, a means of remembering Grandma Bev.

so, in the cabinet they stayed.

now back to last week, in line at the market, same cookie aisle. i scanned the shelves quickly, looking for another package of windmill cookies—i check every time i’m in there, to either prove or disprove my theory that the cookies were a sign—and saw everything but.

“it’s so funny,” i said to Michael. “i’ve never seen those cookies again.”

“what cookies?”

“the windmill cookies. remember? my grandma?” i launched into the story—thinking i must have told him about it before, he never remembers anything—and halfway through, a distracted look came across his face. i’ve told the cookie story to a few people and they’ve all sort of looked at me kindly and curiously, politely humoring my insanity. i figured he was thinking the same thing so i stopped short.

“everyone thinks i’m crazy when i tell that story,” i sighed.

a few long seconds of silence went by and then he finally said, in a quiet voice, “i ate them.”

“what?”

“i ate the windmill cookies. they’re gone. they’ve been gone. for like two months.”

i truly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“i didn’t know they were off-limits! you never told me,” he said, looking like he might cry. “i’ll buy you another bag, i promise. i’ll find them.”

he apologized profusely our entire walk home, in between shaking his head at himself and muttering things like, “idiot!” i’d be lying if i said a part of me wasn’t very sad about the whole thing—my cookies! my meaningful, symbolic cookies!—i even had a small lump in my throat for a few seconds. (blame my PMS.)

but five minutes later i realized that if my Grandma Bev was still around, she’d be laughing her tush off over the whole thing—first, about the fact that i believed her spirit was somehow entangled with those windmill cookies; and second, that my fiancé had eaten them with abandon one night, completely oblivious to their sentimental value.

Michael gave me a big hug when we got home and put down our grocery bags, and i told him it was OK, it was just a silly sentimental thing. and, really, it doesn’t matter that i don’t have the cookies anymore. i had them for a while, they reminded me of something about my Grandma Bev that i’d forgotten, and brought me comfort when i needed it.

if that’s not divine intervention, what is?

mb

going bonkers

life, right now, is basically madness. not really a bad madness—i mean, it’s for a good cause. it’s just…a lot. and it’s taking its toll on some of us.

my parents, for example, spent all of last Friday celebrating their 39^th wedding anniversary only to realize, when they opened my card that evening, that it was actually their 38^th anniversary. on Sunday night, after a fabulous dinner of homemade spaghetti and meatballs, my father declined when i offered to refill his wine glass with chianti. i refilled mine and settled in for Game 3 of the ALDS. about three innings in, i saw my dad take a leisurely sip from my glass and set it back down on the end table. “What is this,” i said, “church?” he burst out laughing, having completely forgotten that he’d turned down a second glass just thirty minutes earlier.

and me. i decided to wear a skirt to our third dance lesson Tuesday night in the hopes that i’d look or at least feel more graceful than I did in jeans and sneakers. only i opted for a plaid wool skirt that i swear was four inches longer last fall than it is this fall. i got dressed that morning in a rush and convinced myself that not only was the skirt a reasonable length for a woman my age, but also that wearing fishnets rather than opaque tights was a good idea.

fast-forward to our lesson that night. Leslie tells us we should learn the lift, even if we decide not to do it. the lift involves Michael spinning me around in his arms, holding me as if he were carrying me over the threshold. the skirt is not long enough to be caught and secured by both of his arms, so the hem of it flapped and flew in the breeze created by the spin. granted, there were only three of us in the studio but the ample view of my tush (oh, yes—i paired the fishnets not with boy shorts or even granny panties, but with what my mother wryly calls a “slingshot”) every time we did the lift—a dozen times, to my recollection—was just oh so humbling.

anyway. we’re all bonkers and i fear it will only get more intense as the days continue to tick down. Despite my nearly constant utter exhaustion, I get myself up out of bed five or six mornings a week at six am and I go to the gym.

this may sound crazy but that fifteen minute walk, when it’s still dark as night (and, lately, frigid as all hell) along the nearly deserted sidewalks—those are some of my happiest moments of the day. i feel at peace as I pass the café on the corner where workers have just begun to brew the coffee, when I catch a whiff of the everything bagels in the oven at Brooklyn Bread, when i watch a few poor souls in their business suits trudging to the F train. every morning the same guy runs past me on the opposite side of the street, dressed in his interesting garb (always shorts layered over spandex pants with a knit cap with earflaps and tassels on his head) and with a huge pack strapped to his back. i make up a different story about him each day—he’s training to run across the country a la Forrest Gump; he’s preparing for a serious trek up Mount Kilimanjaro; he’s especially attached to his possessions and can’t leave home, even for a jog, without them.

anyway, i love being up and out at that hour. my brain is still compartmentalized and i can focus just on getting to the gym and on my workout and on getting back to the apartment with a somewhat reasonable amount of time left to get ready for work.

later in the day my head will swirl and chug and spew smoke and lava as work responsibilities and wedding to-dos twist and tangle with worries about my finances, about seeing my friends, about the big, tragically unorganized tub of fall clothes in the spare room waiting to be sorted out and put away, about finding time to catch up on Grey’s, about my Gram, about the dust accumulating on all surfaces in the apartment, until finally i crawl into bed and set my alarm for six am.

mb

a regular fred & ginger

for our First Dance as husband and wife, Michael and i chose (OK, i chose) "It Had to Be You." if you know us and you know the song, you know why it fits. it also figured pretty prominently into When Harry Met Sally... which, along with Who's the Boss, largely shaped my idea of love and relationships during my formative years. (and, when you think about it, my current relationship is sort of a mélange of those two pop culture phenomena. freaky.)

anyway, we only get one First Dance and i couldn't imagine us just swaying back and forth for three minutes, especially to a classic like "It Had to Be You." it just calls for something a little more special.

but, since Michael and i are not fans of Dancing With the Stars nor would we last two minutes on such a show, we needed some assistance.

a.k.a. dance lessons.

to his credit, Michael did not put up a fight. in fact, he was fairly game. (husband-of-the-year-in-training.) i set up a trial lesson at a dance studio i found online that seemed promising. our teacher was a fellow named Peter and, via e-mail, he seemed promising.

ten minutes before the lesson was to begin, Michael and i were standing on the sidewalk outside the building—we were both nervous and jittery. i had no idea what to expect and was slightly dismayed when we stepped of the elevator into a rather chaotic scene. when i "checked in" at the front desk i was told, "oh, yeah, Peter—i saw him, he's around. he'll find you guys."

right. there were wide windows along the wall, offering a view of large studios in which a wide array of couples were dancing. it was overwhelming, even for me—and i spent the first half of my life immersed in theater. i could only imagine what was flying through Michael's head as he took in the scene, but he just smiled and fidgeted and refrained from comment.

finally Peter approached us and i was taken aback. totally close-minded of me, but i expected some sleek, fit, well-put-together guy—a Broadway gypsy, maybe, trying to pay the bills. but Peter... well, he reminded me of Will Ferrell's impression of Harry Caray. he just had a disheveled, somewhat incongruous quality to him that didn't exactly convey "dance instructor."

but, hell, we were there and the trial was only half the price of a regular lesson. so off we went. Peter taught us five dances in sixty minutes in a room full of couples all being instructed by different teachers. the music in the room changed approximately every three minutes and it never matched the dance we were learning. for example, salsa music played as we were trying to master the foxtrot. once we moved onto salsa, Frank Sinatra blared from the speakers.

needless to say, by the end of the hour i had a raging headache. i thanked Peter profusely and the next day got online to find a new studio. and that i did—one that puts only one couple in a studio at a time. the pictures on the website looked so serene compared to Peter's studio and after a few e-mails with a staff member, i was sold.

last night was our first lesson at the new place and i think we were both even more nervous and apprehensive than the last time but, oh—what a difference. our instructor, Leslie, bore no resemblance to Harry Caray. she spent the first ten minutes of the lesson getting to know us, how we met, what our wedding would be like, and what we were looking for. that broke the ice and when she finally got us on the floor, in front of the mirror, we were—well, if not completely at ease, at least forty percent of the way there.

we danced only to our song and in a shockingly short time we mastered the basic box step of the foxtrot (some of what Peter taught us came right back, so he wasn't all bad), how to rotate while doing the box step and then how to move from the box step to a twirl (well, i do the twirling) back into the box step!

we were wildly impressed with ourselves.

we have five more lessons to get a whole dance together and i have utter faith in Leslie (and in us) that it'll be awesome.

and the cherry on top of our lovely evening last night was the discovery as we headed to the F train that the dance studio is actually right in the shadow of the Empire State Building. how appropriate.

mb