Ring in the Season

Long weekend. Fabulous meal. Awesome family. So much to be thankful for.

Caught up on missed episodes of Glee. (Mr. Schuester. Hot.) Watched the parade. Watched The Longest Day (which is strangely compelling for nine year old boys and painfully boring for eight year old boys--what a difference a year makes). Played basement soccer. A little driveway hockey. Played Life. Star Wars Monopoly. Connect Four. Had my girlfriend across the street over for wine. Avoided the Black Friday shopping stupidity. Decorated the house and tree. Helped Son #2 make a gingerbread house. And now, excitedly, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

(This list reads just like my diary in the fourth grade except that every entry that summer said pretty much the same thing, "Played kickball." And then I listed every player: Misty, Alexis, Rich, Mary, Sallie, Chris, Christine, Dave, John, James, etc. Fascinating stuff.)

Anyhoo, isn't this Kate Spade ring perfect for the holidays?

I'd be the envy of everyone. Everyone!

Doolittle

I finally, finally, finally got to see the Pixies last night at the Hammerstein Ballroom. An absolute dream come true. I looooove them. They, as expected, sounded phenomenal. They were unbelievably tight, Kim Deal's voice was haunting, Frank Black can still scream like there's no tomorrow, the guitar riffs were fantabulous, and so on. In an alternate universe, they would have rocked the house but, chalk it up to over-excitement on my part, they seemed almost . . . bored? Soulless? There was zero audience engagement except for a few random sentences from Kim. And the feeling was reciprocated. There was next to no dancing or even movement on the floor. I was expecting rapture, madness, joy, anything. Nope. I've honestly seen more bodies swaying at a church service.

Throughout the show, the Pixies had a vibrant screen of riveting, surrealist film images running behind them and their faces were dimly lit. I seriously think I could have saved a whole heap of money by simply listening to them on my iPod and watching my screen saver. At one point they had cameras lighting the crowd and capturing the first few rows of people on the screen behind them. Overall, it was definitely a cool effect but I couldn't help but feel the irony of paying to hear a band and instead watching the friggin' audience.

Other stage effects included giant, glowing, bulbous orbs and epic amounts of white smoke pouring onto the stage. My friend Petey likened it to a Great White show, "Let's get the hell out of here."

The Pixies have so many great, great songs but the Doolittle set only lasted one hour. The audience had to beg for each encore when it felt wholly premature for them to have exited the stage to begin with. And they were gone so long -- as we watched a film of them repeatedly taking bows -- that we were joking that they were probably already back at their hotel while a roomful of idiots remained clapping. (That could actually be an interesting social experiment. How long would people keep clapping?) But the encores, including Gigantic and Where is My Mind?, were mind blowing and most definitely worth the wait.

They may still be one of the best bands ever but, hands down, Wilco blows them away.

A Mismatched Night's Dream

For a long time, I've wished that I could have a job that allowed me to live in the hinterlands and commute to the city. Not so much anymore. While I love catching up with everyone, albeit much too briefly, I really miss my family and don't like being away from them for even a few, short days. And I cannot afford to live here with exorbitant property costs, maintenance fees, private schools, etc. But I saw a 7-8 year old boy guiding his soccer ball through the lobby yesterday and later spied a few, free-range, ten(ish) year old boys goofing off as they walked up Broadway together (sans parents) and I thought, "What if?"

In the midst of running around, meeting Janette at Rosa Mexicano for lunch and Melissa for dinner at some sushi joint near her apartment in Brooklyn, we ended up at a bar called Spike Hill to see Melissa's friend Pete Sinjin's band. Instead of really enjoying the music, and they were good, I stood out on the sidewalk in front and called my little guys. Son #2 kept calling me "Mommy Mommy" as if he were two years old and saying, "I'm hugging the phone right now." Me tooooo. (Insert aching heart here.)

There we were, uptown girl, podunk girl and artsy girl hanging together, having fun and watching an appropriately mismatched, but talented, band. The drummer looked like Ty Webb, the bass player like a trendy jazz accompanist, the lead singer like a hulking (but cute) lumberjack and the hillbilly-hip-grunge lap steel guitarist (who apparently is quite accomplished judging by the "discography" page on his site) like Dwight Yoakam meets Vincent Gallo. They looked like they played in entirely different bands but they sounded great together.

And that, the bizzare confluence of craziness, the huddled masses, the friends thrown together from all stages of life is what makes NYC so great. Next time, I'm bringing my family.

Haven't Got Time for the Pain

What's better than heading to Redeemer Presbyterian on a Sunday morning for the best sermons ever preached? Why, discovering that the west side service is right next door, that's what!

I would trudge through hell and high water to get to Redeemer. Blinding snow. Tempests. A plague of locusts. Frogs swarming upon land. Anything. But yesterday, as I passed the Ethical Culture Society on Central Park West, I realized that I could literally roll out of bed and head over in my jammies. So I did. (Actually, I put pants on. As an aside, some fashionistas that we saw yesterday while out and about at the Bryant Park Holiday Fair didn't bother wearing any pants. Color me old but I still think pants are useful especially when your dress, er sweater, doesn't cover your booty. Moving on . . .)

Much to my chagrin, my favorite preacher was not preaching this morning; however, the Reverend Scott Sauls gave a great, great, great sermon on suffering. Not about mild suffering like the kind endured when one stays out way too late at The Gingerman and Rattle N Hum with dorm mates from college (hypothetically speaking, of course) but about deep, groaning, life suffering like the kind endured when you repeatedly implore, "Is this it? Really?" and wonder why, when you have so stinkin' much, you are still not happy. And, as we all know, this is one of my favorite subjects.

One of the not-entirely-new analogies given was that of a father holding down his daughter during her first well baby visit at the pediatrician's office. As she's given her shot, she cannot help but feel betrayed by the very man she trusted. But she, at too young an age, cannot know that this pain that she's enduring is ultimately for her health and well being. Likewise, we can feel betrayed by a God who allows suffering or we can strive to be thankful for all the good in the world that we're incapable of seeing or understanding.

As Thanksgiving is this week, I'm choosing the latter. We closed with the hymn, "Now Thank We All Our God" but I'm singing Carly Simon right now.

Til you showed me how, how to fill my heart with love,
how to open up and drink in all that white light pouring down from the heaven

God is amazing.

Crazy Train

Here I am, podunk girl, at my girlfriend Laura's apartment overlooking Lincoln Center and, in the distance, the Hudson River. Breathtaking.

I jumped in the subway this a.m. to be entertained by a flamboyantly gay, young, black guy who was wearing a straw cowboy hat and was serenading the train with non-stop, comedic shtick. He escorted me to a seat and insisted that I relax. He then told the woman next to me that she should remain standing because her ass was too large already. While a few people were averting their eyes, many were laughing their heads off.

Just before I exited, he made his way back to me and said, "You're very beautiful" so I responded, "Thank you very much."

He then started whooping, "Ladies and gentlemen, this woman just proved me wrong. White women do speak! You, my friend, are the first to speak to me on this train!"

All this before 9:00 a.m. Could be a long and interesting weekend.

Big Smile

The other day, I purchased this sweet little print at the Studio Mela shop on Etsy because it made me happy.



Do you know what else made me happy? My address was handwritten on the package in the middle of a cartoon girl's speech bubble and below it the following was printed:

let me say thank you. with my whole heart.
i hope you love what's inside because a nice person like you deserves a really big smile.

OMG, right? If only every purchase could be so heartwarming. If only our new furnace carried a little sticker telling us how happy it is when it gives our family warmth. Hey, maybe I'd be filled with bliss to know I'd spent thousands and thousands of dollars this year alone on new windows, siding, kitchen counters, subway tiles, floors, an up-to-spec chimney, front porch, etc. if only we got adorable little notes from the contractors spreading the love. Surely my cousin Peter could have given me a giant bear hug me after he remodeled our kitchen and told me how much he appreciated our business, no?

Instead, we had a beautiful, touching, emotional experience when Son #1 made a simple request from our ass-crack plumber last Sunday on my behalf, "Excuse me sir, but you might want to pull your pants up."

Just lovely.

Merry Christmist

Move over Cabbage Patch Kids, Tickle Me Elmo and Playstation 3. I got up at the crack of dawn this morning and stood in line for this year's "must have" holiday gift: limited edition H1N1 vaccines! And I got 'em -- in the new, designer mist! (Well, I gained two winning lottery tickets that allow entry to the fun festivities.) The kids'll be soooo excited when they get to go to the pediatrician's office on Saturday.

Who says that Christmas can't come early?