Three years ago today, my family and I suffered a great loss, which rocked an already loosened foundation from less than two years before that.  Less than a month later, some of my cousins would face another blow and, six months after that, I lost another person that was special to me; 2009 was not my friend.  She was a daughter, a sister, a wife, mother, aunt, cousin…but she was my grandmother.  When I was young, she and my grandfather moved fromNew YorktoFloridaand, due to circumstances that were beyond my control, I was not able to see her as often as I would have liked.

At our most recent family gathering, my cousin Jill and I, while sitting on the stoop to get some fresh air from a stiflingly hot house, aside from our usual discussion about boys, brought up our grandmother.  She possessed many talents; one of them being that she was an excellent seamstress.  We’d go over to her house where, she would get out her tape measure, or have fittings of a partially made dress.  We had couture dresses and I didn’t even know it; perhaps that is where my love for fashion stems from.  I don’t know what made Jill and I think about it at that second, but we did.  We were for a moment, feeling the loss…then both said how, we wished that we still had those dresses, at least one of them.  Maybe they are packed away somewhere.

Not long after, Jill and I vacated the stoop, as the coldness of the cement was seeping through, and rejoined our family inside.  I thought of my grandmother again when our aunt handed out the annual potholders; she had taken over the tradition of making them.  Its funny how, despite a loss, life always continues.  You never get over it; you just go on. 

Three years ago, I was sitting at my desk at work, wishing for my father not to call me.  In fact, he had been down there for a week and, every day I would call him…multiple times, because I knew that when the day came that he called me, my grandmother would be gone.  I was sitting at my desk three years ago when my father called me.  I knew before I even picked up the phone.  I took off from work for the rest of that week and was on a plane the next day; my father met me at the gate.  There’s a lot that I could say about that cluster of days, many, many things…  The main thing is that, I lost my grandmother that day, and I’ve missed her ever since.  I’ll love her forever.

Last week, a floor lamp of mine suddenly stopped working…okay, it wasn’t exactly suddenly.  For a few days before the actual event transpired, it had been giving me problems.  I didn’t think I could really do anything at the time, and had suspicions that it was possibly the light bulb, so I ignored it.  I turned if off one night and when I tried turning it on the next morning, to my frustration, it did not work.  I have gotten many, “have you changed the light bulb” jokes from people, but I am proud to say, that I actually did try that…it just wasn’t the problem (and, it almost made me late to work that morning).

After going through the rest of the week with the constant reminder; the floor lamp resides next to my door and consequently is the first light that I turn on when entering my apartment, I took it upon myself to try and fix it.  This of course, was after multiple phone calls to my father and a friend who, both promised to come and take a look at it, but never did.  My friend just redeemed himself last night, and my father is inFloridavisiting his father, so, he is excused.

Carefully, I set my lamp horizontally on the floor; this required for me to take apart the top, so that the glass dome did not break.  Then, I got my tool box out, having decided that I wasn’t sure what I might need, though I was pretty sure it would be some sort of screw driver, and did not feel like running back and forth to procure the correct item.  So I, having no knowledge of what I was doing, set about to try and fix my lamp.  I did not get very far however.  Where I felt the problem was, I physically could not find a way to take it apart any further…and this has now been confirmed by my friend, who took a look at it last night.  I will have to purchase a new lamp…

Saturday morning, as I left the warmth of a cozy Manhattan apartment in search of a cab, the world was completely white.  I was wearing my new suede knee-high boots, discretely trotting through newly fallen snow, trying not to slip…clearly, not the most appropriate attire; although, I had sprayed them the night before with a water resistant spray, I still worried.  Snow, after all, is no friend of suede.

The snow was still falling, and there was barely a car in sight; however, the gray matter, which only forms on roads after tires have tread across them, was visible on the snow-ladened asphalt.  I detest the gray matter.  Many a shoe has been ruined by it.  Many a day has been spent frustratingly trying to walk around it; the gray matter is known for turning streets into rivers.  It is what made me lose some of my love for snow, but on this morning however, the childhood fondness came back to me.  If I had been wearing the proper foot attire, I would have gladly trodden through it. Sadly, I was not.

As quickly as the fondness came, it left, as I let myself into a cab and realized that the street conditions were only going to get worse…especially by my apartment in its little suburbian niche of Queens.  My road is almost never plowed.  Last winter, during one of our many snow storms, I physically could not open my door to leave and was forced to stay home, until my landlord came and dug me out somewhere in the mid-afternoon.  As predicted, the road conditions on the highway deteriorated as we progressed closer to my home…a trip that should have taken twenty minutes, twenty-five tops, ended up being more than double. 

We got off at my exit and, I held my breath.  There was no sign of gray matter; the streets were completely white.  I’m sure the cab driver was far from happy that I had jumped into his cab…but, at least he didn’t throw me out like cabbies are prone to do when they find out your intentions of going outside of the borough ofManhattan; even though they are technically not supposed to be doing that.  I snuggled in the snow-less shelter of my apartment that day, and vowed to take a real walk in the snow the next. 

Almost a week later, and it has rained quite a lot; I never did get to take my walk.  The temperatures are supposed to hit near sixty degrees today, but it is so dark and gloomy out that I don’t care how warm it may be.  It could be worse though, all of this rain could be snow.

For those who don’t know already, I am obsessed with notebooks and writing tools. The way that many people feel about how, a change in scenery can give a clear head and refresh your mind, I believe that the same can be achieved by purchasing a new notebook, pens and pencils. I cannot tell you how many of these I have scattered about my apartment, but the number of pens and pencils far exceed that of notebooks, for one reason…I go through notebooks more quickly. To understand this, I must explain my method of writing.

I handwrite everything. Yes, I own a computer, and yes, I have tried the whole stream-of-consciousness method of writing, which is the only way I can write on a computer, but it’s just not the same for me. I feel that, the second my fingers touch the keys, the thought is instantly lost from my mind, but when I put pen to paper, that’s never the case. So, along with my need to handwrite everything, comes my need for it to always look perfect. I constantly edit while I write (it is probably my greatest passion) and after a while, there’s a lot of cross-outs on my page which, for some reason, start to block my thoughts, so I tear out the page and rewrite it, editing some more as I go along. I cannot tell you how many times I perform this action, but by the time I am ready to type, there has been a transformation. My garbage can is usually filled with crumpled up pieces of paper. Many of you may think that this method is a waste of time, when I could just directly write on the computer, review once and be done with it, but this method works for me.

A few weekends ago, I went to Target in search of a few items and decided to briefly visit the stationary section. I was on a time constraint, as I had plans to see my aunt that afternoon and other errands to run beforehand, but, I told myself that I was just going to breeze through it; I lied. As soon as I entered the aisle, I was in heaven. I walked up to the pens and started perusing, taking up a few different kinds from which I would allow myself to choose one from. Next, I walked over to the mechanical pencils and, after a little digging, found a singular pink one that came with an extra eraser (I’d never seen that before) and, more importantly, extra lead. Of course, I had to get it. Then finally I turned around, and allowed myself the pleasure of looking at the notebooks for the first time. Seeing as how I was purchasing new writing tools, it seemed only fair that they have something new to write in as well.

I must have spent close to an hour in that section, leafing through all of the different notebooks that they had. I felt as if I was in a sea of notebooks. At one point, I discarded my purse and latte on the floor so that I could have full use of both of my hands. Unfortunately, other than a small notebook, none of them spoke to me. Small notebooks are great, but I find I write better with the normal sized ones. Maybe because there is simply more room to write on.

I left Target, feeling slightly incomplete, and drove across the parking lot to a food store that was nearby. Upon parking my vehicle, I realized that I was right next to a Staples. I thought to myself, they must have full-sized notebooks in there for me, so I went in. I had barely stepped foot through the doors, when I was immediately distracted from my task by an entire aisle of writing tools. I stopped in front of some pens and, was about to lose myself amongst them, when I came to my senses and backed away; I had just purchased some. Next, I stumbled upon a section of post-its…more post-its than you could ever imagine. I wanted to buy all of them, but compromised and allowed myself the luxury of one, singular post-it; a purple rectangle embossed with shoes on the bottom, left-hand corner. Perfect. I left the post-it aisle and continued my journey, holding back the urge to walk into the next one, which was full of folders and binders, until finally, I made it to the notebooks

Slowly, I gazed over every single one. I was, at first, disappointed with their collection; it seemed like Target had an exuberant amount of which, Staples just did not seem to possess. Then I looked more closely. By this time, my latte was long-gone, so I had no obstacles in my way. I plunged into the notebooks, picking the occasional one up, examining it closely, and always, putting it back. Frustrated, I was about to leave, when I spotted a flower-covered one peaking out from behind a few plain ones. I pulled it out from underneath and looked inside. Not only did the lines meet all of my qualifications, but the pages were watermarked with flowers running down the right-hand side. I took both the notebook and my shoe post-it, and headed directly to the register, ignoring the urge to explore any further. I handed the cashier the money, took my purchases, and walked out of the store with a smile on my face. It’s the simple, nerdy things that make me happy.

Ever since I finished the last novel that I was reading, I have been at an impasse.  No matter what I do, I have not been able to get into my next novel…and, it has nothing to do with the second one.  This is not the first time that this has happened to me, generally, it occurs after I have completed an exceptionally great novel.  So, what do I do?

I’ve tried it all: reading another piece by the same author, picking a different genre, alternating with a classic, leafing through fashion magazines (I’ve recently discovered that, with the exception of my beloved Vogue, I find most magazines boring), I’ve even taken breaks from reading altogether.  Bottom line, none of these always work because they’re not what I crave.  It’s frustrating, when all you want to do is relax with a novel, but…you just can’t bring yourself to do it. 

Enter two things.  The first, is that I have now given that novel to two people and, have forced them to read it, so that I can continue to vicariously read it along with them, whist they bring up different parts for discussion; discussing literature is almost as much fun as reading it.  I have to admit though…I am a bit jealous of them, because I want to actually be reading it and experiencing it, but this is the next best thing.  The second thing is that now, since Vogue has just come out, I think I will be able to distract myself enough to then be able to pick up my new novel again.   But unfortunately, sometimes, the only thing that works is time.

What is it about the cold weather that drives us indoors? Why is it that the summer is more desirable? In the summer, I don’t walk out of my house and say that I’m going to brave the heat wave. During the hottest days, I put my sunglasses on, wear my hair up, and stroll leisurely around in the sun, ignoring the fact that sweat is coming out of my pores. I let my body drink up the sun’s natural vitamin d and, my skin obtains a healthy glow.

In the winter, I walk with my head tilted slightly down, my shoulders hunched inward, trying to keep my scarf in place and protect myself from the crisp wind. Although a sunny day still brings a smile to my face, the shock of the frigid temperature instantly takes it away. The only time that I am genuinely satisfied with the winter is on a “warm” day.

Its funny how, the temperatures that we run away from in one season, we run to in the other. They both boast extreme temperatures albeit, in opposite directions, but how different are they really? As a child, I didn’t mind the change. I played in pools in the summer and tried to build igloos with my brothers in the winter. We never actually succeeded at that; more often than not, our igloos looked like poor attempts at small, circular, incomplete forts. My brothers would get into snowball fights and, I would occasionally throw one or two, when no one was looking.

Then I grew up and my whole viewpoint changed. Instead of playing outside during the cold months, I’d rather be indoors drinking a glass of wine by the fireplace. In the summer, I could live at the beach, or really, anywhere outdoors; I never want to leave the sun. Can we only ever enjoy both seasons when we are young? Does your mind just automatically press a switch when you enter into adulthood?

We dress in layers for one and shed our clothes for the other, but are they really so different? Is one really better than the other? I don’t think one is. It’s not the seasons that change between childhood and adulthood, it’s us, individually, that do. We seem to feel that, in order to grow up, we have to stop having fun, and in the process, we lose some of our appreciation for nature and all it’s beauty because, the winter, although cold, can be just as beautiful as the summer.

There is nothing like the perfect New York night: great food, drinks, amazing company, the ability to hail a cab at a moment’s notice and, the fact that although it’s winter, the temperature is extremely mild. You forget about the rest of the world and the night feels like it could last forever. Aside from my New Year’s Eve festivities, which don’t count because, everyone was out celebrating that night, I hadn’t had the perfect New York night in a while. That is, until this past friday.

Friday night, I ran home from work, showered, changed, and drove back into the city to meet a friend for dinner. It was my first time driving through the tunnel and, I’m sure that whoever was behind me was cursing me out but, it was a little scary so, I did the speed limit. I wanted to close my eyes but, figured that was a bad idea, so I just looked straight ahead.

We ended up catching a cab and heading downtown to this trendy restaurant in the East Village called, Momofuku. It has an Asian inspired American cuisine and, if that doesn’t confuse you enough, it boasts a menu that certainly will. Luckily, the waiters and waitresses are skilled in aiding your needs. Momofuku is not one of those place that you can just walk into and get seated right away; there’s always a wait. So, we walked over to the bar and waited for them to call our name.

They had some interesting wine choices. I, of course, went with a Pinot Blanc from Alscase, which I stuck with through the rest of our stay there and, my friend started off with a scotch drink (the name of which escapes me) but switched to a red of my choice during dinner. I cannot tell you exactly what we had because, honestly, I don’t know, but everything there was delicious.

After dinner, we hailed a cab and went a little ways uptown to a cute bar for some drinks. That’s sort of what you do in the city; bounce around from one place to the next, always going to multiple places in one night. New York is, after all, the city that never sleeps. We had a couple of drinks there, then called it a night and, I stayed at my friend’s place because I wasn’t about to get back in the car. Of course, with the wine and the not sleeping at my place, I had to wait until the following night for a decent sleep, but that didn’t matter; the perfect New York evening does not consist of a good night’s rest, it’s about every moment leading up to it.

Since June, I have been frequenting JFK airport, although, I have not traveled anywhere myself.  It seems to be that, I am the preferred chauffeur of my family when it comes to their comings and goings.  I have been to JFK so much so that, I think it’s safe to say, I know my way around the maze of terminals and highways…because let’s face it, that is exactly what it is: a maze.  (Okay, I still get lost on occasion☺) 

Tonight I will be once again visiting the airport, to drop off my father while he goes on yet another vacation (he retired last year)…this time, to Puerto Rico with his girlfriend to visit her family. They have been going to Puerto Rico once a year for the past ten years I would say, and I have never once gone with them. I almost was going to join them this time, however, the costs were ridiculous (they’re flying on buddy-passes and could not get a third one), so I will not be partaking in their journey.

I am especially jealous because they will be leaving behind the frigid temperatures of New York and running to temps in the eighties.  I know that things here are supposed to warm up for the weekends, but, oh, how I long for those warm summer days where, I would run away from all of my problems and stresses to the beach; nothing seemed to matter when I was laying out on the beach.  The world seemed to be so far away.  (I had a ridiculous tan☺) 

I would leave my sublet in the East Village those days and, on my four block walk to the subway, I would stop inside a deli and purchase a sandwich and bottle of water for the beach.  These would be kept in my trusty basket, which, although is lined in stripes of different shades of blue (blue is my least favorite color, although I know that it looks really good on me) I love it.  I purchased it at one of my favorite haunts in Huntington.  So, I would sit at the beach with my sandwich and water, and literally spend the whole day there, just doing nothing.  I would bring my ipod and magazines, or a book, but I would never pick any of them up…it was just so relaxing and peaceful.  My jealousy stems from there, lol, because if I were traversing the globe with them, that is exactly what I would be doing☺. 

So tonight, at a very undesirable hour, I will be on my way to the airport.  Of course, before that, I have to meet my father at his place in Brooklyn…and we know how I feel about that.  He is the only reason that I ever venture to those far away parts.  I don’t even remember the last time I was on an airplane, and I love flying…hopefully, at some point this year, I will be headed to the airport as a customer, not a visitor☺.