On Chance

...just today, while strolling through Wonderland, a Loteria card dazzled its way down a street-stream - whirly-gigging along, dancing with leaves and bits of muddied ice.  

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Thoughts on Holiday Parties

...or choosing not to attend

Because it's freezing cold and there are chores to be done and animals to love.  And, no matter how the trying twists into almost-certainty, I can be surely certain that home beckons.  

But there are the holiday parties to think of.  

Company ones really are the best.  And even though the years blend into one, there still are a few moments that puncture memory with their idiosyncratic poignancy - managers necking their assistants; fights bursting between never-before-noticed staffers; chief officers shot-gunning beers while their spouses lurk in the shadows; unfettered, unabashed confessions of love and obsession [ie: i fucking love you].  And the chaos that follows the next day - staffers forced to crawl on fours in order to remain unseen as they pass through rows and rows of cubicles; bits of weave missing from scalp; hickeys obscured by itchy, outdated turtlenecks.  

They really are classic.  

Then there are the non-corporate holiday parties - the ones hosted by friends.  The ones leaving party-goers squeezed into a 350sf flat, huddled around a wooden trunk caked in candle wax and bits of cracker crumbs, brie smears and cashews.  The ones with refrigerators stuffed with Blue Moon, curious lagers, obscure wines, limes (because the deli had no oranges) and Amstel Light. There's always Amstel Light.  The music has a bizarre mix of 80's hair band classics, johnny cash, led zeppelin and hipster bravado.  Leave your shoes by the door, please.  And remember: don't feed the cat.  

But those are the parties in this wonderful, wanderlust wonderland.  This magic island isn't real - didn't you know?  Did they not let you in on the secret?  And you thought Bill Murray really did crash that Bushwick Halloween Party.  No... it's all just a mirage - a cobbled illusion.  Really, if you focused the lenses a bit more, you'd find yourself on an over-stuffed poly couch dotted with cigaret burns, listening to Tom Waits and staring at a whiskey film glazing the bottom of a dentist spit cup. 

Just the other day, I asked a friend about the holiday parties that she planned to attend.  (oh, my poor worldly friend... stuck in the mire of middle america. )  She sighed and said that they don't compare to our old charades - really, our old dinner parties were the stuff of legend.  What? I asked, Is it punch & bagel bites?  No - more along the lines of Cool Ranch Doritos and Schlitz Beer.  The splurges threw in a keg.  And these were with business associates.  And I'm sure they listened to Mariah Carey's Christmas spectacular.  

But at least there's this: no matter where one lives or what one does, there's this opportunity to join together for a bit and feel a bit more vivid.  To glow in this holiday half-light and seem a bit more magical.  To think of others and thrill in their joys.  To have a legit reason to cover an entire flat or house or condo or studio or estate in glitter-struck chotskies.  To relish in overflowing corporate gifts (cured meats, i heart you).  To touch. To feel.  To live purely.  And to huddle by the fire and feel every bit part of a postcard - and to know that it's not posed but that its authenticity evolves from this abstract, intangible, unexplainable contentedness.  

And nothing really beats that. 

On Shoes for the Journey

Thoughts on the Return

Mine is a Phillip Lim Dress.  With little razzle dazzle, hello dolly! synthesizers.  Carefully chosen to look haphazard - as though it were an afterthought [oh this old thing? I just pulled it from the closet], an unintended masterpiece.  It's what they expect, no?    

Especially now, with the apartment smelling of tomatoes and parmesan, home feels eons away.  Outside, snow continues to settle upon car after car after car.  Like all snowy nights, it's silent out and Brooklyn seems lovelier than ever.  Amber light dances with the floating scenery.  A night intended for Leonard Cohen dreams.  

It all seems so silly - worrying about finding the perfect dress.  For some whatevs party back at home.  Especially since the look intends to appear casually confident. Supremely New York.  Divinely unassuming.  

But there's this expectation - by the folks at home - to dress the job.  To look fantastical and utterly fashion-forward.  

Don't they know?  Haven't they realized that, like them, I'm just a girl trying to make  the paltry paycheck spread thinner and thinner each month.  Glamorous meals mixing a can of beans and cayenne.  Not thinking twice about solitary wine indulgence.  It's deserved.  Duh.  

And I honestly don't know what's wrong with me - worrying about something as silly as making the right entrance at the right time with the right dress.  There isn't even a date.  [honeys: pause to imagine frozen looks of shock.  what? no fiance? no boyfriend?  well. don't worry: he's out there somewhere.  you'll find him.  It's not like I've been looking]  But there is the dress - the beautiful, beautiful dress that folds and ripples - bits of silver dashing amid black.  It could be a sonnet - this dress.  Or that which encases a slick secret.  Or perhaps inspires the secret.  

You see - even in my reluctance - I still will indulge these belles.  I'll play the part and pass funny jokes.  I'll give them tips on S09.  Perhaps I'll even whisper some yawn of a rumor.  They'll feel a bit more alive - a smidge closer to that which feels so glamorous and dreamy, a few heel clicks from Oz (you know the Tin Man will lurch 'round in Gareth Pugh).  

Oh this odd, odd world - this place where I'll soon return.  It's balmy days and white sunshine.  Girls mooning over the simplest pair of Louboutins - not knowing a bit about the truly swoon-worthy McQueen flap-front booties or Azzedine Alaia's frothy concoctions.  

Instead, they keep a credit at Talbot's and aspire to wear Juicy Couture.  If only they knew what other delicacies fashion provided.  If only it were a bit more attainable.  Or comprehendible.  Fashion isn't about sassy leopard-print sling-backs or curlz font.  It isn't about pink patent-leather dog carriers or St.John knit.  Tory Burch, while incredibly accomplished, isn't the harbinger of the creme de la creme.  Style is personality and confidence.  Of knowing who you are and pursuing it, living in it.  Feeling inspiration's fleshy buds.  It's mixing and blending - of discovering patterns that almost feel rebellious.  Of being entirely covered up and feeling entirely stripped down.  

So maybe that's the problem with my perfect dress - I want it to do more than it ever will do until I remove its expectation.  It's just a dress.  A beautiful, fanciful dress.  But still a dress.

And I must remind myself of it.  

On Dressing Appropriately

Songs for a Rainy Day

• Boots of Spanish Leather, Bob Dylan
• Girl in Saskatoon, Johnny Cash
• These Days, Nico
• Paris 2004, Peter Bjorn and John
• Love Love Love, The Mountain Goats
• Suzanne, Hope Sandoval
• Sweet Jane, Cowboy Junkies
• I'll Melt with You, Nouvelle Vague
• Sugar Mountain, Neil Young
• Famous Blue Raincoat, Leonard Cohen
• Sounds of Silence, Paul Simon

On discovering the funds aren't quite what i thought

the atm isn't so generous when there's nothing to give but two lone parenthesis flanking an even lonelier number. 

holiday dreams vanish.  

panic. 

a tsunami of scattered thoughts and doubts and regrets rushes toward me, sinking my ears and eyes, filing my head with pointless regrets (why did a buy those three books! why shop at chicy-chic market when pathmark is just a half-mile away! why did i buy two holiday gifts for aunt when i could afford none?  why get additional chicken breast when i had a perfectly good one at home? well, that's easy: the butcher is tres dreamy and I become a bit transfixed by the tracery of ink that races up and down his arms).  attention deficit and dysgraphia rear their gorgon heads.  multiplying.multiplying.multiplying. and, like medusa's victim, i freeze in place.  unable to move or think beyond frozen self.  unable to focus on the receipt crumpled in my hand.  unable to think beyond transferring dollars from savings to checking - depositing long-lost checks and pursuing payment for sundry activities (petty cash! iou's! ebay profiteering!).  

Even in rush-hour, the F-Train can be painfully silent.  The usual thump-thumping and razzmatazz songbirds aren't quite as mellifluous.  I fumble upon an undiscovered zit.  Cower in its shadow and actually hope that it's larger than the hole I've dug.  Until this very moment, recession hasn't stung me with its thorny arithmetics.  

A panic-induced to-do list forms: 

• find all un-deposited checks, deposit immediately
• sell never-worn truly vintage silver lame silver thigh-highs
• sell any other never-worn vintage or demi-vintage pieces
• convince brother to purchase one of two gifts purchased for aunt
• abstain from purchasing any iTunes productions
• halt any and all on-line purchases
• don't panic

And still, the guilt curdles.  But, instead of confronting that which I never will understand or comprehend, I return to that which is most comfortable: a clatter of words that probably sound prettier than they make sense.  if that even makes sense. 

At least my previous target purchase was in bulk.  Solutions & solvents stand in tidy rows, joyfully saluting me.  We're ready!!

This is that oh shit moment.  That time when one really doesn't want to admit that they failed.  That they may need to pack up and give up.  But there isn't need to do that: I have a job, a good job (well, a good job that pays horribly), and I like my life here.  Including all of the adventures and misadventures and the wrenching moment when I discover that my success isn't as pecuniary as I had hoped.  I'm still just a girl trying to make it - trying to pretend that all is golly-geez-dandy.  

But oh the things to relish! 

The cozy lamplight.  The fizzing, rushing noise that tires make across wet asphalt.  The dog's dried-up tongue, wrapped under his chin.  Johnny Cash.  A full fridge (because I did go to market prior to oops! shit! i have no money! discovery).  Admirably brave family.  Constant friends.  But, before I digress into some oprah-worthy pantomime, a discovery's made: yes, things are bleak at this exact moment and I probably shouldn't be so whimsical with my purchases.  But let's face it: it's a good thing that I have a sturdy savings.  

Well, I guess it's now a bit like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  

PIFFLE

Synthetics Over My Dead Body!

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

a FAVORITE

Jam-packed train.  Head-to-head. Nose-to-nose. 

Just existing in little invisible boxes, never touching.  Eye contact rigorously avoided.  We all fear the Missed Connections serenade, no? 

Some women click-click-click on their blackberries, feverish thoughts dazzling their 2" screen. Others (the braver, more brazen ones, I suppose), stare cockeyed into a compact mirror - lips slightly ajar, mascara wand keen on the lashes.  Careful, now.  How do they make it look so glorious?   And the men - the beautiful men in their cinched trench coats -  graze the Wall Street Journal.  Oh, how the Dow dips, dips and dips.  Others stare, catatonic, before the space between them and those standing - or sitting - or squatting - or slouching - or pretending to ignore the very pregnant woman standing just inches away from their seat.  It's always a bit of a waltz.  But eerie.  Silent.  

Still: there are the special ones - those folks bursting just beneath the skin, those wanting nothing more than to watch the surrounding crowd fade away, so that the imprisoned can dance.  Eyes closed, their feet secretly tap.tap.tap.  The head bobs.  Ever so slightly.  Ever so gently.  Ever so quietly.  Cautiously, in secret.  Oh! Oh! Oh! 

And they're spinning - but only in a world that exists elsewhere.  That place where imagination and dream lapse into wanderlust.  The province of protean revery.  Pole swinging.  Jumping into a Broadway whirlygig manifesto.  High kicks.  Pirouettes.  Deep dips.  Soul-stretching bliss.  Unseen.  Unknown.  Unacknowledged.    

Then, sooner than one would expect, the train waddles into the next station.  Doors lurch open, and thousands of groggy-eyed commuters stuff their print-things and devices and what-nots into covert pockets.  

And we continue through this unrehearsed choreography - this daily masquerade that is too familiar to savor or even digest.