Breakable by Ingrid Michaelson

Ingrid Michaelson is one of my favorite artists. In person, she's blunt and hilarious. Musically, she's whimsical, sometimes haunting, and very ... Grey's Anatomy soundtrack-ish. (If you watch the show, I bet you've heard at least one of her songs before.) Her lyrics are usually silly and random; you can take them as they are or think a smidge harder to find deeper meaning. I think that's why I like her. She's complicated, but not. Like me.

My best friend and I are going to go see her in concert next week. She just put out a new album, "Everybody," and I'm loving it already (specifically, songs #1, 2, 6, and 12). While looking on YouTube for a song to send to my boyfriend (awww!), I came across this homemade music video/slideshow from a super-creative fan of hers.

I guarantee it will make you smile. And if it doesn't, you simply have no soul. :)

Finally Woken

Jem's "Finally Woken" is my life soundtrack these days. And that's a good thing ;)

The Girl in the Picture: A Role Model

Some people love getting presents. I love getting magazines. One of my favorite mindless things to do is open the door, see a magazine on the doorstep, and sit down on the couch to rip out the ads. I'm not crazy; read on.

I rip out the ads so that, upon hauling my rear to the gym, the magazine will lay flat against the elliptical or treadmill holder. Perfume ads are the worst, followed by subscription cards.

Recently, I received my September issue of Glamour magazine. As I began my ripping ritual, my eyes stopped on a three- by three-inch photograph of a gorgeous blond woman. I didn't stare at her because she was one of the prettiest models I had seen in a magazine in a long time, or because she was sitting there completely nude, but because she had a definite stomach roll hanging out for everyone to see.

And she totally didn't care.

Wow! I thought. Kudos to Glamour. I fell in love with the magazine even more. (Side note: I also like Marie Claire, Self, and Women's Health.)

A few days later, that picture was taking the United States, it seemed, by storm. It was all over blogs and Web sites. People were dying to know, "Who is this woman?"

Well, her name is Lizzie Miller. She's 20 years old and a size 12. Suddenly thrust into the limelight almost overnight, she told "The Today Show" in an interview that she was shocked that so many people actually liked that photo.



I think that's sad. Clearly she is a stunning, natural beauty with so much potential. I don't mean "potential" by saying, "... if only she loses fifteen pounds." I mean, she took a chance and put herself out there (quite literally!) and the world approved wholeheartedly. To me, she's a role model. No pun intended.

I would love to someday come across as that confident in a photograph. Instead, I scrutinize the photo, immediately honing in on my "problem areas." (I'll spare the details.) I think to myself that any photo of me will look ten times better once I crop it ... as in cropping out everything but my face. I still have a long way to go, I know, but I'm taking big steps in the right direction these days.

I hope this photo makes you smile for all the right reasons, too.

a wiser me

Her blonde locks, pale complexion, and megawatt smile exuded somewhat of an angelic aura—but don’t be fooled. Underneath that fair exterior was a soul with devil-like tendencies if provoked.

She had a deep, blue-green, crippling stare. Her voice was clear, authoritative, and eerily even-pitched. Intimidating was an understatement. And yet, when she wasn’t paying attention, I’d study this fascinating woman from afar. I was painfully shy and socially awkward; she was everything I would never be.

Growing up, my brother once bit my other brother on the arm, breaking the skin. She found out what happened, grabbed a box of dog biscuits from the pantry, and shoved one of them inches away from his trembling lips. Only animals bite, she threatened. I thought he was going to have to eat it. He smartened up after that.

I loved her clothes but was terrified of her wrath—she wasn’t opposed to spankings (or lickings, as she called them)—so I’d often wait for her to go to work before sneaking into her large off-limits closet and selecting my second outfit of the morning, making sure to pack the original in my backpack for a quick change before I got home. The colorful blouses, skirts, and sweaters never fit right but that didn’t matter to me; I felt beautiful in her garments, empowered even.

She did more than light up a room when she entered one; she completely redecorated it to her liking. She easily swayed opinions in her favor and turned enemies into allies with a simple bat of her lashes. Always knowing what people were thinking, always two steps ahead of the game, she was unstoppable—a true force to be reckoned with.

Determination flowed through her veins from the get-go. She worked multiple jobs at a time, put herself through college, earned her master’s degree and became a teacher. Kids feared and respected her at the same time. (I think colleagues did, too.) But while she could be harsh, she had a good heart, and spent a lot of her time trying to make students who were less fortunate feel like they could do and be anything, no matter their backgrounds. She’d give them hand-me-down clothes (the ones I wasn’t allowed to wear), help them write resumes, and encourage them to buckle down when all they wanted was to give up.

She was an enforcer of tough love. When we did something wrong, there would be consequences. When we heard our middle names, we were done for. We were not allowed to swear or talk back. We had to finish our dinners or there’d be no dessert. We were expected to use manners and do our chores right the first time. But even though we moaned and groaned about her strict rules, in the end they made us better people. (To this day I hardly cuss.)

With her summers off, one day she announced she was going to work at a jail. She thought it’d be a challenge. We thought she was crazy. She would help prisoners learn to read and write while they were incarcerated. At first I was worried for her safety, but then I thought about her attitude … her strength … her street smarts. I was suddenly worried for the inmates.

Her wild, unpredictable ways were a constant. She got a tattoo—a vibrant hummingbird on her ankle. Always buzzing around freely, finding something else to conquer, I thought it represented her just right. Then she got a motorcycle—a cherry red Virago, and promptly enrolled in lessons. When she got sick of the bike, she sold it to a man who shouldn’t have purchased it; he was way too big. But she laughed haphazardly as he awkwardly drove off and she put the check in her pocketbook.

She divorced and remarried and soon started using her what-seemed-like endless energy to apply for principal jobs. She craved more power and responsibility. Of course, it didn’t take long before she got hired. School systems would’ve been foolish not to embrace her with open doors. Like King Midas and his magic touch, it seemed everything she touched turned to gold.

But sometimes even gold has the ability to lose its luster over time.

She went to the dermatologist for a routine checkup. On this particular visit, her doctor found a suspicious-looking mole and recommended it get removed right away. She agreed and it was sent to a lab for tests. When the results came back, they were not good: malignant melanoma. Hearing this shook her core; the one I always assumed was unshakeable. She immediately had additional moles removed. Battle wound scars began to pock her porcelain skin. Once carefree outside, she suddenly started lathering up in sunscreen and covering herself with protective long sleeves and windbreakers. She became overly cautious about sun exposure. It dawned on me that she wasn’t as indestructible as I had assumed. In fact, she almost seemed … fragile.

A few years later, she was trying to calm down an unruly student who had become harmful to himself and others at the school. In the process, she badly hurt her hip. Doctors informed her that she would need hip replacement surgery. It sounded absurd—I thought hip replacements were only for old people—but her condition would only get worse if she didn’t have the procedure done.

In reality, she was getting older. And so was I.

These days, her complexion has a healthy, happy glow. Her deep blue-green eyes are outlined with tiny, subtle crinkles; her smile lines are a bit more prominent. She’s let her guard down some, relaxed with time it seems. She’s no longer the crazy, enigmatic woman I had been half afraid of and half in awe of as a child. In fact, I’d consider us, well, friends.

It’s funny how perceptions of people can change. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s the inevitable metamorphosis of turning into one’s own mother, but I can only hope that I’ll be so lucky to follow in her not-so-delicate footsteps. Don’t get me wrong: her devil-like tendencies are definitely still there. But you know, I kind of hope they always will be.

Lights, Camera, Action ... Sort Of

A friend recently texted me and said that the Guilford Mooring restaurant in Connecticut is still airing a commercial I was in a few years ago. I haven't gone to the Mooring in for-ev-er but I laughed and went on the site to see if it happened to be on there, too. It was. If anyone is ever in the Guilford area they should go. Huge portions, reasonable prices and fun bartenders.


The Guilford Mooring Commercial


Note: I look like I'm smiling because I just loooooove the lobster. Don't get me wrong--it was good--but I'm really laughing because they made me put a plastic bib on at the last minute. I felt like such a freakin' goober. Thankfully, you can't really see it in the shot.

:)

the middle seat

We all like our space and have our own comfort zones we prefer others to, well, not occupy. But sometimes we get smooshed into places, or situations, that suddenly become rather uncomforting, confined, and/or suffocating—and we can’t do a dang thing about it. And so, three options are presented:

1. Hold our breath, stare straight ahead and wish we had removable limbs a la Mrs. Potato Head to gain back those precious few inches.

2. Nonchalantly wiggle around like a terrible two-year-old, hoping that the offender(s) will take a hint and move over or elsewhere, as appropriate.

3. Realize that it’s not as big of a deal as we’re imagining and focus on something else for the time being.

Last week I went on an incredibly relaxing Florida vacation with my best friend. We sipped salt-rimmed margaritas, ate fresh seafood, soaked in the sunshine (a little too much—whoops!), and overall just enjoyed each other’s company. It was a much-needed trip, truly deserved.

Monday evening we had to fly home.

Our Southwest airplane landed in Tennessee for a small pit stop—small enough for us to wait 20 minutes on board. We took this time to move from the middle of the plane to the front row where there was ample legroom, a close restroom, and no line we’d have to wait in while dodging carry-on suitcases bombs-awaying at our faces from the overhead compartments at the end of the flight. We figured the last leg to Hartford, CT, on a random Monday wouldn’t fill up and we’d be able to use the center seat as our makeshift coffee table. Thinking this, we happily stretched our legs and scattered our magazines and Twilight books (Eclipse and Breaking Dawn, respectively) around our area.

So I’m leaving out one minor detail: the carefully calculated sprawl out o’ goods was a scam. We didn’t want anyone to sit with us. We were overtired, getting attitude-y, and our ears were still out of whack from the high altitude we had just traveled in. Give us a break.

Jessa stared intently at the same page in her magazine for what seemed like an eternity, pretending to be super-excited about a new lip gloss trick that was supposed to help plump your pout. I nonchalantly craned my neck toward the back, looking for our imaginary friend. (I don’t know; I just thought it seemed helpful in the please-do-not-sit-with-us plan at the time.)

“What if someone asks you if they can sit here?” Jessa quizzed me.

“Um, I don’t know. I think I’d have to say OK,” I mumbled, still looking back.

“You’re such a pushover,” she rolled her eyes (I think). “Of course, make me look like the bad guy.”

I cracked open my complimentary can of water and took a swig.

“What are you doing!?” she hissed. “They’re going to know!”

“Know what?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Know that the water isn’t for someone else who’s sitting with us and ask us to sit here!” she replied. Whoops. I carefully set the can atop Breaking Dawn and peeked through the tiny square aircraft window to see how much longer the line was to board the plane.

“Only a few more people and then we’re safe,” I whispered. “The last person is a big guy in jeans and a blue polo.”

“Watch him ask to sit with us,” she muttered.

“Shut it,” I said, wishing I hadn’t opened the can.

Like annoying delayed departure clockwork, I heard a voice directed at the top of my head. “Excuse me? Is someone sitting there?” I slowly looked up from my “busy” state. A very round man in thick glasses and a strangely coiffed comb-over blinked back at me, waiting.

I was a deer in headlights. Jessa didn’t say a word. “Um, no …” I stammered. I am not getting stuck in the middle seat.

“Well, move over so he can sit then,” Jessa perked up, dripping with fake politeness. Of course.

“You little …” I hissed under my breath. I unhooked my already fastened seatbelt and awkwardly cleared off our makeshift table. Immediately, I started to fume. A huge smile spread across her smug little face.

The man sat down in the Best Seat Available and sighed happily. He stretched his ginormous legs out in a V-formation—forcing me to cross mine and squeeze them together in the process—and leaned a little toward the left (aka against my right shoulder). Then he opened up the tattered paperback he had brought with him in his left grubby palm. (Maybe his hands weren’t grubby, per se, but I was biased at this point.) I didn’t even have to turn my head; I could have read along with him.

Jessa, who five minutes ago had been sleepy and complaining about being in a bad mood, was magically chipper and chirpy as she started pointing out things in her Cosmo magazine. When she noticed my death glares in her direction, she half-smirked. “Whaaat?” she asked coyly. “It’s good for you.”

I didn’t see anything good about it; I hated the freakin’ middle. I liked knowing there was an out if I ever needed it. I didn’t like people touching me, breathing on me, starting small chat. And there I sat, crammed and cranky in my own misery, wanting to ask Mr. Make Himself Comfortable at My Expense if he wanted to sit on my lap while he was at it. Minutes felt like agonizing hours as every move he made was magnified to the hundredth power.

Moping isn’t going to get you anywhere, I finally chided my pouting self, the terrible two-year-old. No one feels bad for you. Get over it.

So I did, simple as that. And it was actually pretty easy. I took a few breaths and reminded myself it wasn’t the end of the world. I started responding to Jessa’s sporadic magazine comments. I sat back in my seat and eventually relaxed my legs a little. I even turned on the guy’s light so he could see what he was reading better. In short: I got over myself.

Sometimes we need a kick in the pants, or a squish from both sides, to make us realize that the world doesn’t revolve around ourselves. Getting over our narcissistic tendencies, having our self-blown bubbles popped now and again, can really wake us up and make us see the things that actually matter: being courteous, remaining calm, and caring about others’ feelings aside from our own.

When we reached the airport, the nice man helped us with our carry-on luggage. I walked off the plane with a tiny smile. The middle seat wasn’t that bad.

A good man

He is a good man.

My aunt chose "Daddy's Hands" by Holly Dunn as her wedding song to dance to with her father. I was really young at the time but I paid attention to the lyrics and I immediately through they were perfectly fitting. My dad would tell me stories of how he could be hard on him and his five younger sisters but from what I had learned on my own, I couldn't imagine any of the tough stuff.

Like Sunday comics or people who become comforting fixtures in your life for whatever reason, he has a signature look: a white t-shirt and slate-colored work pants, or sometimes jeans. Socks and shoes are a must because he's self-conscious about his feet. To this day, I don't think I've ever seen them. And probably never will.

When I was little, I'd go to Memere and Pepere's house and he would always pull out this huge, black lunchbox with a snap on the front. I knew what was in there and I'd smily giddily, already having chosen my color while on the car ride there. Slowly, he'd open the lunchbox or quickly put the contents he pulled out behind his back ... and then, anticipation building, he would show us the most beautiful bouquet of Tootsie Roll Pops a kid could as for. Orange, cherry, grape, chocolate ... whatever we wanted, we could have. Choosing a lollipop with a wrapper that had and Indian with a star on it was extra special. I think we thought it meant we'd get a free lollipop if we took those wrappers to a store, but there was never any need to do that--Pepere always had a stash of lollipops waiting for us. Always.

He'd play cribbage with my dad all the time. "Fifteen for two, fifteen for four, and a pair for six." I don't even know what that means but they'd say those words over and over that it got engrained into my head. Sometimes I'd walk by and mimic them, pretending I knew what they were talking about. Other times I'd ask him to say "linoleum" or "hippopotamus," knowing that he had trouble saying complicated words like that. I'd break into fits of giggles.

He'd sit on his special chair in front of the television, watching Westerns, with a huge bowl of microwaved-for-fifteen-seconds vanilla ice cream. The cat, or Cappi, their fiercely loyal yippity yappity dog, would fight for lap space. Pepere pretended he hated those animals but it was obvious that he loved them like children. And they loved him back. 

And, at times, he and Memere pretended to hate each other, too--suddenly raising their voices in French, not to swear in front of the grandchildren--but you could see it in their eyes that their love was unconditional no matter what, the forever kind. He'd swoop her up in his arms when she least expected it or kiss her softly on the cheek. He'd take her arm and lead her to a dance floor as all eyes turned to them. Their electricity lit up a room. Her face would flush with shyness with fear that people saw these forms of affection. (And we did.)

His favorite saying is one that we hate to hear because we know what's coming next. At the same time, we can't help but laugh. Agewise, he's an old man but there's no doubt about it that he's still such a kid at heart. It's visible in his Santa Claus-like twinkly eyes. In the way he boogies down at weddings as if his joints don't ache one bit. And in the way he pokes fun and plays practical jokes on everyone in our family. His eyes get big, he leans in toward you and excitedly says, "Pull my finger ..." Immediately we know that's our cue to hightail it in the other direction, fleeing for our lives and for our noses' health, but we're instantly challenged. And we always pull. And he lets 'em riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. It's disgusting and funny and vulgar and just freakin' so wrong that it somehow has to be right.

He always know what he's getting for his birthday, Father's Day, or Christmas. You can give him a stick rolled up in yarn with marshmallows glue gunned along one side and he'll still guess it right. "I know what it is ..." he'll say, a huge grin spreading across his top teeth (because he doesn't wear his bottom ones). "Pepere, you're not going to guess this one. Just open it." He looks intently at the horribly wrapped item in his cracked and calloused hands and inspects all angles, sniffs it, shakes it ... "I bet you I can figure out what it is in one guess," he continues. (PS: His bets usually consist of him saying, "Tails I win, heads you lose.") You roll your eyes, knowing what will come next, but it's sill funny, even after five hundred times. "OK, fine. What is it?" you say, giving him his moment. "It's a present!" he finally announces, entirely pleased with himself. And, technically, he's right. That is what it is.

On Easter, he helps hide the hundreds of multi-colored plastic eggs for the grandkids that seem to multiply like bunnies. But he goes a step further by folding up a couple crisp dollar bills and hiding them in trees, in birdhouses, under the dog's water dish, or carefully on a clothesline. Of course the little kids want the eggs but what they really want are the dollar bills. We'd find it a bit odd when the baby of the family ended up finding money and the teenagers couldn't. Pepere's lips were sealed.

This past Christmas, one of my cousins received a metal detector. She took it out in Memere and Pepere's backyard with her dad. Pepere ran out into the front yard to scatter quarters in the snow. And then he went over to the garage to smoke one of his many cigars. We all secretly wish he'd quit and often hint that he should--but he won't listen. Sometimes he'll switch over to toothpicks for a while, but I know he won't stop ...

You see, he's a man on a mission--always spending time with his family, working with his hands, telling jokes, drinking Budweiser (with an inch of pepper on top), working in his beautiful garden. His priorities are straight and he has no desire to slow down any time soon. But this morning he did. A blood clot made him fall over twice. He suffered a stroke.

We're thinking of him. More than ever, I'm thinking of him and the memories he's given me. Life is fragile and fleeting, unsuspecting and unstable. It's beautiful and messy and blurry and blunt. Today I'm taking longer breaths. I'm thinking about my own priorities. I'm remembering to tell the people whom I care about how much I care. And I'm hoping that this good man will recover as quickly as possible.

He still has a lot of living to do.

Small Gestures, Big Pictures

There is a new FOX show called Secret Millionaire. The premise is simple but so, so, so great: a millionaire disguises himself (or herself) as a regular, everyday person and participates in some kind of weeklong charity work alongside actual charity workers who volunteer their valuable time for a good cause on a daily basis. At the end of the week, the millionaire reveals that he or she is actually very well-off—and then donates a heck of a lot of money to that organization and its cause. I love it.

Last Christmas, I won a Sony DVD player at a raffle and never opened it. It stayed under my bed for a year. Today I received a company-wide e-mail at work that was requesting things to make one less fortunate family’s holidays a little bit brighter. I noticed that the young daughter had received a children’s DVD and I assumed that the family probably didn’t have a DVD player for her to watch it. I e-mailed the charity’s contact person to check if they had one—and I was right: nope. I told her I’d bring one in for the mother tomorrow. (Thankfully, they have a TV.)

I used to throw my old, unwanted clothing away in trash bags without even thinking twice. Now I drive them to the big, yellow mailbox-like bins located all over town and place them inside. I know I’ll probably never be able to “give back” the way Secret Millionaire people do, but I guess my small gestures will help add up in the big picture.

And speaking of big pictures, at least I’ll know that one little girl will have a slightly wider grin next week when her mother presses “play.”

Soundbytes of a Good Life

There is this woman that works on the same floor as me. I don’t know her name. I have never seen her face. If we passed each other in the hallway I’d have no idea that she is the one who catches my attention these days. What’s her allure? Well, she seems incredibly … happy. How so? She lets out the loudest, most uncontrollable belly laughs in the quietest moments of our cubicle environment – and she doesn’t give a damn who hears her.

Maybe it’s the holiday spirit that’s subtly creeping into all corners, fuzzy-walled or not, of our lives. I don’t know. But while some people may find the sudden sound annoying, I really like it.

Last night I went out to dinner with a girlfriend from my former job. The Blue Pearl, located in downtown New Haven, Connecticut, is all about enjoying the artsy ambience, good friends, and great fondue. Even though parking was a dark and slushy nightmare, it didn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about and this night was going to be all about enjoying the good life. We had two priorities: indulge and relax. Plain and simple.

We ordered chilled Conundrum – you have to try it – and the large surf and turf plate with chipotle hollandaise sauce. Then we got to stabbing our dinner and sitting back in our trendy chairs. Time was the last thing on our minds and while we talked and tasted and talked some more, we were able to catch up on her wedding plans, our Christmas travels, our families, our love lives, our work lives, and everything else in between. And just when we were about to surrender our dinner skewers, we opted to order dessert instead. Imagine this: fresh strawberries, pineapple, bananas, Lady Fingers, marshmallows, banana bread, and Rice Krispie squares being dipped in rich Venetian espresso and semi-sweet chocolate … Honestly, all will power is thrown out the door when a masterpiece like that is placed in front of you.

The candlelight danced upon the retro-colored walls as the few people there sincerely basked in the company they kept. Our waitress casually refilled our oversized wine glasses. Our heads bobbed to the upbeat music that gently swirled around us like a light winter’s snow (or wait – maybe that was the wine?). Either way, we found ourselves laughing the loudest, most uncontrollable belly laughs in the quietest moments of our dimly-lit environment – and we didn’t give a damn who heard us.

face VALUE

Sometimes something catches my eye and I fixate on it. It will be something I was completely oblivious to before but once I hone in on it, it’s all I see.

One day I noticed I had a single, half-inch long smile line on the left side of my face. Yes, it was faint but I became obsessed with it. I’d stick my tongue in my left cheek to see if it would disappear on demand. I’d apply makeup extra carefully to that side of my face. I’d rub an index finger along the tiny groove to try to wear it away when no one was looking. And when they were, I’d secretly compare my baby wrinkle to whatever smile (or frown) lines they happened to own. I wouldn’t judge them; I just took to noticing what I had never paid attention to before. I was intrigued. I guess I subconsciously found comfort in knowing that other people had what I suddenly had—that I wasn’t alone in my inevitably wrinkly ways, as miniscule as they were.

No sooner had I (sort of) accepted my little left-sided line was I distracted by another facial fixation: forehead wrinkles.

I’m not a good listener—let’s say I suffer from selective hearing—and as my boyfriend was telling me about his experiences at work recently, I found myself paying closer attention to the three prominent forehead wrinkles that bounced and bobbed as he spoke. They’d spring to life whenever he’d get excited; they’d soften whenever he was calm and relaxed. Almost hypnotic-like, I started focusing on everyone’s forehead wrinkles: some barely visible, some you could separate with your fingers, some brought on by too much sun worshipping (tsk, tsk), and some that just make people simply look more … distinguished. I found myself lifting my eyebrows as high as they could go to see if I could create wrinkles, too. I’d raise ‘em up and slide my finger down my own forehead, feeling for creases. Strangely, no matter how hard I tried, they wouldn’t show up.

Then, while applying makeup in the early morning hours a few weeks ago I craned my neck toward the bathroom mirror, just like any regular day. Lifting my head to better apply my black Mabelline mascara, I froze. There they were. And on their own. Not yet wrinkles but no longer perma-smooth skin as before, I noticed the tiny beginnings of baby wrinkles. They weren’t actual lines, per se, but they were there. The darn things that I tried so hard to get by making funny faces. And now I wanted nothing to do with them. At the same time, they were fascinating. I’d lift my eyebrows to see the subtle ridges and immediately stop. What are you doing? I asked myself, but it was like scratching a mosquito bite until it bleeds. You’re going to make them stay there … permanently.

I never really thought about getting older until this year. This year is when I started questioning my priorities, questioning my goals, and questioning what’s out there—not really knowing what “there” I’m referring to and not really knowing if I want to know. It’s scary getting older, growing up. You start to realize that no matter who your support team consists of, when it all comes down to it, you’re on your own. It’s exhilarating. It’s nerve-wracking. It’s intense. It’s mental and physical and funny and fragile all mixed into one.

When I look into the mirror these days, I see a lot more than I used to bargain for. It’s definitely ... interesting ... and makes me think twice about what face value really means.