Razzle Dazzle New York

Your Point of View

2010-04-26T15:57:00.007-04:00

There is a man I see just about every day. He walks along West Broadway between Prince and Spring streets in Soho, but there's no telling how many streets and blocks and miles he walks each day. He walks with an offbeat rhythm: perfectly methodical for him, but markedly out of sync to the other sets of legs clipping briskly on the sidewalk.

The right leg leads, followed by a loping left side, his whole body drooping as the leg slowly drags and then swings forward. His stride is long, direct, but his gait is labored, wobbly. "Has he been like this since birth?" I wonder, "Or did an accident take away his full functioning?"

I watch him continue down the street - step, dip, swing, step, dip, swing, step, dip, swing - and always shake my head with a strange mix of bewilderment and appreciation. The words blazoned across the back of his green uniform, partially covered by the sideways strap of the messenger bag hanging around his shoulder: RDS Delivery Service.

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My favorite advertising campaign is for the bank HSBC - its clever and thought-provoking words and images are designed to illustrate the multiple perspectives of any subject - and the ads always make me pause and consider: what is MY point of view? If you aren't familiar with the campaign, one of the easiest ads to describe is the image of a baby laying on its back with arms open, face expectant. The image is repeated side by side three times, with the words "love", "legacy", "expense".

I imagine my RDS deliveryman starring in his own installment of the campaign. A picture of him in uniform, mid-stride, body loping to the side and packages filling his bag, with the words "determined", "inspiring", "futile" describing the scene.

Shake it up

2010-04-14T15:56:00.005-04:00

I've got to get out of this posting slump - brush off the keyboard, shake it up!

An email last week from my sister got the juices flowing:

She had just seen a drink menu item called "The Razzle Dazzle". A martini of peach schnapps, vodka, orange liquor and fruit juice described as "smooth and spectacular". Well, yes, how very razzle dazzle-ish!

On a never-ending quest to choose a signature drink, this one fits my liking rather nicely. If I can just commit the ingredients to memory, this will cure my stumbling and mumbling response to the "what would you like to drink?" question I never seem able to answer very smoothly or spectacularly.

By adding some razzle dazzle to my drink selection, I must in turn add some selection to my Razzle Dazzle. I'm guaranteeing a Razzle Dazzle New York post each week here on out. If I fail, I'll take the punishment for being a bore. The next cocktail order will be, "Just a tall glass of water, that's all for me." When I know deep down "The Razzle Dazzle" is waiting to be written and enjoyed.

The "Razzle Dazzle Martini" canvas painting Elizabeth surprised me with a few years ago - never did I consider this martini was an actual drink! Please note the similarities: red hair, New York New York-esque top hat and cane...or is that a baton?!

Brideful

2010-04-13T14:03:00.005-04:00

Ten months ago today - last June 13th - the day ended much differently than it began. Most poignantly - for my family, anyway - my older sister Julie started the day a "Miss" and ended the day a "Mrs." Most obviously - for anyone in Birmingham, AL, that is - the morning sky loomed heavy with clouds but the evening stars shown bright and clear. Most personally - for me, of course - I started the day believing I was an "anything is possible" type of person but ended the day shaking my head at my lack of faith.

Though the sky we woke to on Julie's wedding morning was anything but clear, it shouted a message that definitely was: "There will be NO outdoor wedding today. Period!" Gray clouds churned and swirled and thickened so sickeningly in the sky, it perfectly mirrored the nervous anxiousness brewing in my stomach. I stood on my parents' front porch in the quiet of the morning, tilted my head back and turned slowly in a circle to survey the situation. Bleak. No, not even bleak. Bad. Impossible. There was not a single break in the clouds, no light through any tunnel, no way the sky could clear by this evening, if ever. I could see no silver lining to these steel gray clouds.

I looked at my mother, our makeup-less faces pale with dread. "Has Julie seen the clouds?" I whispered with wide eyes. She gulped and nodded a yes. "Oh no," I thought. "OH NO."

Julie was the classically organized bride, planning details of the details so every part of her wedding day would be flawless. And now this, this doomsday of the ugliest sky I have ever seen.

At the hairdresser, the rain poured from the sky, puddled on the sidewalk, and swooshed against the windows. As our hair was pinned up and poufed up, the rain came down, down, down.

I tried to soften the blow, to make lemonade out of lemons: "the wedding will be pretty inside" and "it would be too hot in the June sun anyway." Instead of believing the dream would happen, I looked for Plan B. Julie never doubted, never waivered, never lost faith in her belief that a sunny outdoor wedding would happen. I thought she had lost her mind. She possessed a brideful hope that frankly just made her seem possessed (me, her doting maid of honor, standing behind her swirling a 'crazy' finger at my temple every time she refused the wedding should move inside.)

My finger was soon pointed at me, tsk-tsking the doubt I had been so sure of. As the last noses were powdered and lips blotted before the photographs began, I pulled back the curtains of the bride's room to reveal a sky whose curtain of clouds had dissolved. I laughed with stunned, bewildered eyes: it was a miracle! A miracle I had prayed for but never actually believed would come true.

Oh me of little faith! What wonderful possibilities have I written off because they seemed impossible? Have I ever been so passionately hopeful that everyone thought I was crazy? Do I really believe anything is possible?

When I remember Julie's wedding day, I will always think of how pretty she looked and the lesson I learned: no situation is ever as bleak as it seems, no dream is too unrealistic to hold, no sky is gray forever.

Top, the morning sky on June 13, 2009; bottom, the sky just six hours later.

What have you been doing?

2009-09-23T00:34:00.008-04:00

Well, dear blog friend, you did happily welcome me back from my long absence, but you DO have a question: just what have I been doing the last few months that has kept me from writing??

I can certainly tell you I haven't been just lying around, smelling the roses and feeding the birds, that's for sure! No, you know if I have free time I'll fill it...there's always a closet that needs cleaning, an errand that needs running, or a party that needs attending.

No time for lying around when the summer months were sprinkled with projects and events that either filled any free time, or made me too tired to sit in front of a blank page and write: the painting of my living room, the wedding of my sister, the departing of six of my NYC friends, the reading of Twilight books, the taking of tap dance classes, the leading of my Bible study, the exploring of New York, the travelling to London.

Each has a story that I'll tell very soon...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LYING AROUND under the perfect blue sky and the majestic dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, London.

SMELLING THE ROSES in the picturesque country town of Salisbury, England.

FEEDING THE BIRDS on a bench in Hyde Park, London.

Hello, old friend

2009-09-21T12:51:00.004-04:00

Hello, old friend:

It's been a long time. Too long! Boy, have I missed you! I'll bet you thought I would never visit again; never come around this way to sit and chat awhile. I've got so much to tell you about what I've seen and done, what's going on in New York City, what I've been thinking.

I cringe as I type in your address - realizing with shame just how long I've neglected this one-sided conversation of ours. Have you forgotten me? Will my secret password still work, or have you changed the rules to lock me out?

But just like a good dear old friend, we can pick up where we left off. I show up unexpectedly, and there you wait - that "Welcome, Rebecca" like a bear hug, accepting me back, no questions asked.

It's so good to see you! You haven't changed a bit: you're still a wonderfully inspiring open page...just waiting for me to fill it.

Tools and Gadgets

2009-04-25T18:21:00.012-04:00

For the second time in the month of April, I went home to Alabama for a celebration in Julie and Gabe's honor: this time the occasion was a "Tool and Gadget Shower" to outfit the couple with all the knick-knacks and doo-dads surely essential to a happily functioning home. I admit my bewilderment at the assortment of gifts - if it doesn't fit in my compact tool box, I believe it to be only marginally neccessary for the occasional emergency...and rather useless for everyday life. The mindset of New Yorkers: when something breaks, you call someone to fix it.

Gifts of drills and sweepers and thingamajigs emerged from beautifully wrapped packages to oohs and aahs from the guests. Julie and Gabe were quite pleased with the gadgets they received, but the only tool I wished to gain in my toolbox (my heart's toolbox) was the one that created the beautiful sunset that wrapped our party into the night sky.

I don't think I will find "Sunset Maker" on the registry at Home Depot!

Gabe and Julie

Daddy and Mama enjoying laughs and the evening sun.

Another valuable gadget for my "toolbox" - a "Sister Trio"

Digging out

2009-04-12T23:37:00.003-04:00

Preoccupied, lazy, tired, busy, working, socializing...I have a million excuses for why I haven't posted anything in over a month. It's certainly not because I'm uninspired - I have a "to write" list of over a dozen topics. I just can't seem to generate thoughtful words to flow from my fingers to the computer screen in the form of clever writing.

It's 11:48 PM, and I have a closet full of winter clothes that need to be removed, sorted and stored away; there is a stack of papers a foot high by my bookshelf that need to be filed or thrown out; my suitcase sits unzipped by the foot of my bed, still not fully emptied since returning from Alabama a week ago. I stare from one project to the next as I sit motionless on my bed, fingers resting on my laptop. My eyes drift away from the computer screen to the (freshly) laundered sheets that sit folded on the right side of my bed - I washed them before I left for home, over a week ago. (Yes, mama, I've been sleeping on the mattress pad and using my comforter as a blanket for a WEEK!) I'm not depressed, I'm not becoming a pack rat - I just can't seem to get one project done for thinking about all the others...and I can't seem to write one post without my mind jumbling more stories into the mix.

In an effort to get my thoughts caught up to my actions, I'm foregoing my normal (ahem) well-written, thoughtful, insightful RazzleDazzle stories for the month of March. Instead, helter skelter stream of consciousness prevails. Scroll down and check back often - I'm slapping and slathering posts together this week...I'll get around to molding and crafting stories next week (while I'm, uh, cleaning my room).

SJP

2009-04-09T21:42:00.002-04:00

If I hadn't seen her with my own two eyes, I wouldn't believe it. Standing there, in the flesh, mere feet across the street from me, the celebrity I have most wanted to see since moving to New York. Sarah Jessica Parker in all her movie star glory, and my camera battery not responding. I suppose I should be okay with the irony of not getting to capture this momentous occasion on film, because much like SJP getting splashed by a New York City bus in the opening sequence for Sex and the City, maybe New York just sometimes has a way of causing grief to the ones it loves.

Your turn for tea

2009-04-05T21:40:00.004-04:00

When I was a young girl, my mother's photo albums captivated my attention for what seemed like hours at a time. Being careful to keep the clear covers attached to the adhesive pages, I flipped through the images of her memories and created a storybook of my own descriptions. Splashing in a bikini in the ocean, sitting on her dorm room bed, playing basketball in uniform, laughing with a boy's arm around her shoulders - it all seemed like a grand time.

I was most intrigued by the page of wedding paraphernalia - a portrait of her in her wedding dress (I always looked at her slippered feet sticking out from the bottom of the large skirt), the wedding announcement clipped from the newspaper (I always loved seeing Mama and Daddy's names in print), and the picture from her tea (I always preferred the grainy black and white version from the paper over the in-color original). There stood my Mama beside the punch bowl and flower-festooned table with both of my grandma's, my aunt Sheree and another lady or two who looked familiar enough that I knew they must have been of some importance to be chosen for this picture.

This image of the tea became iconic to me - the bride next to the table with the most important people beside her. I daydreamed of the newspaperman wearing his newspaper cap coming to the party with his big flash-bulb camera, everyone gathering around the table, 1-2-3 snap! and the moment recorded for posterity.

And now it's Julie turn for her tea, and Mama again is gathered to her spot behind the table - this time her girls the ones to join for the special picture. Our smiles captured by the camera flash for a picture that I wonder whose wistful eyes will one day gaze upon.

Great to see ya!

2009-04-03T21:34:00.004-04:00

I returned to Birmingham relatively unannounced to many of my friends, something completely out of character for me since past trips were preceded with a great deal of phone calls and emails resulting in a packed calendar coordinated to fit everyone's schedule, and leaving me not a minute to spare.

So this trip I decided to put Julie's engagement pictures and tea as tops on my to-do, and left the rest of my socializing in the hands of my about town girls Jackie and Katherine, who had me hot on the scene again with a compactly planned party schedule. They showed me that Birmingham offers similar after-work venues to those of New York: the rooftop of the Redmont Hotel provides breathtaking city views. They also showed me that an unannounced trip home is a great way to feel like a celebrity amongst friends: squeals erupted at every turn as friends who I hadn't seen in months did a double take to see my face in the crowd.

Great to see the Birmingham skyline aglow.

Always great to see Jackie.

Take Two

2009-04-03T21:33:00.005-04:00

On a sweltering hot day in the summer of 2006, I accompanied Elizabeth and Chris to the Botanical Gardens to "assist" them as they were photographed for their engagement pictures. I lugged around a large bag filled with brushes, combs, hairspray, makeup, gloss, sunglasses - you name it - and scurried after them blotting sweat and taming humidity-induced frizzy hair.

The result: a happy couple looking so beautiful I was highly recommended for a second gig as engagement picture assistant.

My "take two" as handler for Julie and Gabe landed me in the same role at the same location but with a new starring couple. The scene was a little different this time around with an overcast sky and chilly temperatures, not to mention a few new props slipped into my bag - towels and a hand broom - that I *lovingly* used to prepare the backdrops for each shot.

But the story was still the same: me running after my pretty sister and making a big production of wilting under the weight of carrying her bag, reminding her to hold her shoulders back, smile like this, smooth her skirt - all while thinking I have the best role in the world. This attention hog will work behind the scenes for her sisters any day.

Prepping Julie in the parking lot pre-pictures.

Our star being scolded for hopping up on the railing not yet brushed off and toweled dry.

The co-stars recounting Gabe's proposal at the exact spot it happened.

A little change can do you good

2009-03-29T08:18:00.004-04:00

My bed has been turned long ways in my room since November, its pillow-top padding extending two more feet into my precious floor space for the past five months. Moving it from its original position - that is, being stuffed sideways against the back wall, the head of the bed touched the right wall and the foot of the bed touched the left, with the radiator sandwiched snuggly in between - seemed like a necessity at the time. I was completely unfamiliar with the sputtering, hissing and clanking that was bringing the metal bars to life. To me it looked like a fire waiting to happen - my comforter would surely ignite on the metal bars that were soon be flaming hot.

Maybe normal radiators get flaming hot, but throughout the winter, mine never so much as warmed up. Just sputtered and spattered and shook a few times, but never warm, much less hot.

So now with April approaching, and me sadly giving up (on my radiator burning) and joyfully letting go (of the cold weather), I decided it was time to claim back my space, which is no small feat considering: 1) the mattress could squish me like a fly swatter and a bug, 2) the width of my room is so small, the mattress, box springs and bed frame each must be lifted practically on one corner in order to "swivel" into a new direction, 3) my bookshelf, dresser and wall hangings all must be moved out of the room, and 4) I keep thinking I can do this all by myself.

Two hours and a broken vase later, my bed was back flush against the radiator, hushing it like a finger in front of a ssshing mouth. I skipped a few victory laps around my broadened floor space (four small skips and you've lapped back to the starting point!) and marveled at how invigorating a few extra feet can be.

Steps of Met

2009-03-22T08:17:00.002-04:00

The mild and sunny weather brought a hint of intrigue to the air; a magical vibe connecting paths and creating music. A smile hello, an unexpected coffee, the glare of the sun, a wandering walk, the bright blue sky, my regular scones, a flurry of pigeons, a quartet of voices, notes from a saxophone, people perched everywhere, an empty space, a spot near the steps, a friendly phone call, an impromptu brunch, exploring a neighborhood.

A Sunday afternoon in New York City can twist and turn and change in a matter of moments. I'll remember that curvy day by the brief moment I spent near the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the person I met. Both making me reconsider my whimsy wanderings as possibly perfectly planned steps.

Snowy Spring

2009-03-20T08:16:00.001-04:00

In anticipation of the first day of spring, I went to sleep last night with visions of blue skies, chirping birds, and warming temperatures.

This morning I flung back the curtain before my head had even risen from the pillow. My bright eyes turned hazy - what is that whirling and swirling on the other side of my window?!

White-hot disbelief and disappointment mixed with the swiftly blowing snow. When will this winter trudge turn into a spring pirouette?

Rat Race

2009-03-17T08:15:00.001-04:00

Today being St. Patrick's Day, and me not really caring but feeling like I should, I headed out to a pub with some friends to celebrate. Green beer and questionable outfits aside, I don't know what was more surprising and ultimately quite troubling...the rats-of-guys who were trolling the bars, or the actual rats that ran toward us - squeaking and squawling (the rats and us) - as we stood on the subway platform (noses pinched from the urine smells) racing away from a less than envious evening of green.

My Tulips

2009-03-15T08:15:00.003-04:00

Like curling ribbon on a present or chocolate shavings on a dessert - what a treat of a tulip!!

~Keukenhof, Holland - April 2008

The New Museum

2009-03-14T22:15:00.008-04:00

So the saying goes...you get what you pay for.

Admission to The New Museum in Soho costs only $12 - "what a deal!" we thought. More like a steal, a rip-off, a fraud. The same friend who accompanied me to Guggenheim suggested this museum for our March exploration, and silly me accepted the plan without investigating it myself.

Let's see...I don't know which of the exhibits was worse - "Be(coming) Dutch at a Distance"...or "Conversations on Iraq". With dashed hopes of possibly gazing at fields of tulips, windmills and wooden shoes, I was stunned to see the exhibit was a makeshift tent community depicting refugees who escape to Holland in the year 2045. And the conversations on Iraq were just that - a man sat on a couch in the middle of a huge white room - the entire second floor of the museum, as a matter of fact - and...he would talk to you about Iraq for as long as you want.

There were only about seven exhibits in the whole museum, and I didn't see a single painting or sculpture all day - scratch that, all hour.

Before escaping to the refuge of shopping on the Soho streets, I made a NEW museum by escaping to the rooftop. The views of the city and the structure of the building were more visually interesting and inspiring than anything inside that crappy old museum. Enjoy.

Rubin Museum

2009-03-06T08:13:00.003-05:00

I blame February's deficit of days for the reason I didn't make my quota for visiting one museum that month. But marching on, I made up for lost time by visiting two museums during March (and this one counts as a show for the month too).

The Rubin Museum was at the suggestion of an out-of-town friend who wanted to see a live, un-plugged performance by emerging artist Keri Noble. Never heard of Keri Noble, never heard of Rubin Museum, and no idea there is a bar, restaurant and theater inside. The discovery of this interesting venue and program revealed something I already knew...I still have so much to learn and explore and do in this city!

Doing my part to fulfill the request the museum has of its visitors to tell 10 people of your experience there:
www.kerinoble.com - She will be famous one day, and I'll say I saw her when.
www.rmanyc.com - An untapped NYC source of entertainment and intellect.

My Tulips

2009-03-01T23:24:00.002-05:00

If only I were a little bunny, peeking out of my colorful blanket of tulips - oh, how happy I'd be!! (Can't wait to get a comment from Gabe about that!)

Now that's a view

2009-02-27T17:31:00.001-05:00

I stayed at my old apartment last week to take care of Roxy while Jane was away on a trip. Sitting on the couch watching TV (still remembering how to change the channels on the confusing remote) and clanging pots and pans around the kitchen (and knowing where to put them all back), I suddenly realized how at home I still feel there. I walked over to my old bed - still there anytime I want to return, so Jane says! - and looked out at the view of the city, and I felt the familiar chills of excitement run up my spine.

I remembered the first time I saw that view - Jane and I had been emailing back and forth for about a week to make plans for me to see her (make that meet her) while I visited New York with Jackie and Ansley. In one of the emails Jane included a picture of a sunset view from her apartment window, and when I opened the message and comprehended the picture as the iconic buildings of midtown Manhattan, a lump swelled in my throat and tears welled in my eyes. Sitting in front of my computer screen in my office in Birmingham, I choked back the emotions the picture stirred - it was my absolute dream!, yet the Birmingham life was my reality. The desire to be in New York burned as deeply as the piercing oranges of the setting sun in the picture, and I knew then and there that I HAD to get to New York.

That same lump of emotion appeared again in my throat today - two years later - as I thought about how that dream to live in New York...and have that view...became a reality. And the lump grew sweeter with thoughts of how Jane opened her home and heart to me so I could experience New York. What a lasting view of friendship that picture will always give me.

I still have that email Jane sent me on February 1, 2007 - see the picture below, and my emotions-tempered-down reply:

"WOW!!! That picture made tears well up in my eyes! That is my New York dream! You are so lucky to live there." ~ Rebecca to Jane, February 2, 2007

Reality Ride

2009-02-24T12:41:00.002-05:00

This morning I closed the cab door and told the driver my cross-town destination - Pier 94.

"Where is that?" he asked.

"On 55th and West Side Highway," I said, surprised to have to explain further.

As he gingerly drove over bumps in the intersection instead of peeling off like a bat out of hell the way most cab drivers do, I knew something was up. And then when I had to repeat the destination twice and explain that the piers are all the way on the west side - "just drive west 'til we hit the water!" - I knew this guy had not a clue as to what he was doing.

I didn't really care though if we inched along - or got lost for that matter - as long as he got me from east to west side in one piece. An exhausting day of work busyness mixed with periods of boredom awaited at a trade show being held at the piers, and, admittedly, I was not feeling too excited about it. I hunkered down in the seat and planned to enjoy a quiet ride across town, when again he asked me just where the piers are.

"Are you kidding me?!" I wanted to scream. "Everyone knows where the piers are!"

As I drew a deep breath to tell him again, he apologized for asking and said that it was just his third day driving. We began chatting, and he told me he was from Tennessee and had only been in New York for four months. He came for a finance job, but he didn't get it, and he didn't want to move back home so soon, so...there he was, driving a cab until something better came along.

I sat up a little prouder in my seat and said a quick prayer of apology for my bad attitude about my impending work day. It beat driving around in a cab for 12 hours at a time, that's for sure. In fact, my day sounded downright luxurious compared to his. I launched into a pep talk of "I'm sure you'll find a job doing what you went to school for" and "You never know who might get in your cab who will offer you a finance job!"

We crossed over 6th Avenue - the heart of midtown Manhattan business with skyscrapers and bustling streets all around - and I noticed (impossible not to) a HUGE line of well-dressed business people - young, old, black, white - snaking and curling along the sidewalk. As we drove, the line continued longer and longer. "What in the world is going on?!" both the cabbie and I exclaimed. Finally I saw the beginning of the line turn into the lobby of a hotel, and it hit me like a punch in the stomach - a job fair! Oh good lord, a job fair.

Seeing that many people standing in the freezing cold waiting for a chance to go inside to the job fair, while I was being chauffeured to my job by my college-educated cab driver, I suddenly couldn't wait for the work day at the trade show that awaited me. I put a smile on my face and gratitude in my heart - the most essential part of any business suit these days.

Part of the show

2009-02-21T00:40:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I find myself at an event or in a situation that suddenly - almost amusingly - makes me remember, "Oh yeah, I'm in New York City!" Tonight, for example, I found myself in a very large loft studio in Soho, dressed head to toe in black, hobnobbing with drink in hand amongst a crowd of predominately Italian-speaking, short, dark-haired people. Workers scurried around the gathering crowd to make final lighting and sound adjustments for the fashion show soon to take place, and I found I was being scurried around as the organizing photographer took it upon himself to introduce me from group to group. As he ushered me to a seat on the empty front row saved for VIPs, I glanced back at the people sitting packed on the rows behind me. I felt their eyes on me and knew they were thinking (just as much as I was, actually), "Just who does she think she is?" The tallest person there by a few inches, with the lightest color skin and reddest color hair, I guess maybe I did look like I was somebody. But I stifled a giggle to think if they only knew...little ol' Rebecca Mummert from Alabama is quite amazed to be here, sitting front row and feeling part of the 'New York City' show.

Everywhere I Look a Celebrity!

2009-02-20T23:59:00.010-05:00

Here a celeb, there a celeb, everywhere a celeb!! The past week has been the most celebrity-filled of my New York tenure. In true Gossip Girl form, read on to see who all I spotted around the city:

Friday - Spotted: Matthew Broderick - aka Ferris Bueller - on 62nd and Madison....on the phone and walking into Hermes. Buying a Valentine's gift for Sarah Jessica, perhaps? Or meeting Sarah Jessica inside?? Gossip Girl followed his brown coat tails...found no SJ, but predicts jewelry is in her future.

Sunday - Spotted: Heidi Klum sneaking out of the Tents at Bryant Park. Our golden girl of the runway shying away from the spotlight?

Tuesday - Spotted: Front row at Narcisco Rodriguez fashion show - Is that Kanye West and galpal Amber Rose behind those sunglasses? Is Juliana Margueles making her comeback as ER makes its exit? Has Claire Danes finally gotten a so-called life?

Wednesday - Spotted: Barely. Carrie Fisher - aka Princess Leia - stumbles into Braccialini in Soho. A few pounds and a few raindrops concealed her identity even after a few conversations. Really Gossip Girl, you're losing your touch...

Thursday - Spotted: Kevin Bacon, Taylor Hicks and New Kids on the Block...street-side at the Regis and Kelly Show...Gossip Girl, you should be ashamed - up at 5:30 AM for them??

Friday - Spotted: Christian Siriano - aka Project Runway winner - dining at Lure in Soho with mom and boyfriend. No smiles post-fashion week show? Or is he just too fierce for smiles?

NYC Ballet

2009-02-18T23:59:00.002-05:00

Similar to my quest this year to visit a museum a month is my quest to see a show a month. Like the museum, I've not set a schedule for what to do each month, or even planned it out further than just deciding 'today I feel like seeing a show', but I have set three viewing guidelines:

1) A Broadway show is preferred, but any type of theater, dance or music (comedy is pushing it) counts

2) It has to be a live show

3) If I can get in free, even better!

January's show started the year on a high note - not only was it Broadway, it was classic Broadway - The Phantom of the Opera - AND I sat in the best seats in the house for free!

As luck would have it, today my boss gave me two tickets (free!) to the New York City Ballet (live!) in Lincoln Center (practically Broadway!)

Cameron and I enjoyed an evening of three ballets - Ballo della Regina, Robert Schumann's 'Davidsbundlertanze', and Glass Pieces. Our seats were stage right in the dress circle...a perfect spot to enjoy both the movement on stage and the audience in the theater. Though the real show was playing out on the stage in front of me, I took advantage of my perch above orchestra and gazed at the rapt faces of the audience. I dreamed of what thoughts the ballerinas on stage have as they spin and leap and await the clapping hands. My eyes dazzled with the beautiful architecture of the interior - the chandeliers and lights cut like hundreds of beautiful diamond engagement rings.

Unlike the current trend of lax dress code and demeanor at most Broadway shows, the atmosphere at the ballet is dignified and grand, just as a night at "the ballet" should be.

Barbie

2009-02-17T23:59:00.005-05:00

Barbie is celebrating her 50th birthday all around New York City - in the windows at Bloomingdale's, in displays at toy fairs, and even in the exclusive Tents at Bryant Park. And who would dare stop Barbie as she pranced by the security guards who barricade the entry to the inside of the Tents? Those intimidating guards blocking the entrance from the less-heeled crowd on the street definitely couldn't resist Barbie's charm, and neither could Fashion Week organizers. She was honored with The Barbie Fashion Show (watch here) - the hottest ticket this Fashion Week with girls young and old trying to finagle their way to the show.

I wanted to see the show so badly, I decided if having let my little sister play with my beloved Peaches 'n Cream Barbie all those years ago would have provided me enough good karma to get a ticket to the show, I would have gladly handed Peaches over to her "death". (Elizabeth was the culprit in the decapitation of just about every Barbie ever known to be in her care. She claims she's only guilty of having a heavy hand while hair brushing, but I always had suspicion there was more reckless motives behind the incidences...)

Knowing a head-crammed-on, short-necked Barbie wouldn't give me any more good karma now that it would have to play with back then, I figured unless I could come by a ticket the honest way (minimal finagling required), then I didn't really want a ticket to the show anyway. Why have Barbie come to life on the runway now, since she's always existed in my world of pretend?

So pretend is exactly what I did: though my credentials got me inside the Tents, they did not get me into the show. Instead, I wandered the decorations surrounding the fountain and pretended I was sitting live in the audience while I watched the show on the television screen.

After all, a game of pretend is always better than a huffy declaration of "I'm taking my Barbie's and I'm going home!"

Just another girl in the park

2009-02-15T23:38:00.003-05:00

With it being day 3 of NYC Fashion Week, and me not having been to a show in the Tents at Bryant Park yet, I decided the next best thing to models lined on a runway was a table lined with sushi. Eating at the restaurant Koi in the Bryant Park Hotel has become my fashion week tradition, so I made plans to meet there with my fashionista friend Amy who was in town from Alabama.

Excited about the sushi, drinks and conversation soon to be consumed, I energetically hopped off the bus at 42nd Street and walked the few bustling avenues to Bryant Park. My tall boots were click, click clicking as I cut through the back side of the park behind the Tents - the area dark, quiet and all but deserted - a far cry from the onlookers crowded at the front of the Tents on 6th Avenue.

I slowed my hurried pace a few beats so I could enjoy the refreshing sights (trees with a glowing backdrop of skyscrapers) and sounds (distant car horns) of nature. "Ah, to just be a girl relaxing in a park!" I thought, before picking up the pace again. But wait - I'm not alone in the park - who's that tall blonde walking up beside me? And why are there 10 cameramen walking backwards in front of her, and now me, too?!

With a quick glance - and an even quicker jaw drop - I realized it wasn't just any other girl in the park with me...it was Heidi Klum. My first reaction was to flip my hair and rock my hips in a catwalk sashay duel beside her across the park, but I quickly saw that she was just walking, just like me, on her way toward Koi, just like me, her heels clicking, just like mine, her hair blowing into her face, just as mine did. She's just another girl in the park, just like me. But, oh!, how I wished I could be her as the flashbulbs lit up her face and the dark sky around us. As she ducked into her waiting car and I ducked around the back of it to cross the street, she glanced at me through the window, and I wondered if just maybe she wished she could be me even for a little while - just another girl in the park.

My Tulips

2009-02-15T12:16:00.004-05:00

A crimson and white "pompom" more spirited than a stadium full of crimson and white shakers. Roll Tulips Roll!

Heart Hustle

2009-02-14T17:27:00.000-05:00

When was the last time you saw a man running at top speed down a sidewalk with flowers in hand? Never, you say? Well, me either, until today. The influx of roses this week to the city's street corner markets beamed shades of red into the gray wintry streets - a blaring red siren, if you will, to alert one and all that Valentine's Day is here. Judging by the cellophane-wrapped bouquets cradled in many a man's arm as he walked home - New York City suitors had taken notice.

So with Valentine love abundantly in the air, the sight of this particular man with flowers in hand should not have been so startling. But his exuberance, his determination, his desire to get those flowers to his intended recipient was so strong, so obvious that he was running as fast as he could down the sidewalk. I half expected to see him leap over a garbage can and clear the gate like a hurdle as he bound toward the front door of the apartment building. Surely his motivation was the loving smile and happy eyes that awaited him. If only all men could have such - breathless? - dedication.

If only all men were the 1-800-flowers delivery guy...

A Memory Handful

2009-02-09T23:01:00.002-05:00

I love when an unexpected sight stops me in my tracks, the image depicting a fond memory brought to mind. This type of reminiscing does not include rummaging through a drawer and finding a photo or memento to remind you of an occasion. This is about seeing something completely unrelated to the memory, but it being so depictive of the event that your memory is sparked and brought vibrantly to life. One of the remarkable things about walking the streets of New York City is the sights and sounds here could not be further out of context from every memory I possess from life in Alabama, yet a simple image can spark a memory and bring the two worlds together.

The anticipation for the halftime show of the Alabama-Auburn football game my first year as a Crimsonette was tremendous. Our part in the 12-minute show consisted of a twirling feature, a high-spirited dance number, a two baton routine, and a graceful dance, not to mention three costume changes of only about 30 seconds each. Throw in the added stressors of traveling to Birmingham for the game, the thought of the whole state of Alabama in the stadium watching, not learning a three-minute dance routine until midnight on the Thursday before the performance, and never having practiced the costume changes until Saturday morning - it's needless to say we were 18 girls wrought with nerves.

We had a million details to remember and a million opportunities for things to go wrong - and go wrong they did: missed musical cues, wardrobe malfuncitons, dropped batons. During the dance routine we'd learned just 36 hours before, I didn't know whether I was jumping or leaping or spinning, and a look at the Crimsonette next to me showed she had no idea either. We escaped to the tiny makeshift sideline dressing room, a commotion of girls ripping off our peppy skirt and sweater costumes from the spirited dance and grabbing on the long sheer red skirts and gloves for the next number.

Trying to regain composure from the hysterics of the costume change, I waltzed into my position on the field while frantically yet discreetly struggling to get my right hand in its glove. My thumb must have gone into the pinky of the glove causing my fingers to miss half of the finger holes, because when the music began and I circled my arms above my head with ballerina-like charm, I saw the empty finger slots protruding in every direction from my unfortunately twisted glove. Feeling as though the eyes of the entire stadium were focused on the gnarled hand at the end of my graceful arm, I balled the sprouting fingers into my fist so I could continue to dance for the duration of the song with the least bit of humiliation.

The image of that gnarled red glove has always stuck in my mind, always reminding me of one of the more shameful performances of the Crimsonettes, but making me laugh nonetheless.

So you can see how this unexpected sight not only literally stopped me in my tracks but also brought about a wave of sweet Tuscaloosa memories while standing on the corner of the busy New York City street.

So close, yet so far

2009-02-08T23:17:00.006-05:00

My pleading with the weather must have worked - today the sky was blue and the sun was bright, and the temperature was milder than it has been in ages. I shrugged off the big puffy coat I've grown accustomed to wearing and slipped on a short, three-quarter sleeve jacket. A mixing up of my wardrobe deserved an equal changing up of my scenery, so I traded my well-trod Manhattan streets for an out-of-borough excursion to Brooklyn.

I hopped on the subway clutching the directions I had hastily scribbled on top of another note, and as the train lurched forward in the direction I hoped was toward my Brooklyn destination of Prospect Park, I realized the station where I was supposed to get off was not listed as a stop for this train. I panicked only slightly before picking a new stop by the park that I figured must be close to the outdoor flea market I intended to visit. After the 40 minute ride into Brooklyn, I exited the train and emerged in an area I discovered was so close, yet so far from my now unknown destination.

I decided to just explore the area I had happened upon - finding the Brooklyn Museum, Brooklyn Library and Grand Army Plaza - and enjoyed the new scenery but grew weary for "the City" I had left behind for the afternoon. I turned a corner and- there it was! My Manhattan so majestic in the distance, it beckoning me home, and me realizing I was so close, yet so far to getting back there.

With the sun beginning to set, the winds beginning to gust and the temperatures beginning to drop - I tucked my scarf a little tighter, wished for my heavier coat, and decided the lasting days of warmer temperatures that lead to today's adventure were so close, yet so far away.

Stop, please

2009-02-04T22:59:00.007-05:00

The freeze always begins with a tingling in my upper lip that moves immediately to my lower lip and then creeps into my cheeks - my face feeling paper thin with the frigid temperatures blasting against me. Realizing my nose is so frozen that I can no longer feel it, I start moving and twitching it side to side - not the quick Bewitched style, mind you, my twitches are slow-motioned and labored, my numbing face clumsy.

Snow is piled everywhere, and I've been living in my big puffy coat for what feels like weeks. Last year at this same time I was wishing for snow and bragging that this southern girl didn't think the New York winter was so bad. Sure it was cold, but it was a refreshing cold, and I didn't believe anyone who told me I was experiencing a mild first winter in the north.

But I believe them now, for there is nothing refreshing about walking outside and feeling your skin freeze on contact with the air. Nothing refreshing about having to cover every inch of your body in three layers. Nothing refreshing about tears streaming down your cheeks from the windy cold. Nothing refreshing about wishing you had a ski mask just so you can take a walk down 5th Avenue.

So, stop, please! to the frigid air and snow. Let us icicles of New Yorkers remember what normal air feels like, the weightlessness of no coats, and the warmth of the sun on our faces.

Chic at all costs

2009-02-03T15:34:00.013-05:00

Pegu Club - Soho

My green knit dress clung to the rich brown velvet cushions as I fidgeted in my chair at the swanky Soho cocktail bar Pegu Club. The medium height and rounded shape of the chair made for an uncomfortable - albeit aesthetically pleasing - perching spot beside the low table. I took another sip of my drink - savoring it as my one and only for the night. Outside the window, West Houston Street was quiet and covered in snow. The glow from the street lights shown through the wood grilles decorating the window, and cast a funny plaid shadow on the trendy clothes and pretty faces of everyone around the bar.

Popping the last bite of the shrimp mini burger into my mouth - the double use of "tiny" descriptives should have forewarned me - I marveled how something so delicious could be so unsatisfying. No doubt unsatisfying because one drink plus one small appetizer at this place equals what I spend on lunch for an entire week.

"What we New Yorkers pay to be chic is ridiculous," I thought, but resigned myself to focus on the conversation and to enjoy the evening of sophisticated company. I sipped my drink again and smiled across the table.

"Oh my gosh," my friend said, half under her breath. "I could eat about five of these shrimp burgers, but I'd settle for four slices of cheap pizza right now!"

My thoughts exactly.

My Tulips

2009-02-01T21:39:00.005-05:00

Every time I look at these tulips, I'm transported to a late afternoon sky of frothy clouds edged with the hues of the setting sun, the wind gently blowing me from one blossom to the next.

Museum a Month - Guggenheim

2009-01-31T23:54:00.010-05:00

I admit that before today, I had never been inside a New York City museum. On past trips here with friends, if they suggested a museum, I suggested we split up for the next few hours - "You go to the museum, I'm going tooo...go walk around." I reasoned with only a few days here, there was SO much more I'd rather see of New York than just the inside of a building. And my excuse for not going in the last 18 months of living here? "Oh, I live here. I can go anytime."

Maybe it was the Bush twins' letter urging me to "Go", or it was the start of a new year and new habits, or it was the question of how long will I live here that made me finally resolve to explore the inside of these museums I've paraded past for years. This year I will go to one museum a month - the "Museum a Month" club of which I'm currently the founder, president and only committed member.

Not having a museum whose works I most wanted to see, I picked the Guggenheim as my first stop because it has the most unusual architecture and layout (and I did check its website to discover a new exhibit began this weekend.)

I invited a friend along to make the trip 50 or so blocks north to the museum. We hopped off the bus, walked a few blocks and arrived at the museum with faces flushed from the cold. We navigated through the tourists crowding the lobby, paid the entry fee, and picked up head phones for the audio tour. Meredith opted for no head phones - a decision she would later regret when she wanted to talk to pass the time but I was listening to the monotonous droll - I mean, informative descriptions of the pieces.

We began circling the floors of the Guggenheim - art displayed in rooms and nooks off the spiraling ramp that is the interior of the building - its layout a piece of art in its own rite. The bottom floors were interesting and just what I expect of a museum - Monet's, Renoir's, other artists who I didn't recognize but appreciated nonetheless. But the higher we circled, the crazier the art became. The dream room of buzzing noises and flashing lights? The guy who hypnotized himself to be his mom and wrote descriptions of family pictures as if he was her? The cut out slice of wall with debris piled neatly on the floor in front of it? Maybe I was weary from the climb, or maybe the air was thinner on the higher floors and thus adversely affecting my ability to process what I was seeing as "art", but the untraditional pieces definitely entertained, and we spent the last ramp laughing and calling to each other, "Oh my gosh - you will not believe this one!"

But at the end of the climb I realized that - in the end - not believing something is what art is - a creation designed to be viewed in beauty or wonder or confusion. One person's thought or vision given life for others to see and question or believe as they will.

One museum down - 11 to go!

Sun-Maid Message

2009-01-29T15:37:00.009-05:00

Raisins are just a boring staple in my snack world, easy to stash away in my purse and carry around until I'm either desperate for something to eat or feel it's time for a healthy bite. In fact, the only thing that keeps me coming back for more is the desire to discover the message printed on the top flap of the little red box. I must say, flipping open that little cardboard flap creates a thrill of anticipation that I'm sure the marketing genious at Sun-Maid knew it would for millions of people, if not just for me. Messages so profound in their brevity, I've been known to rip the flap off and tuck it away somewhere so I'll see it again - jammed in my mirror frame, mixed in my change purse, crunched up in my coat pocket.

The taste of my box today can be described as inspiring, with a hint of motivation:

"Stay curious and you will travel to the ends of the earth."

So refreshing was that raisin box, that I was spurred to compose a message I hope Sun-Maid will consider for its next box printing:

"Words add flavor."

Even super villains shop for toilet paper

2009-01-26T23:37:00.021-05:00

Domestic duties topped my social calendar tonight - a visit to Bed, Bath & Beyond for cleaning supplies followed by a few loads at the laundromat. Not glamorous or interesting tasks by New York standards, but essential chores nonetheless.

Arriving at Bed, Bath & Beyond, I grabbed a hand basket and weaved toward the back of the store through the humidifiers, microwaves and kitchen utensils until coming face to face with a shopping cart and having to step aside so it could pass. My eyes locked on the cart driver, who passed with a nod as I stared. "I know that face - that mouth and chin!" I thought with a mischievous thrill saved only for celebrity spotting.

Wanting to make sure the face belonged to who I thought it did (the rational side of my brain thinking "No way could it be him - he's too famous to be pushing a cart unnoticed through Bed, Bath & Beyond!"), I sidled up beside an employee who I thought shared my same "Is it or isn't it?" expression.

"Excuse me," I said, "where is the laundry detergent?" needing a buffer question so as not to appear so star struck. I didn't even let him answer before blurting, "and did you see that guy who just walked by? The one pushing the cart? He went that way. With the dark-haired girl? He's famous isn't he? What's his name? You know? That guy. The mean, scary guy in Batman? No - Spiderman! Yes - he's the mean guy in Spiderman! What's his name?"

Blank stare. "I didn't see him, miss."

"You had to have seen him! He just walked by right here - and he's famous!" I insisted, trying to keep my voice down since the actor in question was still within earshot.

"Didn't see him."

Another Bed, Bath & Beyond employee overheard our conversation and offered up the confirmation I was looking for, "The Green Goblin - he's in here all the time!"

"Ha! Yes - he's the Green Goblin!" I smugged to the blankly staring employee before turning and skipping on down the aisle, the basket of cleaners swinging in my hand, happy that my night of chores turned into a fun story, and strangely satisfied that even super villains have to shop for toilet paper.

Green Goblin - actor Willem Dafoe.

My Tulips

2009-01-25T18:59:00.005-05:00

With thousands of pictures saved to my iPhotos, it's always a surprise to see which one randomly appears as my background screen saver when the photos rotate each minute. Truth be told, I spend excessive amounts of time minimizing whatever it may be I'm reading or writing on the computer to get a full screen image of the picture.

The last few weeks my tulip pictures from Keukenhof have rotated onto my computer screen with such frequency that I can't decide whether it's the winter gods teasing me with spring or my subconscious dreams materializing before me. I find these pictures so delicately beautiful, so explosively colorful, so intensely inspiring that my breath catches each time a tulip photo appears. I stare dreamily at my computer screen for the next minute until it fades away, and I'm left hopeful it resurfaces again soon.

So, what can be deemed as one part selfish agenda and one part selfless giving, I'm compelled to not contain the photos to just my computer screen, but to share the beauty with you! I'll post a new flower each week for your viewing pleasure - this first tulip one of my absolute favorites. "Orange Burst" - as I have named it - because burst is exactly what my heart does everytime I look at it!

(I took all the pictures in Holland in April 2008 at Keukenhof gardens.)

Go

2009-01-22T20:34:00.004-05:00

When I read snippets of the letter Jenna and Barbara Bush wrote to the new daugthers of the White House, Sasha and Malia, I got a little choked up. Knowing the feelings that prompted the letter were surely even stronger than the words they wrote, I sympathized with the Bush twins as they realized a chapter of their lives was over.

The part of their letter that particularly struck me is the following:

"...go to anything and everything you possibly can: the Kennedy Center for theater, State Dinners, Christmas parties (the White House staff party is our favorite!), museum openings, arrival ceremonies, and walks around the monuments. Just go. Four years goes by so fast, so absorb it all, enjoy it all!"

"Just go...absorb it all, enjoy it all!" I like to think I have that mindset about living in New York - never wanting to just sit in my apartment watching TV when I can be out experiencing the life of the city. The Bush twins' advice spoke as much to me as to their intended recipients, and I've renewed my commitment to enjoy living in the city that not everyone who dreams of is blessed to experience.

Read the complete letter by Jenna and Barbara Bush: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123239885943895155.html?mod=rss_Today's_Most_Popular

Overnight Success

2009-01-21T09:05:00.007-05:00

Working in fashion in New York City, I'm constantly reading fashion articles and magazines and thinking of ways to promote the brand. So, I'm accustomed to the chatter of the business, the endless droll it sometimes becomes. But it was surprising to see how much interest not only the fashion world but the whole country took in the fashion choices of the Obama's throughout the campaign and inauguration; now even regular Joe's know the names "Isabel Toledo" and "Jason Wu" - relative unknowns before January 20th.

So, it got me thinking - if only I could get MObama (as the fashion blogs call her) to wear a RazzleDazzleNewYork t-shirt...

The windows of Barney's New York - the exclusive retailer of Isabel Toledo - took advantage of the newfound celebrity with her designs featured in the window along with signs declaring, "We love that Mrs. Obama loves Isabel Toledo" and "Congratulations to Mrs. Obama and Isabel Toledo."

Perplexing Periwinkle

2009-01-20T23:44:00.009-05:00

Spotted: A periwinkle stovepipe - oh my!

In a city of five million variations of black coats, I should have known someone would be THAT person. I've rationalized since last year when I bought my bohemoth winter coat - please note: in black - that the only person who would actually select the periwinkle color option would be someone living in Colorado who wears it for skiing or someone in Montana who wears it because she just doesn't know better. But my reasonings were dashed today when I spotted a Manhattanite loudly and proudly wearing a periwinkle stovepipe!

After stopping stunned in the middle of the sidewalk, I immediately turned an about face, scrambled a few steps to follow her and snapped a picture. I can only hope to assume she is a tourist, but judging from her tote bag (kind of looked like work), her upper east side location (Bernie Madoff's apartment is the closest tourist attraction), and her walking alone (tourists almost always travel in packs), I fear either she's lost from planet Barney or she's a very misguided one of us.

New York today...tomorrow the world!

2009-01-19T22:42:00.006-05:00

Walking home this evening I overheard a young girl say to her friend, "New York today...tomorrow the world!" From what I gathered, the comment stemmed from the girls and their moms having come to the city for a shopping trip just for the day, and now the girl had dreams of shopping trips even bigger and better in the future.

Regardless of her reason for saying what she did, the line struck me. I can't keep from repeating it (and repeating it) myself - in my best super hero impersonation: hands on hips, fist rising to the sky, flaming red hair blowing behind me as I rise higher than the New York City skyscrapers, sights set on new lands near and far.

And the bubble caption above my head wonders, "Why not?"

Frozen

2009-01-17T23:18:00.007-05:00

The high temperatures seven of the last nine days have been at or below 32 degrees. Today's high is 21, and the low is 6. Yesterday the high was 17. Snow has stayed piled on cars, gutters, fire escapes, shrubs, rooftops - everywhere - for the last week. The streets are quiet with most people staying indoors as much as possible.

New York City is frozen.

And with no city energy pumping through my veins, I am frozen. My normal fast walking pace has slowed to an even gait; my head stays tucked into a cap and hood and buried into a scarf. My line of sight is narrowed to just what is straight ahead - there is no looking all around me when I'm burrowed deep into my bulky coat.

So my eyes fixate on the images before me, images I see everyday, yet somehow now in my slowed down mind they look different - freezing, perhaps, into my vision. I stop in the middle of Park Avenue and notice the arch of the street lights repeating at every intersection, a graceful canopy decorating the length of the street. On Lexington I see a maze of zigzagged fire escapes on the sides of buildings, almost creating a contemporary piece of art. On the corner of 3rd Avenue, the line of yellow cabs turning one after another seems almost a well-timed parade, the rhythmic swoosh of the tires audible in the cold quiet air.

Everywhere I look I see something I've seen before, but not really. Never experiencing it with such crispness and stilled observance. Maybe the freezing temperatures slow the city down so only its bare necessities are functioning, bringing them sharply into focus.

As the frozen day drew to a close, the last image my mind recorded was the one of my best buddies Lauren and Jake as they turned to walk away after our dinner. Since they move from New York tomorrow, I had the sharp realization that this is probably the last time I will see them together in the city, the image of them walking hand in hand down the street is frozen in my mind.

Jury Duty Changed My Life

2009-01-15T08:25:00.008-05:00

I would like to say Jury Duty changed my life by giving me a newfound respect for our American legal system, or because I now see the power of a democratic society which understands the value of right versus wrong. I'd even like to say I felt a certain freedom in "taking my opportunity to cease my power and let my voice be heard," as Diane Sawyer circa 1993 urged us potential jurors to do via taped video in the Jury Assembly Room from 8:45 to 9:00 AM Monday morning.

Considering I grabbed my purse and coat and tripped over a few knees as I shoved down my row and out the Assembly Room door a little after 9:05 at the jury proctor's first mention of, "If anyone has cause to not serve today, speak now or forever-", it's needless to say, I did not hold my peace but found myself across the street, pleading my case for postponement.

No, Jury Duty changed me because I had to take the 6 subway downtown to New York City Hall, find my assigned juror building and get through security by 8:45 AM, and for a girl who doesn't have to be at work until 10:00 AM, waking up at 6:30 in the morning is a life-altering experience. Since Sunday I've gone to bed at night by 11:30 at the latest and woken up - unaided by my trusty alarm clock - by 6:00 or 6:30 every morning. I've always prided myself as being a night owl, boasting of how much I can get done in the hour or two before bed, but I never knew there was a whole world waiting for me in the morning! A world where I feel quiet and rested, and a few steps ahead of the game as I look out my window at the lightless sky and dark apartment buildings. Replying to emails, writing some RazzleDazzle, reading news sites, saying my prayers, eating a good breakfast, getting ready unrushed - never would I have guessed I'm an early bird who craves the worm!

And as for the jury postponement - mark my words, when July rolls around and my duty is unable to be postponed again, I'll find myself void of this newfound morning freedom and sequestered for the summer on a mob murder case.

Remnant reminders

2009-01-11T00:07:00.009-05:00

Construction just up the street from my apartment has annoyed me for months. Not because I could hear banging and drilling in my apartment, but because "the project" dominated the sidewalk and my ability to walk it freely. Every time I left the apartment to go anywhere, I had to go underneath, around or through the mess of two by fours and machinery. And on top of that - literally - the scaffolding covering the sidewalk (a byproduct of all construction projects in the city) was an obtrusive eyesore for the street, a congregating area for random shady-looking people, and a constant source of fear for objects that could fall on my head.

I had no idea - and never stopped to consider - what the final product was planned to be; my only concern was to get through the area without stepping on a nail or being heckled by the workers. Even so, I did notice the building taking shape little by little each week - the foundation beams soon became walls that were soon painted and given necessary lights and fixtures. A few months into the project, I remember thinking as I scurried by, "This pile of nothing is becoming something!"

One day the protective scaffolding finally came down, revealing detailed work that had been hidden from my street view, and I was surprised at the refining and advancement that had taken place without me being aware. Still though, boards covered the facade and paper blocked the view through the windows, so it was impossible to guess the outward appearance, much less what finishing was going on inside the heart of the building.

When I returned to New York after my Christmas and New Years travels, and I made my way up the street for the first time in a few weeks, I stopped in my tracks beside the construction area. It was no longer a construction area at all - coverings had been removed to unveil a finished building. From the dirt and splintered wood had risen a sleek and strong building with a surprising purpose - it is the community facility for an Asian church called Remnant Presbyterian!

Now those who gather outside on the street have a Bible in hand rather than a beverage in a brown paper bag. What once was the black eye of the street now is its shining halo. The remnant now for me of those months of annoying construction is the reminder that I, too, am a work in progress, and that I should not be quick to judge those areas (and people) of my life that are messy, troublesome or need a little nailing into place...maybe something beautiful is under construction!

Gossip Girl

2009-01-08T23:36:00.011-05:00

I rarely watch Gossip Girl anymore - the CW television show set on the Upper East Side of Manhattan - but I'm still intrigued by the characters who portray the fictional lives of spoiled rich kids. How can I not take interest when its art imitating life is a depiction of my well-to-do New York City neighbors? But, like I said, I rarely if ever watch the show anymore, but I do always keep an eye out for the actors around the city - any one of them being a good celebrity spotting to brag about.

Walking to work this morning, several trailors and crew trucks lined Park Avenue, and I spotted a "No Parking" sign that revealed Gossip Girl was filming in the area all day. Yes! The timing couldn't have been more perfect, because as I walked up the relatively empty block between 62nd and 63rd Streets, resident bad boy Chuck Bass walked directly toward me, wearing a skinny three piece suit and a snooty leer across his face the way only Chuck Bass can. Our gazes locked for several paces as we approached each other, and I struggled with the internal battle I always do when making eye contact with a passing famous face - do I say something or do I just pass like it's no big deal? I decided to return his signature glare with one of my own but did throw in a, "Hey Chuck Bass!" as our shoulders passed.

"Hey East Siders - Spotted: C brooding at a redhead on Park. He's probably been drinking before noon again. Sad." You know you love me - XOXO - Gossip Girl

Chance Encounters

2009-01-05T23:54:00.007-05:00

I'm debating whether I can stamp an "Only in New York" sticker on the following story, or if I should simply reason that New Yorkers have an inclination to find opportunity in every encounter, always ready to create an experience - just like the city in which we live.

The story begins the weekend before I moved to New York, when I went on a beach trip to Destin and randomly met a girl who had just moved back to Alabama after several years in New York. You can imagine our conversation - one girl about to move to the city of her dreams and one girl just back from her adventure. Meeting her was a sign that New York was destined for me - I would go and have my own discoveries and experience life there for myself. The beach trip ended, I went back to Birmingham and on to New York, and I didn't think much of her again.

Until my flight back to New York on the evening of December 26th. Waking from my nap in the dark and quiet plane when we landed in New York, I gathered my bags and looked across the aisle as I waited to exit. My eyes locked on the face of a blonde girl with shining eyes and an enthusiastic smile seated across from me, and I knew it was her - what's-her-name from the beach!

I reached my hand across the aisle and tapped her shoulder, "I think I met you-" I began, "on the beach!" she finished. We reintroduced - Emily is her name - and chatted all the way from the plane to the taxi line, there exchanging numbers and making plans to meet when I got back from Holland.

We met at John's Pizzeria, a restaurant in the heart of the theater district, normally bustling, but tonight relatively empty, making a seat at the bar and audible conversation easy to come by. An overly friendly policeman who "has worked tha area fa yeeahs, knows everybudy who's anybudy" at the nearby theaters saw opportunity in us girls and boasted, "if ya wanna go see Phantom tanight, I can get ya in." As perfectly unplanned opportunities go, the theater for Phantom of the Opera is located directly across the street from John's, and it's the only Broadway show with a Monday evening performance. Not ones to turn down an experience, we accepted immediately.

If waiting with the theater manager to be escorted to our free seats in the Producer's Box wasn't opportunistic enough of an experience, I had the surprise of encountering two friends from the South who were on a visit to New York. Shaking my head at the chance encounters leading to chance opportunity leading to more chance encounters, Emily and I laughed at this being the perfect randomly chanced upon show: it's one I had previously paid for and slept through, thus wanted to see again, and it's the first show she saw on Broadway - the one that made her fall in love with performing and prompted her to move to New York to pursue her Broadway dream.

Resolution

2008-12-31T23:58:00.006-05:00

It started early on the last day of the year, this boom boom boom in my chest.

Standing on the rooftop of Kasteel Biljoun, gazing at the frozen moat surrounded by acres of Dutch countryside, and feeling the fireworks cracking in the distance.
Boom boom boom.

Later in the afternoon, tromping across a frozen field, watching soccer balls rocket from homemade cannons, and bracing for each blast as my insides shook.
Boom boom boom.

At midnight, celebrating in the cold by the Amstel River, turning in every direction to see fireworks explode over canals and bridges and buildings, and trembling as tears streamed down my cheeks at the overwhelming sight.
Boom boom boom.

Were the day's visible and audible explosions causing my feelings to surge, or were my feelings the cause of these explosions to so amplify in my chest?

Now after midnight, a new day - the first of the new year - the boom boom boom had at last swelled to the surface in the form of a resolution I could put into words. Questions I wonder but never ask, emotions I feel but never express, thoughts I have but never speak - no longer will I hold them silent but let them burst forth...like my very own fireworks display (I am a red head, you know!)

The sound of fireworks from Biljoun...

...the jolt of cannons in the fields...

...the thrill of fireworks surrounding the Amstel.

A Royal Twirl

2008-12-30T23:59:00.014-05:00

My baton twirling performances have taken place in many different settings for many different audiences - fans in college football stadiums from California to Florida, students in high school gymnasiums, spectators on miles-long parade routes, old folks in nursing home cafeterias, my parents in our driveway, even coworkers in my office lobby. All rather expected places for someone who lived as a majorette for over nine years of her life. But never did I think I would entertain an audience deep in the heart of the Netherlands - in a castle, no less!

Engelenburg Castle, Holland

The evening began quite elegantly - me in my lacy dress, sipping champagne and enjoying casual conversation over fancy hors d'oeuvres with the glow from the hand-carved fireplace dancing on the walls. A gourmet dinner in the stately dining room with high decorative ceilings and antique furniture, the laughter and voices of the entire Heersink clan clinking with the fine china. Savoring the last taste of my dessert and politely dabbing the corners of my mouth, I regarded it as an evening of graceful elegance at its best.

So, it's a bit of a mystery to me how such refineness evolved (or de-volved?) into a dance party the likes of which Engelenburg Castle has never seen. Was it the refrain of Sweet Home Alabama or the conga line over chairs and tables that transformed not only the pristine castle bar but our well-mannered moods? I can't be sure. But what I do know is that when a long, straight umbrella was put in my hand as It's Raining Men pumped over the stereo, the only option for a girl who was trained in the fields of Tuscaloosa was to twirl!

Flips and spins turned into a full-fledged routine, and the surprised smiles and cheers of my audience prompted me to toss higher and shimmy more. Spinning around a final time, the umbrella twirling on beat, I hit a final pose and took a bow as hurrahs and applause coursed through the castle walls.

Damion and me - the umbrella provider and the umbrella performer.

Breathe Easy. Rest Well.

2008-12-28T09:09:00.014-05:00

Sometimes the New York City air becomes stagnant; bus fumes and cab exhaust intermingle with the already over-recycled breathing air of millions of tourists, all trapped in the grid of concrete and maze of skyscrapers. If the city air doesn't suffocate you, then the exhausting pace of the always ticking New York minute will.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stepping off the train in Dieren, the surroundings are so refreshing I can't help but fill my lungs with a deep breath of air, but I'm quickly reminded the countryside of Holland has its own pollutants - the air punctuated by the smell of nearby pastures. The walk from the train station will cure the shock of nature for this city girl, the smells disappearing into the cold wind as we tread the uneven brick sidewalks toward the house.

The air, the sky, the time - here in Holland it all bears a unique awareness; distinctively different from any environment I've encountered in New York City or even Alabama. The local color being relaxed living, it's not uncommon to see close laid neighbors chatting in the street or enjoying a bike ride through the village-like town. Shops and restaurants in one direction, acres of pasture in the other - the worlds connected by an age-old ferry that, oddly enough for me, never suffers the impatience of a car's horn at its slow progress.

A week of rising with the Holland sun at 9:30 or 10 AM - my only alarm clock the bells of the town church chiming outside my window. The hazy morning sun glowing over the frosted fields shifts unnoticed during midday to burn low on the other side of the sky - a sunset hanging on the horizon that lasts all afternoon. Chirping geese pierce the crisp night air, the sky pitch black to reveal the same stars I can't see in the city.

The sun rising over the frozen fields of neighboring Olburgen and the still waters of the River IJssel - about 9:30 AM.

The view of the church clock - and the chilled rooftops - out my window. You'll have to imagine for yourself the sound of the bells chiming through the calm air.

A lake naturally frozen by the sub-zero Celsius temperatures, made even more enchanting with the Dutch skaters and lingering sunset.

A Christmas Miracle

2008-12-23T09:52:00.009-05:00

Except for the lit and decorated tree in my bedroom, and the wreaths, bows and candles festooned on the front of the house, there was nary a Christmas decoration in sight when I arrived home for the holiday. Mama claimed Daddy didn't finish painting the walls of the den in time for her to decorate, and Daddy claimed he had to pick someone up from Atlanta unexpectedly and was unable to finish any sooner. I feigned shock at the un-Christmasy state of the house, but really, it was three days before Christmas, and the time and effort to decorate just seemed unnecessary. Plus, considering it usually takes Mama three weeks to get the house looking just the way she wants, even a reindeer would figure that to accomplish the same in three days was impossible.

If I didn't know better, I would claim Mama hired a team of three foot tall helpers from the North Pole and put them to work, but - from years of watching her experience - I know she was the one hocking the boxes from the attic, decorating every nook and cranny and even hauling the Christmas tree up from the basement all by herself.* By Christmas Eve, icicles hung from the chandeliers, reindeers perched on the mantle and red birds nested anywhere Mama could make a place for them. Our house resembled a snow globe - turned upside down and shaken, but now radiating Christmas charm.

A house fully decorated in just three days. Yes, we witnessed our very own Christmas miracle indeed!

*Mama did most of this decorating in the early hours before anyone else was awake, thus doing most of it herself. We would not have let her carry the tree from the basement by herself had we been awake!

Encore: "Do you remember coming this way?"

2008-12-22T23:31:00.003-05:00

The plane landed in Atlanta. I exited silently and walked slowly through the terminal toward the passenger pick up area. Lighted trees decorated the concourse, and I remember thinking, quite stunned really, "Oh yeah, it's Christmas." Mama and Daddy were still at least 45 minutes away from the airport. I bided my time in the food court, devouring a sandwich and chips while calling my sisters to say guess what happened to me.

Soon enough Mama and Daddy arrived, and I waved dramatically as the big Suburban pulled to a stop beside me. With a flourish of hugs and kisses and luggage, we pulled out of Atlanta Hartsfield a little after midnight and headed toward Birmingham, and I felt the suspense subside in this drawn-out drama of getting home.

But as I reenacted the events of the day, my weariness changed to theatrics. I mimicked the gruff Delta employee who tried to make me get off the plane and the "there, there" of the employee who tried to make me stop crying. I flipped my hair and shook my fist the way I did when I refused to give up my seat. I recounted the absurdity of the packed airport in New York. My final performance of the day was delivered to this captured audience who interjected questions rather than sympathetic stares.

But it was when - after at least 45 minutes of driving - Daddy looked over to Mama and said, "Do you remember coming this way?", that I knew this show really wasn't over. No, these two supporting actors came from the wings - from Alabama, precisely - to put on this final encore with me. We were lost in podunk Georgia at 1 AM, and the only person who could point us in the direction of home was one-tooth Bubba at the A&P.

When the Suburban pulled into the garage at 2:30 AM, I crawled upstairs in the comforts of home and tumbled into bed...and the glowing lights of the Christmas tree in my room faded to black as my eyelids closed like heavy stage curtains.

Act II: "Don't cry, it's going to be okay"

2008-12-21T23:59:00.008-05:00

Sure enough, we landed in Charlotte exactly one hour after my scheduled flight to Birmingham had departed. And there were no more flights to Birmingham that night. I stood at the ticket gate with a brand new audience staring silently at me - the slightly disheveled New Yorker - and the Delta agent - the slightly agitated worker.

Take 1: I'm irate. Everything concerning Delta is unacceptable. "Someone HAS to do something. I HAVE to get on a flight tonight. Or give me a hotel room. Or give me a voucher. Delta owes me!" I slap my hand on the counter for emphasis.

The slightly agitated worker just looks at me. Says nothing. Turns to the Delta agent next to her - the slightly caring worker. "Can you deal with her?" she demands more so than asks.

I fume. I open my mouth to explain my situation to the slightly caring worker, and I start with a forceful, "This is unacceptable!" but I pause.

Take 2: I'm pitiful. I open my mouth to demand a seat on any plane headed anywhere near Birmingham, but all that comes out is tears. I choke out enough information so the slightly caring worker is able to understand where I'm trying to go, and then I rest my head on the counter and cry - okay, sob - while he searches flights for me. With head down, tears pouring and shoulders shaking, I remember about the silent, packed audience sitting just to my left. I do not dare look to see their reaction to my performance; these tears are not acting, they are real.

The slightly caring worker confirms he has a seat for me on a U.S. Airways flight to Atlanta, but it's leaving in 10 minutes, I need to be at the gate right now. I half expected him to slap me a few times to shake me out of my tears, but instead he spoke to me like I was a little girl, writing out the gate number, giving me explicit directions on how to get there, advising me to not dawdle but run to the gate, and saying, "Don't cry, it's going to be okay. Now, did you get all that?" I nodded and sniffled, and sheepishly thanked him and my audience with a quick bow of my head as I turned and ran down the terminal with luggage in one hand and cell phone in the other - "Mama, Daddy - can you come pick me up in Atlanta in about an hour and a half?"

Act I: "We have a situation here"

2008-12-21T23:58:00.000-05:00

"Oh no I'm not getting off this plane! I absolutely refuse!" I boldly screeched with uncharacteristic defiance to the Delta controller, my fists planted firmly on my hips. She didn't respond, she just closed her eyes once, blinking back a very bored, disgusted glare. She raised the walkie-talkie to her surly lips, "I need a Delta manager. We have a situation here. I have a passenger who is refusing to get off the plane."

"Dang straight, I'm not getting off this plane!" I huffed as I stepped over my row mate to reclaim my 3-C window seat. Several passengers seated around me joined my plight, "Yeah, don't make her get off!"

As much as I enjoyed putting on a show for the entire plane's amusement, I sat back in my seat shaking - a little because I was afraid they would make me get off, and a little because I was afraid of how I would react if I got the boot.

My emotions were frazzled from the weekend's hour-long phone calls with Delta - now numbering four or five. The calls began friendly and thankful enough; I remember telling the first operator how much I appreciated her help, and the second operator I'm sorry for sounding so irritated - that I know the cancellation mess is not his fault. But it was around the third or fourth cancellation-prompting call when I lost it. My talking turned to ranting turned to tears in practically the same breath, and I hung up the phone for the last time with the Delta operator consoling me, "I'm sorry, honey. We'll get you home the best we can."

So as I now sat on the plane, awaiting my fate and planning my next act in the drama that was unfolding, I felt shaky with the same nerves I suppose any actress who is about to deliver the climatic scene would feel - I did have a plane full of people watching me!

I nervously turned my ticket over and over in my hand as I replayed the events of the day - waking to another cancelled flight, spending $60 on cab fare to JFK airport although my rescheduled flight was already listed as delayed, waiting four hours in an airport full of stranded travelers, stepping on a guy napping on the floor, skipping through the gate like I had the golden ticket when my flight was finally called. And now this - the plane wouldn't take off until the weight issues were resolved...until I got off the plane!

I was this close to finding any passenger whose weight exceeded my measly 134 pounds and insisting they get off, when three Delta crew members walked up the aisle and exited the plane, giving up their seats because they had boarded as passengers for a free ride to Charlotte.

Admittedly, I was a little disappointed that I didn't have to perform the "desperately clutching to my seat as the Delta authorities try to drag me away" showstopper I had planned, but as the doors closed and the plane prepared for take off, a quick check of the time revealed there was sure to be an Act II in this getting home drama...there was no way this plane would land in Charlotte in time for my connection to Birmingham.

Snow day

2008-12-20T21:49:00.006-05:00

I awoke Saturday morning to a very quiet, very relaxed, very snowed-in New York - and I was surprised to realize I was feeling much like the city. Peering out my bedroom window at the thick blanket of snow, no longer did my missed hair appointment seem so frustrating, no longer did my skipped Christmas party seem so disappointing, and no longer did my insistence to get an earlier flight seem so strong. Lord knows I had tried my best to get on any Saturday flight out of any airport in the New York area, and into any airport in the general vicinity of Alabama, but alas - there were no seats to be had. So Delta rescheduled me for a three-leg flight beginning at 6:30 Sunday morning, a far cry from my original Friday evening direct flight home.

But accepting the hassles of winter travel in the north, I realized the only thing I could do was embrace this day. With two weeks of travels ahead of me, and weeks of nonstop busyness behind me, maybe this buffer day was part of a greater travel plan than I had scheduled for myself. I enjoyed a leisurely long brunch with other stranded friends, I strolled the winter wonderland streets around my apartment, and I even braved the crowds of midtown to gaze at the Christmas decorations I had yet to see.

As the heavy white skies of day faded to the black of night, so too did my peaceful feeling slip away. A check of my flight status showed today had been the calm before tomorrow's storm...my heart quickened and my stomach lurched: my computer screen burned with another red "Cancelled" alerting my 6:30 AM flight was no more.

Snowy benches along a quiet 5th Avenue.

A lone Christmas tree in Madison Square Park.

Snowy Christmas at the fire station next door.

"It's the most wonderful time of the year"

2008-12-19T23:03:00.004-05:00

The thick, fluffy snow cascaded from the sky, simultaneously erasing color from the streets and any hope I had of flying out of New York later that night. Watching the snow accumulate on trees and fire escapes, I still prayed for a miracle and raced home from work (as fast as you can race on icy sidewalks without breaking your neck) to grab my suitcase and head to the airport.

One last check of the flight status stopped me short - the formerly green “On Time” square was now a big block of red. “Cancelled”!!

Disappointment, sadness, rage and anxiousness swirled as I frantically dialed Delta. Immediately put on hold, I stared glumly down at my feet bundled in snow boots, ready for the trip to the airport. The hold music began, and the first line of the first song pumped into my ear. “It’s the MOST wonderful time of the year!” Irritation boiled over to irony, and I laughed in spite of myself and settled back on the couch for a long evening of waiting on hold, pleading for more options and praying for a seat on a plane – any plane – heading to the sunny South.

Stairwell surprise

2008-12-09T00:28:00.003-05:00

Running down the steps of the apartment on my way to work, I was suddenly a little girl descending from her bedroom on Christmas morning. I stopped in my tracks in the middle of the stairwell, grabbed the banister and squealed in surprise. Colored lights! Red bows! A little elf had come during the night and decorated! As I snapped pictures and nodded appreciatively at the even swoops of the lights, I realized the saying, “It’s the thought that counts,” is most true during the Christmas season. These decorations were by no means elaborate, by no means impressive, and by no means the most beautiful in the city of New York, but their presence in our lobby showed the thrill of the season, the joy of giving to others, and the spirit of having a happy heart.

O (my!) Christmas tree!

2008-12-08T12:26:00.002-05:00

As with most things in my New York City apartment, I make do – and my Christmas tree this year was no exception. I figured there was no point in buying a real tree when I would be here to enjoy it for only 12 days, and then after surveying the apartment, I figured there was definitely no space to put it anyway. The two-square foot area next to the couch was tempting to fill, but my visions of green quickly vanished with the thought of being accosted by pine needle pokes and Fraser fir sap each time I entered the apartment. And who am I kidding – do you really think I have boxes of Christmas ornaments tucked away under my bed?

So with a little bit of creativity – not to mention a little bit of tape – I finally put to use the swag of garland I had planned to throw away back in June, the string of red lantern lights I had piled in a heap back in September, and the incredibly long J. Crew green ribbon I’d kept since untying it from a birthday present back in November. After a few minutes of twisting and trimming, I plugged the lights in and stepped back to assess my work. Seeing the masterpiece as only the artist can, I clapped my hands with delight – the lights glowed just right and the zigs zagged in perfect order. Santa will have somewhere to put the presents after all!

A Sweet Time

2008-12-01T23:07:00.006-05:00

The preparations for Julie's wedding continue to fall into place, no doubt falling so easily because she is so well-organized with folders and clippings and notes and books - she is a marvel of planning and ideas.

Living up to my maid of honor duties, I went along on several wedding tasks while home for Thanksgiving - dress shopping, invitation selecting, jewelrey searching. Even with a tired mind or hungry body, I willed myself to forge on with Julie and not complain; it's not every day I get to spend such memorable time with my sister.

But our "sweetest" time together? Selecting the wedding cake...trust me, it's going to be beautiful, original, and really really yummy!

Approximately 15 seconds after our meeting with the cake designer was over: in the car and devouring the sample!

Pass the Baton

2008-11-29T23:08:00.008-05:00

A few weeks ago a current Crimsonette emailed me to say the girls planned to wear a costume from the Crimsonette closet - a fabulous red, white and blue outfit we debuted in 2001 at the Alabama-Auburn patriotric show (the nation in crisis, so we got new outfits...). Oh, how we adored those cute little hot pants! Ranking as the most expensive costume ever made for one halftime show, we did find reason to wear them again the next season, but the costumes have been stored away in the depths of Moody Music Building since 2002.

Amanda's email said she had been assigned the costume I wore, and that she was honored to wear the outfit of such a great former Crimsonette. As my smugness at the compliment (and jealousy that SHE, not me, got to wear it) subsided, feelings of excitement to see her twirl and pride in the Crimsonette tradition swelled. On gameday, as I joined with the thousands of other Alabama fans in the victory over Auburn, I enjoyed a personal victory of seeing "myself" out on the field again.

Amanda giving me a chance to shine again in 2008!

Red, white and blue debut in 2001.

Memory Lane

2008-11-28T23:08:00.005-05:00

An unsuccessful trip to a wedding dress shop near Muscle Shoals prompted a drive through our old neighborhood. An area my family so loved for the five years we lived there in the mid-1980s, the memories of the house and friends there are plentiful. As we drove along the street and slowed in front of our house, I was surprised at the forgotten memories triggered by seeing it in real time; assurance that the images of the house sometimes swirling in my mind are not just figments of a made-up charming childhood.

Studying this picture now - back in my New York City apartment - it's not the memories of the house and yard that fill my thoughts: I'm bewildered to realize the size of the second-floor, street-facing, corner bedroom with two walk-in closets I enjoyed in Muscle Shoals is at least three times the size of this small New York City bedroom I sit in now.

What do all the NYC kids do with no room for Barbie house creations, dress-up clothes spilling out of the closet, doll cribs for each baby, palettes in front of the TV for cartoon watching, games of "house" with the wooden stove, table and chairs, or a window for daydreaming into the trees and sky?

You belong here

2008-11-27T23:07:00.016-05:00

Last year I explored the Thanksgiving traditions of New York City (read: the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade) and Connecticut (read: a train ride, and sweaters and wine by the fire), and I came to a few conclusions:

1. There is something to be said for watching the parade in your PJs on the couch, where the only person blocking your view is dear ol' Dad when he stops in front of the TV to say, "Ughhh...turn it!" 2. The Connecticut suburbs of historic white-washed houses with backdrops of huge trees of orange and gold may look like the idyllic fall setting, but 3. a northern Thanksgiving dinner that features salad, cold, hard green beans, and dressing stuffed with I-don't-know-what, makes a wandering southern girl long for her Mama's casseroles of broccoli and sweet pa-tay-tas!

Now I can't claim any specific family traditions I wished I was home for last year, unless you count our shouts from the couch for Mama to "Come see!" from the kitchen whatever float, balloon or Rockette during the parade, only for her to rush in to the den in time for the screen to change and miss seeing it. Maybe we could count as a tradition all the Thanksgiving decorations Mama so loves - her pilgrim man and woman, the beautiful ceramic turkey she painted one year, the Thanksgiving-themed spreaders, to name just a few. Another almost-tradition is the Indian girl head Elizabeth made in elementary school using a reshaped wire hanger, pantyhose stretched for the face and construction paper for a feathered headdress. For some reason that thing stayed in the pantry (of all places) for years, awaiting its flourish through the kitchen each Thanksgiving Day.

Making my way home this year, as I lugged my suitcase from one flight, to the next, to the next, I realized there was one thing I couldn't wait to see, and I wondered if maybe this was our greatest Mummert Thanksgiving tradition. Years ago, using folded index cards and colored pencils, Elizabeth made the most creative yet simple place cards. We laughed to see what she had chosen to draw for each of us, and joked at the novelty of having place cards for just the five of us, who sat in the same seats every year anyway. Those cards were saved, and pulled out of the drawer again the following year and again the next. Suffering a few gravy stains, Elizabeth redrew them a few years later, using a bit more care and matured colored-pencil skills, now knowing these would be seen year after year.

I don't know how much thought Elizabeth put into choosing our Thanksgiving caricatures, but I've always thought the drawings represented us fairly well:

Daddy the patriarchal and Mama the matriarchal pilgrim and Indian figureheads; Julie a cornucopia surely because several decorate her house, all of them painstakingly hand made by her, at that; Elizabeth as the turkey has always perplexed me, I would have chosen an Indian baby in (what is probably her favorite Native American-related word) a papoose.

Our outdoorsman Chris gets the trees and squirrel, and our sportsfan Gabe appropriately gets the football turkey.

And me, Rebecca, the little Indian girl, who I've always liked to think of as Pocahontas, poking through her surroundings and discovering something new to marvel.

I Googled "Pocahontas" today to find facts about her that might relate to my personality, further linking my place card to me. According to Wikipedia, she "became a celebrity during the last year of her life." I'll take celebrity, but I don't want it to be in my last year. "She was a daughter of Wahunsunacock who ruled...the Tidewater region." I'm a daughter of a Crimson TIDE fan. Hmmm, still not a convincing enough link.

But a few lines down, my answer came: "After her baptism, she went by the name Rebecca."

"But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger,

You'll learn things you never knew you never knew."

~ Colors in the Wind from Disney's Pocahontas

So that's how it feels

2008-11-23T23:12:00.002-05:00

My very best friend in New York City told me last night that she and her husband are moving to San Francisco. I had just settled into our cozy table at the Soho restaurant Boom: the drinks had arrived, we had chatted a little catch up small talk and I was mid-bite on my first taste of the appetizer.

“Well, we have some news,” Lauren announced.

In one swift move, I dropped my carefully stacked piece of bruschetta back on my plate and spun to face her, the glowing candles on the table blurring in my vision.

“Oh my gosh, you’re moving. Oh my gosh!” I blurted before our eyes even met. I knew it was true before she slowly and tentatively nodded her head to confirm it; a few months ago I guessed the only other good kind of “we have some news” news: when Lauren had then told the waitress, “Water is fine for me,” instead of ordering her signature glass of wine, I spun in my seat to face her, “Oh my God, you’re pregnant! You are, aren’t you?!” Another head nod – that one faster and with excitement – confirmed the good news.

I tried to process this new news, “Oh my gosh, you can’t be serious!” I screeched.

“I know. I’ve been dreading telling you!” Lauren said almost apologetically.

“What am I going to do without you here?!” My mind was swirling.

“I know. I’m sorry! I would die if you were leaving me here!”

“This is all your fault!” I said, looking past Lauren to her husband Jake, who sat there with big sorry eyes and a hint of a smirk. “You are my people! And the baby?? You’ll already be gone by the time the baby gets here!” As Jake fielded my hysterics, I couldn’t help but smile a little too. “You owe me, Jake. I’ll think of some way you have to make this up to me.”

As I’ve mulled the news today, I realized this must be how my beloved friends felt when I announced I was heading off to New York City. At least with Lauren and Jake I have about two months to say goodbye instead of the two and a half weeks I gave my friends. But no matter how long I have to get used to the idea of them moving across the country, news like that is still a shock, a stun…and, remembering the name of the restaurant last night, I laughed: a “Boom”.

The New York City Dream

2008-11-17T15:35:00.006-05:00

Dreams are what bring people to New York City. Dreams of becoming a famous fashion designer, of making a fortune on Wall Street, of dancing on Broadway, of writing for a magazine, of living in the greatest city in the world. But once here, all those many dreams meld into one; one dream that so nags at your conscious, so grips at your very being that all you can do is hold on to it, playing it over and over in your mind, hoping that one day, one day soon, it will come true. And, oh!, what a glorious day that would be!

I have the New York City dream. I have it quite frequently, actually. It’s the kind of dream that occurs while sleeping, subconscious thoughts playing out in such real surroundings that when roused, for a split second it doesn’t seem as though it was a dream; it seems real and has renewed my excitement of living in the city. But then my eyes open and my feet hit the floor, and I wish terribly to close my eyes and be transported back.

Transported back, because it is only in the dream, this one collective dream of every New Yorker, that my apartment is indeed four times its actual size. That my closet has room to walk in and turn a cartwheel. That the door I had never noticed in my hallway opens to a huge hidden room with skylights, a swimming pool, 20-foot ceilings, unobstructed views of the city, and three ponies grazing on lollipops. As my waking body rushes to the hallway to see if the door to my dreams is still there, the dark, small reality sets in: it was all just a dream.

But thankfully for all of us dreamers, another night awaits, and another chance to make it all come true.

District of Cuteness

2008-11-16T22:06:00.004-05:00

Saturday morning I boarded a bus in midtown Manhattan that promised a "luxury" ride straight to Washington D.C. Four hours, three rain storms, two naps leaning into my neighbor's seat and one detour off the Baltimore-Washington Expressway later, the bus arrived in our nation's capital. A weekend filled with college friends, a tour of Alexandria, Georgetown and McLean, and an Alabama football game with the D.C. alumni was wonderful fun. But the star of the weekend was Vivi, the vivacious and very cute daughter of my dear high school friends Leanna and Kyle. Seeing her smiles, giggles and bouncy curls in person for the first time in a year, she recaptured my heart...as she will capture the world one day!

Circle of love

2008-11-11T23:57:00.004-05:00

Photo courtesy Royce Kershaw

Always blessed with friends and family and laughter throughout the year, this circle begins on my birthday with an overflow of love - each call, card, email and hug a shining reminder of the loving friend who so dazzles my life. As we pushed our chairs to one side of the table for a picture, leaving the other end empty, I realized it wasn't empty. It was open. And now in my mind's eye, each friend who wished me a happy birthday from afar - whether home in Alabama, along the east coast, across the country and around the world - was able to pull up a chair and continue filling the far-reaching circle around me with love.

Lovely Smile

2008-11-09T23:48:00.002-05:00

"Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile."~William Cullen Bryant

The bright blue sky and the bursting autumn colors dazzled my eyes and enchanted my thoughts. The thick piles of leaves covering the ground beckoned me off the pathways to a world of shuffling, crunching and gathering. I bent to pick up an unusually large leaf, half vibrant green and half drained to yellow. Instead of dropping it back to the pile, I kept it and began gathering others that caught my eye - a radiant red, an orange the color of the setting sun, a pure yellow, a brownish red with edges almost purple!

As the collection of leaves in my hand grew, so did the people by my side. A girl about my age joined me in selecting some leaves for herself; we smiled, and I continued back to the path, on to find the next glorious autumn tree. I stooped to pick another leaf, and a man asked if it was good luck to pick up leaves. "I don't know, but they sure are pretty." Walking on, leaves in hand, another guy fell in step beside me and asked what I planned to do with the leaves. "Oh, I don't know, I just like them." He agreed and said it had been years since he stopped to really look at the leaves, much less pick them up and enjoy them. Several more people struck up conversations as I meandered through the idyllic scenery...each person and chat as varied as the leaves around me.

As I turned to leave Central Park, a fellow leaf looker said, "You have a lovely smile." I thanked him and went on my way with the beautiful autumn day smiling on me.

Red, White and Bl-ooth

2008-11-04T23:07:00.007-05:00

The booth attendant’s mumbled instructions, the bright lights blinding my eyes, the knobs, the switches, and the big lever of final decision. With curtains tightly pulled, I flipped the knobs for my favorites, checked and double-checked my selections…then whipped out the camera to document my participation in this election!

An election referred to by most as historic, but especially memorable to me because it was my first time to vote as a citizen of New York…and my first time to vote in a booth!

Election night in Rockefeller Plaza.

The race to "270" up the side of the GE Building.

Faithful, Loyal, Firm and True

2008-11-01T23:34:00.006-04:00

Alabama, listen, mother,
To our vows of love,
To thyself and to each other,
Faithful friends we’ll prove.

Faithful, loyal, firm and true
Heart bound to heart will beat
Year by year, the ages through,
Until in Heaven we meet.

College days are swiftly fleeting,
Soon we’ll leave their halls,
Ne’er to join another meeting
‘Neath their hallowed walls.

Faithful, loyal, firm and true
Heart bound to heart will beat
Year by year, the ages through,
Until in Heaven we meet.

So, farewell, dear Alma Mater.
May thy name, we pray,
Be rev’renced ever, pure and stainless
As it is today.

I learned the words to the University of Alabama’s Alma Mater during my Sophomore year of college. Our Crimsonette coach insisted on it; she didn’t want us to just stand smiling on the football field at Bryant Denny Stadium when the Million Dollar Band played it.

“As students of the University, and one day graduates, it’s your duty to know the alma mater, and you should sing it proudly,” she told us.

I already knew the words of the chorus, but I thought having to memorize the rest of the stanzas was beyond hokey and a waste of time. In fact, the whole idea of Homecoming really irked me: the spotlight shifted off the current Crimsonettes and us getting to twirl and put on a show, and instead was focused on the Alumni Band, who, in my opinion, could barely muster a crowd-rousing “Yea Alabama”, much less march in a straight line across the football field. The Alumni Band performance was a waste of a perfectly good pregame show that I could be front and center on the football field.

But on a late September afternoon during my second year at Alabama, the Crimsonettes sat around our tree at the band field, and we practiced the words of the Alma Mater. I not only heard the full song for the first time that day, but I fully understood the words for the first time, too.

It was the second stanza that really took hold of my chest and squeezed tightly: “College days are swiftly fleeting, soon we’ll leave their halls,” I sang, as I looked at the sweet and pretty faces of these girls who had fast become my best friends.

My voice trailed off as I realized the truth in the words; maybe the reason these days felt so magical to me was because they were fleeting, and swiftly. Walking across the Quad to class, studying in the library until I fell asleep slumped on the table, sweating and laughing and twirling at band practice every day for four months straight, eating and talking with my boyfriend and our friends at every lunch and dinner during the week at Burke dining hall, living down the hall from my sister and friends in Harris Hall…it had never occurred to me that all of this would come to an end one day.

Now, several years after graduating and leaving the college days behind, the memories of my Alma Mater are kept pure and stainless in my heart. And on this Homecoming, as I exuberantly march with the Alumni Band in a perfectly un-straight line to a wobbly but loving rendition of “Yea Alabama”, I just can’t keep the hot tears from brimming over and spilling shamelessly down my cheeks.

Freaky Friday

2008-10-31T11:05:00.002-04:00

Q: What's an even freakier Halloween costume than one with blood and guts and a knife through the head?
A: Almost identical costumes that were not even planned!

Seeing double!

Squeals, Screams and New Kid Dreams

2008-10-30T11:03:00.005-04:00

The concert we had waited months - if not 18 years - for was all we hoped it would be: the New Kids on the Block could still put on a show, our old heartthrobs singing all our favorites and dancing the same steps we remembered from years ago. But somewhere during our shrill screaming, our singing and dancing, our jumping up and down, and our hugging and laughing, we got something we didn't even know we had hoped for: a very memorable evening together for two sisters who don't get to see each other enough.

Three worlds in one night

2008-10-26T12:13:00.003-04:00

Only in New York City could I travel from Alabama to Italy to Amsterdam in one evening. From crimson shakers and "Roll Tide!" shouts while watching my Alabama Crimson Tide with a hundred other Bama fans, to double cheek kisses and "Ciao Bella!" greetings at an Italian-hosted party brimming with real Italians, to shake your body dancing and "what did you say?!" yells over thumping beats of the minimal house music in a European-esque dance club.

Be warned: You have to stay out until 5 AM to fit all three worlds in, but still, three worlds in one night!

Pumpkin pumped

2008-10-25T16:16:00.009-04:00

The cold wind and rain was no match for our pumpkin quest Saturday in Central Park. The event promised hundreds of pumpkins, a scarecrow contest, a wall of lit Jackolanters and a haunted house sure to make you squeal. Add in hot tea and warm pumpkin scones from Alice's Tea Cup, and yellow, orange and green leaves so bright and beautiful you forget about the dreary gray skies, and you've got yourself the perfect fall day!

Memo: Where's the heat?

2008-10-23T01:37:00.001-04:00

I guess the memo about heat in the apartment is lost in the same file as the memo I never got this summer about the air conditioning in the apartment! Don't worry landlord - I'll take care of writing the memo to the building.

To: All New Tenants

From: The People You Send Half Your Paycheck To

Date: Two days after the first three consecutive days of freezing temps

Re: The frigid-ness inside the apartment building

Please be advised that although each apartment unit is equipped with an antiquated heating device that we are not exactly sure works, the said heating device will not be activated for the building until the first snow is on the ground, or the first tenant is rushed to the hospital for frost bite, whichever occurs first. During this "chill out" time, do not be alarmed if the following occurs:

1. You can "see" your roommate's breath when laughing about how cold it is in your apartment.

2. You hear rattling and hissing coming from the antiquated heating devices. Trust us, we have not turned on the heat yet.

3. You experience slowed movements and brain functions - don't worry! It's just a little cold in here!

We do care about your health and well-being, so we have compiled this handy list of tips for keeping warm:

Tip #1: Layer up! Long Johns, t-shirts, sweat pants, fleece pullovers, knee socks, ear muffs - you got 'em in your closet, so wear 'em!

Tip #2: Cocoon yourself! Put that puffy down "stovepipe" coat to use - wrap it around your body like a blanket...underneath all your other blankets...

Tip #3: Tent it! Got yourself layered and cocooned, but your nose is still cold? Create a "sheet tent" above your head. *Note: Make sure you leave enough circulation so as to not smother yourself while sleeping.

Tip #4: Steam it up! You don't pay for the water, so run it to your heart's content! Crank the tub faucet as hot as it will go, leave the bathroom door open, and wa-la! Your apartment is so small, you will easily feel the steam in the living room and bedrooms.

Tip #5: Learn from pros! Do those homeless people on the street look warmer than you are in your expensive apartment? Take some time to get to know your neighbors and learn their staying-warm secrets!

Enjoy the heatless cold weather, and please don't call us if you have any questions.

Mums for me Mum

2008-10-22T13:35:00.003-04:00

Grand Army Plaza at Central Park

Seeing these breath-taking colors while marveling at the clear blue sky on this crisp October day, I was reminded that my mom is always with me, and me with her, no matter how many miles separate us.

Happy Birthday Mum-ma! I love you.

Blind faith

2008-10-21T00:48:00.005-04:00

This morning on the subway, I sat on the bench directly across from the door on the train. As the train pulled to a stop at 23rd Street, I noticed two men on the platform waiting to board. Even before the doors opened and I could see them fully in front of me, I saw the older white-haired gentleman turn to the black man on his left and extend his arm. The doors opened to reveal the black man carrying a long feeler cane, leading me to presume he was blind. The white-haired man directed him to take a step over the gap between the platform and the train, and the black man took a wide, exaggerated step into the train. "Poor thing," I thought, as his cane jabbed into the woman next to me, "I can't imagine the hard time he has getting around the city." I gave the white-haired man an appreciative smile, and he nodded back. But as soon as he dropped the blind man's arm, the blind man took a swift turn to his left, walked two brisk steps forward, opened the pass-through door, and stepped sure-footed across the wobbly connection into the next car, while the train was moving.

The white-haired gentleman, the unluckily-poked woman, and me (the trusting southerner) looked at each other in open-mouthed silence. The man shrugged his shoulders. The woman shook her head. I couldn't resist, "That is the blind fooling the blind." We laughed, but I like to think it is better to be the white-haired gentleman and have a little blind faith than a lot of blind doubt.

10 years later

2008-10-11T23:27:00.009-04:00

Throughout the night, I heard several incredulous utterances, all asking the same question, "Are we really at our TEN-year reunion?" The answer was always a disbelieving shake of the head. As the lead singer of the band yelled, "Let's hear it for the Hoover High School class of 1998! We're gonna play some music from your decade," there was no denying...it was 10 years later, 10 years since the last time we were all in a room together, 10 years since the popular kids crowded the middle of the dance floor, the nerdy kids huddled at a side table, the jocks acted like they owned the place, and I just tried to flutter from one group to the next, and keep my excited laughter from echoing too loudly.

While others tried to forget, I actually tried to keep reminding myself of the fact, hoping to feel the full gamut of emotions that should be associated with such a milestone. I thought of all the significant things that have happened in my life over the last 10 years - the dear friends I have met, the excitement of twirling at Alabama, the two college degrees, the love and the heartache, the first job and the next, the marriage of my little sister, the loss of my grandmothers, the trips to new places in the world, the leap to New York City. I smiled at the accomplishments and the downfalls, at the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, for the life that happened in 10 years.

Just as I swelled with satisfaction of how much I had grown and changed over 10 years, I heard my name announced as the winner of the "Least Changed" award. "What?!" I shrieked, "I've changed! I'm different!" As I inwardly sulked with outrage, friends pointed out the award was not least changed in life, but least changed in appearance. "Rebecca, it's called the 'Marilyn Monroe Award'...this is a good thing, it means you still have the body of an 18 year old!" Oh. Well far be it from me to turn down an award then!

I tried to think of the 18 year old me, what she would think seeing me now. Not the outward appearance, but what she would think of who I am now - what did she think she'd be like at this 10 year mark. I glanced down at my Senior picture printed on my name tag, and I swear she winked at me (or maybe it was just that fourth glass of wine). But I knew what the wink meant: "We're doing just fine...no matter where we go, or what we see or learn or do, we are the least changed, and that's a beautiful thing."

Please tell me I don't still have the mushroom hair!

With Vashty, Jasmine and Jay...fellow HHS classmates now in NYC.

With Joshua, my very oldest friend at the reunion...we've been warring since the 5th grade over who is tallest.

Friends yet known

2008-10-09T23:55:00.003-04:00

New friend : old friend.

A few weeks after I moved to New York, Katherine mentioned in an e-mail that she'd met the most fun, cute girl. "If you were here, you and Allison would definitely be friends," she said. I remember joking with mock indignation that Katherine had replaced me oh-so quickly. Soon enough, I was hearing about and seeing pictures from their jaunts around town from Katherine, and Katherine told me Allison loves reading my blog and was keeping up with me in New York. After a few months, I felt as if Allison was just as much my friend as she was Katherine's...even though technically we'd never met.

So when I hugged Allison hello for the first time in person tonight, I felt like I was greeting an old friend. As we chatted, we realized we worked in the same building together for two and a half years. We even knew all of the same cute guys in the office parking lot, for goodness sake! How did I miss out on two and a half years of a friend to go to lunch with, to walk with after work, to chat with by the elevators?

It made me ponder all the friends yet known. The girls who live beside me - their front door less than a foot from mine - but I have no idea who they are. The handful of people I've seen repeatedly on the subway or at the grocery store - we live within a few blocks of each other. These people fill up the world around me, yet I don't consider them any more significant than filler. But maybe there's a reason our paths are crossing. Maybe a random person on my block becomes a noteworthy person in my life. Maybe. Maybe definitely starts with a smile.

Ready Set Go!

2008-10-09T23:40:00.003-04:00

When the bride says, "Ready, Set, Go!", you better keep (your comments) to yourself.

(not) Ready...

Sleepless night, early morning, three-flight schedule, disrupted catnaps, cramped legs, raging headache, starving stomach.

...(but get) Set (anyway)...

Dad hug, southern sun, Chick-fil-A, lemonade, familiar sights, cookie snacks.

...(to) Go (dress shopping)!

An hour off the plane and already trying on bridesmaids dresses!

With a smile on my face!

Or am I just smiling because it's so funny to see Daddy read an In Touch?

Street views home

2008-10-09T23:26:00.005-04:00

Rolling my suitcase along the still quiet New York City sidewalk, my thoughts of home multiplied with each step I took. As I crossed over Lexington Avenue, I looked up the street toward the Chrysler Building. The streetlights glowed as the early morning sky lightened, making the closed buildings even darker and more desolate. No people crowded the sidewalks; the only activity coming from the sound and lights of a few cabs slowly approaching. The beautiful Chrysler Building shown like a beacon in the distance, and I stopped, mesmerized. It was a beautiful scene, yes, but even more intriguing was the comparison I conjured of what my scenery would be in a few short hours: grassy lawns and bushy shrubs and thick trees framing the setting sun.

Both views are beautiful, both views are comforting, both views are home...in vastly different ways.

What would Carrie say?!

2008-10-07T22:08:00.004-04:00

Oh, no she didn't!

As I listened to Candace Bushnell read from and talk about her new book "One Fifth Avenue", my gaze shifted away from her and focused on the woman sitting in front of me. The mousy gray, the barrette, the scrunchy, the braid all the way down the back...what in the world would Carrie Bradshaw say?

FYI for my Dad who is a devoted blog reader but doesn't always know what I'm talking about: Candace Bushnell also wrote "Sex and the City" and Carrie Bradshaw is the name of the Sarah Jessica Parker character. One episode revolves around Carrie saying no respectable New York woman would be caught dead with a scrunchy in her hair.

Carnival of Lipstick

2008-10-06T13:48:00.002-04:00

Lipstick Jungle films every once in a while on the street where I work. Those filming days are like a school day with a carnival going on outside. I can't focus on work; I can't stop looking out the window; I can't keep from skipping down the street and wanting to play. Luckily, since work is handbags and Lipstick Jungle is fashion, it was totally appropriate for me to spend some of the work day sashaying down the street, working it with flourishes of a stylish Italian handbag for all to see.

Time to get to work, "Excuse me, is your stylist on set today?"

Brooke Shields filming Lipstick Jungle on Spring Street in Soho.

Under the production tent.

Saying no to a washboard stomach

2008-09-30T23:50:00.002-04:00

The 23rd Street location of New York Health and Racquet Club.

Remember the Friends episode when Chandler tries to end his membership at his gym, and Ross goes with him for moral support but ends up joining as well?

Ross: So why don't you quit?
Chandler: You don't think I've tried? You think I like to have 50 dollars taken out of my bank account every month? No, they make you go all the way down there! Then they use all these phrases and peppiness to try to confuse you. And then they bring out Maria.
Ross: Who is Maria?
Chandler: Ah, Maria. You can't say no to her. She's like this lycra/spandex covered gym...treat.
Ross: One more time: Hey, don't you want a washboard stomach and rock hard pecs?
Chandler: No, I want a flabby gut and saggy man-breasts.
Art imitated life when I tried to quit my gym membership this month. My phone call to request cancellation of membership and automatic bank draft was answered with, "Sure Miss Mummert, if you are no longer interested in maintaining your health and exercise program, we'll be happy to help you cancel your membership...you just need to come to the gym in person." The next day I walked with a determined pace over to the gym, noting the 15 minute distance which all the more fueled my reasonings for quitting - "why am I paying so much for a gym when the round trip just to get there is a free 30-minute work out?"
Pony tail swinging, I marched right up to the sleek counter and proclaimed, "I'm here to cancel my membership!" I was prepared to be cajoled and questioned, but the pudgy manager who always makes me wonder how he got to be manager of a gym reached for a form and explained the cancellation process: I had to complete the form and send it via certified mail to an office located just a few streets away; I would still be charged for the months of September and October, but - aren't I lucky - I could enjoy the benefits of my membership through the end of October.
Rage boiled inside me, "You mean I can't just quit now? Isn't that why I had to come here in person?! And two more months?! I signed up for the month to month plan so I would be able to quit 'at any time'!!" The manager smiled and said he doesn't make the rules, just enforces them. "Well, this is upsurd!" I shouted and slapped my hand on the counter before marching up the steps to work out since it was already money out of my pocket.
After writing a scathing letter, standing in a long post office line, and paying $3.21 to mail it 30 blocks, I received notice that my membership would be cancelled at the end of September - victory! I tried to go to the gym everyday to make the most of the last weeks of against-my-will membership. Sunday night of the final week, I looked around the weight room and counted at least five cute, non-muscle head guys who I had never seen before. "Great," I thought, "is this NYHRC's attempt at bringing out 'Maria' so I don't want to quit?"
As I loaded the chest press with 10 pound weights on each side, I smiled at how far I had come in the last months. Just recently I graduated from 5 to 10 pounds and could press the machine forward without it making my arms shake as I did so, a far cry from when I first joined and the trainer told me his grandma could lift more weight than I could. Oh, the sweet memories! Lauren and I used to head over to the gym after work for Cardio Sculpt with Angel or Jab with Billy. Oh, and there's the time we finally braved Yoga, and when the teacher announced the next move was a head stand, we looked at each other with wide eyes and promptly moved our mats to the wall for the alternate position - laying on back with legs against the wall. As we laid there in the silent darkness, the only guy in the class attempted his head stand, and mid-legup, the poor guy pooted so loud that I spent the rest of the class biting my lip not to laugh.
I snapped out of my walk down gym memory lane as I let go of the handles after my last rep with the 10-pound weights because it was then I remembered the countless times I've had to dodge naked women in the locker room - more often fat and old than firm and trim. "Yes," I thought as I nodded at one of the cute boys taking over my machine, "no matter the good, it's time to go."

Yo Bro!

2008-09-27T23:44:00.005-04:00

With Cameron at Brother Jimmy's.

With Mary Jane and Walton - the sticker brigade!

The Alabama Alumni game-watching bar changed this year from Mercury Bar to the brand new Brother Jimmy's on Lexington and 31st Street...about three blocks from my apartment! The new place is much larger and more civilized - since it's a restaurant, the management actually wants us to make table reservations and sit down to watch the game. It's quite a change from the rough and tumble days of Mercury when we had to arrive early and fight for a seat, usually spending the majority of the game standing up and being pushed and prodded and dodging pompoms in the face. As hassling as it was, I must say I miss the tumult of Mercury; the throng of people making the game day experience seem a little more real, like we were actually in the crowd at Bryant Denny Stadium.

But since I haven't lived this close to the action since I lived on campus across the street from the stadium at Harris Hall, I'm happy to make the short walk across the New York City blocks to my Tuscaloosa home away from home.

Double flop: The Donald & The Daredevil

2008-09-24T23:35:00.009-04:00

My weaknesses are well-documented on this site: events, events with celebrities, and - best yet - televised events with celebrities. Although I absolutely abhor David Blaine, after three days of seeing him on television, hanging upside down in Central Park with hundreds of onlookers cheering into the camera, I lost all will power to stay as far away as possible.

Giving in to the weakness is not entirely my fault - if Emily hadn't invited me to a dance performance just a few blocks away, I promise I wouldn't have made a special trip uptown to see the fake that is David Blaine. BUT, since we were SO close, I just couldn't resist! Plus, it was the finale night of his ridiculous "Dive of Death" stunt, so any rationally thinking person like myself would conclude that the chance of getting on TV was worth the hour wasted while watching him hang upside down.

As I approached Wollman Rink and walked unnoticed into the VIP area, it was me who flipped upside down with excitement when I realized Donald Trump stood a few steps away - unmobbed by fans (oh yes, we are supposed to be VIPs, we don't act that way!) and unprotected by a bodyguard (of course, because we are all civilized VIPs). After my internal yelping subsided, I debated the appropriateness of asking him for a job, or flat out asking him to sponsor a poor southern girl in the city.

It was soon apparent The Donald thought he was the only true VIP in the area, and a noticeable halo enveloped him, making contact with the surly Donald off-limits. But his standoffishness couldn't keep me from snapping pictures of the flop of hair on his head - hey, it's not like he owns the place! Well...it's not like I care that he owns the place!

The Donald and his flop of hair as he watches David Blaine with what appears to be disdain and disgust...or is that just his normal face?

The second flop of the night - David Blaine hangs upside down before performing his Dive of Death...aka his feet-first jump while secured in a harness and attached to pulleys.

A bulldog on a leash

2008-09-23T11:43:00.003-04:00

Never did I think I would see such an accurate portrait of my current self as I did today in a bulldog on a leash.

The bulldog walked a few steps, then stopped firmly in place and looked all around at his surroundings. "Come on!" the owner coached, "Move your feet - let's go!" The bulldog didn't budge. Just kept looking around grinning that bulldog grin.

"You're never gonna get anywhere if you don't walk!" the owner urged.

The sweet, cuddly and adorable (you are starting to see the resemblance, right?) bulldog walked forward a few steps and stopped again.

"Come on, don't stop! You don't want to be stuck in the same place forever!"

The bulldog took several more steps and stopped again. This pattern continued, and the owner even raised the dog off the ground by pulling up on the leash, resulting in the dog having no choice but to drag along beside her, moving his back feet against his will.

As the parallel to this stuck bulldog gelled with my current life, my laughing at the funny charade turned into just a smile, and then faded completely. "Humph," was all I could manage as I realized I'm that stubborn little bulldog - depending on my "owners" to pull me along to keep taking the next steps.

Thanks to my Daddy, special friends, and a certain career resume counselor - all messengers and gifts from God - to keep urging (and pushing, and pulling, and dragging!) me along.

The heart of a friend

2008-09-17T23:41:00.004-04:00

The beauty of giving is best learned through a friend; those people to whom we give and don't expect to receive anything in return. But it is in the expectation of no return when the most is received.

When the lending of a shoulder to cry on is repaid with a hand to hold. The cheers for her are repaid with encouragement for yourself. When the analysis of a sticky situation is repaid with the realization of your true worth. The surprise of a hand-written note is repaid with the entertainment of a barrage of e-mails. When a drink after work is repaid with ideas for your future.
To my dear friends, I hope I give you enough to warrant all that I receive!

Solemn day

2008-09-11T23:38:00.006-04:00

There is a solemness in the New York City air on September 11th that is unmatched by any other day of the year. The reality hit close to home as I witnessed the ceremony of my next door neighbors, FDNY Engine Co. 16, Ladder No. 7. Cars filled the lot across the street, and families flooded onto the sidewalk from the garage of the station. Everyone was dressed in black, dressed for a funeral - funerals, actually. This station lost several men on September 11th, and as I watched a man and woman walk away from the gathering, I wondered who it was they were there to remember who left on a fire truck from this very station seven years ago today and never returned.

If I was a celebrity

2008-09-10T23:38:00.009-04:00

At the Carlos Miele after party: actor Bill Murray wrinkled, disheveled, and ignoring everyone!

If I was a celebrity, I would be the best darn celebrity there has ever been. For starters, I wouldn't try to hide. I'd say hello to the people I pass on the street who gasp and point, "Look! It's Rebecca!" I'd sign autographs and oblige a "Yes, it's me," to friends who've been called and told, "You'll never guess who I'm standing beside!" Heck - I'd even have my bodyguard break from his duties to take pictures of me with my adoring fans. And if that's not enough for A-List status, how about that I'd always look the movie star part - thousand dollar outfits picked out by my stylist, hair and makeup professionally done every day. You would never have to cringe at seeing a mascara-bleared mug shot of me plastered on the entertainment news or read of my club-hopping forays of illicit behavior; I'd be the kind of celebrity all the girls want to be friends with, all the guys want to date, and all the little girls dream to be.

But, what do I know? I'll leave the celebrities to their own devices of invincible behavior. I guess they all know that these very things that would put me highest on the pedestal would make everyone want me to fall the hardest.

Thanks to Bill Murray for a fun evening of elusive celebrity behavior!

Thanks to the lips

2008-09-09T23:36:00.006-04:00

As I stood on the corner outside Delicatessen waiting for my friends, I thought of how smug I would be about arriving first to dinner. "Gosh, I've been waiting forever!" I would sigh with feigned annoyance at their being late, since I'm the one who is always tardy. But tonight the Punctuality Gods were really smiling on me, because as I twiddled on the sidewalk, I noticed an average-looking woman with wavy shoulder-length blonde hair approaching. She wore sunglasses and baggy clothes and swung a large closed umbrella back and forth as she walked with a nonchalant, happy gait. Had it not been for the obvious collagen-injected upper lip, I might not have taken a second look to realize it was, in fact, the one, the only - Meg Ryan!

We stood side by side as she waited to cross the street, and as I watched her continue on her way with a little hum in her step, I quickly hummed a new tune in anticipation of my friends' arrival, "Gosh, you'll never guess who I just saw!"

Twirling

2008-09-05T10:02:00.001-04:00

I considered the multipurpose court adjacent to a small playground directly across the street from my apartment to be a positive "amenity" of living in my apartment building, since the list of actual amenities was non-existent. During the first month of living here, I had big plans of taking my batons across the street and twirling - it would be just like my driveway at home! I wanted to wait until the weather warmed up a bit, and then I would be twirling like old times.

But when mid-May arrived and the outside temps were perfect twirling weather, I got cold feet as I gathered my batons to head outside. I didn't want an audience with the passersby on the street, the firemen peering from their station, or - worse yet - the homeless men claiming a bench for a front row seat! Faced with the reality that twirling here would not be like twirling in the driveway at home, my new hobby quickly lost appeal, and I propped my batons back in the corner of my room.

But I decided Monday was the day I was going to twirl. It was the perfect way to celebrate the unofficial end to summer...and it didn't hurt that the majority of New Yorkers were still tucked in bed, off the streets and enjoying the Labor Day holiday. Early in the morning I scurried out of the building and crossed the street. I tentatively opened the wrought-iron gate and peeked around to make sure the coast was clear of any homeless people who might have camped there overnight. Discovering my only audience was a girl with her dog, and a few firemen across the way, I began to stretch my legs and get acquainted with the trees and buildings around my new twirling spot. I started slowly, tossing the baton in the air a few times, then adding a few turns. As several tosses fell to the ground out of my grasp, I felt a twinge of embarrassment (did anyone see me drop?!) and a heap of remorse (how could I have let myself get so rusty!)

But soon the old rhythm was back, and I was tossing higher, spinning faster and putting on a show the likes of which New York had never seen. Toss illusion - still got it! Toss cartwheel - wha-laa! Split leap back catch - perfect! Remembering sections of old tryout routines, I marveled as I fairly easily smoothed through the maneuvers, and if I didn't perform a trick just so, I reverted to my habit of doing it 10 times in a row (with a smile on my face!) to make sure I had it down pat. I practiced my favorite two and three baton tricks (busting only a few blood vessels in my palms along the way). Feeling so exhilarated with the movements and the memories, I broke into a high march and twirled as I hummed Yea Alabama. "Get me my majorette boots and a sequin uniform!" I thought. "I could put those current Crimsonettes to shame!"

Alas, maybe I could still teach the Crimsonettes a thing or two, and granted, probably still even fit into my uniform. BUT the only person feeling any shame is yours truly...since it's three days after my rock star performance, and I'm still hobbling around, each muscle in my back and legs screeching with every move I make!

Walking girl

2008-08-31T22:58:00.006-04:00

New Yorkers walk. Either out of necessity (maybe one in every 26 people I know actually has a car), or out of budget concerns (I’m not about to pay a cab driver $10 plus tip every time I need to travel a mile or two down the road when my able body can get there for free), or out of public-transit aversion (sometimes you just don’t want to be in the dark, dungy subway or creep along at a snail’s pace on the bus). No matter the actual reason, New Yorkers walk to work, walk to meet friends for a night out, walk to the grocery store, walk to the movies, walk to go shopping, and – my favorite – walk to the gym. The tasks non-New Yorkers would never consider completing on foot, New Yorkers actually view the addition of a car as a disservice to the task. I often speed on foot past a congested intersection of horn-blowing cars and yelling cabbies, and I remind myself a car wouldn’t be so much of a luxury as a big, expensive headache.

To finally put a quantifiable number with my seemingly over the top claims - I swear I walk a million miles a day! - Julie sent me a pedometer. After familiarizing myself with the pedometer instructions and punching all the buttons several times, I clipped it on my waist and walked a few steps to see if it worked. From the couch to the kitchen = 5 steps, yep! From the kitchen to the bathroom = 2 steps, right-o! From the bathroom to my bedroom = 6 steps, alright! This thing works!

The first day I forgot to wear it. So the second day I was determined to wear it, but also had previously decided to wear a dress. Pedometer and dress do not make a good wardrobe combination! With the pedometer clipped underneath the skirt and me slightly obsessed with checking the step count, I constantly had to steal to the bathroom or a dark corner in order to quickly check my progress throughout the day. End of day total = 10154 steps – just over 5 miles!

With the city streets being laid out in a grid format, every informed New Yorker knows that 20 street blocks equals 1 mile, so it's easy to calculate the distance from point A to point B. Although the zigs and zags of my walking commute get jumbled, I can safely bet my daily walking around an island totaling 27 square miles hovers near the 5-mile mark.

Day 1's easy victory of 5 miles made my interest in the new toy wane because I forgot to wear it again for three days straight. The forgotten device would pop into my mind mid-stride – "dang it! I’ve probably already walked a mile, and it’s only 10 AM!" So I made a point to clip it on for my Sunday running around - up to church, over to the park, wandering around the park, down to shopping, over to a barbeque...

End of Day 2 total: 17,587 = almost 9 miles.

Next gift requests from Julie - a foot soaker and massager, please!

Game Day Peaches

2008-08-30T12:32:00.005-04:00

There is a little market down at Union Square Park that is open during the summer months on the weekends and Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I shouldn't describe the market as "little," since the exhibitors taut every farm-grown fruit and vegetable you can think of (and then some) along with flowers and ferns and even fresh meats and homemade pies. The gaps between the food vendors are filled by artists whose work ranges from the traditional and beautiful to the wacky and unrefined.

Although the park is just 15 blocks from my apartment - an easy walk or subway ride - I seldom make a visit to the strolling market place. But on this lazy Saturday - the first Saturday of the football season - the beautiful sunshine was calling my name so I suited up in my crimson "Roll Tide" t-shirt and hit the city streets for a walk.

As I sampled the freshly cut tomatoes - red and juicy and tasting just right - and the sliced apples - crisp and sweet in my mouth, my eyes zeroed in on a mound of peaches at the next tent. I hadn't had a peach all summer! I snuck one more taste of a juicy tomato, then slithered my way through the strolling crowd to the next tent. I took a deep breath, letting the glorious smell of the peaches fill my nose. Heeding the reminder of the sign to "Buy then Squeeze," I gently ran a finger over the tickling fuzz of the fragile fruits.

I spent the next 30 minutes circling the market, comparing the price and the quality of each vendor's peach offerings. I wish I could say the careful research resulted in my getting the best peaches for the best price, but the sale was finally decided by the tent with the cutest peach-sample-slicer who just happened to look at my shirt and say, "Alabama, right? Roll Tide!" as I managed a nod and a smile as I slurped a peach wedge into my mouth.

As I skipped away with my bag full of peachy-smelling peaches, I realized I overpaid by at least $1.50, but if it ensured a win for my Alabama Crimson Tide tonight in the peach state of Georgia, the purchase - and flirt - was worth every cent!

I live down there!

2008-08-27T23:31:00.001-04:00

Peering down at the glowing city streets from the 86th floor observatory of the Empire State Building, I couldn't help but think (and point and shout a few times), "I live down there!"

I've been to the top several times before, but I had not visited this high-soaring New York City landmark since I moved here 14 months ago. In the past, me living and being a part of New York seemed as distant and out of grasp as the streets below. "Could I ever really be part of that?" I wondered wistfully as I snapped pictures and tried to soak in the view.

I now gaze down at the streets with a mixture of familiarity and awe - overwhelmed as anyone is to view the world whizzing in miniature, but completely blown away to realize those are the buildings I walk by everyday, that the once-unknown streets are now my home, that I can say, "Look over there! That's my building!" Can it really be that where I go to sleep every night is just five blocks away from this New York icon of icons??

I guess it's as good a time (and place) as any, while standing at the highest point in the greatest city in the world, to remember to dream big...you never know where it will take you!

The view of the southern portion of Manhattan from the top of the Empire State Building. The "V" is Broadway and 5th Avenue crossing at the Flatiron Building. My apartment is just out of this picture to the left (near the yellow-topped building).

Blanket Supremacy

2008-08-24T21:19:00.002-04:00

Lounging near the top of this grassy tree-lined hill of Central Park, I feel a certain supremacy over my fellow sun-bathers, book-readers and people-watchers. This authority comes not so much from my physical location on the upper slope; rather, it comes from my assessment of the palettes on which each is perched. Some sit on towels or sheets, no less grabbed from a bathroom rack or unmade bed; some sit on the spread of a newspaper or lean against the bulge of a bag; two old timers sit in tailgate chairs (although, judging by their elaborate unfolding of said chairs and this being New York City, I’m sure the chairs have never actually been used for tailgating); and some sit on the nearby rocks while some sit in the grass on nothing at all.

I, on the other hand, get no less than two inquiries about my palette from envious admirers every time I parade it into the park (which is a lot of interest considering no one else is getting any). So it’s no wonder that when one of those wistful afghan-stuffed-in-a-lumpy-bag peons timidly approaches me like I’m the Homecoming Queen of the park and wants to know where I got this coolest new accessory, I smile smugly and agree – “yes, it is the greatest, isn’t it?”

With a features and benefits spiel that would make my Personal Selling 101 professor proud, I proceed to showoff the amazingness that is my blanket:

The All-Weather Blanket is a five foot by five foot lightly cushioned palette that neatly folds into a thin rectangle with an easy to manage zipper; the color-coordinated strap is adjustable – short for carrying on your shoulder or long for strapping diagonally across your body; when folded, the large exterior pocket makes an additional purse unnecessary, and the folded padding and sturdy zipper create the perfect laptop carrying case; the blanket is machine washable, which is a rare need considering the material is easy to brush off and not prone to grass stains. It is, in fact, the perfect blanket.

And then comes my favorite part. I love it partly because it adds to the eliteness of my blanket and partly because I enjoy that how I got it makes me special (to my mom, at least). After I’ve riddled through how wonderful the blanket is, and I have my aspiring audience hanging breathlessly, with expectant, hopeful eyes, they ask, “Well, where did you get it? Where can I get one?!” I put on my best sorry-to-have-to-tell-you face: “Actually, you can’t get it here in the city. My mom sent it to me…in a summer care package…from Alabama.” With their faces glum and hopes of Homecoming coolness dashed, I toss my hair and offer a cheery “good luck!” before sitting a little taller in the middle of my park throne.

Dog days of summer

2008-08-13T18:15:00.003-04:00

With pizza places tucked in every nook and cranny of the New York City streets, last summer I found myself grabbing a few slices here, let me try this place one over there, several times a week. I guess it's every new New Yorker's rite of passage to try as many types of pizza as possible and select a favorite go-to spot. (Psst - Ultimate Pizza on 57th and 1st!)

But when my hips started feeling like I'd ordered them with a little extra cheese, I realized my "research" was done. But with a new summer comes a new fling, and this year it's the hotdog. Street vendor hotdogs. I try to tell myself hotdogs have no nutritional value and they will just make my stomach hurt, but not even a self-scolding of "you just had one yesterday" will make me stop. Perfectly boiled with a steamed bun, topped with ketchup, spicy mustard and kraut - all for $2.00 in under a minute. Who could resist that puppy?!

A happy kind of sad

2008-08-08T23:28:00.010-04:00

Wouldn't you know Julie looks cutest in the picture where she's talking to me! ;)

After hanging up the phone with Julie, I sat back on the couch and giggled for a second, then I sighed and let myself feel sorry for myself for a minute. I might have shed a tear, not knowing if it was for being excited about Julie's news or for thinking of poor me who's not there to celebrate in person. Thinking of all the wedding preparations and dress shopping and flower choosing and catering tasting that I won't be there for, it was one of the only times since I moved to New York that I felt so far from home.

Then again, thinking of all the wedding preparations and dress shopping and flower choosing and catering tasting that I won't be there for...it may not be a bad thing to be so far away!

Congratulations Julie and Gabe!! I can't wait to hug you in person!

www.gabeandjulie.blogspot.com

Julie showing off her ring - isn't she cute?!

Julie and Gabe after the proposal!

Buenvenidos a Miami

2008-08-05T09:25:00.003-04:00

The last time I was in Miami was eight years ago, when the Million Dollar Band traveled to cheer on the Alabama Crimson Tide in the Orange Bowl. We traveled by buses. All night. Thanks to the trombone players the Crimsonettes shared a bus with, a horrific war movie played on the bus TVs in the wee hours of the morning, the bazooka gunshots and screams keeping me awake for most of the night. As the rest of the bus came to life a few hours later, one of the "blonder" Crimsonettes repeatedly sang the then-popular Will Smith song "Benvenidos a Miami". She had no idea of the Spanish words she sang, so the song sounded more like "Benbeneedose yameyame". Over and over she sang - even after I corrected her.

In the years since the trip, I've not been able to shake from my memory the annoying sound of her singing that song when I hear "Miami". But when plans were made to make an end of summer trip to Miami, I found myself happily sing-songing "Benbeneedose yameyame" in excited anticipation of the sun and fun that awaited.

Relieved to not have an excruciating overnight bus ride or grueling band practice in the South Beach heat on the itinerary, I packed my flip flops and bikini and headed south for a weekend of relaxing.

My view from under the umbrella...when I wasn't snoozing!

The back of the beautiful Delano Hotel.

Pina Colada time!

Even the palm trees have an artistic flair in the Art Deco district.

A cute front porch by The Front Porch restaurant on Ocean Drive.

Summer sweating

2008-07-20T22:05:00.002-04:00

Central air conditioning does not come standard in most New York apartments - especially those pre-war walk ups like mine. What does come standard is night sweats, after-hair-drying heat exhaustion and cool drinks - lots of cool drinks. I tried to stay out of the apartment as much as possible - easy to do with so many summertime events in New York - and when all else failed, I'd escape the heat with a trip to the frozen tundra of the Apple store under the guise of learning more about my new Mac. I came across articles in the New York Times of city dwellers who decided to turn off their AC to save on energy costs, thus opting for alternative ways to keep cool - open windows, handmade fans, sitting outside in the park, bourbon laced ice chips. I was empowered with a "we're in this together" camaraderie and soldiered on through the incessant heat with thoughts of the money I was saving by not installing a window unit.

After sweating it out, er, toughing it out through several days of 100-degree June heat, I thought, "If I've made it this far, the rest of the summer should be a breeze..."

When July blazed in and there was no source of a breeze other than the 6-inch personal fan I held directly in front of my face as I lay sweating on my bed, I decided enough was enough. First thing in the morning I would call Bed Bath & Beyond where just days before I had defiantly walked by towering walls of boxed air conditioners strategically arranged at perfect taunting distance immediately inside the front door of the store, "Come here, little girl," they called from inside the cool, air-conditioned oasis, "don't you want to take us home?"

"Sure," I thought, "so you and Con Ed can take advantage of my pocketbook."

As fate would have it, instead of me making the call, the next morning my phone rang and the voice on the other end had an air conditioner query for me, "Hey, did you get an AC yet?"

"Um, no," I replied, still groggy with sleep.

"Well, do you want my old one? I'll clean it and bring it over whenever you're ready."

Thanks to my friendly neighbor Robby for a great deal on an AC, and bonus free delivery and installation! Now, if only Con Ed will be so kind!

My newest favorite spot in New York - sprawled on my bed in front of the cool-purring AC!

Some things never change

2008-07-19T18:13:00.006-04:00

When my Crimsonette coach of five years came to New York last week for a dance clinic, I was excited to attend a few of the classes with her and catch up. In the five years since I twirled at Alabama, she has become a friend, and we have much more candid conversations and laughs than when I was a student and she was my mentor.

But as I lined up with all the other dancers (who were at least 10 years younger than me and, let's face it, actual dancers), my palms began to sweat. It wasn't that I cared what these hotshot kids thought of me and my creaky arms and legs - it was Marion. Was she watching me? What did she think of that jump? Are my arms moving at the correct angles? Am I staying on beat? I quickly realized the safety I had sought in the back corner to shield me from the gaze of the other dancers had put me right in Marion's line of sight. I felt like I was 19 again - wiping my palms on my shorts for a better grip, trying to kick higher, twirl faster and catch her attention with every toss of my baton. As my heart raced, I laughed that some things never change, but at least now I wasn't scared to grab Marion from the sidelines and make her dance beside me.

That was then: with Marion after Crimsonette tryouts when I made Captain in April 2000.

Lightning Bug Flashes

2008-07-16T23:21:00.004-04:00

In a city so bright with the lights of sky scrapers and flashing billboards, it's more than refreshing - a little startling, actually - to see a flicker of something much smaller and simpler, but glowing with memories from southern summer nights.

Drawn to the swarm of lightning bugs hovering over a patch of grass in Madison Square Park, my body stood there in the middle of the city, but my mind was living 20 years ago. A rush of memories of night time hide-and-go-seek with the neighbors while our parents gathered in the street to chat; whispers and "truth or dare" on our trampoline; running around bare foot in the dampening grass - so many memories and feelings, all come back so easily. Makes me wonder if the flashes of all the lightning bugs I've smiled into the dark at through the years were actually taking pictures for me, so looking into the flash again I can remember those daring, dark nights of youth.