Little M.I.A. Me

This was totally not going to be a post about how oh my god, I’m not blogging as much lately, where does the time go, I still love the blog and miss you all, but I’m so busy. But, the title just came to me so apparently I do feel the need to ‘splain a little about my temporarily changed blogging habits. (Anyone else read “Everything is Illuminated,” and not realize until weeks after finishing it that “‘splainin‘” was supposed to be explaining? Nutz. ).

I’ve gone from an every day blogger to a once-a-weeker in the blink of an eye, and all I can say is it’s the holidays. Not only are the holidays filled with emotionally wrought visits to the Fam for Thanksgiving and Christmas, they are also filled with parties! It seems like just yesterday it was August and I was enjoying the lazy haze of summer simmering over the city. Suddenly, I’m in London for Thanksgiving, it’s December, and today it snowed! In less than a month it’s going to be 2008, which I find particularly shocking in light of the fact that Will Smith reminded me tonight on 60 Minutes that “Independence Day” came out in 1996. That’s like 12 – TWELVE – years ago. I had to wait for the sledgehammer of panic to settle down in my chest after hearing that fact.

Not to worry though. December is going to be so busy, I’ll have hardly a second to ponder the traitorously swift passage of time. Take for example this upcoming week. I have events every single night. Every night! Good lord. I’m exhausted, but excited, just thinking about it. Tomorrow, I’m going to dinner with the hot Italian man I met going through security. Nice. Date No. 1. Therapy on Tuesday, book-club on Wednesday, Holiday party on Thursday, Holiday party on Friday, Holiday party on Saturday, and Holiday party on Sunday. That’s 4 holiday parties in a row and only one of them is an official, business-y one. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally stoked about all of them, but I must admit, it would have been nice if they had been spread out a tiny bit. Not that it would have helped much, because the next week is sure to be just as busy.

Did I forget to mention work? Yep, I actually have to do work as well. Sigh. It would be immensely helpful on the social front if work could just chill out for a bit in December. I’m not holding my breath, but a girl can hope.

London Highlights

Hello Blogsphere! I’m back from a drizzle-soaked, chilled-to-the-bone, museum, musical, and historical sight-saturated, family-intense, surprisingly endearing baby-spit-up-smelling, cuddle-filled visit to London. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but my nephew – Baby Bean – is adorable, and getting the chance to bond with him was one of the highlights of the trip.

Despite the weather, London is a fun place to visit and there’s tons to do. I had a great time walking around Notting Hill, Covent Garden, and Hyde Park. In Notting Hill, near where my brother Frey lives, there’s a cute coffee shop with inviting couches that plays old French songs and has delicious baked goods. Their coffee was better than London’s Starbuck’s, which tasted burnt to me. Hyde Park was relaxing; there were teenagers playing soccer outside, people strolling, flocks of swans and ducks, and wide open grass filled spaces filled with fallen leaves and dotted with impressive, stately trees. In Covent Garden, I had the best Belgium waffle I’ve ever tasted from a little kiosk. It was delicious! They must make the batter with heaps of sugar because the waffle, which I had plain, came out delightfully carmelized around the edges.

Speaking of food, I had my fill of Scottish shortbread cookies; they were impossible to resist, particularly since they were one of the few things that was not at least double the price of what it would have been in New York. I also tried clotted cream for the first time. Strange stuff. It looks like butter with a crusty yellow edge, but tastes like whip cream. My mom and I had it on scones with strawberry jam. On the way down it tasted delicious, but I must report that 15 minutes later I could still feel the sensation of it in my mouth and throat – sort of an unpleasant coating that made me fear for the health of my arteries. I also sampled the fish ‘n chips – good, but not good enough to make up for it being fried. The stand out food was the Indian and fusiony Thai food. Excellent.

I took advantage of the lack of a strike to see some musicals in London, and am now of the opinion that the theater in London may be superior to that of New York, not necessarily for quality (although it was great) but more so for convenience. While in New York one must wait for hours for half-priced tickets and can’t get tickets for tons of shows, in London it was a snap to get half-priced tickets and I was able to see “Wicked” – a show that I’ve been trying to see forever in New York. A review of Wicked will be forthcoming. I also saw “Chicago” which I also enjoyed. I love that song that the murderesses in jail sing about how they killed their husbands. He had it coming!

The other London attractions I enjoyed were Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the tour of the Tower of London. My favorites though were the museums. I dragged my mom to the British Museum where we saw the Rosetta Stone! – how cool is that? – the National Gallery, and the Tate Modern. That Tate was really cool. I’m not a fan of modern art but they had quite a range including some surrealist and abstract impressionist art. The coolest thing about the Tate was the actual structure of the building, an impressive old warehouse set on the bank of the Thames River with dramatically spacious, high-ceilinged rooms showcasing the art work. Even if you absolutely loath modern art, it’s worth it to go to the Tate just to check out the facility, arguably a work of art in and of itself.

The visit also included some good family time, including a walk from the Tower of London up the Thames and over London Bridge to get to the Tate with my mom and Bacchus, nice dinners and lunches, and just chilling in front of the TV watching movies or taking turns gushing over my little nephew. My brother Frey gets props and many thanks for organizing the trip.

But, as with all great trips, it’s always nice to get home. I’m very happy to back in my own bed, work, routine, and among predictable and familiar New Yorkers. The Brits are cool, but it’s comforting to be back on the subway after the tube, to be walking on streets where pedestrians have the right of way, where Starbuck’s coffee tastes like it should, where there’s sunshine mixed in with the rain, where I have my whole closet and bathroom at my sole disposal, and where the cost of my morning coffee doesn’t cause me to shake my head in despair at the dismal state of the American dollar.

Baby Bean

I’ve been off the radar because I’m in London with the fam for Thanksgiving. I left New York Thursday morning and met up with Bean, Baby Bean, and Bacchus in the airport. I also met a fantastically sexy Italian man going through security, but that’s another story – nice beginning to the trip though, I must say.

I’ve spent the last 4 days wanting to eat up my little nephew. He is soooo adorable I can hardly stand it. Now don’t get me wrong, the whole experience has also made me think long and hard about how unready I am to have babies. Good lord the little tykes are a lot of work. I struggled up my brother’s stairs carrying just the stroller; somehow Bean managed to go up and down carrying the baby, his seat thingie, the stroller, diaper bag, and other sundry items like random pacifiers, blankets, stray toys, and burp clothes. It’s incredible. I haven’t really checked email because I’ve been focused on sightseeing with Bean and the baby, trying to make him smile (and/or stop almost crying – he’s so good, he hardly ever screams), or gazing at his sleeping little face in wonder.

So, let’s get to how freakin’ unbelievably cute my nephew is. Adorable. The cutest. Ever. I’m so smitten. His huge luminous eyes just gazing up at me, and then suddenly, from out of no where a brilliant smile filled with sparkles. It’s one of the most beautiful, peaceful things to just watch him sleep. He and Bean are leaving tomorrow and I’m going to miss them. I’m so glad they came and that I got to spent a few days with them; I can’t believe I hadn’t seen him since he was born. Now he’s 7 1/2 months old! A mini-human, as my brother Bacchus says.

Speaking of which, one of the most special things was watching my brothers with the baby. I knew Bacchus would be good with the baby but Frey really surprised me. He was so gentle and sweet and seemed kind of fascinated and enamoured.

I can’t let 7 more months go by without seeing him. He’s too cute and he’s growing so fast! He’s going to be colouring, crawling, and walking – maybe not in that order – in no time.

Mom & Me

My mom’s in town for the weekend and we’ve been having a lot of fun. We attempted to go for drinks at the bar on the 35th floor of the Mandarin Hotel but were thwarted by all the people in town for the marathon. Lesson learned: Make reservations, even just for cocktails. Instead, we had dinner at Cafe Gray. Fancy, but delish. She had Snapper, which was light and flavorful, and I had the Skate Schnitzel. Interesting, but not the greatest because it was fried – hence the “schnitzel.” My favorite was the tiny lavender cookies that they brought at the end of the meal (I believe pastry chef Chris Broberg’s lavender-scented white-chocolate petits fours). Lavender in food is kind of fabulous.

Today, we went to church and then had coffee cinnamon buns and pieces of Princess Cake after the service. It was so relaxing, and fortifying for the four hours of shopping that transpired afterwards. We hit Banana, Kenneth Cole, and Bloomies and basically shopped ’til we dropped. OK, I shopped; my mom almost dropped. I got two dresses, a purple coat, two pair of shoes, and a sweet black top that I can wear for both work and going out at night. A perfect date top – always a great purchase.

Now, I’m trying to do work while my mom is watching football downstairs. God, do I hate football. Hate. It. It’s got to be one of the top 3 most boring things in the world, right before watching paint dry or waiting for water to boil. Not only is it boring, it’s extremely aggravating to listen to. I can’t stand the incessant murmur of the crowd roaring and the announcers squawking.

It makes me tense. She loves it. Bizarre.

Comings and Goings

I left Utah this morning after spending a week with my sister, her husband, their new baby, and my mom. I knew it was going to be sad to leave, but I had no idea how sad. On the way to the airport my mom and I sat in the back with the baby’s car seat between us. We kept peeking under the blanket shielding him to get yet another glimpse of his adorable face. My mom started to cry and I felt my chest, which had been aching, start to hurt even more, the wet pain expanding and spreading across my chest, up into my throat, causing my eyes to spill over with tears. Thankfully I had grabbed some tissues before we left the house.

I remember when we were younger and we used to visit my grand parents in Sweden for three or four weeks in the summer. At the end of our visit we would have to take a bus to the airport. I distinctly recall my grand mother sobbing, yelling out to us as the bus pulled way, our faces pressed to the windows, “I love you, I love you!” How hard that must have been for her to see her son and her grand children leave each time. To know that we were growing up so far away from her. To know that no matter how much she wanted it, no matter how much she loved us, she would never be a part of our daily life. It made my heart break a little more imagining the pain she must have gone through, which made me even more sad about having to leave my family today. What’s the point of having a family that you love if you can’t see them more than a few times each year? It seems like a lot of unnecessary sadness.

There were times during the past week when I was frustrated and stressed out from being around my family 24/7. I’ll admit it. It happened. We are all very different people and we know how to really aggravate one another, without even trying to. And, yes, I feel slightly guilty about having those feelings of frustration. But, I shouldn’t because no amount of frustration or stress could ever take away from how much I love them. The frustration and stress and love all exist together. It’s how they are and I am and how we are together, and I wouldn’t change them for anything (although I wouldn’t stand in their way if they all decided to go to therapy…).

For every moment of stress or frustration there was a moment of love and affection. I loved waking up in the mornings and sitting in my sister’s kitchen with her and my mom drinking coffee and hearing about how the night had gone with the baby. Any time my sister asked me for anything (which she really didn’t do all that often), I felt so happy that I was there and could actually be of some small help to her. I liked getting her glasses of milk as she sat breast feeding, and I loved holding the baby for her. Those moments of happiness and contentment made everything worthwhile.

For Bean too. When I asked her if we had annoyed her, she said, “Yeah, but of course I wanted you to be here.” That’s why I love my family. Underneath all of the messiness – the small annoyances, the intense frustrations, the worrying, the judgments, the unintended criticisms – there is fierce, honest, unconditional love. They would do anything for me, and I would do anything for them.

Even though a little piece of my heart broke to leave them this morning, coming back to New York felt good. Good in the way that slipping on a broken in pair of jeans feels. An almost perfect fit, back in my own space, with my bed, my room, my apartment, my food, my stores, my city, my smells, my computer, my things to do, my friends.

“Perfect” would be if my family – and for that matter, all of my close friends who are scattered inconveniently across the United States – lived in New York, or really close by. Until then, or until I finally fall victim to the magnetic pull of the tractor beam aimed at me from Texas, I’m just going to have to invest in a web cam and expand my cell phone plan.

Musings from Babyland

By now, it must be fairly obvious that I’m totally smitten with my adorable little nephew. I’m not sure what to call him yet on the blog. Baby Buddha comes to mind based on his usually calm, tranquil demeanor, wise little face, and the fact that he likes to sleep with his arms and legs crossed, as if he’s reclining in some meditative pose. Turtle is also a possibility because his little wrinkly neck is turtle-esque in an exquisitely adorable way.

I’ve been staying at Bean’s house now for about 6 days, and everything’s going pretty smoothly. It’s been me, Bean, her husband, our mom, and Baby Buddha. Usually, I have about a 3-day limit with my family, and then, despite my intense love for them, I’ve got to get back to my own space. It’s just how I am. Little things start to grate on me and slowly drive me crazy. Like, for example, the sound of family members chastising the dogs, yelling at them to “sit,” “stop,” “get out of there.” I don’t know why that drives me crazy, but it does. (I do not see myself ever having dogs in my house.) However, this time around, I’ve already passed the 3-day mark and I’m doing just fine. Apparently, baby holding time boosts my coping skills. How could it not? It’s such a gift.

Of course, with a new baby, everyone has an opinion, and I’ve been trying my hardest not to be an annoying older sister about Bean’s new mommyhood status. This has been relatively easy for two reasons. First, Bean’s doing an absolutely terrific job. She (and her husband) are wonderful with the baby. Second, as the last baby I took care of was Bean, about 22 years ago, I know pretty much zero about babies, and thus find it relatively easy to stay out of things (especially diaper changing). Even so, there are times when I have mentioned this, that, or the other, and I just hope Bean realizes those comments have come from a place of love, not a desire to annoy the crap out of her. I am truly in awe of the ease with which she has shifted into mommyhood. There have been so many moments that have happened during the last few days that I am going to treasure for probably the rest of my life. I am so happy that I was able to make it here for the baby’s birth, and I’m grateful that Bean wanted my Mom and I to come for the week.

On a different note, while in Utah, I’ve learned, to my intense disappointment, that when faced with a house full of candy, sprinkles, ice cream, and cookies, and a stove that doesn’t work (making eggs impossible to make), I have absolutely no discipline whatsoever. Nada. Instead of reaching for snacks of fruit and yogurt, I’ve been existing mainly on junk food and crackers and cheese. In the last few days, I have single-handedly destroyed almost all of the good work that I did at Bikini Boot Camp in terms of eating healthy and toning up, and am now back to feeling out of shape and like I have a constant stomach ache. I should be disciplined enough to choose carrots over a handful (or 2 or 3) of mini eggs, but, unfortunately, I’m just not that disciplined yet. When I get back to New York, I most certainly am not going to buy mini eggs, but when they’re bags of them in front of me, and when it happens to be Easter, and when I’m thinking this will be my last run of unhealthyness before I get totally in gear… it becomes somewhat difficult to rationalize not eating them. I have, however, meditated a few times, and have been writing in my journal, so I have been keeping up at least some of my positive BBC habits. *sigh*

Also, unrelatedly, I randomly came across the following quote the other day: “Love isn’t love unless it is expressed; caring isn’t caring unless the other person knows; and sharing isn’t sharing unless the other person is included.” It reminded me of another quote that Pas showed me one time, something to the effect of: “Love isn’t a feeling, it’s a behavior.”

The quote sums up one of the biggest lessons that I learned about relationships during the past year, that people can say they love and care about you until they’re blue in the face, but unless they love and care for you in a way that makes you feel loved and cared for, their words are meaningless. The inconsistency between their words and actions will most likely leave you feeling ripped to pieces, and no one needs that. Now that I’m whole again, I know that I am never again going to allow myself to get into a relationship where I feel ripped apart on a weekly basis. I’ve moved past the stage where I was confused by empty words, and into a place where I’m not going to settle for anything less than consistency between words and actions.

I’m off to go spend some QT with Baby Buddha. Only two more days left to soak up the feel of his little body in my arms, and to revel in the site of his perfectly formed lips and feathery eye lashes. Thank you Universe for him. I get it now why everyone always talks about babies being gifts from God (or whatever spirit or lack thereof that you believe in). They are.

Morning Pages and Mindfullness

View of the mountains and the tiny town below from Bean’s deck.

At BBC, we were encouraged to take about 15 minutes, first thing in the morning, to write “Morning Pages.” Melissa, the co-founder of BBC, explained that Morning Pages were not a “Dear Diary,” a place to record what had happened during the previous day, but were rather intended to be a cleansing exercise through which you could purge your mind of all your thoughts and start the day refreshed. The idea for Morning Pages came from the Artist’s Way – a book, incidentally, I’ve had on my shelf for the last 10 years but have never read. It’s now on my to do list.

According to Melissa, focusing for a few minutes each morning to record your thoughts is a way to tap into your creativity and inner wisdom. The idea being that writing first thing in the morning, before the distractions of the day have taken over your mind, allows you to see into your core and uncover your truest and deepest thoughts, desires, dreams, and points of concern. Melissa shared with us how she often doesn’t recall what she has written for her Morning Pages, but later, after reviewing them she would see patterns of thought emerging, which enabled her to develop a greater awareness of her self. A theme that continued to emerge for her was her desire to have a child. It kept popping up in her Morning Pages, before other thoughts could take hold, and eventually she realized that’s what she really wanted to do, and she did it. She now has an absolutely adorable little boy named Dylan.

For me, in concept and in practice, Morning Pages is about being mindful, something which was an important theme for me throughout my week at BBC, and something which I’ve known I need to work on for quite some time. Being mindful in the sense of being present in the moment, being aware of my mind and body, being still, and embracing where I am at any given moment.

Being mindful is significant for me because for so long I had not been living mindfully. I had difficulty sitting still with myself. I was often in triage mode. I think now that some of my unmindfullness was self-protective. I knew that I was unhappy, I knew that I had to make changes, but I also knew that I was not yet ready to make changes, so I pushed onwards trying to hold on to the small joys that made the rest of it bearable. Mind you, I have no intention of living unmindfully again; I’m just observing that there are reasons for everything, including perhaps my inability to be mindful of my soul during the last couple of years. I had other things to figure out, other lessons to learn.

Other examples of my lack of mindfullness would be the many, many times I have done things such as leap up to go to the refrigerator 10 times in 15 minutes, playing spider solitaire for hours on end in a state of agitation thinking that each game will be my last but being unable to walk away from the computer, ripping off one nail after another, and eating too much too fast until my stomach hurts and my head aches from a sugar overload.

Just this morning there was another example of this unmindful behavior. Waking up at my sister’s house, there was no coffee, I had to hunt through her cupboards for breakfast, and there was some minor family stress. My mom and I couldn’t get in touch with Bean and her husband at first (because they were sleeping), my mom was stressed about that which was making me stressed even though I was trying to be zen about things, we didn’t have a car so we couldn’t take things into our own hands (ah, lack of control, interesting), and I felt as if I was stuck in a caffeine-less limbo world. Really, all I wanted to do was know that at some point in the day I would be able to go to the hospital to see Bean and the baby.

How did I deal with this limbo world, you ask? I wish that I could say that I had a nice glass of cool refreshing water, sat in a corner and meditated for 5 minutes, and then purged all of my thoughts by writing my Morning Pages. But, no, that’s not exactly what happened. Instead, I fiddled with the TV, sent my sister a text, told my mom to relax, and tried to make myself relax by…. eating an entire bag of Pepperidge Farm Shortbread Chessman Cookies. Essentially, I self-medicated my anxiety with shortbread. Awesome.

I didn’t intend to, I swear! I can hear my BBC personal trainer tsk-tsk-ing away. I found the cookies while searching for a healthy breakfast alternative, ate one, then ate two more to make it an even three, then watched some TV, then felt slightly anxious, then went back to search for coffee, then had three more, then channel surfed, checked my phone, glanced at my mother, had three more, etc. Before I knew it, the package was gone and my head was in a sugar coma.

It’s not technically true to say that I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I kept eating them to savor the pure taste of goodness that they created on my tongue. The reason it wasn’t mindful though was because the taste of them in my mouth was just a temporary fix, a distraction from what was really going on. The taste is deceptive. Though they tasted like pure goodness, the cookies are not good or pure. Pure would have been meditating, doing my morning pages, and having some water. The good news is, I was able to identify my lack of mindfullness. Tomorrow morning I will be better to myself.

The other good news is that Bean’s husband is on his way to pick up my Mom and me. I’ll be spending the afternoon ooh-ing and ah-ing over the gorgeous little creature she brought into this world. I can’t wait to hold my nephew for the very first time. Make no mistake about it, I’m going to be fully present in that moment.

I’m In Love

With Bean’s new baby boy and my nephew!

Magpies United

Every time I come home to my family, it’s a bit of an emotional roller coaster. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember; since I left for college and the place where my parents were became a place that I visited rather than where I lived. Part of the drama stems from the fact that my parents are divorced and thus necessarily live apart from one another, requiring my siblings and I to shuttle back and forth between two houses whenever we come home.

Since the 8th grade, I’ve had two bedrooms, two houses, two families, and two of every holiday celebration. Growing up – in my middle school and high school years – my brothers, sister, and I rotated between both houses on a two-week schedule designed to give all parties a fair share of weekday and weekend time together. Though it was a cause of frustration at times, I give my parents a lot of credit for creating and sticking to that schedule. It is not every child that is lucky enough to have two parents so committed to being there for them, despite the obvious logistical difficulties.

For the holidays we split the key days in half and alternated the split in favor of a different parent each year. For example, we generally spent a few days before Christmas, Christmas Eve, and Christmas morning with one parent, and then Christmas afternoon and the days after with the other parent. The following year we would flip it, so that whichever parent had us for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning the year before would get us instead for Christmas afternoon and the days following it.

No matter how carefully the time was divided, someone was always alone and someone was always missing. That is the one truly sad thing about divorce to me; once a divorce occurs, unless your parents are those rare individuals who can tolerate being in one another’s company, there will always be someone missing at any given time. I wish it wasn’t like that. I wish my parents could get together on the holidays; that we could be one big extended family, instead of two disconnected ones. I wish that, even though I have accepted that it’s not going to happen.

Another cause of emotional tension is that my parents, and my time in each of their homes, are so different from one another. At my mom’s house, there’s just the four of us kids and my mom. She spoils us, tries her hardest to make every minute she has with us perfect (an impossible goal), and showers us with a lot of love. There’s excitement, joy, and affection, as well as stress, irritation, and sometimes anger, and it’s all genuine and out in the open. I love that about my family; we don’t hold things in and we don’t believe in sugarcoating. I always know where I stand with them. At my dad’s, things are a bit different in certain respects. There, the house is filled at Christmastime with my entire stepfamily, including infants and tweens, along with my dad and the four of us kids. In my dad’s house, there is a great deal of love, but a lot more rules. Conflict is kept more hush-hush, and my siblings and I are often far from the center of things. Neither house is better than the other, and I wouldn’t give up either one. They both have things I find wonderful and look forward to whenever I visit. However, the differences can sometimes be disconcerting.

This Christmas, my siblings and I spent the days before Christmas and Christmas morning with my mom, and then drove 45 minutes from The Woodlands to Katy to spend Christmas afternoon and the days following it with my dad. I sat in the back of my brother Bacchus’s car watching the stripmalls of Houston pass by, catching snippets of my brothers’ conversation over the thumping bass of Bacchus’ car stereo, thinking about other times the three of us, with Bean, had traveled from one house to the next. I heard a Blind Melon song (“All I can say is that my life is pretty strange”) and “Everything’s Zen,” by Bush, two songs I hadn’t heard in years, and thought back to times when I used to drive my mom’s white volvo across town in Connecticut with my brothers and sister in tow, when Frey and I were home from college and Bacchus and Bean were too young to drive.

I found myself thinking about how much I loved my brothers and sister, and how lucky I am to have them. Through all of this family drama – the good, the bad, and everything in between – my brothers and sister have been right there with me. They have their flaws (like me) and sometimes drive me absolutely insane, but I could not imagine my life without each of them. If roller coaster is what it’s got to be, there is no one I would pick over them to ride along with me.