The other night I found myself enjoying a spectacular view on one of the three rooftop decks of the Tribeca triplex apartment owned by the President and CEO of the company where I work.
As far as office parties go, this one was pretty stellar. The fact that it was a Halloween party really pushed it into the realm of actual fun, which is not typical of how I feel on the subject of “employee morale” efforts. While I’m not a water-cooler gossiper, and I prefer not to partake in the inevitable kvetching that is ubiquitous in any work environment, I'm also not big on the Team Spirit hoo-ha. In general, I’d really rather not talk about my job, period.
But there I was at 9pm on an unseasonably warm Tuesday, wearing butterfly wings, covered in gold glitter, and feeling the love for my fellow co-workers, for their willingness to also dress up and let loose. The Capitol One Viking and I bonded over the amusement of taking the subway in full costume. The Queen of Hearts and I waxed poetic over the pumpkin cheesecake. Mozart and I raised our arms to the sky and sang along as the DJ played the Black Eyed Peas “I got a feeling”
… that tonight’s gonna be a good night,
That tonight’s gonna be a good, good night,
Woo hoo…
Emboldened by my mask, I felt sassier, more courageous. I joked with the Senior Executives. I made small talk with industry colleagues about non-work matters and felt more like myself than I ever do in my “work-appropriate attire.” And then I patted myself on the back for knowing it was better to leave early while still having fun.
I hailed a cab, and as he slowed down to meet me at the curb, the driver looked at my wings and grinned. “But you can fly home!” he exclaimed.
The bells on my butterfly antennas jingled all the way home as we hit each pothole. As I climbed out of the taxi, glitter dusted off me and settled on the seat. I envisioned a golden, telltale trail drawing a magical line across Manhattan, like TinkerBell’s stars.
Indeed, it was a good, good night.
Kibette & Kibettoo. Early Days.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Hallow's Eve. Ready or Not.
It is a dark and stormy night. Really. I understand that Maui may not ring synonymous with 'dark and stormy' but on the north shore (a.k.a the windward side), the rains do come. And at 1600 ft., so does the below 70 degree weather. Quite frankly, the weather seems just right for the upcoming Halloween ritual.
I did not grow up with Halloween. Growing up in Europe in the 70s and 80s with a Swedish mother (no Halloweens in Sweden) and a father who did not live in the U.S. for 20 consecutive years, Halloween is not a particular childhood memory of mine. (Ask me about dressing up for Santa Lucia on December 13th with candles in my hair and carrying warm, saffron buns...now we're talking.)
Well, okay, I do recall my mother handmaking me a ladybug costume for an "American" party in some countryside; I wore tentacles made of black stockings on my head. When I was 9 and living in Rome, I dressed as a princesss - of course! - and trick-or-treated at a friend's apartment building...we went to two apartments, maybe. The Italians weren't willing to playing along; I think someone gave us an apple. Brussels was much more Amercanized by the time we got there, but I still only recall one trick-or-treat eve in the so-called American ghetto, which was far from a ghetto, full of beautiful, old houses on tree-lined streets.
I actually didn't get into the swing of things until college, at which point the local homeowners frowned suspiciously at us, four college-aged girls dressed as Crayolas, and wondered why we were usurping the young ones' night.
As an adult, I lived mostly in NYC where children trick-or-treat in apartment buildings. But, and this I love, apartment dwellers sign a list in the lobby letting it be known whether or not you want to be tricked, or treated. (Personally, I find it very civilized.) My sister and I did not sign up, but headed instead to a nearby haunt of our own for martinis. Treat!
But I've now moved to Makawao which is apparently Halloween central. A dear friend drove up to my house tonight and gently suggested that maybe I decorate the front door area...at least a little. And my next-door-neighbors are pint-sized and sure to expect treats when they come a' knockin'. I don't want to disappoint.
I do like to dress up. I do! I do! I have had a respectable collection of wigs over the last decade and even hosted a party or two in the day. But as holiday-oriented as I am, I fear I may have been a bit of a Hallow's Eve slacker when it comes to the children.
So I pledge to go find some pumpkins or lights to string up and a big, bag of bad candy, and maybe I'll dress up my little Petey dog up as a cat. Or a bumblebee. Why not?
Actually, the whole idea of it feels kind of cozy, like Charlie Brown and apple pie. I'm glad it's dark and stormy. It's perfect.
I did not grow up with Halloween. Growing up in Europe in the 70s and 80s with a Swedish mother (no Halloweens in Sweden) and a father who did not live in the U.S. for 20 consecutive years, Halloween is not a particular childhood memory of mine. (Ask me about dressing up for Santa Lucia on December 13th with candles in my hair and carrying warm, saffron buns...now we're talking.)
Well, okay, I do recall my mother handmaking me a ladybug costume for an "American" party in some countryside; I wore tentacles made of black stockings on my head. When I was 9 and living in Rome, I dressed as a princesss - of course! - and trick-or-treated at a friend's apartment building...we went to two apartments, maybe. The Italians weren't willing to playing along; I think someone gave us an apple. Brussels was much more Amercanized by the time we got there, but I still only recall one trick-or-treat eve in the so-called American ghetto, which was far from a ghetto, full of beautiful, old houses on tree-lined streets.
I actually didn't get into the swing of things until college, at which point the local homeowners frowned suspiciously at us, four college-aged girls dressed as Crayolas, and wondered why we were usurping the young ones' night.
As an adult, I lived mostly in NYC where children trick-or-treat in apartment buildings. But, and this I love, apartment dwellers sign a list in the lobby letting it be known whether or not you want to be tricked, or treated. (Personally, I find it very civilized.) My sister and I did not sign up, but headed instead to a nearby haunt of our own for martinis. Treat!
But I've now moved to Makawao which is apparently Halloween central. A dear friend drove up to my house tonight and gently suggested that maybe I decorate the front door area...at least a little. And my next-door-neighbors are pint-sized and sure to expect treats when they come a' knockin'. I don't want to disappoint.
I do like to dress up. I do! I do! I have had a respectable collection of wigs over the last decade and even hosted a party or two in the day. But as holiday-oriented as I am, I fear I may have been a bit of a Hallow's Eve slacker when it comes to the children.
So I pledge to go find some pumpkins or lights to string up and a big, bag of bad candy, and maybe I'll dress up my little Petey dog up as a cat. Or a bumblebee. Why not?
Actually, the whole idea of it feels kind of cozy, like Charlie Brown and apple pie. I'm glad it's dark and stormy. It's perfect.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Letting Go, Just a Little
My little sister is engaged.
O. proposed just days after I left for Rwanda this summer, and so H. spent 3 weeks holding the news in, wanting to tell me first, in person, when I got back. But I knew. I knew the moment she told me over the phone that she'd need 30 minutes alone with me upon my arrival back in NYC, en route to Maui. She came straight from work to where I was staying, and I met her at the lobby elevator. As we rode up all of 3 stories, I bubbled over with excitement insisting she tell me her news. H. looked at me and said, "Really? Really you want me to tell you here? In the elevator? When I'm hot and sweaty? And carrying groceries?" Apparently, she had envisioned the sharing of news somewhat differently. But she quickly acquiesced, gleefully exploding with, "I'm engaged!" and we jumped up and down in the elevator in celebration. Honestly, in the elevator, sweaty, carrying groceries and me, fully jet-lagged, was perfect.
I have a memory of being four or five. I am running as fast as my little legs will carry me down our grassy, sloping lawn, pushing (well, charging with) my little sister in her carriage. That is all I remember, other than the fact that I was trying to get rid of her. I'm not sure what my plan was, or who saved her, but I was not too happy to be sharing my mother's attention. A year or so later, I was sitting in our living room waiting for the school bus. Toddler H. waited beside me. It seemed the perfect time to coax her into pushing little pebbles from our indoor flower pots up her nose; they became lodged. I got on the school bus in a hurry.
Then the tides changed and she has been my comfort ever since. When I was in my early teens, my bedroom was in a part of the house that was separate from the rest. I'd wake in the middle of the night afraid of noises I was hearing, or thought I might hear, and tiptoed down to H.'s room with my comforter in hand. I would curl up on the floor beside her bed and be soothed back to sleep knowing that she was nearby. I only just discovered that H. also sometimes woke up scared, and would crawl into my parents' room to sleep on the floor next to them! So, most likely, I was sleeping next to an empty bed.
As adults, H and I often lived in different cities until one day, when I was thirty-two and she was twenty-eight, we found ourselves both single and living in New York City. And then, for three years, we lived together. We were attached at the hip. We went for morning runs in Central Park, met up with friends in the evenings for drinks, and ate tea and toast off trays while watching When Harry Met Sally for Thanksgiving. We even went away on vacations together. Don't be fooled; we had some incredible fights. Ooh, they were bad. Stand-on-opposite-sides-of-the-train-with-fume-coming-out-of-our-ears bad. Once, I was so angry, something popped in my neck. (H. saw it pop, at which point we collapsed on the floor laughing.)
But the rest was so much fun. When I moved to Maui, we had our last supper at a favorite Indian restaurant and sobbed uncontrollably into our chicken masalas.
And then H. met O. And now she's engaged.
I know I have to give up a bit of her since she has someone else now to consider for holidays and trips and Big Decisions - and she should consider him; I know that. Still, I'll say it: I'm not happy about giving up even a teensy bit. But my little sister is marrying a good man who loves her. She arrives home most nights to a home-cooked meal and a wine bottle just uncorked. And his vocabulary makes her swoon.
So I'll give up that little bit, because she deserves him. I also know that O. knows that H. is my Most Important Person. And he's probably giving up a little bit of her for me, too.
O. proposed just days after I left for Rwanda this summer, and so H. spent 3 weeks holding the news in, wanting to tell me first, in person, when I got back. But I knew. I knew the moment she told me over the phone that she'd need 30 minutes alone with me upon my arrival back in NYC, en route to Maui. She came straight from work to where I was staying, and I met her at the lobby elevator. As we rode up all of 3 stories, I bubbled over with excitement insisting she tell me her news. H. looked at me and said, "Really? Really you want me to tell you here? In the elevator? When I'm hot and sweaty? And carrying groceries?" Apparently, she had envisioned the sharing of news somewhat differently. But she quickly acquiesced, gleefully exploding with, "I'm engaged!" and we jumped up and down in the elevator in celebration. Honestly, in the elevator, sweaty, carrying groceries and me, fully jet-lagged, was perfect.
I have a memory of being four or five. I am running as fast as my little legs will carry me down our grassy, sloping lawn, pushing (well, charging with) my little sister in her carriage. That is all I remember, other than the fact that I was trying to get rid of her. I'm not sure what my plan was, or who saved her, but I was not too happy to be sharing my mother's attention. A year or so later, I was sitting in our living room waiting for the school bus. Toddler H. waited beside me. It seemed the perfect time to coax her into pushing little pebbles from our indoor flower pots up her nose; they became lodged. I got on the school bus in a hurry.
Then the tides changed and she has been my comfort ever since. When I was in my early teens, my bedroom was in a part of the house that was separate from the rest. I'd wake in the middle of the night afraid of noises I was hearing, or thought I might hear, and tiptoed down to H.'s room with my comforter in hand. I would curl up on the floor beside her bed and be soothed back to sleep knowing that she was nearby. I only just discovered that H. also sometimes woke up scared, and would crawl into my parents' room to sleep on the floor next to them! So, most likely, I was sleeping next to an empty bed.
As adults, H and I often lived in different cities until one day, when I was thirty-two and she was twenty-eight, we found ourselves both single and living in New York City. And then, for three years, we lived together. We were attached at the hip. We went for morning runs in Central Park, met up with friends in the evenings for drinks, and ate tea and toast off trays while watching When Harry Met Sally for Thanksgiving. We even went away on vacations together. Don't be fooled; we had some incredible fights. Ooh, they were bad. Stand-on-opposite-sides-of-the-train-with-fume-coming-out-of-our-ears bad. Once, I was so angry, something popped in my neck. (H. saw it pop, at which point we collapsed on the floor laughing.)
But the rest was so much fun. When I moved to Maui, we had our last supper at a favorite Indian restaurant and sobbed uncontrollably into our chicken masalas.
And then H. met O. And now she's engaged.
I know I have to give up a bit of her since she has someone else now to consider for holidays and trips and Big Decisions - and she should consider him; I know that. Still, I'll say it: I'm not happy about giving up even a teensy bit. But my little sister is marrying a good man who loves her. She arrives home most nights to a home-cooked meal and a wine bottle just uncorked. And his vocabulary makes her swoon.
So I'll give up that little bit, because she deserves him. I also know that O. knows that H. is my Most Important Person. And he's probably giving up a little bit of her for me, too.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
The Lamp
Last year, I was on the hunt for a floor lamp that O and I could agree on. This may not seem like a tricky task for some couples, but we have a small apartment; every piece of furniture matters. Never mind that we both have very clear notions of what we do and do not like, and finding the overlap in our tastes in décor has its challenges.
We had spent several hours researching every lamp imaginable on lamps.com over the course of a number of weeks. This had led to an online purchase that brought into our home a lampshade so large it could have doubled for a ferris wheel. As soon as we slapped the return sticker on the box and sent it back from whence it came, I decided to stop wasting my time gauging dimensions remotely. On a sunny Saturday afternoon, I headed to the Bowery, where lamp stores are lined up by the handful.
The plan was to take pictures with my cell phone of any prospective candidates, and send them to O’s cell phone for his review while he was out running errands. He would yay or nay them until we had a winner.
I browsed through store after store. I looked at hundreds of lamps. By the time I could no longer bring myself to look at one more lamp, I had found a maximum of two, maybe three lamps that I could see myself living with. One was alarmingly cheap. The other cost a fortune.
O called to tell me he couldn’t make out any of the lamps from my poor quality pictures and to go ahead and get whatever I liked. This was not going to work for me, if only for the fact that I dreaded dealing with the returning of it.
I deemed Operation: Buy Lamp a failure and decided to go home, tired and crabby.
As I stood on the corner of Delancey waiting for the light to turn, I suddenly caught sight of a man in a red dress running towards me. As he got closer, he tore around the corner and took off down the street. I stared. I looked back from whence he’d come. Another two dozen men in red dresses were following behind him. To be clear, they were not wearing the same red dress. There were prom dresses, flamenco dresses, short ones, fluffy ones, sequinned ones. But there was definitely a Red Dress Race for Men taking place, and I was standing smack dab in the middle of the course.
Somewhere between runner #1 and the rest of them, I reached for my shitty phone and frantically tried to snap a picture of what I was witnessing.
I don’t think I have to tell you that my poor quality photos of a group of transvestite runners failed to adequately convey the moment. One snapshot after another, I got a handful of bad angles, fuzzy red blotches in motion, and the errant limb disappearing out of frame.
As quickly as they appeared, so did they vanish, and with them my bad mood.
There I was, still standing on the street corner, but everything had shifted. The unexpectedness of their arrival in my space, the strange light-heartedness of the atmosphere they had swept into my corner had completely brought me out of my mundane fixation. Why on earth was I feeling out of sorts about a floor lamp? There was fun to be had! Life to be lived!
I felt the urge to soak in the remains of the day with a sense of frivolity and whimsy. I poked my head into vintage thrift shops, I bought cheap bangles from a street vendor and made a point of passing the dog park in Thompson Square to get a jolt of the warm fuzzies watching the puppies wrestling with one another.
The next day, without consulting O, I ordered a lamp from Crate and Barrel – or was it Pottery Barn? – and it showed up two days later. It’s innocuous and functional, and I don’t want to spend another minute writing about it.
We had spent several hours researching every lamp imaginable on lamps.com over the course of a number of weeks. This had led to an online purchase that brought into our home a lampshade so large it could have doubled for a ferris wheel. As soon as we slapped the return sticker on the box and sent it back from whence it came, I decided to stop wasting my time gauging dimensions remotely. On a sunny Saturday afternoon, I headed to the Bowery, where lamp stores are lined up by the handful.
The plan was to take pictures with my cell phone of any prospective candidates, and send them to O’s cell phone for his review while he was out running errands. He would yay or nay them until we had a winner.
I browsed through store after store. I looked at hundreds of lamps. By the time I could no longer bring myself to look at one more lamp, I had found a maximum of two, maybe three lamps that I could see myself living with. One was alarmingly cheap. The other cost a fortune.
O called to tell me he couldn’t make out any of the lamps from my poor quality pictures and to go ahead and get whatever I liked. This was not going to work for me, if only for the fact that I dreaded dealing with the returning of it.
I deemed Operation: Buy Lamp a failure and decided to go home, tired and crabby.
As I stood on the corner of Delancey waiting for the light to turn, I suddenly caught sight of a man in a red dress running towards me. As he got closer, he tore around the corner and took off down the street. I stared. I looked back from whence he’d come. Another two dozen men in red dresses were following behind him. To be clear, they were not wearing the same red dress. There were prom dresses, flamenco dresses, short ones, fluffy ones, sequinned ones. But there was definitely a Red Dress Race for Men taking place, and I was standing smack dab in the middle of the course.
Somewhere between runner #1 and the rest of them, I reached for my shitty phone and frantically tried to snap a picture of what I was witnessing.
I don’t think I have to tell you that my poor quality photos of a group of transvestite runners failed to adequately convey the moment. One snapshot after another, I got a handful of bad angles, fuzzy red blotches in motion, and the errant limb disappearing out of frame.
As quickly as they appeared, so did they vanish, and with them my bad mood.
There I was, still standing on the street corner, but everything had shifted. The unexpectedness of their arrival in my space, the strange light-heartedness of the atmosphere they had swept into my corner had completely brought me out of my mundane fixation. Why on earth was I feeling out of sorts about a floor lamp? There was fun to be had! Life to be lived!
I felt the urge to soak in the remains of the day with a sense of frivolity and whimsy. I poked my head into vintage thrift shops, I bought cheap bangles from a street vendor and made a point of passing the dog park in Thompson Square to get a jolt of the warm fuzzies watching the puppies wrestling with one another.
The next day, without consulting O, I ordered a lamp from Crate and Barrel – or was it Pottery Barn? – and it showed up two days later. It’s innocuous and functional, and I don’t want to spend another minute writing about it.
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Ugly Truth
I've been trying not to write about my parents. This means that I now have a nice collection of unedited pieces in my Drafts file about them. So, as opposed to sweeping yet another piece under the proverbial rug, let's just get to it.
Confession: Sometimes, I have parent envy.
Years and years ago, when I was barely 24 and working in an office in Cambridge, MA., with an unfortunate view of Massachusetts General Hospital where I had recently spent five months sitting by my father, a colleague's father stopped by the office to visit her. He had a middle-aged belly, a tinge of grey hair and a big laugh; he took her to lunch. I closed my office door and cried.
Last fall, at a dear friend's wedding reception, father and mother of the bride gave tearful speeches. I cried. I swear that the first tears were happy tears for her, but they suddenly turned to sad tears for me. It happens at most weddings. I don't mean it to. I just does.
I've gotten used to them being gone. Sometimes, weeks go by without my consciously thinking about them, and for the most part, I've learned to live with that, too.
Maybe it's the season. The air is cold and rainy and it feels like the holidays are right around the corner. Quite frankly, holidays are a bitch when you are feeling parent envy.
Sometimes, I have family envy. I'll observe the parents sitting at dinner, laughing with friends or in-laws and drinking wine while the small ones play in the magic that is a restaurant courtyard lit up at night. While they play, the adults tell family stories of holiday mishaps and potty-trainings and Remember Whens.
I miss having someone tell the stories of before I was born, of when I was young. And there you have it: story envy.
I'm not proud about any of this, by the way. I'm just telling it like it is.
When I turned twenty-one, my parents threw me a surprise sit-down dinner party. As surprised as I was, I think my college friends were even more surprised by the formality, the wine in crystal glasses, the toasts my parents gave. I was in heaven. My mother cooked and served us a magnificent multi-course meal. I have no idea what it was, but I'd bet money that it included shrimp cocktail and possibly a baked Alaska for dessert. And after dinner, Daddy and I danced in the front hallway. For real. It's been 19 years since that dance and I could dance it for you now.
I haven't thought about that in a long time. I'm glad I did today. No envy. Just happy.
Confession: Sometimes, I have parent envy.
Years and years ago, when I was barely 24 and working in an office in Cambridge, MA., with an unfortunate view of Massachusetts General Hospital where I had recently spent five months sitting by my father, a colleague's father stopped by the office to visit her. He had a middle-aged belly, a tinge of grey hair and a big laugh; he took her to lunch. I closed my office door and cried.
Last fall, at a dear friend's wedding reception, father and mother of the bride gave tearful speeches. I cried. I swear that the first tears were happy tears for her, but they suddenly turned to sad tears for me. It happens at most weddings. I don't mean it to. I just does.
I've gotten used to them being gone. Sometimes, weeks go by without my consciously thinking about them, and for the most part, I've learned to live with that, too.
Maybe it's the season. The air is cold and rainy and it feels like the holidays are right around the corner. Quite frankly, holidays are a bitch when you are feeling parent envy.
Sometimes, I have family envy. I'll observe the parents sitting at dinner, laughing with friends or in-laws and drinking wine while the small ones play in the magic that is a restaurant courtyard lit up at night. While they play, the adults tell family stories of holiday mishaps and potty-trainings and Remember Whens.
I miss having someone tell the stories of before I was born, of when I was young. And there you have it: story envy.
I'm not proud about any of this, by the way. I'm just telling it like it is.
When I turned twenty-one, my parents threw me a surprise sit-down dinner party. As surprised as I was, I think my college friends were even more surprised by the formality, the wine in crystal glasses, the toasts my parents gave. I was in heaven. My mother cooked and served us a magnificent multi-course meal. I have no idea what it was, but I'd bet money that it included shrimp cocktail and possibly a baked Alaska for dessert. And after dinner, Daddy and I danced in the front hallway. For real. It's been 19 years since that dance and I could dance it for you now.
I haven't thought about that in a long time. I'm glad I did today. No envy. Just happy.
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