Today's Roast

I am so very hesitant to reveal the locale from which I write lest I only add to the artist’s starved and yet ever so dapper stereotype. Yes, I sadly admit, I am sitting in a Starbucks, writing. How very artsy-studious of me. How very chic. All the good writers seem to be inspired by their piping hot double-grande-mocha-vanilla-reduced-fat-lattes, Ella Fitzgerald lamenting cooly in the background, and the whole-bean-Sumatra-blend-disciples with wide framed glasses and Macbooks tilted casually in front of them. I think they must like the steam screeching through the espresso machines, like The New York Times in wrinkled piles near the door, like the milky circles on tables where the last meetings took place. Local artwork adorns the walls, lamps that look like spaghetti sauce suspended from the ceilings, and exercise groups and mom’s clubs and dental assistants gather in corners and talk over each other, over the espresso racket.

I am seated quite uncomfortably in my angular chair at my angular table, writing in an angular fashion on a place heavily frequented by people like myself ... yet not at all like myself. If I use sentences like, “... and the aroma of pumpkin spice and autumn rain outside the window makes me long for holiday festivities to begin” then, you see, I’ve succumbed to the conventional image of the “writer” found in a Starbucks cafe. But if instead I use sentences like, “... I chose this morning to be economic and bring my own beverage to Starbucks, withstand for a while the nauseating smell of breakfast sandwiches, try desperately to ignore the toddler staring blankly at me as he clearly crashes from a caffeine high, and offer my chair to the first person who appears to be wanting to stay”, then I’ve carefully set myself apart.

The goal here is not to write poorly of Starbucks, or to associate or disassociate myself from any particular writing “group”, or to suggest that I don’t enjoy a good cappuccino from this place every so often. I find the environment disturbingly a muse, my coffee gone cold, $1.59 left on my gift card...

Shower Cookies

I’m so proud of the dexterous man I married, I have to share this. My mom and I hosted Elizabeth Hanson’s church bridal shower on Tuesday evening. Trying my hardest to facilitate what little creative abilities I have, I sought the inventive flair of Ms. Martha Stewart, and borrowed her idea of the umbrella sugar cookie. It was, after all, a shower. When it occurred to me that it was going to be a challenge locating an umbrella shaped cookie cutter (its unlikelihood seemed impossible to me when I incidentally found a cookie cutter online in the shape of a fetus ... but we’ll save that for her baby shower), my husband proposed making one for me. A rainy trip to Home Depot for a scrap of sheet metal resulted in a fine piece of art. Well done, Mark, well done.

Days

My skis and I both know it’s snowing on the mountain. They can feel it on their waxed-up undersides, and I can feel it icy on my skin while the rain surges through the gutter outside our kitchen window. We could make rivers out of their muddy gush. There is pumpkin bread in the oven. My husband got his Italian shoes repaired today, and Elizabeth is getting married in six weeks. There has never been another November day like this one. Tomorrow the sky will be gray folding over layers of gray, used rain clouds and bursts of cold sun. I love that there will be different things about then, that won't be true of now. Happy seventh day of November.

Delight

As promised, I decided that today would be a good day to share some wedding pictures. (Facebook) We were blessed with a fantastic photographer who gave infinitely more than his artistic abilities that day - he gave a great deal of his time and energy, his patience and tremendous skill. Though he makes it appear so simple, I can only presume photography is a great deal more involved than he lets on.

These snapshots are, even now, far more valuable to me than I could have imagined. Nick captured moments of our wedding that I missed, that tradition didn’t permit me to see, and that years and years from now I can think fondly upon with images to accompany my memories. That is absolutely priceless.

The day was, as my dear married friends assured me it would be, the briefest and fullest whirlwind of hours that ever we would be swept into. Our anxious readying, our trembling hands, our giggles, our unsteady knees, our short bursts of squeals and momentary panic, our emotions and excitement and thousands of butterflies beating about in our stomaches all seemed to force the hands on the clocks to spin and make the sun set hastily on our wedding day.

Prior to, I was given a wealth of happy hints and gleeful counsel from people excited for Mark and I - things like “remember to eat something at the reception!” (not unless we wanted to feed the butterflies), and “don’t lock your knees!” (how could I? They were weak at the sight of my new husband), and “plan to feed more people than RSVP’d!” (Italian meatballs made: 800. Italian meatballs left over: 0).

But by far the best advice - the rawest, truest, most exhilarating statement made to me was just shortly after Mark and I became engaged. Our good friend Megan said to us once quite plainly but with a ripened wisdom, “at the end of the day, you’re married, and that’s all that really matters.”

I’m delighted Nick captured the details so that I didn’t have to, so that I could think about those words and purely enjoy the wed-ing of our wedding day.