see jen write

Post about nothing.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 03:46:00 +0000

I intended to write a lovely long post this evening about, oh, who knows what. Instead, you're getting pure pith, a post about nothing. Anyone who doesn't know that reference probably doesn't need to waste their time reading anymore of my stuff. I'll pause here for you to close the tab.

*pause*

Anyway, instead of writing, I spent my evening cleaning uncooked quinoa off the kitchen floor and countertops. This is a particularly tedious project, regardless of the strength and capabilities of your vacuum cleaner. I don't know how familiar you are with quinoa, but it's fair to say that it is about the smallest food particle known to man outside of the dust-like particles grouping. It is just the tiniest amount larger than sugar. One-third cup of quinoa partially spilled, apparently, is roughly ten million quinoas. An enormous mess.

This glamorous life snapshot brought to you courtesy of Claymerica Industries. I am Running the Ship, so to speak, while Sir is in Miami on business.

Photo credit: Clay Parker Jones

One thing that happened to me when I moved here was that, unbeknownst to me at the time, I moved in with a Business Traveler. If he had been a regular roommate, I would probably have been thrilled to discover this fact. Unfortunately, he's my romantical life partner, so oftentimes I find myself a bit lonely, jealous and swimming in mediocrity and protein-rich grains while he globe-trots, beaching it along the way.

It's more noticeable in the winter, I think, because our little dwelling gets so chilly in his absence. Sir is a heater - not only is he an incredibly warm and charming young man, but he actually radiates an enormous amount of physical heat, just by existing in a room. This happens to the extent that I actually paused for a moment when I got to the part in the Twilight books where they are explaining how the werewolves, in their human forms, run at a higher temperature than their human friends.

Lucky for me, Sir's mom made me a pair of beautiful wool socks that I have taken to wearing to bed. After 26 years of not being able to sleep in socks, now I can't sleep without them when he's gone. I probably won't be able to explain this phenomenon until I have my own children, but to me this was a glaringly obvious occurrence of 'Moms always know.' Between the socks and turning the thermostat up four degrees, I'm somewhat able to make up for his absence, at least from a temperature standpoint. Even so, life is always a little more mundane when he's gone.

Please hurry home, Sir. Your photos are ridiculous, my life without you is chilly and average and there is quinoa everywhere.

I do realize that this post isn't entirely about nothing, just the nothing that exists when your everything is jet-setting without you.

Parlez-vous francais?

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 20:05:00 +0000

Bonjour!

The little yellow Rosetta Stone box sits on my desk, calling cheerfully to me from across the room. I focus on my laptop, pretending I don't see it.

Excusez-moi, mademoiselle? Bonjour!

The polite little box is adorably persistent; I refuse to look.

Allo, mademoiselle? Parlez-vous français?

Annoyed, I glare at the box. The people on the box wave excitedly, happy to have grabbed my attention. They're stoked for us to learn French together.

I am too, I really am. I wanted the box. I asked for it. I love French, I love France and Paris and travel and languages and learning. I can't count the number of times I had told Sir how wonderful it would be to brush up on our French and go to Paris together. I'm pretty sure I even said the words "we should get Rosetta Stone!" and sat, eyes wide, waiting anxiously for his reaction. I was beside myself to find it under the Christmas tree, such a thoughtful gift.

And yet here we are, middle of January, and still it sits in its cheery yellow box, unopened and causing me delusion. I don't know why I am being such a baby about this.

I march across the room and snatch up the box, sliding an emboldened finger beneath the lovely smooth magnetic seal. I rifle hastily through the instructions and slide the disc into my laptop, adjust the ridiculous headset, and pause to breathe.

God, it would be so embarrassing to be bad at this.

But why? Why would I be bad at it? I've learned French before, happily dissecting the whole language into hundreds of color-coded flashcards to be memorized. Why would this time be any different? Because I'm OLD? That's ridiculous. People take classes and go back to school all the time. There's not even anyone here to compete against. And if I were to somehow fail, why would it be embarrassing? Who would know?

Me. I would know. And then I would have to own up to being a twenty-six year old who's past her academic PRIME, for pete's sake. Not to mention one who's afraid of a box.

Enough, I tell myself. No more foolishness. This is an opportunity, not a hardship. Where is my confidence? Where are my cojones? More importantly, where are my highlighters?

Bonjour!

Bonjour, box. Let's do this.

Rule breaker.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 02:58:00 +0000

One of my more endearing qualities is that I am, above all things, a follower of rules.

To be clear, I am not a blind follower of every rule. Hitler, for example, came up with a bunch of rules that I don't think would have sat well with me, had I lived in Nazi Germany in the '20s. The rules I'm referring to are more along the lines of your modern-American traffic laws. This is not to say that I can't think for myself, just that I'm a rebel only when a very good cause is present.

But yes - I love rules. I don't just follow them, I love to follow them. I love to enforce them, bringing unnecessary tension to seemingly fun things like board games. I like to write them in my notebooks at work in neat handwriting, underlining the important parts. Sometimes highlighter, too. I love to tell people what rules they are currently violating.

"Actually, you can't create an authorization without all the buy details."
"'Scuse me! You can't ride your bike on the sidewalk!"
"Um, there's no smoking in here!"
"You need to turn your phone off, they've closed the cabin door!"
"This is the quiet car!"

And so on.

I think my love of rules stems directly from my love of being correct, being a model citizen, getting extra credit, avoiding trouble at all costs. In order to win, one must know that which will cause him to lose. I don't know if it was my conservative midwestern upbringing or my all-Catholic gene pool that brought me to this place, but rule-abiding, as a descriptor, clings to my white blood cells right alongside perfectionist and self-deprecator. It's exhausting and tedious, being in charge of the rules. But it's who I am.

Sir was raised in a more liberal setting, and as such has always regarded the rules as more of suggested guidelines, intended to be tested and scrutinized. And BROKEN, heaven forbid. We've had several discussions on the topic, almost all of them going something like this:

He: "Did you hear about so-and-so? Can you believe the reaction of the police?"
Me: "Well... that was brutal, yes, but... but... they were instigating it, they were breaking the LAW..."
He: "It's a dumb law."
Me, sputtering: "But it's the LAW!"

I'm sure he finds all of my neuroses adorable, although obnoxious might be a better word.

So anyway, I have these lace-up boots. I've owned them for more than a year now. They're probably one of my favorite pairs of shoes; they're cute, comfy and the wedge heel makes them pretty good for walking all over the place. But they have one glaring design flaw, a grain of sand that's been rubbing around in my oyster shell, irritating me to no end for the past 12 months: the tongue is totally out of control.

Do you know what I'm talking about? There's no loop on the tongue for you to lace through and stabilize the thing, and you end up with the entire tongue stuffed all the way to the left or right every time you walk more than 5 paces. It's incredibly annoying.

It was, however, this very situation that eventually incited me to become that which I simultaneously despise and secretly admire: a RULE BREAKER.

Despite the fact that every fiber of my being was telling me that we don't deface our own property (or anyone else's, for that matter), I thought very quietly to myself: what if I altered the tongue to create a stabilizing lace-loop? I could cut slits in the existing tongue, or affix some sort of material to the tongue to create the loop. Option A was probably better, since I didn't have the proper tools for stitching through leather and they weren't really high enough quality to start getting a cobbler involved. After months of contemplating this every time I wore those boots, I finally asked Sir if he thought it would be okay to cut my boots.

He looked at me blankly.

I mean, I guess why not? They're MY boots. Was some combination of Steve Madden and my mother going to come at me with a lecture about taking care of my things? Unlikely. Also, it was poor workmanship on Steve's part. He would WANT me to do this thing for him. For me, even.

So I grabbed one of Sir's utility knives and a cutting board and I cut slits in the tongue of my shoes. It took less than two minutes to implement from start to finish. And then I laced them up, slipping the laces under the loops, and put them on my feet, better than they were before. And in that moment, I became the master of my own destiny.

Also, it worked. Really well. I've been prancing around in my boots, tongue firmly in place and proud as can be, for roughly a week or two now. I should write ol' Steve a letter, to school him in this brilliance. You know, because he should alter his design to accommodate how the foot moves and really, it's the only correct way to make a boot.

I'm making a note of it.

Homebody.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 03:32:00 +0000

I was having a conversation today with Amanda Blair about the myriad reasons that I, at the ripe old age of 26, have become a homebody. I tick off my list of excuses for not partaking in barsy evenings, explain that going out just doesn't seem worth it to me anymore. I'm not opposed to it, but it seems going out to dinner has become more of my cup of tea.

It probably always has been, but that concept takes on a solid form now that I'm part of a team. All the little annoyances - the too-loud music, the crowds of people, the over-priced everything, the coat situation, the hangovers - had once seemed insignificant under the veil of potential. Now that I know that my potential is waiting at home for me in a darling apartment in Brooklyn, the cons take on a glaring sharp focus and the whole thing seems insignificant in comparison to what's going on in my living room.

She disagrees with me, of course. But she does a much better job of listening than I ever could, letting me make my points and acknowledging my perspective before educating me on all the wonderful things I'm missing out on by hiding away in Brooklyn every weekend. To hear her tell it, she loves getting ready, finding the perfect bar, laughing it up, dancing, having stories to tell. And while I'm sure she does love all of those things, I'm certain that the reality of the situation is that she's just so much braver than me.

My darling Amanda Blair. That girl, I swear. She has so much courage. She is a spitfire and a spark, sweet and genuine and fiercely loyal. She stomps all over this marvelous city in 5-inch heels and would probably be blithely unaware if it attempted to cut her down. People say New York eats you alive; Amanda invites it to her birthday party.

And she writes about it, the whole damn thing.

I think she thinks we're cut of the same cloth, us twenty-something NYC transplants. But there's an enormous difference between us that's made very apparent by our transplantation motives: she was chasing a dream, and I was chasing a BOY.

Well, a man. A man-boy. And a job. But still.

To give myself some credit, there is definitely a good amount of gutsiness involved in taking a chance on another human being, and even more so when that chance involves uprooting your life and starting over somewhere else. It is no easy thing to wager your lifestyle on a relationship. And now that I think of it, the overwhelming relief at realizing that everything was going to be better than perfect was probably enough to keep me on the couch for a lifetime or two.

Even so, I can't imagine going through that alone. I'm not certain that I could, but she sure did. If it was traumatizing in the slightest, I certainly can't tell.

Some people find everything in their homes, and some create them where they stand. Different types of courage, I guess, but I'll always be jealous of people who beam overt fearlessness from their very toenails on any given Tuesday. That girl could make friends with a paper bag.

Control freak.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 15:44:00 +0000

I'm still laughing at myself in regards to post from yesterday. One of my more irritating qualities is that I have never, for a moment in me life, been able to relax and let anything just be. I'm not kidding - my first grade parent-teacher conference centered around how I needed to stop bossing the other kids around at recess (my dad countered that I was building good management skills).

Sir laughs at me, the perfect picture of chill. His laid-back way is incomprehensible to me, brilliance and creativity seeping from his pores as easily as breathing. I seethe with jealousy at how perfectly he embodies it (you know, like a loving, awe-struck jealousy).

Maybe if I try really hard and focus on achieving a specific peaceful end state, I too, can relax. Maybe there are relaxation techniques I could perfect and incorporate into my day-to-day. Maybe I can study relaxation in different cultures, find a way to take it in somewhere else, as the Western world is surely influencing me negatively.

I've just listed out the ways I plan on "achieving" relaxation. The very verb is wrong.

Relaxation aside, I need to give myself some more credit. If I hadn't been so stuck on being in control of My Writing, maybe I could have seen the words pouring from me. I may not have novels flowing from my fingertips, but I am a writer and I have definitely been writing. That was my 100th post. Measly compared to some, I suppose, but it's not a competition.

I need, of course, to repeat this to myself, a little mantra for me to try to own: it's not a competition. It's not a competition. It's not a competition.

I'm not buying it.

Writers write.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 04:11:00 +0000

One of my resolutions this year was to write everything. I think I meant blogging, or storytelling, at the very least. After all, if I'm going to make the effort to help the tree fall in the forest, someone should hear it, preferably as many someones as possible.

This, I know, is selfish and not really the point of a writing resolution. If I wanted to be heard, I should have resolved to achieve internet fame and fortune, right? It sounds like that's really what I was after.

Anyway.

Energized, I spent all day weaving a story from an experience I had on the train this morning, tying back to a discussion Sir and I had this weekend in regards something I've been thinking about for a while. It was a lovely idea. I noodled it around while in meetings, jotted down items in various notebooks and (sorry Rachel) strung together pithy phrases in my head during spin class. I fully intended to create something this evening, post-gym. Something writerly and awe-inspiring. Something worth reading.

Before I could sit down in front of my computer, I got into it with a gym friend who was frustrated with her job. I left her in the locker room, but I just couldn't let it go - for whatever reason, I felt really connected to her plight. So instead of pouring out prose as intended, I wrote her an email.

It was a terrific email. It really was. I analyzed, I sympathized, I energized. I broke her situation down into numbers and percentages, various audiences and potential outcomes of her energy expenditures. I had an introduction and a fully-developed body before drawing everything up into a beautiful conclusion. I was witty. I was touching. I told a story. I was on fire.

It was probably the best thing I've written in a long while.

Sir came home just as I hit send and asked what I was writing. I heard myself tell him that I had intended to write something tonight, but instead had put my energy into an email and was disappointed to not have anything to show for it. His reaction was something like this --

"Yo dawg, I heard you like writing..."

Ah, me. I wanted to write? I had written, and written well. I wanted to have something to show for it? I had made my friend happy. The tree had fallen, and a really important person had been around to hear it. I had done the thing, only I was too wrapped up in labels and audience-longing to call it.

Sometimes I'm such a dunce. Maybe resolutions are not end points, but lenses through which we see ourselves a little bit clearer along the journey, if only for a few weeks (until, of course, we forget about them and go back to a lifestyle of sloth).

Maybe I'll write the other thing tomorrow. The end.

Shiver for me, girl.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 04:26:00 +0000

The last bit I wrote on here was about the October snow, and it hasn't snowed since.

Somewhere between my delight in that freak blizzard and the way the breath caught in my throat last week when my LaGuardia-to-O'Hare flight dipped beneath the clouds to unveil the frozen city on the lake, silvery-pale and glittering in the icy-thin sunlight, is where I unearthed a very tiny, very insignificant but altogether real nugget of wisdom about myself.

I like the cold.

I just knew, right there at the airport. No matter how many times I've denied it, it's been there the whole time, trapped under my skin like a speck of sand, like a pea under the umpteenth mattress. It had worried itself into a pearl, a Great Truth that I never knew existed prior to that very moment. I stepped through that revolving door, luggage in hand, felt the wind pierce my wimpy jacket and I just KNEW, as easy as breathing.

I like the cold.

I like the winter and the snow. I do! I'm going to say it like an affirmation, because I'm excited to know myself a little bit better. I like the cold!

I like it to the extent that I experienced a very defined sinking feeling in my chest this morning when the weatherman said it was to be "back up in the mid-forties by mid-day."

New York never feels clean to me, except in wintertime. It's the smell that the clear, dry cold brings, the way it stings your nostrils and punches you in the gut as you suck it deep into your whimpering, shriveling lungs in slow, controlled breaths. It doesn't smell like garbage, urine, or burnt halal, it smells like crisp, clean, perfect snow and silence. And it makes me forget about all the resentment I harbor for the city when it roils, putrid, in the unwavering heat and suffocating humidity of summer.

I don't know what this bit of enlightenment means for me, Sir and the locations of our future, but I know that right in this very minute, it means I'm growing all the more impatient for a real winter and some goddamn snow.

When will it snow, New York? Why do you torment me with weird mild winter weather and lingering humidity? WHY?

Christmas is over, but Santa, if you could please bring winter to NYC, I'll be waiting for you. I'll be the one with all the scarves.

Snowy in October.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 21:43:00 +0000

Growing up in Michigan, you could bet your lunch money that no matter how gorgeous the weather was in autumn, it would be snowing by Halloween. I'm so glad our recent visitors got in and out before the sky fell, because despite our recent crisply-sunny days, it is absolutely pouring snow in Brooklyn right now.

After a quick errands-run to SoHo earlier, snow hitting our umbrella and eyelashes in heavy pattering chunks, we settled in all day with magazines, piles of blankets and cups of tea. I made creamy white beans with bacon and a big pot of kale in homemade stock for lunch and we feasted, read and cozied all day long.

There's no place I love better than our snug apartment when the city goes all snow-globe on us. I should be annoyed that we only got about two weeks of fall before winter stomped in, but I'm just not. It's all I can do not to get my Christmas decorations out of the closet.

Sir is making toddies and they smell insane. I don't even mind feeling sick when the weather is this grand.

Dive bars and crayons.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 20:54:00 +0000

My best friend moved to Brooklyn two weeks ago. It's about time - we've only been trying to convince each other to live in the same location since we graduated college. No harm done; we both got all our wandering taken care of (hers perhaps quite a bit more adventurous than mine) and now we can pick up where we left off, which is somewhere between frequenting dive bars and drawing with crayons. All of the above are now to be done in Brooklyn, which seems to suit us both very nicely.

Saturday morning(ish), Sir and I met up with Christy and her Sir for a stroll and troll around the Brooklyn Flea. Due to large numbers of hipsters and the brilliant sun, mixed with dry late-summer heat, we only lasted a hot minute before heading to a non-garden biergarten called Der Schwarze Kölner in Fort Greene. They did have a few nicely shaded outdoor tables, which served our purposes in lieu of an actual garden. This place served Very Large Beers and a number of other gluten-filled substances. We applauded them on their German-ness, although I was a bit disappointed in their cider selection (apfelwein, while sounding very much like a win, ended up tasting a bit like pickle juice and peanuts).

The Sirs and their large-format beverages. They're so cute.

Christy's version, which caught them mid-trololo.

Pickles: one of the only non-gluten items on the menu and a potential contributor to the apfelwein.

Sunday evening we hosted an introductory round of Empire Builder, a rail-building continent domination board game which involves drawing on the game board with crayons. Despite the round being introductory, we ended up playing for 3+ hours and had to call time at midnight, with no player being near victory. The board is being guarded by our head of security (Ian) until such time occurs that we can reconvene to finish out the round (Wednesday). It appears Christy and her Sir are natural railroad entrepreneurs, therefore we have stopped giving them strategy hints and tips and will for sure be building out our rail lines in secret prior to Wednesday.

Photo cred: Christy. And JK, we won't touch anything.

Dive bars: initiated. Crayons: yes.

New York is really starting to feel more and more like home.

Hair day.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 02:44:00 +0000

Normally, Monday morning is about bleary eyes on the train and trying to reassemble my head in one or two too many status meetings. This week, I took the morning off and had myself a little hair day instead.

I woke up an hour earlier than normal and skipped over to the west Village, where Reagan was getting gussied up with her husband, señor photographer extraordinaire Jake, ready to start our shoot. Reagan and Jake are putting together some video tutorials for Hairdresser on Fire showcasing a bunch of Aussie products. I'm very excited that she had me as one of her hair models - even though it was 7:30 in the AM, I think we had a pretty good time.

Side note: I was "split ends" girl. Aussie Split End Protector. I found this to be a combo of mortifying and hilarious, as you've probably witnessed me picking at my split ends like nobody's business on more than one occasion. Typecast.

Finished products are still in the works, but here's a sampling of Jake's stills from the day. I make some really weird faces so don't make fun (I think my fantasy modeling career died a little bit that day).

I was one of five models - here are some beautiful shots of my darling Amanda Blair. I think she might be a real model in disguise. A model shark (similar to a pool shark).

You work that chair, AB.

Despite being completely exhausted that evening, as an end to my hair day I watched Tangled on Netflix Instant. Sir is in London on a business trip (trying to conceal my jealousy), which is when I like to try to muck up his Netflix account with bizarre girly items. I didn't really intend to watch it but I had hair on the brain. I also didn't intend to stay up until 1:30 am to watch the whole thing.

Confession: it was an awesome movie. Completely hilarious and really well done.

Stay tuned for links to the finished tutorial! And New York - stop being so damn muggy so we can have some actual good hair days!

Sunday dinner potpie surprise.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 03:28:00 +0000

One of my favorite parts of co-habitation is all the cooking we do - having two foodies under one roof will tend to cause that sort of thing. Tonight, my lovely Sir took it upon himself to make me dinner. It was a surprise mystery dish until it started to come together, at which point I discovered that it was a sort of chicken-sausage-veggie pot pie, with a potato crust.

Pot pie is somewhat difficult to procure as a gluten-free person - the potato crust solves your issues there. I think Sir adapted the recipe from a Martha short rib creation. Check it out on the cover of the October issue.

It came out of the oven crusty, bubbling, and piping hot. It tasted like Thanksgiving in a bowl.

Sake tastes better when someone pours it for you, and food tastes better when someone makes it for you. Facts.

Empire Builder.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 03:12:00 +0000

This weekend brings the DUMBO Arts Festival to our little hidey-hole under the Manhattan Bridge overpass. I have a love-hate relationship with the Festival. I love that there is so much culture here in DUMBO and that we give our local artists a showcase. I really, really hate the swarms of people that crowd our normally forgotten neighborhood. This is our (mine and Sir's) second Arts festival weekend and both times, our choice to not live in Manhattan has felt heavily validated. I think we Dumby-folk (DUMBOans?) hold our collective breath as the wildebeest ravage and litter all over our cobbled sanctuary, praying that they won't decide that they need to move here. Dear God, no. You'll ruin it.

I heard someone vandalized Adam's exhibit this year, stealing a piece from a sculpture. It might just be a hate-hate relationship.

Saturday morning, prior to quarantining ourselves in our apartment, we had a quick cappuccino at Brooklyn Roasters, the new coffee shop that just might (finally!) be the answer to my Intelligentsia heartache dilemma. I stole off to the park to find a quiet space to take a phone call from a childhood friend - my very best friend from growing up. We'd grown apart during college, but I had spotted her on facebook recently and arranged for a catch-up. I was really nervous, actually. What if it was weird? What if she wasn't the same?

I sat in the park and watched the old carousel spin in its brand new crystal box, waiting for my phone to ring.

We spoke for one hour and twenty minutes and she was exactly the same. Isn't that nice? I thought so. It was just so lovely to catch up with the person with whom I shared a pulse for so long. We concluded that we are both very happy and were glad that the other was doing well. We hope to keep better track of each other from now on.

I ended the conversation and ran back to our apartment when the rain started to fall, much to the chagrin of the festival-goers. It didn't rain for long, but we stayed in the apartment for the remainder of the afternoon.

Sir's parents had sent us the European version of Empire Builder, a game of train-domination that we play when we visit them in Arcata. The Euro version presented all kinds of new challenges, like figuring out which cities are where and what goods and services they have to offer (we've got the USA version more or less memorized). We are super excited to have our own version.

After a few hours of rail-building, I really thought I had won until I remembered a rule (post-excessive-victory-dancing) stating that, since I went first, Sir got a chance to complete his turn. This led to a tie, which in turn led to him winning (for real this time). I had to take back my whole dance while he reveled in his victory. The ultimate humiliation.

Please note that he is wearing his new custom chain ring on his head as a crown.

We snuck out to the new boardwalk a little later on in the evening, hoping the crowds had dispersed. They hadn't, but it was still nice.

I think the best part about building our own empire out here in Brooklyn has been having the other to share it with, through the festivals and quiet times alike. Here's the part where I click my heels and shut my eyes, hoping all is clean and quiet again by morning.

Vacating, days 6 and 7: wrap-up.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 21:49:00 +0000

THURSDAY
Thursday, Sir turned 30. We had a REAL barbeque (brisket, slow-cooked over a smoldering low-heat fire for a long period of time) with his family and he drank a 30th Anniversary Sierra Nevada. It seemed appropriate.

This trip was his 30th/my 26th birthday present (along with some new kitchen supplies). The correct way to birthday-party is surrounded by family and friends. So, I think we did it right. I hope he thinks so too.

We also rounded out the week with one last run, during which time I do believe I conquered those hills. Booya.

FRIDAY
6:30am - 12pm PST:     Drive to San Francisco, get incredibly carsick and crabby
12pm - 3:30pm PST:             SFO airport relaxation, breathe, undo carsickness
3:30pm PST - 12am EST:     SFO > JFK, re-induce motion sickness
Bed.

POST-SCRIPT
Upon our return, we received the below photos from my mom via snail-mail. Our hiking pictures reminded her of a trip she had taken with my father, the year before they got married. They're hiking around Wurtsboro, NY with my Aunt Jan and Uncle Wayne, who still live in Wurtsboro to this day.

Aunt Jan and Uncle Wayne, hiking

Uncle Wayne giving my dad (afro alert!!) a piggy-back ride

Mom, hiking

Aunt Jan, Uncle Wayne, Mom

Mom, nature

Waterfall.

I like that my dad isn't in too many of these pics, and instead was taking pics of my mom. That's cute.

Many thanks to the Parker Jones family for their hospitality. We'll miss you, vacation. Hope to see you again soon.

Vacating, days 4 and 5: lumberjacky pursuits.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 20:45:00 +0000

TUESDAY
Tuesday's main event consisted of Sir and his father chopping down a tree in the yard and hauling it out to be made into chips. The tree had been cut down years ago when it looked as though it might fall on the house, but a whole bunch of new trees had grown out of the stump. Apparently those redwoods are tenacious little buggers.

A lumberjack of my very own - swoon.

We also got after that run again, which went much better this time. I didn't try to keep up with Sir and was able to finish without walking, hooray! I truly do not remember being able to run a marathon.

WEDNESDAY
We went on a seven-mile hike in the Arcata Community Forest, located basically right behind Sir's parents' house. Sir showed me where he had trained for cross-country in the forest, and again I was impressed with his lumberjacky qualities. There are some angry-steep hills in that forest.

All the beautiful forests here make me feel a little bit awful. Could Manhattan have looked like this, had we left it alone?

Run, day 3. Not great, but definitely doable. Legs feel happy to be running again.

Vacating, days 2 and 3.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 18:17:00 +0000

We're still on vacation, which is pretty glorious. In case you're wondering, a week (or more) is the correct amount of time to take for a vacation. Long weekends are just not long enough.

SUNDAY
Sunday morning, we got up early for a long bike ride to Trinidad with Sir's mom and uncle. The ride ended up at about 33.84 miles, and was probably one of my more epic rides, for several reasons:

Northern Cali is hella hilly. Rolling hills the entire way made this a seriously challenging ride. Much more so than Prospect Park, or the ol' flatty-flat Chicago lakeshore.
We rode multiple types of terrain: rough roads, highway, and some pretty loose gravel (new for me). Pretty sure now I'm ready for cyclocross season (nope, not even a little bit).
I rode Uncle Dave's hybrid commuter bike, which made for my first non-road-bike ride in quite some time. I'm not used to riding with flat handlebars and may have wrenched my wrists a little in the process. Super comfy bike, other than that.
The views along the way are just insane. We just don't have mountains or the ocean like that in Brooklyn.

We stopped for pictures at mile 15.

And again at mile 19.5.

Some planking went down as well.

Sir wins for best use of core muscles, I think.

All of this resulted in a seriously long hot shower and an afternoon of naps.

MONDAY
Sir and I got up early for a truly horrendous run (see above, re: hilly) prior to trekking out to Fern Canyon with his family. Fern Canyon is pretty spectacular - I think they filmed the second Jurrassic Park in there. It felt pretty Jurrassic - silent, lush and more or less untouched.

We took a lot of pictures, but they don't do a very good job recreating the feeling of being there, being enveloped in stillness like that. They don't do a good job capturing the way the light was sparkling through the redwoods, filtering softly all the way to the forest floor. They also don't capture the way the silence was interrupted by the sound of the creek running through the canyon and the trickly waterfalls of water, sparkling like diamonds as they dripped down the ferny canyon walls.

Here's some of the better ones, anyhow.

And then we went to dinner at Sir's aunt and uncle's house, which included a run-in with a chubby baby bear (he was crossing the road in front of our car) and this truly resplendent salad.

I think it was the prettiest salad I ever saw. The produce out here is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Hello, Arcata.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 04:48:00 +0000

After an entire day of traveling, we finally arrived in Arcata late last night. Let the vacationing begin! I suppose technically it began when we touched down in San Francisco, or when we stopped in Napa and St. Helena for a quick tasting and some grub, but it wasn't until nine hours after touching down in SF that we entered the cool stillness of Humboldt County and truly felt we'd arrived.

Wine tasting at Turnbull Winery.

Shrimp tacos and other yummies at Taylor's Refresher, aka Gott's Roadhouse.

We celebrated our arrival by passing out immediately. An eighteen-hour day of traveling can have that effect.

Cozy toesies.

We got up early and walked to town for breakfast at Los Bagels, where the kind folks of Arcata offered gluten-free bagels for me and my people (the gluten-intolerant). Not used to making bagel decisions, I hastily blurted out that I wanted cream cheese and lox, with onion. Some of the best decisions in life are hastily made; that bagel was definitely one of them.

Then we went to the farmer's market, where a girl was selling poems, written on the spot on a typewriter in a box. In my heart, I felt the unmistakable twinge of someone in Williamsburg, dying of happiness (and maybe jealousy).

We bought beautiful heirloom tomatoes, poblano chiles, jalapeño peppers, an onion, cilantro and some arugula. Oh, and a loaf of gluten-free bread that was described as containing carob and molasses, but pretty much tasted like a really good rye bread.

I read all afternoon in a sunny nook, with a slice of the bread and two big glasses of milk. I read the entire first book of the Hunger Games series. That book was intended to last me for the entire vacation, and instead I read the whole thing on day one. Whoops.

We made chiles rellenos with the poblanos, stuffed with sweet corn and cheese.

Overall, a pretty excellent start to the vacation.

Hurricane, 3.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 18:44:00 +0000

SUNDAY

Foggy Manhattan, post-storm.

At some point around 2am, we couldn't stay awake any longer. I slept uneasily, listening to the fighting of the cats, to Andrew turning on the rubber air mattress. I listened for the air conditioning, waiting for the moment when surely the power would go out.

Mostly I listened for the wind, the howling, whipping winds that would surely drive us into the safety of the bathroom. It never came.

I awoke with a start at 10:30 am, turning immediately to the window. Face pressed against the cool glass, I stared, dumbfounded, at the family on the sidewalk, children splashing in a small puddle. The air conditioning churned happily from the ceiling.

The storm was over. Had it even begun? I was right about the double-paned windows, in any case. We didn't hear a sound.

Satisfied that the storm had dissipated, I let the bathtub drain. We pulled on rubber boots and headed outside for a look at the damage.

Peanut butter welly time.

Puddle outside our door; umbrella casualty.

Wading on Main St.

Wading. Surprised how clear the rainwater is.

Evidence of wind?

Whose creepy doll is this?

Storm surge line, outside Bubby's.

Unnecessary preparations on Water St.

The gents on an untouched Water St.

And so goes our first hurricane. Back to your regularly scheduled Sunday brunch.

Hurricane, 2.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 02:22:00 +0000

FRIDAY
After leaving work, the severe weather anticipation started to build. I hurried to the store, anxious to get supplies before businesses starting shutting down for the weekend.

Our block has two grocery establishments: Foragers, a high-end grocer and charcuterie, and Peas 'N' Pickles, a more standard-fare bodega. I giggled as I watched people streaming out of Foragers and into waiting Lincoln towncars, arms heavy with cases of Perrier. I hoped their brown paper bags carried delicate vials of saffron and truffle butter, as well.

The scene was fairly calm inside Peas 'N' Pickles, if a bit more crowded than usual. In fact, for the first time in New York's history, everyone seemed content to be standing in line. I took careful note of the varying levels of preparation. It appeared that the females of the species had carts full of bottle water, batteries, dried foods, bandages, candles and toilet paper, whereas the gentlemen each had one six-pack of beer (one?). The gent right in front of me, in fact, waited twenty-five minutes in line to purchase a box of Marlboro Lights and a jar of Skippy.

Amazing. That's Skippy there, with the army-green backpack.

I don't know if it was the reassurance of preparedness or the weight of the week, but I slept like a baby that night.

SATURDAY
We woke up Saturday morning to a blanket of humidity and an overcast sky. It was decided that our friend Andrew and his cat would seek refuge at our place in Brooklyn, as his Battery Park apartment falls well within the evacuation zone.

Note: Seated in DUMBO, we are, technically, less than one block outside of the evacuation zone. However, I'm pretty sure hurricanes know about and respect blocks and zones, so we should be good.

We puttered about; me, cleaning and laundering and readying ourselves as best I could, and Sir downloading as many natural-disaster related movies as he could think of.

12:00 pm: The city shuts down the trains.

Andrew arrived with his cat. I made muffins.

1:00 pm: The Perfect Storm
4:00 pm: Day After Tomorrow
7:00 pm: 2012

We cracked jokes at the bad movies and watched the cats interact, tentative (hilarity).

The day kind of lingered on, restless and drizzly at best.

10:03 pm: the first bolt of lightning, the first rumble of thunder.

It's supposed to hit overnight. I think my main concern is that the windows break (all of them, maybe all at once), and a shard of glass flies through the room to stab me or Sir (or Andrew) through the neck. Then what?

Note: don't worry, Mom! I'm being funny. We'll go in the bathroom or (windowless) hallway if the winds get bad.

I can't be the only person crossing my fingers that the subways aren't back up and running in time for work on Monday.

Hurricane.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 15:04:00 +0000

This weekend, we're supposed to be hit by Hurricane Irene as she spits through the city, her final path of implicit destruction prior to her imminent dissipation.

It's my first time being in a hurricane, which leads me to believe I should be concerned. Grave voices on NPR, encouraging evacuation for anyone near the water (our apartment is oh, say, half a block from the river). Frantic texts from my mother, asking about our game plan.

Honestly, I don't have one. Normally I'm the first to freak out in nearly any situation, but today I'm not even concerned in the slightest. Our cozy DUMBO apartment seems an impenetrable fortress, double-paned windows framing our tenth-story perch. I'll buy water, batteries, fill up the bathtub; I just don't have it in me to panic, for once.

I turned 26 on Tuesday, in the midst of a mini-earthquake. That frightened me, but this just doesn't. Maybe I'm mellowing out, settling into my newly-acquired old age. Or maybe I've got too much other anxiety crammed into my head right now to go ballistic over the rain.

See you Monday, maybe. Maybe I'll be under water.

Casual pirate.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 21:44:00 +0000

"Just guide it down the neck with a bit of oomph," she instructs me, confident.

I grip the butt of the bottle in my left palm, finding the groove of the glass seam with my thumb. My right hand holds the sword firm around the handle, the heavy blade balancing on the cool glass right where the bottle begins to taper into the neck. She shows me the motion again, assuring me that there will be plenty of pressure, that it will pop right off.

Tentative, I slide the blade quickly down the bottle, flat against the glass. Nothing.

"More oomph!" She smiles, setting the blade back in place.

I bite my lip, adjusting my grip within the hilt and swing, round two. The top sails off as easily as if I had been beheading a banana. A flood of champagne, and everybody cheers. Squealing, I relinquish the dripping bottle, shake the champagne from my hand and pose for a victory photo, avec blade.

And that's how you saber a bottle of champagne.

Wednesday afternoon Vespa-riding.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 22:24:00 +0000

There is only one acceptable way to do Times Square, and that is on the back of a Vespa on a summer day.

I, along with everyone else who lives on or around Manhattan, definitely have a love-hate thing going on with Times Square. It's kind of a mess, and New Yorkers tend to avoid it like the plague. I think it's one of those things that is fun/necessary to do one time and then never again. Unfortunately, there are a lot of really good things to do and eat around Times Square, so sometimes it's just unavoidable.

If and when you cannot avoid it, like when your friend wants to go to lunch at Esca (delish), don't fret - just hitch yourself a ride on the back of her Vespa. What taxis? What swarms of obnoxious tourists? What oppressive heat? It's a traffic-dissolver (squeeze on through!) with a built-in breeze-machine. Hike up your maxi-dress and slip on a helmet - you've just turned the likes of 'being on fire' into an enjoyable experience. My birthday is next week, in case anyone is looking for a last-minute gift. Vespa Vespa Vespa.

I wish, I really wish with everything that I have that I had taken a picture of my first motorbike experience this afternoon. I think my mother will be pleased that I did not, and instead was holding on tight. I guess you'll just have to believe me.

Beauty and the yogi.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 22:26:00 +0000

iPad screenshots, from Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Seriously hilarious film.

Yoga, my latest foray into fitness. It's a good idea - I never do as much strength or flexibility training as I should. I think it's a combination of that and lack of athletic prowess that lead to my lukewarm marathon performance last fall.

Anyhow, I think some fond memories of childhood ballet classes lead me to brazenly believe that somehow I'd be really good at it. A born yogi, with the hips and mind of a Buddhist. Flexibility, like my dance talent, surely can't fade.

I think the great yogis of the past are chuckling down on me as I write this. Simple, silly, self-centered humans, always a product of their own egos. Typical.

I like working out, I do. I've just never been any good at it. And as my recent yoga practice confirms, any grace of movement I may have once had is clearly long-gone.

This past week, I took a summer Friday and headed to an afternoon vinyasa session at my gym. As per usual, I am a total hot mess on the mat. The hour spent in quiet is agonizing. In between wrestling with my mind and breath, I wrestle with my body, fighting through each pose. My flexibility, it seems, is stored somewhere deep in a closet, between my pointe shoes and core muscles.

I must conquer it. I will. I'm repeating it in my head, like some kind of sadistic mantra. I don't know if I'm referring to my mind, my body, my yoga or all three. It doesn't seem to matter.

I find myself falling out of backbends in a heap, huffing and puffing, whilst the ladies around me twist and arch themselves into delicate pretzels, breathing deeply. I'm jealous of their faces, their tranquility, their stillness. Even after shavasana, I gather up my sweaty limbs and crawl out of the studio all beast-like - panting, defeated and thoroughly ruffled. I can't even imagine what I might look like after bikram.

Obviously, it isn't a competition. Obviously, I've missed the entire point. I do feel better afterward. My posture is better. I feel longer, quieter, focused. I'm glad I went. But I still kinda wish I were good at it.

Someday I will be lithe and tranquil. Someday I will have clarity. Or not.

I guess all I can do is try to keep going and hope that someday I can get out of my own head long enough to get back in.

Early.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 01:48:00 +0000

As luck and train schedules would have it, early Tuesday evening I found myself in the West Village, twenty minutes ahead of time for a much-needed haircut and gab sesh with the internet's favorite stylist. Not wanting to waste a minute of the weather, I set out for a leisurely stroll around the block.

The Village, as movies would have us believe, has an air of pure ethereal magic on a pleasant evening. It's quieter than it should be, it's prettier than it should be. It basically makes me want to explode. That's one of my favorite things about New York - the little pockets of magical bits in the midst of all the cacophony, and the Village is among my favorite of the pockets. Something about walking in the streets there makes me feel like I'm interrupting something fancy, something us plebians aren't intended to see.

I mean, give me a break.

Obviously trespassing, I step lightly, easily, carelessly, trying to blend in. I size up the pedestrian traffic to determine locals from visitors, wondering who else is playing the same game. I try not to look like a tourist when I whip out my phone to capture a ridiculously haughty-looking kitty, watching me from someone's fancy brownstone window.

Be snootier, cat. I dare you.

Did you know the Village was originally the bohemian capital of New York? The East Coast, even. And now, old glamour, European romance. The history makes me like it more. It makes me wonder at the dirty secrets of an uninhibited youth the rich old ladies must be hiding behind close-shorn Persians in striped vests.

I think I could write roughly one hundred short stories about the people who live in the Village, drawing partly on Hollywood lore and partly on these brief glimpses of their lives. Maybe someday I will.

I have yet to experience a place that inspires me like New York City. I wish I had the time and energy to do sort out what to do with it.

New York anniversary.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Sun, 29 May 2011 03:19:00 +0000

I arrived in New York City one year ago, today.

One truly does arrive in New York. I don't think it's possible to show up without at least some (potentially false) feeling of grandeur. Soon to be squashed, of course. Unless you're Beyonce, one of first things you realize upon arrival is that the city hasn't noticed your entrance.

But you push through feelings of unimportance and announce your arrival to friends and family, proud as a parent watching a child taking its first steps. Your first steps in New York are important in that way, even if no New Yorker would be caught dead acknowledging them.

I unfurled my hastily packed-up life, set up our beautiful DUMBO apartment and waited for the stuff of movies to start happening to me.

Of course, it didn't. Maybe it does for some, but for most, you have to earn it, or at the very least, go out and find it. But I didn't know any better.

So I kept walking. And started running, despite the heat. I ran the streets of Brooklyn, to the park and back, along the bridges to Manhattan. I ran in the morning, evenings, all the time enveloped in waves of unbearable heat.

For some reason, it never occurred to me that a New York summer would be so damn hot. With the heat, a resentment of New York began to build.

A note: It seems appropriate that, in honor of our anniversary, I should let loose with a confession. Here it is.

About two months into the summer, I broke down and admitted to my mother in a ridiculous fit of hot, embarrassed tears, that I hated it here. I hated the heat, the garbage, the smells. I hated the swarms of tourists by the office, hated fighting through masses of people just to get to and from work each day. I hated living among such poverty, shocking as it was to be venturing outside of a variety of cushy well-off bubbles for the first time in my life. I hated my boyfriend's schedule, the long hours, the traveling. I admitted to my mother and, cathartically, to myself that I missed Chicago.

I missed the sparkling clean streets, living on the beach, the miles and miles of breezy bike paths along Lake Michigan. I missed kindness, polite strangers. I missed running by the water. I missed working with my best friends and walking to the office every day, unencumbered by trains and tourists. I missed the beautiful park behind my apartment, missed sitting quietly by the fountains night after night, dreaming about moving to New York.

Chicago was a beautiful safe place, where nothing ever happened.

My mother, blunt as ever, asked if I would like to move back, and I said no. And I really didn't. I wanted the dirt, the grit, the strife. I wanted to struggle to achieve, to not have anything handed to me. I wanted the badge of résumé honor that came with making it in advertising in New York. I wanted to be worthy of a city as dark and beautiful as any on this earth. Lying in bed that night, waiting for Sir to come home from a business trip, I took a deep breath and blew it out, letting go of Chicago and committing to my relationship with New York.

It sounds stupid, but it worked.

Once you let go of what a place isn't, you can start to see what it is, and you remember why you were so dead set on arriving there to begin with. The tragic charm, the history, the beauty of the whole thing. The pulse and the energy. The quiet parts, flanked by madness. The nights in the Village, the weekends in Brooklyn. The bridges and the cabs and the trains. The weird interludes and "only in New York" experiences that made me want to write and write and write, even if I didn't. That magical movie feeling - it really is everywhere. And my god, the food.

I've spent twelve months eating my way through this city, and I'm definitely larger for it. And I don't just mean fatter, although I won't argue with you there. It's been my own little Eat Pray Love experience, the 'eat' portion. I exist more than I did, I am more than I was capable of being. To quote Lewis Carroll, I'm much muchier than I was before, and all the better for it.

People are always asking me which city I like better. It's not a fair comparison, really. Chicago embraces you. New York waits for you to embrace her. She just doesn't have that kind of time.

*

I'm celebrating my first anniversary with New York on the sand in Miami, quietly allowing everything I've accumulated over the past year to strip away with the waves. Somehow it seems fitting - balancing a year of extreme emotions with ultimate peace and calm.

It's also one year living with Sir, who remains buried in the Times as I head out to the surf. Yet another scary, hurried decision that could not have ended better. I can't remember the last time I felt this content.

Because I'm realizing, in the middle of a perfect vacation on a perfect beach, that I won't be sad when it's over. That this vacation is a time to reset, not escape. That I miss my life in New York. I don't think that's ever happened to me before.

I think that's when you know you're doing it right.

I think that's when you've finally arrived.

Kitty love is the best love.

noreply@blogger.com (lilmissjen) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 01:10:00 +0000

Some people prefer dogs over cats because "a cat won't be there at the door to greet you when you get home."

These people have never met our Sir Ian.

Not only is he at the door, but he's bursting with tiny adorable noises and makes me carry him around the house for at least twenty minutes before I can put him down.

At which point he cries until I pick him up again. It's insanely cute.

Whenever we get home from a vacation, the home-again routine is ten times more ridiculous than on a normal day. Tonight being one of those nights, he was crawling all over me with such ferocious snuggles and licky-ness that I just had to capture it.

And share.

He's such a little lover, am I right? You can take your dogs, folks. No thanks.

PS -- new haircut! Reagan, you are absolutely the best! Tip: make friends with talented people, it pays off.