I just bought glittery Toms, and I took them out for their debut stroll this weekend. My friends all loved them -- and every time someone asked what happens when I click my heels together 3 times, I just laughed. I've always loved The Wizard of Oz.
Tonight, my late-night editing of the last paper of my undergraduate career keeps getting interrupted by seriously scary thunder and lightning. When I was little, whenever the humidity of Jersey summers had once again become too much for the skies to handle, Mom and I would sit on the porch and watch the thunderstorm roll in. The thunder would crash, and lightning bolts would streak across the darkened skies. Rain would pour down in sheets, gushing down our hilly street and transforming the yard into mud. As the storm raged, Mom and I would cuddle on the love-seat on the porch, safe and dry and happy.
I love my city. I love my adult life. I am so excited to graduate that there simply are no words... But I really wish that, just for a moment, I could click my heels together and be 7 years old again, hugging my momma in the middle-of-nowhere New Jersey, instead of sitting alone in my apartment, jumping every time lightning strikes.
When I think of home, I think of a place
Where there's love overflowing...
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
May 3, 2010
April 1, 2010
Whose line is it, anyway?
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...
I went to see As You Like It with N last night. I'd read the play back in high school; I remembered that it was funny, and that it was a love story. I'd forgotten its complexities, and I'd never really experienced its humanity. (There is, as my Comedies professor often chides my classmates and me, a difference between reading a play and seeing one.)
It was more than a love story - at least, it far exceeded the sappy and somewhat predictable norm of today's romantic comedies. Sitting in the audience, I was watching people change. These characters were falling in love, of course, but they were deepening family ties, establishing friendships, and figuring out their personal identities along the way. The characters matured on stage; they grew up and lived happily ever after in five whirlwind acts.
As Jaques presented her famous monologue about the cycles of life, I couldn't help but wonder - what act of life am I in? And am I ever going to get a script?
In other news, the tree outside my window is blooming. I love springtime in New York.
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...
I went to see As You Like It with N last night. I'd read the play back in high school; I remembered that it was funny, and that it was a love story. I'd forgotten its complexities, and I'd never really experienced its humanity. (There is, as my Comedies professor often chides my classmates and me, a difference between reading a play and seeing one.)
It was more than a love story - at least, it far exceeded the sappy and somewhat predictable norm of today's romantic comedies. Sitting in the audience, I was watching people change. These characters were falling in love, of course, but they were deepening family ties, establishing friendships, and figuring out their personal identities along the way. The characters matured on stage; they grew up and lived happily ever after in five whirlwind acts.
As Jaques presented her famous monologue about the cycles of life, I couldn't help but wonder - what act of life am I in? And am I ever going to get a script?
In other news, the tree outside my window is blooming. I love springtime in New York.
December 31, 2009
A New World
In less than two hours, it'll be 2010.
My Blackberry keeps buzzing with people's memories of where they were ten years ago; most of my friends' Facebook statuses are some variation of "Ten years ago, I was in middle school. Where did the time go? Holy crap."* What does that even mean, "Where did the time go?" Even if time could stand still, would we really want it to?
Ten years ago, I was 11 years old. I'm pretty sure that I spent New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in my pjs, cuddled up on the sofa - some things, apparently, never change. I was in 6th grade then; I loved ballet class, hated that I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend, and desperately wanted to fit in. I had these ridiculous pants with a tiger's face silk-screened across the crotch, which I adored and wore at least once a month (probably didn't help to boost my coolness factor). I still liked math class then, since I hadn't met that beast otherwise known as geometry. I still told people that I wanted to be a pediatric cardiologist when I was 11...I didn't decide that journalism was a better choice (less blood involved, theoretically) until 7th grade. I liked roller skating, *NSYNC, and going to Creanies for a banana split with Mom when I got good grades. I went to bed by 10pm. I was a little girl still.
In the editor's letter of Glamour this month, readers were asked to think about when they were ten years old. What would we tell that young girl? Would she be proud of us? Well, I hope the girl that I was a decade ago would like the Rachel of 2010. I guess I'm finally "cool" now: I live in a studio in New York, I'm about to graduate college, I no longer have braces, and I am, in fact, allowed to have a boyfriend. I think my younger self would be proud of my dedication to community service, and she'd expect nothing less than my absolute devotion to Jewish student life on campus. She'd go nuts when she saw my armoire full of sparkly, shiny dresses. Most of all, though, the Rachel that I was ten years ago would be proudest of the woman that I am now, I think, because I'm happy. I have friends that make me laugh, parents that never seem to stop giving and caring and teaching, and a city that never ceases to amaze and amuse me.
So, here's to next year. Here's to more living, laughing, and loving. Here's to a decade of job-finding, reporting, and change; here's to another ten years of exploring my city. Here's to the weddings (And babies? Oh Lord.) that the next decade will bring, and here's to growing up without growing old. Here's to being happy. I hope time does anything but stand still.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
*(Mine, for the record, says "Rachel Slaff is ready for a new year, a new perspective, a new decade, a new journey...let's go, 2010.")
My Blackberry keeps buzzing with people's memories of where they were ten years ago; most of my friends' Facebook statuses are some variation of "Ten years ago, I was in middle school. Where did the time go? Holy crap."* What does that even mean, "Where did the time go?" Even if time could stand still, would we really want it to?
Ten years ago, I was 11 years old. I'm pretty sure that I spent New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in my pjs, cuddled up on the sofa - some things, apparently, never change. I was in 6th grade then; I loved ballet class, hated that I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend, and desperately wanted to fit in. I had these ridiculous pants with a tiger's face silk-screened across the crotch, which I adored and wore at least once a month (probably didn't help to boost my coolness factor). I still liked math class then, since I hadn't met that beast otherwise known as geometry. I still told people that I wanted to be a pediatric cardiologist when I was 11...I didn't decide that journalism was a better choice (less blood involved, theoretically) until 7th grade. I liked roller skating, *NSYNC, and going to Creanies for a banana split with Mom when I got good grades. I went to bed by 10pm. I was a little girl still.
In the editor's letter of Glamour this month, readers were asked to think about when they were ten years old. What would we tell that young girl? Would she be proud of us? Well, I hope the girl that I was a decade ago would like the Rachel of 2010. I guess I'm finally "cool" now: I live in a studio in New York, I'm about to graduate college, I no longer have braces, and I am, in fact, allowed to have a boyfriend. I think my younger self would be proud of my dedication to community service, and she'd expect nothing less than my absolute devotion to Jewish student life on campus. She'd go nuts when she saw my armoire full of sparkly, shiny dresses. Most of all, though, the Rachel that I was ten years ago would be proudest of the woman that I am now, I think, because I'm happy. I have friends that make me laugh, parents that never seem to stop giving and caring and teaching, and a city that never ceases to amaze and amuse me.
So, here's to next year. Here's to more living, laughing, and loving. Here's to a decade of job-finding, reporting, and change; here's to another ten years of exploring my city. Here's to the weddings (And babies? Oh Lord.) that the next decade will bring, and here's to growing up without growing old. Here's to being happy. I hope time does anything but stand still.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
*(Mine, for the record, says "Rachel Slaff is ready for a new year, a new perspective, a new decade, a new journey...let's go, 2010.")
July 21, 2009
Editing Carrie Bradshaw
I was watching TV on Saturday night, when one of my all-time favorite Sex and the City episodes came on. The very last line explains the whole half hour show, really: "Some people are settling down, some people are settling...and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies."
I've always loved the episode because Carrie raves about the importance of zsa zsa zsu, that indescribable chemistry that makes sparks fly, stomachs flip, and relationships last. But, as I heard that line at the end of the episode for the bajillionth time, I suddenly was struck: what if you don't have butterflies?
I refuse to settle. (Ok, at least, I try not to settle.) I'm certainly not settling down. And, of course, I want a truly great love story.
But -- what am I supposed to do until those butterflies show up?
I spent the weekend wondering about my state of flux, my butterfly-less romance purgatory. I watched friends flounder in relationships; I noticed little old couples in Riverside Park and wondered if, as Carrie claimed, the memory of their zsa zsa zsu kept their love alive. I smiled and nodded as friends tried to fix me up, and laughed when my mother suggested putting on lipgloss and knocking on doors in my building until I found a Jewish boy with a cup of flour. It was exhausting.
You see, you can't hurry love (no, you just have to wait...). Sure, I could go on a date. I could go for coffee. I could march right over to the next cute Jewish boy I notice on the A train and exchange phone numbers. But I'm not in this for a booked calendar, or coffee, or a hefty little black book. I'm in this for butterflies, and those cannot be manufactured. Carrie forgot to mention that refusing to settle can mean settling in for the long haul.
So, enough already. I'm through with making jokes about being the third wheel, and I'm done with fending off those gut-wrenching looks of pity from happily coupled friends. I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, I do - but I also refuse to believe that I cannot be happy now. I refuse to wallow in singledom. I am determined to find my own glee.
Someday my prince will come. There'll be butterflies, and romance, and we'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But, no fairytale starts at its end. Here's to the first part of the story, the beginning of my fairytale, the part that Carrie Bradshaw skimmed over. Here's to chasing butterflies.
I've always loved the episode because Carrie raves about the importance of zsa zsa zsu, that indescribable chemistry that makes sparks fly, stomachs flip, and relationships last. But, as I heard that line at the end of the episode for the bajillionth time, I suddenly was struck: what if you don't have butterflies?
I refuse to settle. (Ok, at least, I try not to settle.) I'm certainly not settling down. And, of course, I want a truly great love story.
But -- what am I supposed to do until those butterflies show up?
I spent the weekend wondering about my state of flux, my butterfly-less romance purgatory. I watched friends flounder in relationships; I noticed little old couples in Riverside Park and wondered if, as Carrie claimed, the memory of their zsa zsa zsu kept their love alive. I smiled and nodded as friends tried to fix me up, and laughed when my mother suggested putting on lipgloss and knocking on doors in my building until I found a Jewish boy with a cup of flour. It was exhausting.
You see, you can't hurry love (no, you just have to wait...). Sure, I could go on a date. I could go for coffee. I could march right over to the next cute Jewish boy I notice on the A train and exchange phone numbers. But I'm not in this for a booked calendar, or coffee, or a hefty little black book. I'm in this for butterflies, and those cannot be manufactured. Carrie forgot to mention that refusing to settle can mean settling in for the long haul.
So, enough already. I'm through with making jokes about being the third wheel, and I'm done with fending off those gut-wrenching looks of pity from happily coupled friends. I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, I do - but I also refuse to believe that I cannot be happy now. I refuse to wallow in singledom. I am determined to find my own glee.
Someday my prince will come. There'll be butterflies, and romance, and we'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But, no fairytale starts at its end. Here's to the first part of the story, the beginning of my fairytale, the part that Carrie Bradshaw skimmed over. Here's to chasing butterflies.
June 16, 2009
Learn to use a semicolon
I was waiting for some friends outside of a restaurant tonight, people-watching and window-shopping, when this little old couple passed by: an elderly man with thick glasses was pushing a very frail old woman in a wheelchair down the sidewalk. As soon as I saw them, I said a prayer. I do that - I thank G-d for my health, for the weather, for luck and friendship and hindsight and everything in between. I am, as they say in Sister Act II, down with G-O-D (yeah, you know me; watch this if you are so culturally illiterate as to not know what I'm talking about: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wNmlrdCBkE).
So, there I was, smiling sadly at the elderly people as they went by and thanking G-d for my youth and energy and well-being...when the woman in the wheelchair began to hum. She smiled up at her husband, and serenaded him as they continued down the sidewalk together.
I quickly amended my prayer: thank you, G-d, for bringing these two people together and for blessing them with each other. Thank you for music, G-d. Thank you for peace. Thank you for breezy summer nights.
And thank you, G-d, for helping me learn to open my eyes, my mind, and my heart, so that I can know it when my guy comes along. Because, G-d, I've danced for nearly 20 years now, and I am totally going to have arthritic knees - I'm going to need someone to push me in my wheelchair as we go up Second Avenue together someday.
I was searching for a quote today at work and stumbled across this one, also known as my new to-do list:
1. the path is not straight.
2. mistakes need not be fatal.
3. people are more important than achievements or possessions.
4. be gentle with your parents.
5. never stop doing what you care most about.
6. learn to use a semicolon.
7. you will find love."
-Marion Winik
So, there I was, smiling sadly at the elderly people as they went by and thanking G-d for my youth and energy and well-being...when the woman in the wheelchair began to hum. She smiled up at her husband, and serenaded him as they continued down the sidewalk together.
I quickly amended my prayer: thank you, G-d, for bringing these two people together and for blessing them with each other. Thank you for music, G-d. Thank you for peace. Thank you for breezy summer nights.
And thank you, G-d, for helping me learn to open my eyes, my mind, and my heart, so that I can know it when my guy comes along. Because, G-d, I've danced for nearly 20 years now, and I am totally going to have arthritic knees - I'm going to need someone to push me in my wheelchair as we go up Second Avenue together someday.
I was searching for a quote today at work and stumbled across this one, also known as my new to-do list:
1. the path is not straight.
2. mistakes need not be fatal.
3. people are more important than achievements or possessions.
4. be gentle with your parents.
5. never stop doing what you care most about.
6. learn to use a semicolon.
7. you will find love."
-Marion Winik
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