Of lazy mornings and perfect sunsets

When I was but a wee lass fashioning trash cans from toothpaste caps for my dollhouses, I also made sure the doll family had a Root Beer fountain and an indoor pool. Where budget was no option and dreams only limited by imagination these were the height of interior design, and it bothered me tremendously that the house had no staircase. Because a root beer fountain was completely plausible, but how could anyone reach the second floor? Fly? And thank goodness my tastes have changed.

Right now, I can't imagine living anywhere that affords me ample space and nature's kisses. I like keeping things simple and don't mind growing vegetables on the roof. I'm a city girl these years, and a recession-conscious one at that, but... someday. And that someday I wouldn't mind having these five items to come home to, a much healthier outlet than filling my current 1,200 square foot home with any of them. I sure hope Stumphouse is listening/watching/reading.

Special thanks to Note to Self for starting the theme.

1. Built-in bookshelves.
Big ones, wall-to-wall since we're dreaming here, where my right-brain and Jim's left-brain tomes can mingle peaceably by color, naturally.



Image via Zokk Furniture Design & Craftsmanship.

2. A second staircase that leads into the kitchen
My grandmother's house had one, and it was at the same time scary and thrilling. Part Nancy Drew and part horror movie. And apparently she may've been the only house in the history of the world to have such a thing because it took me about three years to find another photo.



Image via Flickr user didurkes

3. An awesome impractical storage unit
Apothecary, printer's shelves, baker's rack, card catalog, I don't care which, and I have no idea what I'd put in one, I simply want. It will be my one nouveau riche tell-tale, but at least I will come into it under my own searching and not because I had it written into my game-show-host contract.



Image via decor8

4. A second-story porch, accessed through windows or French doors.
Perfect for sipping cocktails, gossip, board games and spying on neighbors.

Image via Apartment Therapy

5. A magical peony tree that blooms all year round. Since we're dreaming.



Image via Design*Sponge

That was fun! And while I spend the next few years figuring out the locale that can give me a Southern, Victorian, Arts & Crafts-style home in an urban setting, please do take 5 minutes to ignore your 401k and share your 5 dream items?

Believe

Oh I know it wasn't really about the craftily painted sign intended to remind visitors that Christmas is a time to be a kid again. Because I know that he knows that's not my holiday style. And I know that he doesn't even know where we got the thing, or should I say: who gave it to us. And yet, it came out of the bag and is now laying on the table.

It was the principle, and I get it. But I'd spent all day cleaning the basement, flattening cardboard and itemizing, uh, items. Just like he asked. And I was now enjoying a lovely evening into my 13th episode of watching Lost online and I didn't feel like going downstairs for a confrontation, muchless hollering down my defense so the neighbors could enjoy a new episode of The Katie & Jim Show through our open windows.

Sure, I could have asked him before just deciding what belonged in a bag destined for donation. But if it sits on a shelf in the basement for a certain period of time, or is a bridesmaid dress, isn't it just fair game? Admittedly, I got carried away in putting in the foursome of framed stamps, fine. And I apologized. And, um, ok, maybe I don't actually get it, because I looked at those stamps and they don't look all that special. I suppose I'll just have to shrug my shoulders and believe. I'll deal with that other issue come December.

Once upon a photograph

This is my paternal grandmother, Grace Sweeney. If I remember correctly, I think my dad told me she'd just graduated from high school in this photo. I cannot think of an overheated home, gin rummy, backscratches on the davenport, rainbow sorbet and gooey, sticky breakfast pastries without also thinking of her. Unfortunately those thoughts then also lead to the pain of losing someone to Alzheimer's before losing them forever.

This photograph sits on my parents bookshelf, at least it did until I asked to borrow it two years ago when I slipped it out of the frame to take back to Philadelphia and scan copies for myself and my siblings. Knowing me, I probably put it into the pages of the book I was reading to keep it safe and flat. Somewhere between then and today I misplaced the photo, and while I'm not an overall forgetful person, I am perhaps overly organized.

For the past two years I have wracked my brain, fanned pages and hunted through handbags. Finding lots of things I wasn't looking for, my guilt was only worsened by the fact that my mother never asked why it was taking me weeks, months, years to accomplish my task. And this wasn't the normal Irish Catholic silence, it was a silence of omission. She'd forgotten ever lending it to me.

The more time passed, the more I was sure that the photo had gone to the one place I would never get it back. That year I had received two copies of a book for Christmas and had brought the tome home so my mother could take a spin through the pages and see if the writing suited her style. Could I have returned the copy with the photo still in it? I must have. I wondered if there was a Border's customer out there who would have realized they received something they had not purchased and would be kind enough to return it to the store. And would a store even keep such a thing?

Fast forward.
2009.
Frustrated. Searching. Stifled.

For once, I locked my computer in the office before leaving for the evening; I wouldn't bring it home; I would add more life to the balance that HR bandies about. And of course, this is when the creative inspiration hits hardest. A tsunami of ideas for both portfolio and plot. Characters and campaigns!

But no computer.

Instead of harnessing the thoughts, phrases and personalities flitting forth, I tried to ignore them; tried to put a "closed" sign on my right brain by playing Sudoku. But they would not be abated. The Moleskine that I keep in my purse wouldn't do for these ideas, but there was a fresh writing book on the shelf in the guest room, the one that my designers gave me when I left my last agency two years ago now. I got it, opened to the first page and she fell out.

I have always believed in signs. Do you?

Crush hour

Packed like sardine on Xtown 52. Woman screaming/repeating to phone "on bus, can't talk, on bus can't talk." Any1 else Tweeting here?
8 minutes ago from Tweetie

Riding window-seat on 52 thru park. Ppl waiting at stations not happy to see our full ride pass w/out stopping. Avoiding eye contact.
8 minute ago from TwitterBerry


@WideEyeGuy U still on bus? Where sitting? Can you hear phone screamer lady?
7 minutes ago from Tweetie


@PeppermintStuck Woah. Freaky. Replies are coming from inside the bus. R u a murderer?
4 minutes ago from TwitterBerry


@WideEyeGuy Nope. just board & cranky. Back, left of bus, wearing pink scarf.
3 minutes ago from Tweetie


@PeppermintStuck Front right. window seat. crossword puzzle. Can't see a thing back there.
2 minutes ago from TwitterBerry


@WideEyeGuy Here comes cell phone lady!
2 minutes ago from Tweetie


@PeppermintStuck Crazy phone screamer just exited. Lucky for friend on other end.
1 minute ago from TwitterBerry


@PeppermintStuck U still on? Wanna grab a drink? Get off @ next stop & we'll figure out where.
less than 10 seconds ago from TwitterBerry

Mornings are broken

Before we dive in, it is absolutely relevant for me to tell you that a carpool driver once called my mother and told her that she'd no longer be "able" to drive Katie and Karen to our school (where she was an employee) because Katie was such an unpleasant passenger. To which my mother, a practical, rational woman who donated 1/2 my DNA, took a deep breath and got her car keys.

And 10+ years later, I still just can't do mornings. For my nine working years now I've made it a habit to arrive at least 30 minutes before anyone who I need to walk past, so that I can enjoy my coffee and gossip blogs in peace. And in the rare event that I'm late I'm like a soldier, running through a barrage of hellos that might fast-track me to managerial status if I could respond like a normal human. If.

Given all this, you'd think I'm an egregious offender of the snooze button, but I'm not. That's not how I'm wired, in fact, for so long my eyes popped open one minute before the ring that I've stopped even setting the alarm. It's not the Up that's the problem, it's getting At'Em.

And if it was just me waking up alone, this post would have been two paragraphs. But your eyes can tell there are words to come, which makes this the perfect opportunity to reveal that my now-permanent passenger in the marriage carpool is my complete awakening opposite. He who must leave an alarm downstairs, because otherwise he'll turn it off and go right back to sleep. He who comes back into the bedroom apres shower and SINGS, that's right – verses, melody, and refrains – while dressing. Motown, '80s, '90s, he's a veritable JimPod. With no pause.

A kinder wife might smile beneath her eyemask and pull the covers tighter. An optimistic wife might greet the day 30 minutes earlier. But do those wives have blogs?

Another man's words

He told me he loved me. Words I get to hear all the time and get to say all the time; but coming from another voice sound so jarring.

I'd just escorted him in one piece down a beginner's trail, his first time mostly on his feet rather than sliding down on his behind. He wasn't flushed with excitement or adrenaline as much as relief. I've always heard that people emerge from intense situations with a tight, unique bond. Hostages. Plane crash survivors. Being stuck in an elevator. Conquering your first beginner trail.

I wondered if I physically reacted, and whether he saw. It was such a nice, honest, pure and unexpected moment. How often do you get those; and of course I had to ruin it by overanalyzing. I want that. I want to tell people willy nilly that I love them, like this dude can.

Then we both laughed and wished the others were there to see his success. Yes, this is how we all were in the beginning. And yes it's supposed to be fun. I promised.

We waddled our way toward the lift, bumped our asses into the chair and began our ascent toward torture our bodies all over again. And it was nice.

While the rest are sleeping

We are warriors to be up and at'em this early. At least that's what I tell myself as I lock the front door and start down the moonlit street at 6:30am. The socks I have chosen leave a gap to the hem of my workout pant and I know I will be using extra moisturizer later.

The only other people I pass have a leash in one hand and a poop bag in the other. I give the ones who make eye contact a nice look of sympathy; they see me empty-handed and hooded and I can tell they are deciding whether I am a threat. There is a cameraderie between the fellow dogpeople, but I am an outsider. Because I am up and moving when there's a warm bed waiting.

The only other cars I pass are trucks carrying their deliveries of bread, newspaper or roofing materials. I turn down 25th street and hear an alarm clock buzzing in a second-floor bedroom. An annoying sound even when it's not your own, and right then and there I invent an alarm clock with not only a bothersome buzz, but one that emits a subtle noxious smell as well. Like, gasoline or garlic. That'll get you up and into the shower.

And even though this makes me arrive at the gym laughing, does not mean I'm in a good mood and want to kibbitz with my fellow crazies. Because really, I'm just here to get it over with.