Resolutions
You really know it is the end of the year when you turn on the TV. CNN counts down the biggest news stories of the year. VH1 counts down the biggest celebrity scandals of 2006, and fortunately Nicole Richie got in under the wire just in time with her DUI this month. It’s the time of year which is quiet in the city – the tourists have boarded their flights home, people work on half-throttle, offices are filled with left over remnants of fruit cakes and holiday cookies and vacant of staff. It is the time of year where people reflect, give pause for the passing of time and the changes in their life. It made want to write this little poem:
T’was right before New Years and all thru the town
The offices are empty and no one’s around
The city is alive with post holiday cheer
As people return gifts knowing that 2007 is near
With paper and pen they sit and craft lists
Things to give up and resolutions not to be missed
Oh, they think, I will eat healthier next year
I’ll go to the gym, I’ll give up drinking beer
We reflect on the months and days that have gone by
2006 went so fast, a blink of the eye
Where does time go? We sit and we wonder
A year flew by in a clap of thunder
Summer 06 seems so far away
Hamptons excursions and Upper East Side long lazy days
So many changes as the world spins
Britney Spears went from fat trailer trash to still skanky but thin
In my world, 2006 was good to me
Bringing me M and a love that was meant to be
A year ago NewYear’s was filled with hope and a long list of wishes
To fall in love, maybe even register for dishes
And now here we are on the cusp of 2007
Engaged and in love, life feels like heaven
I give thanks for my luck and for fortune abound
For health and happiness to everyone around
It’s amazing what can happen in 12 months time
Life went from stagnant to simply sublime
Next year I hope for all that is good
For my friends, family and the whole neighborhood
Every New Year’s Eve I always steal a moment away from the revelry, from the drunken cheer that echoes from the doors of each bar as people throw back shots and guzzle champagne. I walk away, I hid in the bathroom, I go outside. I reflect on what has happened, on what I hope will change and what I hope will remain the same. To me, there is a sadness with the passing of years, of time which continues to march forward even if I wish to freeze it in that moment. This year though, I am more thankful than ever for what I have, for those in my life who I cherish and love. And to me, that is what New Year’s Eve is all about.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Silence is Golden
Silence is Golden
In New York City, there are a few things which one needs to accept as facts of daily life; traffic jams, crowded subways, over priced apartments and noise. The first three, I have come to live with comfortably, as inevitable conclusions of city life. However, the last one; “noise” I continue to grapple with on an entirely new level.
I am accustomed to waking up to the beep of our alarm clock, a kind of pestering reminder that it is time to toss off the covers and jump in the shower. But this week, M and I were startled awake by a noise that can only be described as stabbing-ear piercing-machinery-death cries. A mere 5 inches of brick and wall away from my head three men stood jackhammering our terrace. “What the hell is that?” M asked as he jumped from the bed. Looking out the window to what once as a functioning outdoor space, a crew of 10 or so workers stood drinking their early morning coffee as the others commenced the job of redoing the entire terrace. It was 7:30 am, an ungodly hour for an alarm clock our any loud sustained booming.
One call to the management company later, we learned that construction was underway on a “redo” of our terrace. “How long is this going to go on for?” I asked.
“4 weeks,” he answered. I was going to be sick.
With that, I hung up the phone, put on my Uggs and headed out to the diner for early morning egg whites and coffee. (I’m on the wedding diet). After I skimmed the Post and thoroughly read Page 6 I returned to my apartment hoping, that perhaps – just maybe the jackhammering had ceased. How long could it possibly take to remove some old tiles? Instead of peace and quiet, I came home to a pool of dog piss and a much shaken Chief. Usually greeted by tail wagging that sends things on the coffee table crashing to the floor, I was dismayed to find a panting and angst ridden dog staring out the window. “Chief,” I called him. No response. Fixated on outside, he was terrified. A 200lb whimpering mess, he whined and cried like a three year girl who had her skirt pulled up on the playground.
I grabbed his leash and got him out of there. In the lobby I asked the doorman how much longer the noise was going to continue. “Do they break for lunch? Does this go on all day? He nodded. “You mean to tell me they are out there from dawn to dusk? It sounds like machine gun fire in my skull. I can’t take that torture for a month.”
“They are jackhammering only for the first week,” the doorman said.
So there I was with a 200lb dog, a laptop bag and still in my pajamas with no where to go. It’s not like I could head over to Starbucks with Chief. How do you kill 4 hours in New York City with a massive dog in December without killing yourself? I wandered around aimlessly with no where to go. I decided to go to the only logical place – the dog park.
Inside the gated area, a concrete enclave that was suspended over the FDR with glistening vistas of the East River, I let Chief off his leash to romp and play with the other dogs. At first, he stood next to me unsure what to do. “Go play,” I told him and pointed to two schnauzers and a King Charles spaniel that chased a tennis ball. It took him a while to adjust to being unleashed and free to cause havoc unabated, but soon he was running in circles stopping each lap to pee on the same spot. With a tank that large, he had to pee a lot.
I spent the next few hours reading my book and watching the dogs play. The loud cacophony of the city drowned out by yips and yaps, there was a serene sense which is rare in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side. Chief, exhausted from the tedious task of peeing and walking a loop, lumbered over to me giving me the signal that he wanted to go home. He howled a goodbye to his new dog friends as we walked back to our building.
I opened the door to the apartment. Silence. I remained in the doorway for a few minutes before I entered, ready to run for the elevator should head-banging-tare-your-eyeballs-out sound return. Nothing. Chief having forgotten all about that morning dashed to his food dish to see if the Magical Pizza fairy dropped some crust into it. Disappointed, he head over the couch and collapsed. “You’ve got the right idea,” I said curling up next to him. We slept in silence, blissful undisturbed quiet until M got home.
“Long day,” he said as he hung up his coat on the door hook. “I just need some peace and quiet.”
Chief and I couldn’t agree more.
In New York City, there are a few things which one needs to accept as facts of daily life; traffic jams, crowded subways, over priced apartments and noise. The first three, I have come to live with comfortably, as inevitable conclusions of city life. However, the last one; “noise” I continue to grapple with on an entirely new level.
I am accustomed to waking up to the beep of our alarm clock, a kind of pestering reminder that it is time to toss off the covers and jump in the shower. But this week, M and I were startled awake by a noise that can only be described as stabbing-ear piercing-machinery-death cries. A mere 5 inches of brick and wall away from my head three men stood jackhammering our terrace. “What the hell is that?” M asked as he jumped from the bed. Looking out the window to what once as a functioning outdoor space, a crew of 10 or so workers stood drinking their early morning coffee as the others commenced the job of redoing the entire terrace. It was 7:30 am, an ungodly hour for an alarm clock our any loud sustained booming.
One call to the management company later, we learned that construction was underway on a “redo” of our terrace. “How long is this going to go on for?” I asked.
“4 weeks,” he answered. I was going to be sick.
With that, I hung up the phone, put on my Uggs and headed out to the diner for early morning egg whites and coffee. (I’m on the wedding diet). After I skimmed the Post and thoroughly read Page 6 I returned to my apartment hoping, that perhaps – just maybe the jackhammering had ceased. How long could it possibly take to remove some old tiles? Instead of peace and quiet, I came home to a pool of dog piss and a much shaken Chief. Usually greeted by tail wagging that sends things on the coffee table crashing to the floor, I was dismayed to find a panting and angst ridden dog staring out the window. “Chief,” I called him. No response. Fixated on outside, he was terrified. A 200lb whimpering mess, he whined and cried like a three year girl who had her skirt pulled up on the playground.
I grabbed his leash and got him out of there. In the lobby I asked the doorman how much longer the noise was going to continue. “Do they break for lunch? Does this go on all day? He nodded. “You mean to tell me they are out there from dawn to dusk? It sounds like machine gun fire in my skull. I can’t take that torture for a month.”
“They are jackhammering only for the first week,” the doorman said.
So there I was with a 200lb dog, a laptop bag and still in my pajamas with no where to go. It’s not like I could head over to Starbucks with Chief. How do you kill 4 hours in New York City with a massive dog in December without killing yourself? I wandered around aimlessly with no where to go. I decided to go to the only logical place – the dog park.
Inside the gated area, a concrete enclave that was suspended over the FDR with glistening vistas of the East River, I let Chief off his leash to romp and play with the other dogs. At first, he stood next to me unsure what to do. “Go play,” I told him and pointed to two schnauzers and a King Charles spaniel that chased a tennis ball. It took him a while to adjust to being unleashed and free to cause havoc unabated, but soon he was running in circles stopping each lap to pee on the same spot. With a tank that large, he had to pee a lot.
I spent the next few hours reading my book and watching the dogs play. The loud cacophony of the city drowned out by yips and yaps, there was a serene sense which is rare in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side. Chief, exhausted from the tedious task of peeing and walking a loop, lumbered over to me giving me the signal that he wanted to go home. He howled a goodbye to his new dog friends as we walked back to our building.
I opened the door to the apartment. Silence. I remained in the doorway for a few minutes before I entered, ready to run for the elevator should head-banging-tare-your-eyeballs-out sound return. Nothing. Chief having forgotten all about that morning dashed to his food dish to see if the Magical Pizza fairy dropped some crust into it. Disappointed, he head over the couch and collapsed. “You’ve got the right idea,” I said curling up next to him. We slept in silence, blissful undisturbed quiet until M got home.
“Long day,” he said as he hung up his coat on the door hook. “I just need some peace and quiet.”
Chief and I couldn’t agree more.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
A Journey Not a Destination
“Life is a journey, not a destination”
I do not believe Ralph Waldo Emerson had wedding planning in mind when he spoke those profound words, but I do believe them to be true when it pertains especially to wedding planning.
As I sit and plan methodically for what will be merely 5 hours of my life, I came to realize that it is about the experience of planning a wedding and not the wedding itself. For many brides I know, planning a wedding required weekly sessions on a shrink’s couch, a litany of mood altering prescriptions, a deluge of tears and many new grey hairs.
Strolling up 3rd Avenue and enjoying the unusually warm December weather I noticed the store “Wedding Things”, which, until recently I was have kept on walking past as I would a gardening supply store. Curious to see what items were missing from my war chest of planning tools, I wandered inside. Among the tulle draped tables of knickknacks and cards I noticed a wedding countdown clock. A miniature version of the Time Square clock which counts the hours until the New Year, this digital clock ticked down the seconds, hours, days and months until your upcoming nuptials. It might as well have had a rainbow collection of wires coming out of it, like a bomb ready to explode if the wrong color wire was cut.
“If I brought this home,” I said to the sales clerk who rung me up for a box of cards, “my fiancé would take this ring back.” First he would smash the clock to bits with a fire poker or a cinderblock and then make a projectile of it until it fell in tiny plastic raindrops to the ground where it would then be pounded into the pavement by a cab. While I thought the clock was a kitschy fun gift for a bride to be, for a bride-in-planning it was a stark reminder of the tasks that lay ahead – a new version of a biological (warfare) clock.
At first the planning is a whirlwind of ideas – of pages torn from bridal magazines, web pages of dresses and floral centerpieces downloaded, dreams of gracefully walking down the aisle. It’s all fuzzy and cute, oozing with excitement and naïve wonderment. But soon the ideas need to turn to action, to task lists and budget lines. The perfect white wedding erupts into storm clouds of issues. The flowers you have dreamed of are not in season. The band who you want to book is suddenly stolen from you overnight by a feistier and faster bride. The inevitable grappling over guest list count, who makes the cut and who winds up in the scrap pile – can quickly send you running for a bottle of Advil.
My clock is ticking.
“We will need an answer by tomorrow,” the band leader said to me. “I have a ton of people with your wedding date and I know a lot of proposals are out there.”
“You know you need to order the dress by January,” the pushy bridal gown saleswoman said to me as she yanked up the zipper. “We will need time to alter it. The sooner the better to get your order in. Things get busy. Everyone gets engaged around Christmas. I wouldn’t let it go much longer,” she added sounding more like a doctor suggesting I get a mole removed than someone peddling organza and silk satin.
Back in my apartment with contracts spread across the floor, a calculator next to me and a bottle of Advil in arm’s reach, I decided planning a wedding was no longer fun. While I was never that annoying girl who had her wedding planned from the time she was old enough not to eat the white crayon - the one which had every detail planned except for who the groom is; I did, over the years, develop concepts. More a mental list of ideas than ones wrapped in pink ribbons on scented stationery that was filed away in a hope chest. I wanted kissing fish in bowls on each table. I wanted an outdoor wedding on Nantucket in September. I wanted matching sweater sets and taffeta ballroom skirts for my bridesmaids in plaid pastel colors. I wanted a sunset that bled burning amber shades into the horizon. I wanted a cool breeze, a loud band, lava rocks leading towards the ocean where I would run barefoot towards the surf.
As it turns out, I am doing none of this – save for the kissing fish idea which is still under investigation.
I mark time by the drug store display windows of Duane Reade. When I got engaged, Halloween costumes and bags of Butterfingers graced the display case. Then came the turkey garlands and gourds. Now, Duane Reade is awash in Santa hats, Christmas lights and candy canes. Three window changes since the ring was slipped onto my finger! According the wedding clock on WeddingChannel.com I have a mere 317 days left until that auspicious moment.
I want to enjoy the moments of planning. I want to marvel in the journey, not unravel. A wedding night is but a blip of time, passing so quickly that your memories last no longer than your ice sculpture. But the time in wait, in planning – the months leading up to that grand finale are what should be savored. The wedding itself is the encore. The time with your fiancé in the china department; with your mother in the bridal gown store; with your bridesmaids choosing colors of cheap taffeta gowns; with your families at engagement celebrations – that is the show. That is the journey. The destination, well – it’s a nice place, but it’s the final act. And when that is over….so is the show.
I will be writing a bridal column as well for UpperEast.com. Please be sure to check that out, pass it along to any friends or family who may be planning a wedding as well. The column will encompass all aspects of being a bride, planning a wedding as well add a bit of needed humor along the way. Click here to check it out!
I do not believe Ralph Waldo Emerson had wedding planning in mind when he spoke those profound words, but I do believe them to be true when it pertains especially to wedding planning.
As I sit and plan methodically for what will be merely 5 hours of my life, I came to realize that it is about the experience of planning a wedding and not the wedding itself. For many brides I know, planning a wedding required weekly sessions on a shrink’s couch, a litany of mood altering prescriptions, a deluge of tears and many new grey hairs.
Strolling up 3rd Avenue and enjoying the unusually warm December weather I noticed the store “Wedding Things”, which, until recently I was have kept on walking past as I would a gardening supply store. Curious to see what items were missing from my war chest of planning tools, I wandered inside. Among the tulle draped tables of knickknacks and cards I noticed a wedding countdown clock. A miniature version of the Time Square clock which counts the hours until the New Year, this digital clock ticked down the seconds, hours, days and months until your upcoming nuptials. It might as well have had a rainbow collection of wires coming out of it, like a bomb ready to explode if the wrong color wire was cut.
“If I brought this home,” I said to the sales clerk who rung me up for a box of cards, “my fiancé would take this ring back.” First he would smash the clock to bits with a fire poker or a cinderblock and then make a projectile of it until it fell in tiny plastic raindrops to the ground where it would then be pounded into the pavement by a cab. While I thought the clock was a kitschy fun gift for a bride to be, for a bride-in-planning it was a stark reminder of the tasks that lay ahead – a new version of a biological (warfare) clock.
At first the planning is a whirlwind of ideas – of pages torn from bridal magazines, web pages of dresses and floral centerpieces downloaded, dreams of gracefully walking down the aisle. It’s all fuzzy and cute, oozing with excitement and naïve wonderment. But soon the ideas need to turn to action, to task lists and budget lines. The perfect white wedding erupts into storm clouds of issues. The flowers you have dreamed of are not in season. The band who you want to book is suddenly stolen from you overnight by a feistier and faster bride. The inevitable grappling over guest list count, who makes the cut and who winds up in the scrap pile – can quickly send you running for a bottle of Advil.
My clock is ticking.
“We will need an answer by tomorrow,” the band leader said to me. “I have a ton of people with your wedding date and I know a lot of proposals are out there.”
“You know you need to order the dress by January,” the pushy bridal gown saleswoman said to me as she yanked up the zipper. “We will need time to alter it. The sooner the better to get your order in. Things get busy. Everyone gets engaged around Christmas. I wouldn’t let it go much longer,” she added sounding more like a doctor suggesting I get a mole removed than someone peddling organza and silk satin.
Back in my apartment with contracts spread across the floor, a calculator next to me and a bottle of Advil in arm’s reach, I decided planning a wedding was no longer fun. While I was never that annoying girl who had her wedding planned from the time she was old enough not to eat the white crayon - the one which had every detail planned except for who the groom is; I did, over the years, develop concepts. More a mental list of ideas than ones wrapped in pink ribbons on scented stationery that was filed away in a hope chest. I wanted kissing fish in bowls on each table. I wanted an outdoor wedding on Nantucket in September. I wanted matching sweater sets and taffeta ballroom skirts for my bridesmaids in plaid pastel colors. I wanted a sunset that bled burning amber shades into the horizon. I wanted a cool breeze, a loud band, lava rocks leading towards the ocean where I would run barefoot towards the surf.
As it turns out, I am doing none of this – save for the kissing fish idea which is still under investigation.
I mark time by the drug store display windows of Duane Reade. When I got engaged, Halloween costumes and bags of Butterfingers graced the display case. Then came the turkey garlands and gourds. Now, Duane Reade is awash in Santa hats, Christmas lights and candy canes. Three window changes since the ring was slipped onto my finger! According the wedding clock on WeddingChannel.com I have a mere 317 days left until that auspicious moment.
I want to enjoy the moments of planning. I want to marvel in the journey, not unravel. A wedding night is but a blip of time, passing so quickly that your memories last no longer than your ice sculpture. But the time in wait, in planning – the months leading up to that grand finale are what should be savored. The wedding itself is the encore. The time with your fiancé in the china department; with your mother in the bridal gown store; with your bridesmaids choosing colors of cheap taffeta gowns; with your families at engagement celebrations – that is the show. That is the journey. The destination, well – it’s a nice place, but it’s the final act. And when that is over….so is the show.
I will be writing a bridal column as well for UpperEast.com. Please be sure to check that out, pass it along to any friends or family who may be planning a wedding as well. The column will encompass all aspects of being a bride, planning a wedding as well add a bit of needed humor along the way. Click here to check it out!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
A Holiday Paws
This Saturday night, M and I attended a holiday party at our friends Evan and Kate’s Upper East Side apartment. With festive cheer, the evening kicked off with holiday fare. Kate’s homemaking abilities put mine to shame, as she darted from the kitchen to the dining room carrying trays of home cooked appetizers and cheese wheels. “Don’t get any ideas,” I whispered to M, making sure that he didn’t think I was leaving the party that night with anything other than my jacket. “I think I’m missing the chromosome for cooking. Don’t think I’m going to pick up any domestic abilities here tonight.”
As M piled a stack of crab cakes and lamb sausage on to his plate, the seasonal sound of jingling bells rang acr
oss the room. In waddled Moose, a slightly overweight chocolate brown Labrador retriever wearing her holiday finest. The chunky pooch shook her head with the sleigh bell lei that dangled from her thick neck. “She is soooo cute,” I squealed as I rubbed her ears and snuck her a piece of cheese. Moose spent the night begging for food and rejoicing in the constant attention any dressed canine would receive. Dogs are cuter than babies when they are in costumes. It is nearly impossible to not get down on your hands and knees and play with a dog wearing reindeer ears. “We need to dress Chief up for the holidays,” I said looking up at M from my spot on the floor next to the aptly named, Moose. Besides the lamb sausage, Moose was the hit of the party.Later the next day, I made it my mission to find Chief a holiday inspired ensemble. “Carrie, he’s a dog. He’s not your Barbie doll,” M yelled after me as I headed out to Petco determined to buy a 200 lb English Mastiff a holiday outfit. “I promise I won’t get him a sweater. I only say that with certainty cause I’m sure that they don’t make dog sweaters in that size. Would you kill me if I
bought him a human sweater in the Big and Tall Store?” Three hours later after being nearly trampled by holiday shoppers on 86th Street, I decided the internet would be a safer and more effective route for holiday shopping.Upper East Side pets are by far the most pampered in the world. Like their owners, fluffed up poodles are privy to pricey brands and pampered styles. There are Burberry raincoats, there are Gucci pet totes and there are Louis Vuitton collars. But seemingly all aristocratic pets come in pint size proportions because no where do designers use an English Mastiff as their model. Much like the world of high fashion - skinny, boney and waif-like shapes rule the animal shopping kingdom as
well.Googling my way through the World Wide Web of the dog sweaters and Santa hats, I did not come across any suitable Santa suit for a Mongo–like dog. I did however find a variety of holiday and Halloween costumes and Christmas items for smaller breeds. As the holiday cards of my friends and their infants dressed as angels and elves pour in each week as Christmas approaches, I wanted to share the joy of my “son” with them. Finding the just the right look for Chief for our holiday cards became my weekend mission that I approached with gusto.
“Are you doing wedding stuff,” M asked as he opened the door to the office and Chief bounded into the room. Careful to stay away from during my hours of wedding planning, M now leaves the office door closed and turns the TV up loud so that it drowns out my screams of both excitement and frustration.
“No, I’m researching outfits for Chief.” I swear Chief’s ears perked up.
“He doesn’t want an outfit. He wants a dog bone or a rawhide pig’s ear or something he can eat. He likes edible presents. Don’t make him a clotheshorse like you. He has his own fur coat. Isn't that enough?”
M was right. Chief didn’t require any aide in helping him to standout. His girth and drooping jowls did that for him everywhere he went. “Maybe just some antlers? I saw them at Old Navy.” I looked at Chief. He looked up at me with doggie disdain as if to say "Who are you kidding lady. I'm not wearing some dumb ass antlers or any of that snazzy ass holiday dog crap. You put it on me - I pee on your floor, beeatch!"
I decided after hours of looking at online dog costumes, that while both babies and dogs in costumes are adorable to look at it, to ooh and ahh over, and to take photos of and email to friends….that neither are what I want this holiday season.
Instead, I ordered Chief breath mints. Tis this season for minty fresh breath. Not only is it a gift for Chief, but one for us as well.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Any Given Sunday
Any Given Sunday
Sunday.
Sunday is the day of rest. It is the holy day for men to watch men tackle other men on the football field. It is a day to enjoy the few remaining moments of a restful weekend before the onslaught of another week at work. It is a day to do nothing. But this Sunday I dragged M from his Sunday Times and stack of magazines, pushed him out the door and forced him kicking and screaming to the Bridal Registry department at Bloomingdales. “You can register for a flat screen TV,” I told him as I crossed my fingers behind my back.
Once we were seated in front of a peppy ball of energy who was to be our much needed guide to the realm of fine china and cut crystal, M got fidgety. “Do you have a large family?” she asked firing questions at rapid speeds that the words just ran into each other. “Do you think you will be cooking big family dinners for holidays – Christmas, Thanksgiving, President’s Day. Are you baker? How about tea parties, do you like those?” she asked as she handed me the clipboard with an outline to registering. “Don’t worry honey. It’s not as complicated as it sounds.” As the barrage of questions flew at us like baseballs in a batting cage, I attempted to think about life 5, 10, 20 years from now. Cooking meals from scratch, not re-heating items in Styrofoam containers? Using real silverware not plastic utensils that come in the bottom of the delivery bag. Having fine china and not plates from China. These concepts were foreign.
“I’ll let you use the gun. It’s fun. It’s like laser tag only you shoot at breakable things,” I said trying to regain M’s attention which drifted to his Blackberry. “Just give me one hour and then you can go play tennis.”
With a time cap on his sentence of imprisonment in the houseware section of Bloomingdales, M focused on the sport at hand. Like two bulls in a china shop we moved through the department, plowing towards the display of fine china which was majestically displayed on tables and a wall showcase. “What’s our style?” I asked M trying to decide who we are and who we will become as a couple. M fired off a shot of the gun at an ice bucket. “I like this he said. And this. And this,” he added as he kept firing like a postal worker who during Christmas season. “Stop shooting at that stuff. What china pattern do you like? Just pay attention for five minutes.”
He stared at the wall of flowers and butterflies and fleur-de-lis, blinking his eyes as he took in patterns of platinum banded Limoges dishes and gold encrusted saucers and teacups. He scanned the wall, moving down the crowded aisle. “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
“Do you like this one,” I asked picking up a Wedgewood pattern.
“Ugh, no F’ing way. It has flowers,” he said.
“China doesn’t come with pictures of tennis racquets; they all have flowers or something ornate.”
“Then I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
While I should have taken him at his word and just fired away, I knew that not to be the case. M has strong preferences for what he does not like even if he doesn’t have strong predilections for what he does like. And I was quickly learning that I was a very indecisive person.
“How is the happy couple doing?” the sales woman sang in a chipper voice as she came to check on us. “Did you make it to the appliance section yet? Coffee makers, blenders, All-Clad pots and pans, Cuisinarts. This is such fun.”
We hadn’t moved from the china department. We stood frozen, paralyzed by the expansive choices and our inability to decide what we needed and what our style was. I wanted to fire my registry gun at her and make her disappear. Beleaguered and exhausted and with only an ice bucket, tongs, and some bar ware to show for our hour, M’s concentration diminished. “Can we register for a sofa,” he said sprinting towards a Natuzzi leather couch in the furniture department over yonder.
It was time to call in the relief pitcher. My special teams offense was waiting on the sideline ready to go. “Mommy,” I cried as I saw my mother come up the escalator, arriving at our chosen time when I knew M would be on the verge of a meltdown. “I need your help desperately. They gave us this list and this gun and I have no idea what I need or how much of it,” I said like a frantic little kid.
The other frantic rambunctious kid, M, was attempting to shoot a crocodile embossed club chair when he saw my mother. “Does this mean I can go home?” he said smiling larger than he had all day. M had been a good sport, but it was time to bring in the big guns; someone who know her way around a kitchen, who could identify a meat grinder from a pasta maker. My mother grabbed the gun Annie Oakley style and M left knowing I was in good hands. “I’ll take it from here,” my mother said freeing M from a penalty box of Fabrege eggs and Waterford crystal. “Just nothing too schmaltzy,” he reminded my mother.
Two hours and three departments later I had managed to register my way towards a home. With everyday china selected and a variety of vases, candle holders and serving plates stored in my handheld apparatus, I was one step closer to having a kitchen which was stocked with items not from the dollar store, hand-me-downs or reusable Glad storage ware.
And on the 7th day a kitchen was born…..or at least the seeds of it.
Sunday.
Sunday is the day of rest. It is the holy day for men to watch men tackle other men on the football field. It is a day to enjoy the few remaining moments of a restful weekend before the onslaught of another week at work. It is a day to do nothing. But this Sunday I dragged M from his Sunday Times and stack of magazines, pushed him out the door and forced him kicking and screaming to the Bridal Registry department at Bloomingdales. “You can register for a flat screen TV,” I told him as I crossed my fingers behind my back.
Once we were seated in front of a peppy ball of energy who was to be our much needed guide to the realm of fine china and cut crystal, M got fidgety. “Do you have a large family?” she asked firing questions at rapid speeds that the words just ran into each other. “Do you think you will be cooking big family dinners for holidays – Christmas, Thanksgiving, President’s Day. Are you baker? How about tea parties, do you like those?” she asked as she handed me the clipboard with an outline to registering. “Don’t worry honey. It’s not as complicated as it sounds.” As the barrage of questions flew at us like baseballs in a batting cage, I attempted to think about life 5, 10, 20 years from now. Cooking meals from scratch, not re-heating items in Styrofoam containers? Using real silverware not plastic utensils that come in the bottom of the delivery bag. Having fine china and not plates from China. These concepts were foreign.
“I’ll let you use the gun. It’s fun. It’s like laser tag only you shoot at breakable things,” I said trying to regain M’s attention which drifted to his Blackberry. “Just give me one hour and then you can go play tennis.”
With a time cap on his sentence of imprisonment in the houseware section of Bloomingdales, M focused on the sport at hand. Like two bulls in a china shop we moved through the department, plowing towards the display of fine china which was majestically displayed on tables and a wall showcase. “What’s our style?” I asked M trying to decide who we are and who we will become as a couple. M fired off a shot of the gun at an ice bucket. “I like this he said. And this. And this,” he added as he kept firing like a postal worker who during Christmas season. “Stop shooting at that stuff. What china pattern do you like? Just pay attention for five minutes.”
He stared at the wall of flowers and butterflies and fleur-de-lis, blinking his eyes as he took in patterns of platinum banded Limoges dishes and gold encrusted saucers and teacups. He scanned the wall, moving down the crowded aisle. “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
“Do you like this one,” I asked picking up a Wedgewood pattern.
“Ugh, no F’ing way. It has flowers,” he said.
“China doesn’t come with pictures of tennis racquets; they all have flowers or something ornate.”
“Then I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
While I should have taken him at his word and just fired away, I knew that not to be the case. M has strong preferences for what he does not like even if he doesn’t have strong predilections for what he does like. And I was quickly learning that I was a very indecisive person.
“How is the happy couple doing?” the sales woman sang in a chipper voice as she came to check on us. “Did you make it to the appliance section yet? Coffee makers, blenders, All-Clad pots and pans, Cuisinarts. This is such fun.”
We hadn’t moved from the china department. We stood frozen, paralyzed by the expansive choices and our inability to decide what we needed and what our style was. I wanted to fire my registry gun at her and make her disappear. Beleaguered and exhausted and with only an ice bucket, tongs, and some bar ware to show for our hour, M’s concentration diminished. “Can we register for a sofa,” he said sprinting towards a Natuzzi leather couch in the furniture department over yonder.
It was time to call in the relief pitcher. My special teams offense was waiting on the sideline ready to go. “Mommy,” I cried as I saw my mother come up the escalator, arriving at our chosen time when I knew M would be on the verge of a meltdown. “I need your help desperately. They gave us this list and this gun and I have no idea what I need or how much of it,” I said like a frantic little kid.
The other frantic rambunctious kid, M, was attempting to shoot a crocodile embossed club chair when he saw my mother. “Does this mean I can go home?” he said smiling larger than he had all day. M had been a good sport, but it was time to bring in the big guns; someone who know her way around a kitchen, who could identify a meat grinder from a pasta maker. My mother grabbed the gun Annie Oakley style and M left knowing I was in good hands. “I’ll take it from here,” my mother said freeing M from a penalty box of Fabrege eggs and Waterford crystal. “Just nothing too schmaltzy,” he reminded my mother.
Two hours and three departments later I had managed to register my way towards a home. With everyday china selected and a variety of vases, candle holders and serving plates stored in my handheld apparatus, I was one step closer to having a kitchen which was stocked with items not from the dollar store, hand-me-downs or reusable Glad storage ware.
And on the 7th day a kitchen was born…..or at least the seeds of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
