.dream.hope.wish.be.

Have Peace in Your Soul

2008-01-21T21:51:00.000-05:00

It has been four days since the black of my blinking eyelids have been replaced with a colorful image of Dan’s latest hair-do, his blue streaked pompadour. My friend, Daniel Anton Yakovleff, is drinking bubbles at the eternal gay bar in our hearts.

I know many of Dan’s friends, both Boston and Connecticut, are struggling with emotions of fear, loss, and anger resulting from unanswered questions. I don’t have all the answers but I do know this: Dan’s life will be celebrated by the ones who knew him, who knew him and loved him on the last few days of his always peaceful life.

I know I can speak for all of Dan’s Boston friends when I extend warm condolences and a never-ending lifeline of support to Dan’s family. Please do not hesitate to contact any one of us in your time of need, and the days, months, and years following.

The gayborhood was our playground. Dan and I worked across the street from each other in the heart of Boston’s South End. With Dan at Liquid, and I at Tremont 647/Sister Sorel, nearly every day was filled with Starbucks runs, weekly mani/pedis, laughter amongst friends, hair parties in my kitchen, and quick trips to H&M. Thursdays were for industry night at Toro and boyfriend hunting at The Beehive. Sundays were brunch days and my weary pajama wearing body would always be rejuvenated with a burst of positive energy while I served Dan coffee and eggs.

When Michael called me at noon on Friday asking if I had talked to Dan at all, I did not guess for second that Dan was in any danger. Given Dan’s gentle nature and appreciation of a good late night dance party, I simply assumed he had called Michael to make plans for a nothing short of stellar evening. Michael then explained why he asked. Dan had not been to work in two days. Dan doesn’t miss work. Dan’s life is his work. Dan was starting to worry me. I immediately called him. Straight to voicemail. Mailbox full. Sarah and I spent a good portion of the time allotted to folding napkins and polishing silver hiding in the Tremont 647 bathroom calling local hospitals and police stations. YAKOVLEFF… y..a..k..o..v…yes V as in Victory. I wish I knew then that my worry for my friend would not turn into a victorious occasion.

The following days leading up to these words have been nothing less than extraordinary. I am amazed by the number of people who have been touched by Dan’s presence. The support that was have all received by each other, Dan’s coworkers at Liquid, and my coworkers at Sister Sorel, has truly been a force that Dan would be proud to say he was once a part of.

We lit this candle on his chair at Liquid and loved. We laughed, we cried, and then laughed some more. I thank the staff at the salon and praise their strength. Now and in the trying times that are ahead.

I’m not quite sure which is easier, being on the immediate inner circle, or being on the outer, the outer of the immediate information. Because of the timeline of the evening that our friend was taken from ALL of us, the proximity of information is overwhelming. I can assure you the last time we all saw Dan, he was demonstrating his amazing gift of gab and enjoying his colorful life with the amazing people who gravitated to him.

Please know that despite the lack of media coverage (which we are all very distraught and confused about as well), that this was not a random act and rather an isolated incident. Although speculated we have all collectively come to terms that Dan was not killed solely because he was gay. I am lucky that I have this support net to tangle me into love and remind me that I wasn’t in the third floor walk up apartment, in the triple decker building, on the tree lined street, in neighborhood of Dorchester that evening. Some questions will never be answered. The one thing I know is that Dan would never want us to stop questioning, never stop searching for answers about who we are, the lives we want to live, and the people we want to become. Dan would never want us to stop living. Dan would never want us to stop believing.

That's Bologna!

2007-10-23T12:23:00.000-05:00

I spent an obscene, disgusting, American style amount of euros in Bologna: the type of money that could feed a family of eight tagliatelle with bolognese sauce for an entire month. I just hit week five of being in Europe and with The Sox two games away from the World Series, homesickness is brewing in the bottom of my stomach. In order to cure my ailments, I turned to an age-old American remedy: I went shopping.
I kept the consumer urges at bay for just two hours while I lit a candle for the Red Sox, took in the Host, and saw the world’s largest zodiac sundial at St. Pietro’s Basilica. There are two great things about attending mass in a different language. The first is it is OK to not know all the words to the prayers. It is not my fault that I American in an Italian Church. It is my fault that I can NEVER remember the Act of Contrition at St. Christine’s, and my penance always represents that. The second is the feeling you get when you shake hands with the people occupying the space around you and confidently chime “peace be with you”. I have always loved this phrase. Peace be with you.

The downward spiral started small; there was a strip of H&M style shops lining the street leading to my hotel. I passed these shops an average of four times during the first two days in Bologna without a blink. Enthralled by a European university, a stunning statue of Neptune and his member, and more vegan restaurants than a lesbian from JP knew what to do with, shopping was not high on my list. Until day three. It stormed the night before and the damp city was cloaked in wool hats, and leather boots. I thought about calling the states in order to fill the hole my small intestine seemed to be missing. No luck, it was 4:30 am on a Saturday. I could think of a few friends that would most definitely still be awake and would answer with drunk enthusiasm and continue to yell and pass the phone: “It’s ELLE, from EATALLY!! She has salmonELLLLA in her phELLLLEophian tube.” but none of these warm ideas materialized, as I had no numbers stored in my head for such an event.

The first purchase was just a warm up, a small purchase in which all three items were on sale. I walked out of store number one with a small change purse to house my camera, some running pants for the imaginary runs I will be taking on the last leg of my trip, and a tank top that reads: There are no more punk rock heroes. The latter of the three purchases is a lie: There certainly are existing real life punk rock heroes and I wish I could name three to prove it, but I can only come to one, a real life example of a real life punk rock hero: Nate Stearns. Although his music isn’t exactly defined as ‘punk rock’ he owns (and wears) more arm jewelry than I, so he is in fact, far more punk rock than me, not to mention one of my heroes.

By this time, a gray cloud rolled through and settled right over downtown Bologna. A chill? Hmm, I must need a heavier jacket. The 45 euros I spent the day earlier on Thinsulate wool mittens weren’t keeping me quite warm enough. In the states you can walk into any Wal-Mart, Bob’s, or Sports Depot and buy a pair of these wool mittens, the kind that have finger slits, and Velcro, and double as a glove and a mitten, a glitten if you will, for no more than 20 bucks. In Italy, these glittens are trendy, hence the cost more than tripling. I can understand the inflation of price due to shipping, but good lord we are not talking about buying an ’01 Brunello di Montalcino in a Boston Enoteca, it is a sporking pair of wool gloves!! Regardless, I needed a new jacket seeing as the one I purchased in Montevarchi two weeks earlier was in the back of my former co-guides economy Fiat named after Picasso somewhere in Florence. Another H&M knock-off, another purchase. Walking out of the second store I said to myself, out loud, “I can’t believe you just spent 60 bucks on a polyester jacket from FRANCE.” It wasn’t the 40 euros I could use to house or feed myself that I was worried about, I think it was more the thought of wearing the brown polyester jacket in Boston wishing I had that cash to go to the real H&M in downtown crossing and buy leggings, and big cheap sunglasses on a cold January afternoon after feeding myself at the Buttery on Union Park with Michael.

My heart and soul, along with my love for not having credit card debt all went missing when The Bank of America plastic was thrown on a glass counter top the third time. Remember the leather boots that I mentioned earlier, somewhere between a slice of pizza and two scoops of gelato I convinced myself that I could not possibly get on a train to Ferrara without some. I knew exactly what I wanted. My love affair with these boots started in the very first hour that I first arrived in Florence. I visited these brown boots three times before I started my bike trips. At first, I just flirted with the idea of having the boots, where I would wear them, who they would be allowed to meet, and which city streets they would be allowed to see. The second time I was in Florence, I actually tried to convince the boots, through a glass window pane that had a film of city grime on it, that they would love Boston as much as I did, and that even though Florence was nice and all, it didn’t have a large enough gay community to fully be appreciated. No dice, these boots were not budging from their 300-euro price tag, and certainly would not be traveling across an entire ocean to reside in Boston. The boots that will be traveling with me to Boston are a close cousin to my long lost loves in Florence. I will never love them as much as the original; one never loves another as they do their first. The only thing I have to remember is not to get too attached: I might have to sell these boots on EBay come January to feed myself at the Buttery with Michael one afternoon.

Parla Englese?

2007-09-13T15:09:00.000-05:00

Every single person who has traveled abroad has warned me of the cravings. 23 year old, hell, 30 year old, Red Sox Cap wearing guys would say, “You’ll miss peanut butter so much”, or “Just wait till you are two months in and all you want are some twizzlers.” You would think that reformed backpackers were all at one time pregnant women late in their second trimester, craving the oddest of combonations. I didn’t believe any of them. Who could possibly have cravings in Italy? All the fresh food, the delicate balance between savory and sweet. The second my feet hit the Santa Maria Novella train station in Firenze, I had my first craving, and knew it would never be satisfied. Raw Toll House chocolate chip cookie dough. The White Hen Pantry down the street from my Phillips Street apartment seemed to have a never-ending supply of this stuff, cellulite in a tube, and chemicals spoonful upon wonderful spoonful. The wrapper instructed Lindsay and I to preheat the oven to 375 degrees. The only preparation for a tube of cookie dough that I did was to change into a pair of leggings that had an elastic waste.

My first meal in Florence was Smart Food that my uncle had packed in a plastic Ziploc baggie twenty-four hours earlier and half a bottle of warm lemon-lime Gatorade that I purchased in the Rome Airport in my British accent. I arrived in Florence at 22:00 (10 pm) and took a nice long walk to my hostel in La Piazza Della Libierta. I wasn't lost, I was exploring. The first hostel I stayed in was perfect given I didn’t have to share a room with anyone. The rest of the less than perfect details didn’t seem to matter when I didn’t have to listen to anything but the Vespas speeding by out my window. So, I organized my life, washed my face, ate my smart food and drifted off to the thoughts of Spaghetti Cabonara and Funghi Aranchinis.

For the first five hours exploring Florence, I only ate things that I could point to in a case, or pick up myself and pay for at a register. For breakfast, I had a mozzarella and pomodoro panino and a cappuccino. I pointed to the sandwich in a sparkling glass pastry case that was in a small café in La Piazza Della San Marco. I immediately looked at a clock and quickly asked for un cappuccino. The time was ten thirty and was just thankful that I could still be socially acceptable and order a cappuccino, never mind that the word, ‘cappuccino’, doesn’t have to be translated. My lunch consisted of two small snacks, and I spoke as little as possible to obtain each. The first snack was a bottle of water and two bananas that I bought from a street vendor. The vendor was Moroccan and spoke as little English as I spoke Italian, so we were both patient with each other. The second snack was after I took a nap and decided to get a gelato while I walked around to find a place to eat dinner. The second hostel in Florence, is much nicer than the first, much more modern, filled with young travelers and a hell of a lot cleaner than the first. The only trouble, which some people would find a perk, is that the hostel is situated one block from the train station in the Hotel Plaza. I knew only one thing: I had to get out of the Hotel District to find a decent, economic meal that would be my first real food experience in Florence. I stopped by una gelateria and pointed to the flavor I wanted to which the sweet woman behind the counter replied, “Only caffe?” and I nodded, I couldn’t even get out a Si, and this woman spoke English. I regretted that decision about six spoonfuls into the cup and wished I had combined to coffee ice cream with orange sorbet. I learned from that mistake, and will never let one flavor of gelato inhabit a cup alone again.

The shops in Florence are not very different than the likes of Modern Pastry or La Salumeria in the North End; all the people behind the counter speak both English and Italian. However, when in Florence, speaking English is responded with rolling eyes. When I ask Maria at Modern Pastry for un cappuccino doppio at Modern Pastry back home she responds “Brava”. Brilliant.

Staying in a youth Hostel overseas is like moving into your freshman dorm, minus the parents to argue with. At first, everyone is timid and politely smiles in the graffiti hall walls that leave premonitions of visitors past. I was the first to check into the three-person room at two thirty. For four hours I prayed that no one else was staying with me. Praying doesn’t work, clearly. The first bunkmate arrived at six thirty. I have no idea what his name is, he is from Germany so we’ll call him, Schnitzel. Schnitzel is thirty-three years old and here in Florence working on his dissertation for his PhD in Art History. Schnitzel’s focus in Art History is Saint Sylvester and his influence in Renaissance art. Schnitzel has been in Florence before, but has been traveling Italy for the past three weeks visiting different churches viewing the frescos that Saint Sylvester is in and writing about them. I immediately asked Schnitzel if his likes boys or girls, a custom the boys that hang at Sister Sorel back home have grown quite accustomed to, and he immediately says, girls. He followed that quickly with, “I know my jeans are tight, but I am European.” The second was Japanese, didn’t speak much English and left just as fast as he came.

Schnitzel convinced me to venture over the bridge to the University area of the city where he had studied, get this, eight years ago. Eight years ago, I was skipping my study block to go Wendy’s and buy dollar French-fries. So Schnitzel and I walked over the river and through the Duomo to a small trattoria that did not have single table open. Good sign. Schnitzel asked if we should wait of find something else, I told him we should wait. I don’t remember actually eating, because we I was too busy talking about food with Schnitzel and translating the names of animals from his unpracticed English. “What is the animal that you eat on Easter?”

“Lamb.”
“No, the animal, it has nothing to do with the church, like Santa Claus”
“Oh! The Easter Bunny, which is really a Rabbit, but we don’t eat that on Easter, we eat Lamb. The Easter Bunny just hides the eggs.”

Our entire conversation went on and on and on exchanging small facts about our different customs. Dinner ended with crème caramel and espresso. Schnitzel, being an Art History major knew far more about all the buildings architecture and which painting was in which church than I would ever care to read in travel guide, or in a museum pamphlet.

So with a full stomach, and a complete understanding on why all the Jewelers are now situated on the bridge rather than the butchers, I am looking forward to my first day in Umbria in the Morning. Here’s hoping my padded bike shorts arrived from The States to greet me.

Trains, Planes, and Automobiles

2007-09-13T14:59:00.001-05:00

I am on a train somewhere between Pisa and Florence. My luggage is somewhere in Canada routing on the Blue Jays while I am anxiously awaiting it’s arrival to an address I don’t yet know. It is 9:53 pm on my second day in transit. Gloria, the oh-so-friendly women I spoke to at the baggage claim in Pisa informed me that I could not file a claim until I reached my final destination. I suppose my final destination is Boston. Living without that suitcase would prove difficult, but definitely not impossible.

I was woken yesterday by my refreshingly naïve eleven year old cousin at 8 am.

“Shelly, it’s five of eight, I have to leave for the bus soon. I know you told me that you would walk me to the stop, but if you want to sleep, I -“

“I’m coming baby, let me just brush my teeth.”

Tori missed the bus by 45 seconds, while my Aunt Linda was still packing her lunch that would have to be dropped off later. I ended up dropping Tori at her generic elementary school in the middle of suburbia. We sang ‘Born to be Wild’ in it’s entirety on the way to 6th grade. I should have taken it as a sign when the blur of the big yellow school bus and flashing lights whizzed by us before we could open the front door, that this trip across the pond was going to fall dangerously on the line where easy intercepts really flippin’ difficult.

I suffered from a ridiculous case of anxiety all day. It was the type of anxiety that you want to curb with coffee and nicotine, but really should be treated with a balanced breakfast and counting backwards from ten. The only two times I remember the anxiety leaving me were before I even left the South Shore.

The first was playing one on one kickball with Jack on my Aunt’s perfectly manicured law, the only one on the block that manages to remain an envious shade of green while a water ban is in full effect. Jack, my four year old cousin does not fall for “The quiet game”, “The let’s see what’s on Nickelodeon game”, or even, “The I’ll give you some ice cream if you leave me alone for five minutes game”. Jack is way too smart for the latter of the three, he can now push a chair across the kitchen floor and open the freezer to get his own ice cream. Kick ball was nothing more than me kicking a 3-dollar rubber ball from Wal-Mart in the air and Jack trying to catch it. The game of kickball was mindless, and quite fun to watch Jack, the miniature man run around aimlessly with this eyes on the sky trying desperately to catch a blue rubber ball. I eventually convinced Jack to take the puppy for a walk. The new puppy, as you will have it, is actually not a puppy at all. Benny, even though he came from a puppy mill, is actually 3 years old and has the muscle strength of a veal chop. Therefore, ‘walking the dog’ is a loosely used term for, ‘ Let’s put Benny on a leash and have Jack follow in around in a 4 foot radius for ten minutes so the grown ups can actually get something done’. Benny gets walked about 25 times a day.

The second time the anxiety left me was actually during a conversation about going number 2. I’ve never been one for bathroom talk, menstrual talk, or sex talk, but for some reason, I felt it necessary to share my fear of having to poop in public places for the next three months. The conversation stopped almost immediately after a few jokes about Hershey, not the candy bar, and a few about Crop Dusting, and we were nowhere close to a corn field. The whole idea of having that conversation put me at ease and reassured the validity of on of my favorite pieces of literature as a child, “Everybody Poops”.

I was greeted at Logan with a cellular telephone call from Mum. My flight was delayed due to the weather at the JFK International Airport in New York City. The Delta customer service representative reassured Mum several times that I would absolutely make my connecting flight to Heathrow in time. The Delta customer service representative convinced me that there was no way that I will make my connecting flight, and should hop on the next Delta Express to LaGuardia and take a taxi to JFK. I said sure, as long as I make my connecting flight to London. Somewhere down the line, I ended up boarding my initial flight to JFK and my one and only suitcase was on it’s way to LaGuardia. Womp. Woomp. Wooomp.

I eventually arrived in Rome and a sparkle of hope that I would finally have my face in the Tuscan sun was fizzled the moment I realized my six hour lay over quickly became eight, as my 35 minute plane ride to Pisa was two hours delayed. I toyed with the idea of skipping the flight and taking a train straight to Florence, but thankfully remembered I had to argue with the women at the baggage claim at the Pisa airport. So, I decided instead to find a chair and sleep instead. Before naptime though, I needed one large bottle of water, and il panino formaggio. To be honest, that is one of the only phrases I know in Italian, a cheese sandwich. While in the Rome International Airport, I spoke entirely in the English accent I picked up on my layover in London. I did this for two reasons, to ease my frustration with not speaking Italian, and well, because it was terrifically fun to say words like ‘bloke’ and ‘fag’, and not have those two words enrage someone. I spoke in my new English accent until I found myself chime, “Hello Puppet”, to a small child. One look from the child’s mother and I realized it was better to sound like a dumb American than a pedophile from Chester.

Traveling across 3 state lines, an ocean, multiple countries, and through two Italian regions, proved my preconceived notion, that International travel, especially on the eleventh day of September, is more frustrating then watching The Sox close a game in mid-September. It already looks like this year will be better than the last.

The Party's Just Begun

2007-09-12T07:31:00.000-05:00

If gay does in fact translate to "really, really, really happy", as my dad explained to me circa 1992 when I was 8 years old, than it is only appropriate that my bon voyage was spent with my favorite Mo's, and a 5'10" rock star, and a Southern Belle, and some other really really really cool people.

Even though we woke up somewhere and JP and were judged by functioning Sunday Strollers and raging lesbians, it was nice just to be near you, thank you so much for venturing up to Yankee territory before I left.

"Do you s.t.r.e.t.c.h. before you k.i.c.k"

"Giovanni, NO!" Elle needs Warner in Florence now, because she is prettier than Selma Blair and doesn't want to hang out with Mo's alone. Miss your guts already.

There are no words. I left a piece of my heart at 28 Phillips street #2 and will have aujoda until I see your pretty face at Thanksgiving, or when you show up sometime around November in Amsterdam (just a thought).

.strange conditions.

2007-03-20T12:09:00.000-05:00

It’s a strange coincidence how music directly correlates to others. Others, being past lovahs, not to be confused with lovers, friendly acquaintances, phone date buddies from Christmas past, and those who have made such a fool out of me. The strangest coincidence is how these music moves come out of left field while channel surfing with a new lover, not to be confused with lovah. Ray’s raspy voice telling me what we’re going to do on one channel, reminding me of an outskirt law student and Ms. Furtado reminding once again that I really didn’t mean a thing to a downtown law student. Perhaps the strangest coincidence of all, is the feeling that settles deep down in the stomach upon hearing a third rate euro pop jam that shouldn’t mean anything to anyone, except the person who produced it. The type of chorus line that makes you reach to the phone to sing into one’s voicemail, but some how, some way, the creator of the play list knows that just isn’t possible for you.

Bagpipes still give me goose bumps and absolutely always will. Pale imitations of others will always being filling the pedestal, which I made myself, out of scrap wood I have found along the way, held together with recycled nails and finished with a half fast paint job. Old rusted Cadillacs will remind me of fields collecting rain. Silver pools of light will fill up corners coffee shops where an attempt at the great American novel fell off said pedestal and result in bruised elbows.

Religion is for people who don’t want to go to hell, and spirituality is for those who have already been there. It’s the difference between hearing the sounds of violins long before it begins and arguably making the most comfortable bed in the city while others run in the rain. It wants to do it better, and keep it together. Itching for a fight in the loneliest hour, just to make up and love. Loving the one you’re with. Non-traditional students making musical transactions.

Crash and burn mentalities that leave rifts. Broken falls and cushioned heart breaks. All the wild horses that love all the stars in the sky. Fun songs that result in laughter, the most fun songs that leave scars. Red cheeks from embarrassment, wet pants from jokes, and lost moments at stoplights. Sunday kind of loves in heather gray, sweatshirts; stolen articles. It is love, It is survival, It is being alive. Don’t take away me today to give up yesterday.

Stories and cigarettes ruin lives of lesser girls. But don’t girls just wanna have fun?

Let Life Spill Over.

2006-04-19T00:24:00.000-05:00

We are all old. And by old, I mean 22, an even number that is charged regardless of it being even. Brian and I realized this on his couch while nursing Bud Lights and he ate pasta with sauce, which has become a staple in his diet. He probably won’t eat in balance until he is married, or moves back home with mom and dad, which may never happen. We chatted about Summer 2005, 5 am sunrises on the roof deck and how cold and damp his last apartment was. We asked about people who have floated into our lives over the course of our friendship, and have floated out just as easily when the seasons changed. I keep in touch with some, he keeps in touch with others, and just as he asks about one, another asks about him. When did we all become each other’s “in” people. I may be one friend’s “in” to another group of friends who are actually just as distant with each other, relying on other “in’s” to form a group of individuals that look solid from the outside, but when you are actually “in”, you realize its hollow. There is no nucleus of solid relationships, fun friends make up the white, what about the yellow? What happened to the yellow? Is the yellow made up of the people who we love because they’ve been around so long? The people we put through the most because we know they’ll never leave us? The ones who know our flaws and when an attractive stranger shows interest they say… “She’s amazing, not a bad word to say about her.” We dance around the subject that technology, IM, facebook, and email has made us the impersonal generation. We make memories with each other, take photographs and post them with captions pertaining to inside jokes and allow them to be displayed to virtually anyone; strangers, ex-boyfriends, old friends who seem to have vanished into this abyss of space, cyber space. Photos are 2 dimensional. I would like to think we are all living enough to fill up all three dimensions completely until life overspills onto each other. We’re not. You would think that we are socially awkward, all unable to communicate without a keyboard, a firewall to protect us from our words, our feelings. Most of us are. I love sending cards, largely because I love getting them. I send cards for stupid things like, hey you left something at my house, or I lost your number, I would love to meet up for lunch. I very easily could send and email. A card sends along a little bit of a smile, intimacy that may take two days to get there via the post man, rain, sleet, or shine. The post man's kids have to go to college too. With so many advances in the speed of communication, how do people lose touch so easily? Blackberries, PDA’s and laptops. Wireless Internet, usually stolen. You would think that we are all a key stroke away from one another. Essentially we are, we’re all right there waiting for someone to actually hit the send button. A small note, a “hello”, a “how are you?”, a “hell, its been to long.”. Poking is getting really old, and should not be considered an acceptable form of communication much longer.

Crazy/Beautiful

2006-03-02T11:51:00.000-05:00

A 1:30 am serendipitous meeting on the corner of Charles and Beacon. Three long time pals. Sidekicks, sources of fun. Three beautiful girls with beautiful souls who have brought laughter from tears and more importantly, tears from laughter.

Three long time pals who find themselves single in the city, yet completely emotionally unavailable. Vulnerable, heartbroken, defeated, at the corner of Charles and Beacon. Unanswered questions, from each other, from themselves.

The corner of Charles and Beacon. Rainstorms: both emotional and getting caught in the elements. Breakdowns: physical, unpredictable and automotive. Love Spells: drunken, consuming, complicated. Blackouts: the result of exploding emotions as well as exploding man holes.

Three beautiful souls that are waiting to be balanced, to be found with equally open hearts. Find. Us.

Debauchary

2005-09-23T16:59:00.000-05:00

Serious before shots to remind us what we look like sober.

Nice tan lines freak.

OOOOhhhhh MMMMMmmmm

This is the walk to bars, notice the heinekens in the background, they were on sale, I swear.

Blacked Out Betty taken to a new artform.

.Kris and Stacy.

Blake and Matty were not enthused by the paparazzi like conduct.

I just ask for one normal photo Kris, just one.

This Was the Summer of 2005

2005-09-21T00:19:00.000-05:00

When do month old memories that were once black and white suddenly blur to gray? Tuesdays are the hardest days. Strolls down Newbury, North End lunches, and visits to PCCF only to return to Beacon Hill Pub and top the day off with drinks full of cherries. Bonfires on the 3rd, Roofdeck over looking the Boston skyline on the 4th. The fireworks on the top are the best, so per usual, we only saw the ones worth watching. 2 dollar drafts at Sissy K's with the entire USS Kennedy. Lt. Barrios and giving ourselves a personal tour of THE big dig. Lunches on the water and internet boyfriends. Dancing like a five year old in the red room and early mornings on the heroine couch. Entourage marathons. "Sir I will give you 100 dollars for that prime rib." Hoop Fever and the MMM face. The North End Pub Crawl. Roofdeck, Lucca, Bricco. Morrocan admirers and Bartender Boyfriends. Wake and bake sessions complete with sunglasses. Always sunglasses. Realizing that hygene is cool and trips to the Peace Garden. Free Slice Monday at the Pushcart, SOX Sundays and Italian Feasts. Beach days in Marshfield and a complicated canopy. A last minute ferry ride. Banana Boats, Smocks and gaucho pants. Jump on it. McDonald's dollar menu and pitchers of blue moon at Rattlesnake. Lost ATM cards, taxi cab confessions and 5 am sunrises. X&Y. I love yous, how did you beat us homes and are you sure we're not being filmed right nows. Drama and Turtle. Mean girls and Paddy O's Coast Guard boys. Dating the city, swan boats and Peanut. The guy in the cordorouy jacket. Power outages, plastic bag coolers and The Purple Shamrock. "Do you have a crazy ex-boyfriend or something?" The perfect night that was Aug. 11th. Lifeguard chairs and chocolate ice cream. Jimmy Buffet. Reggae night and a last call at the pub that waited for us until 4:30 am. Free lunches from construction workers, Pompeii, and aviators. And it all comes down to beer checkers and pong. Here's to the amazing amounts of laughter and the beautiful people who I had to hide drinks from in the bathtub. I love and miss you all ... more than all the stars. Don't Stop Believing.

Greetings from California

2005-09-19T16:59:00.000-05:00

We Welcome everyone, the door is always open, literally.

610 Castillo. This is not a house, this is a home.

Front Porch, perfect for late night guitar sessions with Kendra

Backyard flowering trees

The Orange tree that hasn't ripened yet.

Confessions of an East Coast Girl in a Santa Barbara Starbucks

2005-09-12T20:03:00.000-05:00

A gray haired and wrinkled couple with rickety bones sit in Starbucks on the corner of State and Cota and share. They share a newspaper and a venti coffee, probably the least expensive house blend. They give off vibes of Colorado, or Northern California. Their age tricks an onlooker to think that they are less active then they actually are. They are visitors, and probably arrived here via RV. They dress themselves in Navajo print vests and fishing hats that should have lores on them. The man wears closed toe Birkenstocks with navy blue socks that you can see the tops of because his khaki pants don’t hit the shoes. He has a gray beard that reaches his gray hair, with almost no bald spots. He shuffles his shoe off to place his socked foot on top of, he looks like a bunyan type of man, while reading something to his bride. She listens intently while sipping from her thermos. They have Momma and Poppa bear stainless steel thermoses. A larger one for him, a smaller, slimmer thermos for her. She wears new balance sneakers. Her hair color mimics that of her thermos, silver, and it forms a flip under her khaki cap. She wears a fanny pack that probably carries everything she would ever need in life, as long as she was with him.

They pour small amounts of coffee into the tops of their thermos’. They sip eloquently. Small Sips. I presume their names are very crunchy, she could be Magda, and he looks like a Phil. Magda calls her husband Phillip when she wants his attention all for her own. When Magda is feeling sassy she calls him Philippe. I presume that Magda is a professor the way she adjusts her posture, has her glasses hanging around her neck from a string and speaks of current events with her less-than-put-together husband. Phil sells things. He probably sells fishing equipment, or maybe John Deere tractors. He also smokes, probably a pack and half a day. Phil wheezes a little when he laughs at his wife’s jokes

As they read the local section of the Santa Barbara News Press, the word flabbergasted is thrown around. The world is not the same as before they met, which was so many harvest moons ago. As America changed, Magda and Phil changed, together. They live a simple life. A life filled with vegetable gardens, of washing the Buick on Sunday afternoons and then cruising through the green leaved streets, of reading, and discussing and rocking in the chair that was a baby shower gift on their front porch. Magda and Phil have three children, all boys. The two eldest boys, Peter and Daniel went to east coast schools, Ivy I presume. The third, Leif, enlisted in the marines at the age of 18 in order to receive a free education. He was taken by the Gulf War. The family talks as if he is going to be home at Christmas, because if they close their eyes tight enough, he is still with them. Magda and Phil raised their boys to be men. Think-for-yourself type of men. Silver-lining-in-every-gray type of men. Gentlemen in every aspect. They are a family of intelligence.

Phil and Magda are cultured, in a way that they have never really been anywhere, but have experienced new things. I would presume that the farthest distance they have traveled was for their son’s commencements on the east coast. Phil and Magda antique at flea markets, attend pow-wows at local conservations and stargaze during a meteor shower. They almost never dine out, but when they do, he drinks scotch, well, Johnny Walker Black on-the-rocks and she sips white zin, Rose, at best.

They still have things to talk about. In the forty-five minutes that it has taken to consume their large coffee, the conversation has had no holes. Phil and Magda still look at each other while they speak. Again, sharing the stage, they both listen, they both speak, and they both look. When Magda is onto something, Phil nods his head intently in agreement.

They casually pack up their belongings and head to their next destination. Phil forgets his cane leaning next to window they were sitting next to. As I quickly grabbed it and scurried up to the front to give it to him, I learned that Phil's real name is John. John, Phil it’s all the same thing. John smiled through the window as a thank you and I extended a warm wave. Wouldn’t you know that John and Magda rode off on matching bicycles, complete with baskets to carry their matching thermoses, never knowing that I just affected their reality as much as they just affected mine.

God Damn Kendra and Her Superficial Tendencies

2005-09-09T21:11:00.000-05:00

As I sit and listen to the postal service watching the Red Sox, I glance to my beautiful Kendra and silently thank her for more than I ever could form words. Her superficial flap that constricts her to the sofa is the only superficial attribute the girl has in her whole body.

The ER was an experienced that I wish I had captured on film, old rickety film. I laugh when I get nervous. I was nervous, and thus, giggling like 13 year old girl that was just asked to a movie by a cute boy in her science class. Laughing so hard, I could not push her up the shallow ramp into the Emergency room. Thank you to the J.Crew clad dad who helped me. We slumber partied her stark hopsital room and joked with doctor. We quizzed the male nurse and learned of his life as a floating practioner who is on his way to Kansas City.

Six stiches later, and for the past three days, I have attended to her needs, all while she apologetically giggles as I did in the ER. I love having a patient, the meals, the board games, the complete and utter bubble that she's been put in.

To the selfless girl who brings laughter from tears and tears from laughter. Kendra has given me an amazing opportunity to experience California, her style. I love her for bringing me into her world and embracing me with open arms. I love that she has offered me her friends, her home, her happiness.

Home is where the heart is. Although my heart is mending from the pieces I left behind in Boston, I can make a home here for myself, anywhere for that matter. And my red headed beauty is responsible.

It's Tuesday Night... I Wish I Was Here...

2005-09-06T20:40:00.000-05:00

Its my first Tuesday night on the left coast, my first Tuesday night not at the pub playing hoop fever with my fabulous friends. I would give anything to be here right now... well this was last week, my last night at BlackOut Pub.

The Ladies

.Linds.Shell.Melis.

Before the green "Santa Barbara" shots started flowing.

He got the left side for the special occasion. He had "friends stopping by", as if he didn't since October.

Brettalicious

Boyfriend Bartendah Sequence

The only one missing is Old Man Marty... how sad.

Black Out Pub Continued

2005-09-06T20:26:00.000-05:00

The drunk Melissa Staple Snap Shot

"Fucking Locals"

Suffolk Sisters

Former Roommates

Melis and Brettalicious

Lindsay Sequence in

Stoop Loving... or scaring.

Just One of Those Spontaneous Ferry Rides I Love So Much

2005-09-06T12:40:00.000-05:00

There comes a time when strangers become fast friends, make your belly ache from laughing friends. The dress up in woman's clothing type of friends.

And, when a once fast friend turns into a fun friend. A how am I ever going to leave you friend. A Turtle and Johnny Drama type of friend.

And, when a new friend becomes a pretend boyfriend, to shield from South African friends. A 3 am beer pong friend, an "I'm homesick." friend.

And, when old friends, are still the last snuggle of the day. The " I can't believe its time to say goodbye again" friends. The lets play and date the city friends. Thick and thin, can't live without each other friends.

And Then....

2005-09-06T12:39:00.000-05:00

There are the cross-dressing-prom-date friends.

Strangers turned fast friends turned drunk friends.

Perspective, or Something Like It.

2005-08-29T17:23:00.000-05:00

Over the course of the month of August, I have done more loving, listening, learning and appreciating than most months in my semi-adult life.

I have learned that at a time in my life I was living "happy enough". That in a past relationship the good times did not 100% outweigh the bad. That lingering is toxic. That friends can be lovers, but lovers really can never be friends.

I have learned that living with tunnel vision, with that picture perfect job or life at the end of the tunnel, is not living at all.

I have learned that life is not black and white. There is gray area. Embracing the gray area makes life fun, not knowing which direction people are walking. Not knowing if we are all walking in the same direction or away from one another.

I have listened to my friend's stories of love, love lost and love longing. I have learned that what I think love is, is not the type of love that I want to experience in my future relationships.

I have learned that people aren't meant to be understood, just repected, accepted and cared for. I have accepted that I have many more experiences to ensue and many more lessons to learn.

I have accepted the fact that we are all co-existing on this earth. I have struggled in trying to understand why we can't just make life a little easier for each other.

I have realized that people are not tolerate of each other and other cultures, ideas and ways of living. I don't understand it.

I have learned that love, or what you think of love, makes you do crazy things.

I have realized that reverting to 5 year old tendencies is refreshing, its ridiculous fun that should be freeze framed.

I have learned that the free things in life, the simple things, sunrises on the beach, 2 am sober walks through the city on Saturday nights and running reallllly fast into the ocean are memories I want to put into a glass jar with fireflies buzzing around.

I have learned that EVERYTHING is all in the name of the family. Both the family god gave you and the one you made for yourself.

I have learned that Tuesdays at Beacon Hill Pub and endless games of Hoop Fever with unique and amazing people have allowed my true personality to shine.

I have learned that belly aching laughs are priceless.

I have incorporated "how could we not be being filmed right now" into my vocabulary. I have realized that film makers thrive to think of plot lines as rich as our lives.

I have realized that being well off is not defined in terms of money or success, but the solidity of relationships, the depth of conversations, the benefit of being educated.

I have realized that my dreams are made out of true things. Real things, in the raw. I dream of the ocean, of experiences, of being a citizen of the world, of making myself vulnerable and then dusting myself back off. My dreams are made of interactions, not expensive purchases and toxic relationships that look picture perfect from the outside.

I appreciated my last-minute-lucy personality, and my summer-sister's as well, 143 JES.

I love sponateous ferry rides, quick flights to DC, early mornings on the beach, late night beer-pong in smocks and madras shorts.

I have learned to never stop living, not even long enough to blink, because I am afraid I will miss something.

I have realized that all of these lessons have been indirectly taught to me through my parents. Through their strength, their beauty, their disfunction and ability to laugh at it. I realize that if I wasn't living with my eyes shut so tight and my heart so jaded, that I would have learned all of this a long time ago.

Keep it Classy, Ladies

2005-07-29T17:20:00.000-05:00

An afternoon stroll in Santa Barbara-esque weather with the Blue-eyed, Blonde, miss Julia goes like this.
Note: Jacki-O knock off sunglasses are on, meaning, we were hiding something.

Jules: You know you're having fun when its a treat to shower.
Shell: Yeah, like when you actually blow out your hair and straighten it and have time to put on make-up and not run out the door with a pile of shit falling everywhere.
Jules: I always justify things like, I can watch 10 more minutes of this cheesy romantic comedy if I just wet my hair and re-blow dry it. Like, UP, my legs are hairy, I really have to shower today.
Shell: My favorite is the, wow i've had this same wifebeater on for three days, i've just worn it with a tennis skirt, jams, and with those AG jeans and that sequenced shrug when I went to dinner last night.
Jules: Actually, take it off, it would look way better with my outfit right now, and you're going to work anywyas.
Shell: I just said that I have been wearing for three days.

She left on a train for New Jersey with her giant cosmetic bag, a carry on, no cash, and my three day worn wifebeater.

Finding My Way

2005-07-26T17:16:00.000-05:00

Uncommon amount of the time at home,
hardly a word on the telephone.
Finally find the time to get to know you.
Still mapping it out like a master plan,
something to do with my idle hands.
Write you a letter addressed from California.
It's vivid and strong in my memory,
an absence that smacks of abandoning.
It led to the battle that ultimately destroyed us.
I'm nothing if I don't know your mistakes,
the pill is as bitter as I can take.
It twists like a blade when I leave for California.
I hope that you know this is killing me,
it's all in the name of the family.
We only can play the cards the dealer dealt us.
The end of the cycle is closing in,
with you I see new hope begin again.
There suddenly seems to be promise in California.
As heavy as all this is weighing me,
believe in the words I am promising.
I'm still here for him.
The distance is only an obstacle,
hardly a match for a miracle.
I'm finally ready to go to California.

"From California"
.The.New.Amsterdams.

I've been trying to find the words to describe how I feel about leaving Boston, about leaving home. I think this sums it up perfectly. Everytime the song plays I get chills, goosebumps, an empty feeling in my stomach. Then I cry. I think about my family, my mum and how incredibly barron she will feel once empty nest syndrome sets in. I wonder how my sister will take to her new life as a college freshman. My freshman year, my father was my rock, my last call of the day. I had a very serious boyfriend, who, in theory was suppose to be that rock. At the time, I would have said he was, but, looking back, I now see that he was an 1/8th of the person I was suppose to be with. Dating Joe, who is more like my father the more I spend time with him, makes me feel real. Makes me feel like going to California, followed by costa rica is not as selfish as I feel it is. The boy makes me feel selfless, and intellegent, and all in all real.

I wonder how my sister will find making relationships, how she will interact when she doesn't have a security blanket: her cheer squad, a boyfriend, an older sister or amazing and beautiful mother to pick her up and dust her off when she's broken.

Most of all, I wonder how my relationships will take shape with the people I leave back home. My relationships with my family can only get stronger, which is odd to think, being so far away. I will tip toe around the relationships that bring negative energy and they, like mediocre romances, will fade into the breath-taking Santa Barbara sunset. I'm ready for those sunsets, I ready for the new people that are about to change my life and for the experiences I will ensue while getting my breath taken away.

American Baby

2005-07-11T17:13:00.000-05:00

This Boston girl's world is about to be thrown into a world wind that is her quest to become a citizen of the world, not just Massachusetts, USA. I have had friends send me the lyrics to American Baby. Asking me to stay, for a few more months, for another birthday, for their security that life isn't going to change after graduation and holding on to me, the one who is not graduating in may, will some how help the situation. I am an American Baby. I am a Boston Baby. I hold on to things that lift me up. I have trouble letting go to things that bring me down. I have hope. I have faith. I have faith that the world is a good place and that Boston isn't all there is out there for me. I know that its my time to leave Boston, maybe to return, maybe not. Education and Occupation has to be put on hold until I, not MICH but SHELL, finds out what education and occupation means to me. September Sessions in Santa Barbara and December Days in Costa Rica. No body's laughing now when the one who made them laugh out loud is leaving. I'll still see you smile.

Just Another Summer on the Hill

2005-05-22T17:14:00.000-05:00

When the ex-boyfriend's best friend looks right threw you in an empty bar and immediately extends a fist pound to your new boyfriend bartender, it hits you that you have no reason existing in a stark Beacon Hill Pub on a Tuesday evening.

Certain places have the great capacity to suck one in. Beacon Hill Pub is one of them. Empty or packed, there are always new friends, old friends, strangers about to become friends. Drinks to be had, and hovering over the dingy toilets in this divey establishment.

Recently re-named as "Blackout Pub", BHP has served as a safety net for all things underage. I am now legal to drink and officially a resident of Massachusetts. I no longer pose as Melanie Schechter, the jewish girl from Long Island. However, I still manage to crave the craziness, and comfort that is The Pub.

My relationships mirror those of the bars in which we attend. Only people i ooze with confidence around see me with my face on get to spoil me with the Pravda rejects at Gypsy Bar. Comfort is where the people who know me best, allow me to kick their ass seven times a night at Hoop Fever, at the hole in the wall on the dodgy end of Charles Street.

" Hey, did you just score a 58 "
" yeah, its not something I brag about to often"
" I played semi-pro basketball and my high score is 55 "
" Thats funny, but I have a friend that tells all new ladies he meets in divebars that he is a semi-pro football player. He really is on the Merrill Lynch flag football league."
" Point taken, play you for a beer? "

In the Waiting Room

2005-05-11T17:11:00.000-05:00

I love the form teacups take when stacked. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland and how I could never finish the entire movie as a child out of sheer boredom and predicicality. Walking through the streets of Beacon Hill I have noticed how small people request small things. Little boys want to watch the trucks that are constructing a new side walk. White haired girls dressed in Oilily ask for a scoop of ice cream or a piece of bread to feed the ducks in the public garden. The innocence and simplicity of children in the city is the most intriguing aspect of meandering through The Hill on a flip flop and polo shirt day.

I have recently been told by a large handful of beautiful people that I am the strongest person they have ever met. Nice Compliment, too much pressure. My father has enstilled in me the most amazing ability to be completely self-reliant. I can make a three course meal out of six ingredients, drive a stick, change a tire, catch a fish, grow tomatoes, build a fire, start a boat with a screw driver. I have also learned from my father how to constantly be aware of my surroundings. This has overlapped into city life with complete necessity.

It is may, and if I had made a different decision with my life, I would be meandering threw Beacon Hill sans Starbucks but with a stroller of my very own in tow. With a small person, requesting only small things with nothing more than a wimper.

But for now, I will grab my Venti-Non-Fat-Chai and be the observer I have learned to be from my father. I will notice the marigolds in someone's one square foot of earth at the bottom of their stoop, I will listen to small people request small things and dance with the people on the street, smiling, while i'm waiting for my appointment with change.

Raindrops on Roses

2005-04-15T16:57:00.000-05:00

These are a few of my favorite things:

Homemade Halloween costumes
Chai tea with extra foam
Snow angels
Listening to the rain in the summer
Roof decks
Cookouts and cocktails
Beach volleyball
Dribble castles
Mojitos
Popped collars
Salt water hair
Marylou’s and Marshall’s
Brunch
Disposable cameras
Freshly clean down comforters
The last run of the day
The North End pool on hung-over days
The North End pool on sober days
The North End pool
Dinner Parties
Black and white photos
Scrapbooks
Vintage art
Postcards
Seeing old friends on the street
Drunk dialing
Pistachio macaroons
Barolo
High school football games
Speaking Spanish with the guys in the kitchen
Flip flops
Urban outfitters clearance rack
Twinkle lights
Wrapping gifts
Cocoa butter chap stick
Mum’s chicken noodle soup
Getting letters
Birthdays
New bedding
Family reunions
Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve
School Supply shopping at Wal-Mart
Getting lost
Lily Pulitzer and Vera Bradley
Short flights to DC
Sushi
The calm before the storm
The first swim in the ocean of the season
Texas style French toast with fresh fruit
Picture frames
The Laundromat
Fritos and Coke
Bowling
Storm chasing
Poopsie
Nintendo
Meg Ryan Movies
Moving Day
Irish Accents
Flea Markets
Grilling
Stanzia Cigar Bar
Finals week in the NU library
New Candles
Cold Pizza for breakfast
Memo boards full of pictures
Belly aching laughs
bleacher seats at fenway
power lunches including miller lite bottles
the green dragon on sunday nights
window shopping
bananas and cherries
grilled cheese and tomato
the wall (not the pink floyd albulm, the actual seawall where so many tears have been shed in vegas)
drunken cab rides
boys in redsox hats
waking up to 14 missed calls
waking up to 14 missed calls from the same person
my sister on crazy pink day
watching the fireworks from clay pit road during the marshfield fair

San Antonio's Got Nothing on Boston

2005-04-12T16:55:00.000-05:00

The first day of flip flop weather always makes me smile. Dining al fresco, canoodling in the park, endless walks through boston common and the public garden. This year, which is starting like any other warm season, is quite a bit different. I have multitudes of friends to dine al fresco with, a beautiful person to canoodle in the park with and me, myself, and I to meander through the common and garden. It's sox season, Marathon Monday is right around the corner and lazy north end pool days and roof deck parties are on their way. I'm in a good place. But something is missing. You are missing.

Don't It Always Seem To Go

2005-04-11T20:53:00.000-05:00

One thing that I have never been able to grasp is the fact that people don't understand what they have until after suffering a loss. Families become closer after crisis, lost loves suddenly seem perfect, treasured friendships seem more precious after moving to a strange place.

The trouble with love is, it doesn't matter who you are. Loving unconditionally, and being completely and utterly vulnerable is hard. When I feel myself getting lost, I throw myself into a new relationship to find out who I am. The relationships I consume myself with, make or break me. And ultimately, I am left a broken little girl trying to scramble and pick up all the pieces before they are blown away by the wind or warm summer breeze, depending on the season.

Don't it always seem to go that the ones you trust the most, seem to let you down the most? Your father makes a bad call and suddenly you realize that the man who taught you how to ride a bike, catch a fish, drive a stick shift, look at the world with open eyes, isn't invincible. As a self proclaimed daddy's girl, I struggle with the fact that my dad isn't untouchable, his sun bronzed skin and naturally muscled build, is allowed to be afraid, vulnerable, shitting-in-his-pants-scared. That, if anything, he can't put his two beautiful little girls in glass bubbles and protect them from skinned knees, vicious words, broken hearts, drunken moments of embarrassment, sticks and stones kind of shit. What hurts the most, is that my sister and I aren't little girls anymore. We're young adults. We are vulnerable to the world and all of its trials. And the only corrupt judges in this judicial system are ourselves.

I am firm believer that the relationships you ensue help you become the person you are. Getting hurt, being used, using other people, hurting other people are all learning processes. The day I fear the most is when I call up one of my girls from high school, who mean so much me today and the conversation is forced. Screaming children in the background, dinner burning on the stove, the husband beeping in saying he has to work late and won't make it in time to dine with the family, girl scouts ringing the doorbell selling cookies, (or even worse, a jehovah's witness in a suit trying to convert you to their religion... thats more like a nightmare). All while apologetically trying to juggle old and new. "Sorry Jules, I gotta go, I'll call you back after I put the kids to sleep". You'll play phone tag for three weeks, until you dance in the kitchen again with the phone cord get caught between the dog's legs as he spills over his water dish.

Losing those relationships might be more subconciously devistating that physically losing someone. People go threw their whole lives loving other people. Real love, false love, want-it-to-work-so-bad love. When does one get to love themselves? Now? At 21 years old? At 21 I'm dating boys who are 27. At 27 I'll probably have a rock on the fourth finger in on my left hand with someone that I've been seeing for three years and hardly even know. When does life begin? As my mum always says... "life happens when you are busy making plans michelle, live within your day and you'll be happy" Good to know all that alanon paid off. Live within your day. Tomorrow always looks greener, brighter. What do you have to look forward to if you live within your day, what you are going to have for dinner? Dreams, aspriations, feelings... don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you had until you lost them?

Fraternization

2005-01-04T18:28:00.000-05:00

December, it was warm and raining. And by warm, it was unusually warm, 60 degrees in The Bean. Warm rain that didn’t frizz your hair, largely in fact that you didn’t blow dry it because you knew the weather would not cooperate with your agenda. And by agenda, falling in love. Who can fall in love with frizzy hair? Christmas shopping in downtown crossing was a 20 minute experience…the store that he got a gift certificate too had gone out of business. You pretended to buy your sister a Dooney and Bourke wristlet that mimicked that of the trendy Louie bag that JAPs across this continent coveted more than an 8 year old grasps their Halloween candy bag as they shuffle through crisp leaves on their walk home. The wristlet will end up getting returned for a more classic wallet or maybe a keychain because you lost the receipt in order to get your money back. It has been a week of Christmas parties, birthday celebrations and going out when you were far to tired just to be seen with him. See and be seen, even though Bostonians say that nightlife isn’t their biggest priorities, everyone knows it is, even the metro sexual 27 year old you are falling in love with. Time’s up. He goes back to the chi chi restaurant he manages. You say you are going to do some more shopping and head home even though you are probably going to hop in a cab and go home and take a nap. Awkward moment. Nothing has happened between the two of you, except in your vivid dreams. And you know it’s the same for him. Music always sounds better with him. He invites you to a movie when he gets off work which he has already suggested three previous times throughout the day. You break the silence with and over-enthusiastic FABULOUS. Because that’s what you are. Even on your most down days, you are always fabulous. Everything inside you tells you to touch him as you tilt your head in order to look in his eyes as he speaks. He feels the same. Words are mumbled, two opposite directions are taken. The rain starts harder and muggy air is bringing out all of the smells from the city that have been sleeping since mid-October. Would-a-could-a-should-a is swirling around in your head. Its time for a smoke, only one left, make it last. Dance with the people on the street coming the opposite direction, smile. Debating on getting in a cab due to shear laziness instead of taking the 8 minute walk. Make a phone call and the decision is made for you. Keep walking. Remembering the dream from the night before, every action of the day is analyzed. Flipping through the IKEA catalog during lunch you realize that his neck isn’t clean. As in not cleanly trimmed. Hmm, self-proclaimed metro sexual? You call the new best friend who is CT with her family dying to get back in to the city for blurry nights where neither of you remember how you got home, how much money you spent, or who you offended. I miss you’s, can’t wait for another empty new years and come back soons are exchanged and you’re back to walking, thinking about him. You can’t take your eyes off him you think, how are you going to sit in a movie theatre and pretend. Did I say that I love you? Oh right I did, at the company Christmas party where your best friend couldn’t keep his hands off me. I popped your collar and told you that you were amazing and I could picture myself falling in love with you. I was too intoxicated to remember your reaction. Or did I subconsciously place it in the part of my brain that will never allow me to retrieve it? Everyone tells the truth at Christmas. Be urban, be you, be fabulous, be real. Never let him see you weak, he’s attracted to you because you are care-free, fun and real. Never let him see you sweat, unless he’s on top of you. Five hours of procrastination, some laundry, a load of dishes, a shower, reruns of last season’s OC. Missed phone calls from old friends, new friends, party friends. You have no desire to call them back, no desire to pay 12 dollars for a martini that will end up in your toilet at 4 am after three cannolis at the 24 hour bakery in Little Italy. It’s him. He calls; you play the mute the ringer game in order to seem unavailable. In order to not to let him know that you are waiting for his call. You wait. No message. You call back 4 minutes later, no answer. Quick message, to the point, just saw your call blah, blah, blah. You wait. Decide to blow out your hair because if you really are going to see him, you can’t fall in love with frizzy hair right? It’s getting late, almost too late for movies. He will probably call just in time for the last show, you’ll miss half. Chances are drinks will be offered, and you will have to eloquently pass because you’ve been drunk for a solid week. He knows this, he knows you’ll decline. Did I say that I love you? Probably. Should I have? No. It’s been a solid half hour. Call him again? No. You left a message, which put the ball in his court. In a game that will probably go into overtime and you know you will ultimately win, your palms are sweating in insecurity with no idea how the game will end. Is he just as insecure as you? Yes. Is he willing to break the fraternization rules for a movie? Probably not. Neither of you are ready for the intense awkwardness of seeing a movie. Take out and movies are only comfortable not after two months of dating, but two months of sleeping together. Taking in the late show with your boss, not so comfortable. Playing phone tag and ultimately watching Jay Leno and Conan back to back by yourself: extremely comfortable and familiar, home. You want to be outside, even though the temperature is slowly dropping, and the warm rain is turning to spits of sleet. Your hair is dry and straight, you know it will kink up, but you don’t care. Everyone wants to be in love, in love in the elements, kissing in the park in the middle of December, lights surrounding you, cheerful people passing you by wishing they were you. Christmas: The happiest time of year and the two weeks where the suicide rate is the highest and all you are thinking of is making out in the freezing rain with your boss. We live in a beautiful world. 20 minutes shy of an hour since the last call.