31. Have a library a la Beauty and the Beast.
32. Learn French.
33. Learn how to salsa and swing dance.
34. Learn how to make at least 5 cocktails expertly.
35. Own and refurbish the Island.
36. Have dogs.
37. Cook expertly.
38. Climb Mount Washington.
39. Return to playing the piano.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Bucket List Part 3
27. Have children.
28. Learn how to repair my own car.
29. Stay up all night and go to brunch the next day still in my outfit from the night before.
30. Learn the "Thriller" dance.
28. Learn how to repair my own car.
29. Stay up all night and go to brunch the next day still in my outfit from the night before.
30. Learn the "Thriller" dance.
Bucket List Two
14. Publish a bestseller.
15. Live in the Cotswalds in England.
16. Own season tickets to... something.
17. Ride on a Vespa in Rome.
18. Hike parts of, or all of, the Appalachian trail.
19. Parasail.
20. Learn Italian.
21. Go on a cross-country road trip.
22. Buy an Airstream trailer.
23. Learn the bagpipes.
24. Visit wine country.
25. Read all of Anna Karenina.
26. Get a Ph.D.
15. Live in the Cotswalds in England.
16. Own season tickets to... something.
17. Ride on a Vespa in Rome.
18. Hike parts of, or all of, the Appalachian trail.
19. Parasail.
20. Learn Italian.
21. Go on a cross-country road trip.
22. Buy an Airstream trailer.
23. Learn the bagpipes.
24. Visit wine country.
25. Read all of Anna Karenina.
26. Get a Ph.D.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Grey Day
So I guess this is how it starts.
And maybe this will go somewhere, and maybe it won't. But I'm not going to say most likely, it won't. Because then I just feel as if I'm setting myself up for something no good.
I wish I could put it better than no good. Because it's days like today, when the cold and the chill seeps into my skin, when my hair frizzes in the moisture and I feel as if I'll never be warm or cheerful again, when no good just... isn't good enough. It's days like today when I fear that if something doesn't change, I'll creep inside myself and just become a [hatch] shell of what I used to be.
I'm a do-er. By nature. It's one of my best attributes, and unlike white teeth or cheerfulness, you can't fake being a do-er. You either are or you aren't, and we belong to the elite club of those who make things happen. Those wildly successful start-up companies? The chick who didn't just want to lose weight, but eventually ran marathons? They're do-ers. They're not just content to let things take their natural course. They try to build the levys.
Which is why, when my dad almost kicked the bucket and that whole strange computer thing happened, and then mom started taking antidepressants and then Meg shrunk down to half her weight, I was in a tailspin.
What do I do now? I would think wildly, careening between manic booze-fueled outings and holing up in my bed for days.
And then I moved to Beantown and I really fell apart. For three weeks, I did not leave my room at night except to shower. I ate Special K in my bed, reading books and crying on the phone to my mother while my soul-sucking, money-hording, thieving new roommates skulked around downstairs, dreaming up more ways to sucker half the rent out of me.
After three weeks, I found new roommates and told my old ones that they could fuck off and I was keeping their antique cherrywood table that they left behind. I dumped my boyfriend. I took charge at my job, moved into my new office with authority. I put up a personals ad. I had no friends, but so what? I started a book club and made new ones. In a month, I had dates, friends, and a booked social calendar.
That's a do-er.
But now, here I am six months later, and I feel like crying again.
I have a boyfriend, and I'm fucking great at my job, and I have good friends and a beautiful apartment.
But I still feel stuck.
This is where it starts, the discontent. On a rainy day, with not a lot going on. When all I want to do is leave.
I was lying in bed this morning thinking about how much my boss scares me and thinking about the movie THE BUCKET LIST. And all I could think was, why wait? Why wouldn't I make a bucket list now? Why wouldn't I do all these things now, when I'm young and full of energy and opportunity?
I'm starting one. And I'll keep on going:
THE BUCKET LIST:
1. Live on a sailboat for a period of time, whether it be a week or a month or a year.
2. Open an antiques shop.
3. Own my own house, and make it beautiful.
4. Learn how to do construction. Build something big, a shed or a whole addition.
5. Knit mittens.
6. Make beautiful jewelry.
7. Live in Kauai in a house by the beach.
8. Run a half marathon.
9. Learn to accept my body.
10. Ride in a limo.
11. Get married.
12. Make a quilt.
13. Go completely green. Have a garden and grow lots of vegetables. Learn how to compost. Build solar panels. Recycle crazily. Ride my bike a lot. Become self-sufficient.
I think that's a good start.
And maybe this will go somewhere, and maybe it won't. But I'm not going to say most likely, it won't. Because then I just feel as if I'm setting myself up for something no good.
I wish I could put it better than no good. Because it's days like today, when the cold and the chill seeps into my skin, when my hair frizzes in the moisture and I feel as if I'll never be warm or cheerful again, when no good just... isn't good enough. It's days like today when I fear that if something doesn't change, I'll creep inside myself and just become a [hatch] shell of what I used to be.
I'm a do-er. By nature. It's one of my best attributes, and unlike white teeth or cheerfulness, you can't fake being a do-er. You either are or you aren't, and we belong to the elite club of those who make things happen. Those wildly successful start-up companies? The chick who didn't just want to lose weight, but eventually ran marathons? They're do-ers. They're not just content to let things take their natural course. They try to build the levys.
Which is why, when my dad almost kicked the bucket and that whole strange computer thing happened, and then mom started taking antidepressants and then Meg shrunk down to half her weight, I was in a tailspin.
What do I do now? I would think wildly, careening between manic booze-fueled outings and holing up in my bed for days.
And then I moved to Beantown and I really fell apart. For three weeks, I did not leave my room at night except to shower. I ate Special K in my bed, reading books and crying on the phone to my mother while my soul-sucking, money-hording, thieving new roommates skulked around downstairs, dreaming up more ways to sucker half the rent out of me.
After three weeks, I found new roommates and told my old ones that they could fuck off and I was keeping their antique cherrywood table that they left behind. I dumped my boyfriend. I took charge at my job, moved into my new office with authority. I put up a personals ad. I had no friends, but so what? I started a book club and made new ones. In a month, I had dates, friends, and a booked social calendar.
That's a do-er.
But now, here I am six months later, and I feel like crying again.
I have a boyfriend, and I'm fucking great at my job, and I have good friends and a beautiful apartment.
But I still feel stuck.
This is where it starts, the discontent. On a rainy day, with not a lot going on. When all I want to do is leave.
I was lying in bed this morning thinking about how much my boss scares me and thinking about the movie THE BUCKET LIST. And all I could think was, why wait? Why wouldn't I make a bucket list now? Why wouldn't I do all these things now, when I'm young and full of energy and opportunity?
I'm starting one. And I'll keep on going:
THE BUCKET LIST:
1. Live on a sailboat for a period of time, whether it be a week or a month or a year.
2. Open an antiques shop.
3. Own my own house, and make it beautiful.
4. Learn how to do construction. Build something big, a shed or a whole addition.
5. Knit mittens.
6. Make beautiful jewelry.
7. Live in Kauai in a house by the beach.
8. Run a half marathon.
9. Learn to accept my body.
10. Ride in a limo.
11. Get married.
12. Make a quilt.
13. Go completely green. Have a garden and grow lots of vegetables. Learn how to compost. Build solar panels. Recycle crazily. Ride my bike a lot. Become self-sufficient.
I think that's a good start.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Love Letter: Part III
This is the end of the second love letter I've ever written to you.
The first one was saying goodbye.
This one is saying hello to the rest of my life with you.
I want to grow old with you.
I want years and years by your side.
I want to love you as best I can, as strongly as I can, until we don't even have to say the jokes because we already know what they're going to be.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I love you. Always.
The first one was saying goodbye.
This one is saying hello to the rest of my life with you.
I want to grow old with you.
I want years and years by your side.
I want to love you as best I can, as strongly as I can, until we don't even have to say the jokes because we already know what they're going to be.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I love you. Always.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Conversations At Night: Part II
Read to me?
Are you sure?
I could listen to you read for hours.
I could read to you for hours.
Are you sure?
I could listen to you read for hours.
I could read to you for hours.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Things That I Love About You: Part III
You can finish my sentences. And I can finish yours. Let's pause for a moment. This... astounds me. You're completely in sync with my thoughts. You know where I'm going to go. And the times where I'm grappling for the right word or conclusion, and then you chime right in... well... they're just a testament to how well we know each other. Butterfootiebabycrack.
You are possibly the best big spoon on this planet. You're soft. And you're warm. And the curve of your body fits perfectly against me.
You have such an incredible, enviable knowledge of random facts. You pull them out at random moments, and I'm continually amazed and impressed by the things that you retain. I love the unique references that you throw into conversations.
You may grapple with the fact that you never finished college, but regardless, you're still one of the smartest people that I know.
The way you love me.
You are possibly the best big spoon on this planet. You're soft. And you're warm. And the curve of your body fits perfectly against me.
You have such an incredible, enviable knowledge of random facts. You pull them out at random moments, and I'm continually amazed and impressed by the things that you retain. I love the unique references that you throw into conversations.
You may grapple with the fact that you never finished college, but regardless, you're still one of the smartest people that I know.
The way you love me.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Love Letter: Part II
This is it. Here. Now. This is what we've come to.
Four months. Three weeks. One day.
This is us:
You. Me. Partners. Lovers. One. Us. One.
It's the middle of Central Square and it's so cold that I have to hold my mittens over my ears and I've called you to come meet me. I look up, and you're there, suddenly, perfectly, here, now, with me. It's a Sunday night and we're walking from the parking lot behind your house and we're navigating the treacherous icy spots but regardless of how off-balance you are and how much you slip, you still hold my hand. It's a Saturday, 6 pm, and we're in your bathtub, limbs at odd angles, barely fitting together, but we do somehow and we're soapy and laughing and your chest is against my shoulders, your perfect, slippery skin pressed against me.
You know how I like my coffee. I know where to tickle you. You've met my book club. I've seen your baby pictures. I know you like your soup chunky, that you mostly prefer red wine, that you think slasher movies are funny. You know where I like my feet rubbed, the songs that I like to sing, how much I love my sister, and the history of my traffic violations.
But more, you know the curve of my back. I know the snugness of your arms. You know the way I throw my head back when I laugh, and I know where to kiss your lids when your eyes are full.
This is you. This is me. Us.
Perfect.
Four months. Three weeks. One day.
This is us:
You. Me. Partners. Lovers. One. Us. One.
It's the middle of Central Square and it's so cold that I have to hold my mittens over my ears and I've called you to come meet me. I look up, and you're there, suddenly, perfectly, here, now, with me. It's a Sunday night and we're walking from the parking lot behind your house and we're navigating the treacherous icy spots but regardless of how off-balance you are and how much you slip, you still hold my hand. It's a Saturday, 6 pm, and we're in your bathtub, limbs at odd angles, barely fitting together, but we do somehow and we're soapy and laughing and your chest is against my shoulders, your perfect, slippery skin pressed against me.
You know how I like my coffee. I know where to tickle you. You've met my book club. I've seen your baby pictures. I know you like your soup chunky, that you mostly prefer red wine, that you think slasher movies are funny. You know where I like my feet rubbed, the songs that I like to sing, how much I love my sister, and the history of my traffic violations.
But more, you know the curve of my back. I know the snugness of your arms. You know the way I throw my head back when I laugh, and I know where to kiss your lids when your eyes are full.
This is you. This is me. Us.
Perfect.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Things That I Love About You: Part II
You smell like everything familiar. You smell like soap, sunshine, the outdoors, strength, comfort. When I'm away from you, I catch whiffs of you at random... your smell seems to eminate from everything. From the seat cushions, from my hair, from the book I'm reading, from my very skin. You're everywhere, even when you're not.
You love breakfast just as much as I do. And big, hefty, lumberjack breakfasts. Bacon and homefries? Anyone?
You, my darling, have the innate ability to make even the most mundane person feel entertaining and charming. You listen, but actively, with ears perked, with an interested expression, leaning forward. You ask questions. You listen not because you feel you should, but because you actually care. This is a gift. I appreciate you for caring. For listening. For wanting to know more, always. For always making me feel as if what I have to say is not only valid, not only right, but more importantly... essential.
Your skin. It's soft. It's smooth. It smells clean, and it's warm. In fewer words... perfect.
The freckle right under your hairline, on the back of the neck. Everything leads me there. It's my nexus, my lodestar. The soft, gentle curve of your beautiful neck points right to it. And it will never be anyone else's. It's my claim on you, right there, back there, small, hidden... mine.
You love to read. Darling, this is essential. You love books, love everything about books, love quirky books, charming books, deep books, the books that make you weep, laugh out loud. Regardless of what genre, you're game. And I can always count on good literature for Christmas.
Those goddam ridiculous glasses you picked up during that hiking trip. 'Nuff said.
You make me laugh. I will grow old with you, laughing, laughing, laughing.
You love breakfast just as much as I do. And big, hefty, lumberjack breakfasts. Bacon and homefries? Anyone?
You, my darling, have the innate ability to make even the most mundane person feel entertaining and charming. You listen, but actively, with ears perked, with an interested expression, leaning forward. You ask questions. You listen not because you feel you should, but because you actually care. This is a gift. I appreciate you for caring. For listening. For wanting to know more, always. For always making me feel as if what I have to say is not only valid, not only right, but more importantly... essential.
Your skin. It's soft. It's smooth. It smells clean, and it's warm. In fewer words... perfect.
The freckle right under your hairline, on the back of the neck. Everything leads me there. It's my nexus, my lodestar. The soft, gentle curve of your beautiful neck points right to it. And it will never be anyone else's. It's my claim on you, right there, back there, small, hidden... mine.
You love to read. Darling, this is essential. You love books, love everything about books, love quirky books, charming books, deep books, the books that make you weep, laugh out loud. Regardless of what genre, you're game. And I can always count on good literature for Christmas.
Those goddam ridiculous glasses you picked up during that hiking trip. 'Nuff said.
You make me laugh. I will grow old with you, laughing, laughing, laughing.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Things That I Love About You: Part I
You cannot sing, but you occasionally forget this small fact and croon softly to whatever song is playing. I love that you do this in moments of forgetfulness, because it means that you are at ease in front of me... even if it does sound absolutely painful.
You have an uncanny ability to make sweet, strong coffee every. single. time. I could drink your coffee for the rest of my life.
Your laugh lines. The most perfect part of your face (that is, they might have to wrestle with your smile, your delicious freckles, your blue eyes, your long lashes, et cetera et cetera, to be continued). But I told you once that if I get to your age and have laugh lines like yours, I will have lived a most successful life. No matter how much you’ve struggled in your years, I also know that you’ve laughed often.
You dress like a champion. You are the handsomest thing in a sweater vest since Clark Gable.
Your profile in the morning is perfect. You have a lovely sculpted chin, a strong nose, a small, soft smile. The corners of your mouth turn up. Mostly, in the morning, it’s the expression of absolute calm on your face, a sort of contentedness that I don't see as much when you're awake.
You have an absolutely charming laugh. It’s the most wonderful chuckle, and it always elicits a grin from me and anyone else who's lucky enough to hear it.
Your arms, so deceptively strong, are the most comforting things in the world. When you hold me, everything that I am afraid of and everything that hurts me feels slightly less acid, less biting. Your arms are strong and they are warm and they encircle me and then, I’m protected. I’m yours.
You have an uncanny ability to make sweet, strong coffee every. single. time. I could drink your coffee for the rest of my life.
Your laugh lines. The most perfect part of your face (that is, they might have to wrestle with your smile, your delicious freckles, your blue eyes, your long lashes, et cetera et cetera, to be continued). But I told you once that if I get to your age and have laugh lines like yours, I will have lived a most successful life. No matter how much you’ve struggled in your years, I also know that you’ve laughed often.
You dress like a champion. You are the handsomest thing in a sweater vest since Clark Gable.
Your profile in the morning is perfect. You have a lovely sculpted chin, a strong nose, a small, soft smile. The corners of your mouth turn up. Mostly, in the morning, it’s the expression of absolute calm on your face, a sort of contentedness that I don't see as much when you're awake.
You have an absolutely charming laugh. It’s the most wonderful chuckle, and it always elicits a grin from me and anyone else who's lucky enough to hear it.
Your arms, so deceptively strong, are the most comforting things in the world. When you hold me, everything that I am afraid of and everything that hurts me feels slightly less acid, less biting. Your arms are strong and they are warm and they encircle me and then, I’m protected. I’m yours.
Conversations At Night: Part I
I love you so much.
What is it like when you're with me?
My heart... sings when I'm with you. It feels... full again.
And when I'm not with you?
I smell you everywhere.
I'm worried that you're going to resent me.
You gave me my life back. There's no room for resentment. Only gratitude.
(pause)
I bought you blueberries. For breakfast.
Thank you.
For everything.
I know.
What is it like when you're with me?
My heart... sings when I'm with you. It feels... full again.
And when I'm not with you?
I smell you everywhere.
I'm worried that you're going to resent me.
You gave me my life back. There's no room for resentment. Only gratitude.
(pause)
I bought you blueberries. For breakfast.
Thank you.
For everything.
I know.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Love Letter: Part I
In the morning, we are perfect.
That’s how a love letter should begin.
In the morning, you and I are everything. We’re the world in its entirety. Everything that is not us is simply excessive. The whole world is this: my bed, warm with our bodies. Small lights that show up doubly in the recesses of your sleepy eyes. Music that is contrived, perhaps, but does it matter? There is precious little that can ruin these moments before the world wakes up, when it’s just you and I together, limbs tangled, my arms under the nape of your neck that I know so well, your cheek against my shoulder. I can feel your breath against the hollow of my throat. I feel your lips turn up when you smile. I lose little pieces of myself to you then, and in a small way, you become a part of me. You don’t have to speak, because what would you say? There’s nothing to say. And yet, we talk sometimes, and then there’s gentle laughter that rocks the bed, smiles that crinkle the corners of our eyes, dimples deepening in the corners of our cheeks. The light changes every few minutes, shifting, and when the room changes from dark blue to the paleness of day, I know that our time is limited. But then again, I have the rest of that morning, and of the morning after, and every day that we choose to begin together until forever. There is no end to this. There is no end to us. Which is why it’s never as difficult as it should be to leave you lying there, smelling of warmth and soap and familiarity. You are mine. You are my love.
In the morning, we are perfect.
That’s how a love letter should begin.
In the morning, you and I are everything. We’re the world in its entirety. Everything that is not us is simply excessive. The whole world is this: my bed, warm with our bodies. Small lights that show up doubly in the recesses of your sleepy eyes. Music that is contrived, perhaps, but does it matter? There is precious little that can ruin these moments before the world wakes up, when it’s just you and I together, limbs tangled, my arms under the nape of your neck that I know so well, your cheek against my shoulder. I can feel your breath against the hollow of my throat. I feel your lips turn up when you smile. I lose little pieces of myself to you then, and in a small way, you become a part of me. You don’t have to speak, because what would you say? There’s nothing to say. And yet, we talk sometimes, and then there’s gentle laughter that rocks the bed, smiles that crinkle the corners of our eyes, dimples deepening in the corners of our cheeks. The light changes every few minutes, shifting, and when the room changes from dark blue to the paleness of day, I know that our time is limited. But then again, I have the rest of that morning, and of the morning after, and every day that we choose to begin together until forever. There is no end to this. There is no end to us. Which is why it’s never as difficult as it should be to leave you lying there, smelling of warmth and soap and familiarity. You are mine. You are my love.
In the morning, we are perfect.
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