Archives: Dec. 2007

Org. Post: Sunday, December 02, 2007

Mind Your Own Groceries!: In The Name Of Free Coffee + Proper Brewing Methods

The following is an excerpt from a phone conversation with my Mother, last night, (who will be visiting Dec. 11th-13th).

My brother was home and I could hear him in the background. For some reason, that I can only explain as "that's my brother," Matthew was spelling curse words. Example "G-O-D-D-A-M-M-I-T!" I forget exactly what he was spelling but I asked my Mother if this had something to do with his newfound Buddhism. Fact: I made that up, on the spot. My brother, though spelling curse words and generally an amusing guy, is not in the throws of becoming Buddhist. My Mother, however, thought this was just one of the many things she's convinced my brother confides in me about ("No Mom, I don't think he has a girlfriend …Why not ask him?" or "No Mom, Matthew is not doing drugs. C'mon, he locked me out of the house when he first saw me smoking a cigarette …I was 18!" You get the picture).

Me: "Is this [c-u-r-s-i-n-g] part of his journey towards Buddhism?"

Mother: "Matt, are you becoming a Buddhist?"

Matthew: "Yes." [I love when he plays along. King of the poker face]

Mother: "Matt! You need to be careful when you move. There's a lot of Buddhism on college campuses and they'll try to recruit you!"

[My brother, as I've mentioned in earlier entries is moving, in January, to Grand Rapids, MI]

Me: "Mom, I think you have the Buddhist confused with Mastercard."

Mother: "No, Mandy, the Hara Krishnas hang out on college campuses and try to get you to join."

Me: "That's airports, Mom …Circa 1960-70."

Mother: "Oo. Matthew, your sister says it's airports you should be worried about!"


Another excerpt:

Mother: "I'm going to miss your brother so much, Mandy. My boy is leaving me. He's actually doing the dishes right now! Can you believe it? Sure, I asked him to wash them at 2PM, this afternoon and it's almost 11. Oo, I'm going to miss my boy doing the dishes."

Me: "He washes them so rarely, Mom, I'm surprised you don't miss it already."

Mother: "Matt! [laughter] Guess what your sister just said!?"

And another:

Mother: "Did you know that Super Mario can now flip over and jump spears?"

Matthew: "It's the way of the future Mom."

Me: [no comment]

Matthew: "Hey Manda, you'll be dealing with this soon!"

Mother: "Hey Matthew! Mandy, you and your brother treat me as though I'm some virus."

Matthew: "What?"

Mother: "You both treat me like I'm syphilis or something!"

Me: [no comment]

Note: I forget exactly why this came up in conversation but I assure you, it had purpose and wasn't as completely random as it may seem].

I've been racking my brain, all day, trying to remember more of this conversation. My sides hurt from laughing, I do remember that but soon my Nyquil kicked in.

__________________________________________

I wrote this, on Friday night:

It's hard to be boastful while choking down a delicious and "fizzy" piping hot beverage (sludge). I'm speaking of course about Airbourne or to be honest, Air Protector (the Equaline off-brand equivalent. Much like it's label, I challenge you to compare the ingredients). I should note, for the sake of nitpickingly irrelevant observations everywhere (or just in my head), that orange flavored Air Protector, while bright orange in cold water, appears a swamp-like green when heated. The smell is akin to unsolidified Jell-O (hit the nail on the head, with that one). What I'm saying is that A. I'm drinking hot Air Protector, at the moment to ward off the awful tickle in my throat and ache in my cheekbones, B. It's hard to be boastful while doing so …That's my introduction to the introduction of my day, which was as follows:

645AM, blurry eyed, cold

Dunkin Donuts Manager: "Good morning! It's so nice to see you again, what can I get for you?"

Me: "Extra large, just black coffee, please"

Dunkin Donuts Manager: "You got it!"

[pours coffee]

Me: "Thank you"

Dunkin Donuts Manager: "I see you often. This one is on the house!"

Me: [I was still somewhat half asleep and later second guessed on whether or not I sounded stunned/surprised/grateful enough …I hope so) "Thank you, have a nice day."

Dunkin Donuts Manager: "You too!"

That's right. You know what they say, "Every good deed …" (I forget the rest. Or is it "every stone left unturned …"). Well, I'm saying (and I'll quote myself) "Every incompetent Dunkin Donuts employee who you compliment on a job well done for you own personal gain and side strategy …There's an extra large black coffee, free of charge in your gloved hand, on a far from balmy Friday morning."

I planted that seed and beamed the entire way towards work.

___________________________________________

My collection of "coffee brewing methods other than a drip coffeemaker" or "how I discovered superior coffee brewing methods and learned to hate the drip coffeemaker," is complete, as of last Weds. I found the last piece of my self-imposed puzzle at (of course) my beloved/pay-day ritual, local Brown Elephant thrift store …My very own, good as new espresso pot or "moka" pot. I assure you that this thrills me to no end. I now have: the cold press method (aka "toddy" method), the French press, a Turkish coffee pot, the Chem-X method and now espresso/moka pot.

It's the simple things in life, I suppose. Some people collect Precious Moments, some collect parking tickets …I collect coffee brewing methods, books and lint.

_________________________________________

I'm always amused by what others buy at the grocery. Admit, you scan over the groceries of the person in front of you, as they rid the conveyor belt. There was that time I noticed a girl buying an abundance of ice cream, followed by a "jumbo" pack of vaginal yeast cream. I really had to bit my tongue on that one and try to distract myself with the latest news headlines (I'm of course speaking of Star, National Enquirer, US Weekly, etc.) …I wanted to kindly tap her on the shoulder and suggest that she cut back on the dairy and maybe she wouldn't need enough vaginal yeast anti-itch cream to justify the label "jumbo".

There's of the course the grocery/convenience store game of "purchase two items that might cause the clerk to raise their eyebrows" (Example: a banana and a tube of Vaseline).

Last Thursday, before work, I stopped by the grocery to pick up a few things. As I stood in the 15 items or less lane, I scanned over my purchases and had to stifle a giggle.

-1 pack faux-turkey slices

-soy cheese

-14 cans of Fancy Feast

-1 box Chanukah candles (they were on sale for 39 cents)

I know I was in the 15 items or less aisle and I was buying 14 cans of Fancy Feast. I had my defense ready, just in case one of the ladies in behind me commented. My defense: "How many apples are in that bag?"

Needless to say, I really need to work on my groceries giving a skewed perception of myself.

Sigh.

Org. Post: Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Black Umbrella On White: Snow Like Sugar, All Is Clean

Weds., 1246PM

I'm finally beginning to feel the season. The snow started coming down, a few flakes here and there, mid-afternoon yesterday and has held somewhat steady ever since. As I begin this type, flurries mingle downward at my windowsill. It was all I could to withhold the urge, last night, to make snow angels in my pajamas. I called Neil, knowing that out of everyone he'd share in my feelings of giddiness over this sudden douse of snow. If there are two things that bring a sparkle to Neil's eyes, it would be snow and sugar …And, well, recycling.

I have to admit, I sort of miss the view from my old apartment. It was a nice view, come snowfall …If anything, I'd characterize it as expansive …The lake on one end and a perfect shot up my old street, to the trains, on the other. Though, the windowsills weren't as sit-friendly (I've just coined that phrase) as the ones I now have. I'd wedge myself on them, regardless and people watch, from 7 stories above. Don't get me wrong, my apartment now is far superior and what little I can see of the snow buried courtyard, with my forehead to the glass, is quite breath taking …Directly across the courtyard, I get a view of a neighbor's living room. I call her "Nebraska-girl," due to what I'm assuming are photos of her nieces and nephews decorating her walls and an elaborate crucifix hanging above one of her doors. It seems very Nebraska, to me, very corn-fed, Midwestern. Then again, such view is obscured now, giving way to the overstuffed Christmas tree, in her living room. It's lights catch my eye whenever I enter my own living room. My Nebraska-girl observations make for another entry, entirely, at a later date.

I was sitting on my sofa, this morning, having read today's Red Eye, front to back (I like my news watered down and in caption-sized form, as of late …Plus, it's free). I woke up this morning to my friend Luke messaging me to tell me about his inclement sinuses. I then pulled on my somewhat dry jeans, hanging from the shower's curtain rod and opted to go to Dunkin Donuts for a cup of coffee (I'll get back to the moment I was sitting on my sofa, in a moment). This of course after feeding the cats, Primo was at a near level 8 anxiety level, sounding his alarm. I bundled up, stuffing my bed-head into my coat's hood and tip-toed my way amongst the icy footpaths, to Dunkin.

Immediately there was the manager, "Good morning," "Nice to see you," "How are you?", "Can you believe this snow?," etc. I went to the counter and was about to give my order, when said manager yelled to the cashier "EXTRA LARGE BLACK COFFEE, TIA! EXTRA LARGE BLACK!" …The girl and I both looked at each other, a bit startled. Thank you manager guy for your forceful customer service. I should note that I was the only one @ the counter. I saw no need to rush. Ah well. Coffee in hand, I jumped a snow hill to get to the nearby Red Eye box and made my way home.

And there I was, sitting on my sofa, casually listening to a segment on Fresh Air about dragonfly migration (which mentioned eyelash glue) and skimming an article about "20 Ways To Get Into The Holiday Spirit," which I now wonder was more of a pun on words since most of their suggestions included $10-$12 spirits (Then again, I'm probably giving them more credit than needed). I looked across the living room, into my bedroom and through my bedroom window, at my other view. There's a condo building, next door, almost the length of myself from window to deck (I'm 5'7" and ¾ respectively, mind you). There's a door, out to my condo neighbor's deck. I've never seen this door opened and for as long as I've lived here, there's a tuxedo jacket hanging, on a hanger, on the outside of the door. This confuses me. Have they forgotten that it's there? Maybe it's a relic of some forgotten hide and seek game of men's apparel. I then thought that maybe the wearer of said tuxedo jacket was once attacked by a skunk and it needs to air out for 6 mths. I'm not sure but it did strike me funny, with snow flurries threatening to rest upon it's lapel. Maybe the jacket is of some cotton blend that is best left amongst the elements. Or it could very well be some form of yuppie-art that is so above me that I don't get it's artistic statement and see it as a mere tuxedo jacket, when it truth it speaks of commercialism or the inner male ego, something along those lines. Maybe I should hang one of my cardigans in my windowsill. You think condo, you think closet space. Ah well.

845PM

I'm tired. I should make some tea, flip my Daryl Hall & John Oates cassette to side B, light the second candle on my menorah, give Primo his insulin and take a shower, in an effort to defrost my toes (my socks are still a bit damp, from running my errands throughout the day).

Org. Post: Thursday, December 27, 2007

Camus Smells A Rat: Nebraska-Girl + the Spread Of Nazi Germany, in III Parts

[Working title" Rear Window"]

I. Draw them in with familiarity. Use humor. Be humble. Argue that you're normal and in the following example, you lose things too, just like the average joe. Also known as the "I put my pants on one leg at a time, too" defense.

I wear Crocs to work (actually, they're not Crocs, they're the Airwalk equivalent. $14.99 at Payless. I'm not spending $30+ on a pair of shoes with the sole purpose of dipping into bleach between isolation wards and slipping on cat urine). You know, the paper light, clog-like shoes with perforated holes (Yeah, those masterpieces of craftsmanship). I only wear them to and from work. Given the winter season, I've started doubling up my socks. I prefer a thin, knee-high pair with my beloved fuzzy socks overtop.

Last week, after a morning's worth of work, I decided to finally answer that question that plagues most: "Am I a boot person?" It's been years since I've owned a pair of boots. I decided to browse at a nearby shoe store (Yep, Payless. I'm not spending $30+ on a pair of boots I'll be wearing 2 months out of the year). I ended up trying on a few pairs and found my answer: No. After the shoe store, I stopped by the grocery to pick up a few things. Walking home, my feet felt colder than usual. The thought of the temp dropping drastically within a half hour was somewhat doubtful (though not completely, this is Chicago). I continued home …Yes, my feet really did feel cooler. I stopped, looked down at my shoes and realized that my fuzzy socks weren't poking through the holes, per usual. Then it hit me: While trying on boots, my fuzzy socks, both of them, came off inside the boots. Whoops. I was too embarrassed to walk back to Payless and ask if I can look inside their fine fine selection of boots.

"Hi, it's me …again. Yeah, I didn't buy anything last time, either. No, no I haven't changed my mind. Actually, I'm looking for a pair of socks. No, no not from your selection. More specifically, I'm looking for my beloved, 2 yrs old, haven't been washed in a couple of days, covered in cat hair fuzzy socks …I think I left them in a pair of your boots."

I really loved those socks too. I remember thinking, as I stood at the corner of Broadway and Foster, awaiting the crossing signal …"Loved? Not eonugh, I guess."

II. Continue with the familiarity. Win their trust. Draw them in slowly.

It's dark across the courtyard. I miss the glow of Nebraska-girl's obnoxious Christmas tree, as I sit on my sofa, eating a cup of applesauce.

I like to over generalize BUT before doing so I always make a point to say "not to over generalize." That said, not to over generalize but I think Nebraska-girl went back to Nebraska for the holidays. "But that's not over generalizing," you say.

Not yet.

My neighbor across the courtyard, the one where I can directly peer into her living room given the shades being up, I affectionately (of course I do so affectionately, I'm not an ass and I should note that I've met plenty of fine people from the great state of Nebraska) call her "Nebraska Girl," though not to her face because that would mean we've actually met. Which we have not.

I lived in a studio apartment for nearly 2+ years. A place best described as a breadbox with a kitchenette in a shallow closet. During my years of residence, before my following one bedroom a few floors above my old studio and my current residence (one bedroom) a neighborhood's width away from the old, I never once used the stove. Having a gas stove/oven crammed next to a bit-sized fridge and literally an inch away from my sink (which reminded me of the bathroom sinks at my elementary school), scared me and with such a small place gave me very little space to run. A makeshift rope of socks and unused linens would undoubtedly be pointless since I'd have to tie it to an anchor directly next to or the actual source of the fire.

Before I continue, I'll readily admit that there are nice studio apartments out there and for those friends who are studio dwellers, they've managed to work wonders. I'm not anti-studio, I'm anti-my old studio …And I lived there, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Did I muse about the institutional white walls? Perhaps another time.

Back to the bread basket of the Midwest …I've never met Nebraska-girl and I honestly wouldn't consider myself a voyeur (then again, what voyeurs readily admit to such a title, internet chat rooms aside) …I don't mean to stare into her apartment. The fact that my eyes occasionally dart toward any sort of movement behind her windows or to scoop out her décor is merely a coincidence. A coincidence that I try to play off as though one of my cats is actually by the window and my gaze is in fact set on them. Bare with me, I think of such things and I've allowed such thoughts to drive to fake petting of imaginary-not-by-the-window cats.

"Oo why there hello, Primo" [petting air below windowsill]

[Primo across the room] "What the hell is she doing now?"

At first, I reasoned with myself (I live alone with four cats …I reason a lot …to myself) that I was studying her apartment to see what she did with her walls and if she found any neat way to better equip one's kitchen. It's like checking out someone who has the exact same car as you do, parked next to your own …You're just peering inside to see how they utilized their cup/coin holder or found a stealth spot for a fuzz detector. Harmless curiosity (I've never done the car bit, I don't drive).

What I was trying to get at with the studio apartment bit is that since living in such cramped quarters, I have the habit of keeping my shades pulled up at all times. It gave me a feel of space. Plus, I have very little to hide personally …If seeing me dash across my living room in a towel or my robe gives you the idea that you know me, you haven't a clue.

I started referring to her as Nebraska-girl after noticing a wall purely devoted to framed Sears portraits of what I'm assuming are her nieces and nephews. There's also a rather large, ornate crucifix hanging over one of her doorways. Then again, this is just purely circumstantial but strikes me very corn-fed, down home, family loving, God fearing …very Nebraskan. Granted, the handful of Nebraskans I know are agnostic, more family-tolerant than family-oriented and they prefer broccoli to corn (I asked around and seriously who could blame them? At least broccoli digests).

I bet she works with children or the disabled or perhaps disabled children. Wait, the elderly, she must work with the elderly. She could be a nurse. I once walked passed her en route to my own job and come to think of it her off-white shoes leaned more towards the supportive opposed to sporty or fashionable …Then again, I wasn't really looking.

Let me take a moment to remind everyone that I haven't any cable.

Once, when my friend Luke was over, we both found ourselves distracted by the movement across the courtyard.

[Luke, sitting on my sofa, staring at me] "What is Nebraska-girl doing now?"

[Me, facing Luke, looking over his shoulder, pretending to study the far corner of my living room] "I think she's …dancing. Wait, wait, she's wearing her red apron. She must be cooking …The kitchen light is on. No, no she's dancing …in her red apron. I bet she's listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir."

One week later:

[text message from Luke] "What are you up to?"

[reply text message] "Nebraska-girl has a date. I'm not sure. Doesn't look good. Crap. Blinds down."

III: WAR!

If this seems a bit …odd, whoa-ho, let me continue (whoa-ho?). The part that amuses me is that I wonder what she must think of me. When you live this close, no one is innocent of spying or sizing up the neighbors (no matter what you say). I think about this from time to time and then it hits me: What does she care? That's when I laugh, shake my head and pretend to pet a cat.

I feel comfortable admitting this to all of you (my kind-hearted, non-judgmental readers) because a month or so ago, I ran it across my friend and neighbor Marshall, and he seemed to (completely) understand my angle on this.

"The funny part, Marshall is that as soon as I think of her looking in on me and sizing up my life, I realize what an awful, narcissistic notion that is. What does she care? I then realize that I'm thinking way too much and the fact that she could be keeping tabs on just how many cats I do have, is ridiculous."

To his credit, Marshall is an upstanding, respectful gentlemen who I'm sure is both a registered voter and regularly calls his Mother. I can say this with my own Mother's approval, after running into Marshall in our courtyard, during her recent visit.

[Me] "Mom, this is Marshall"

[pleasantries/handshakes exchanged]

[Marshall] "Nice meeting you" [walks away]

[Mom to me] "He has dimples."

I think this all stems from being an avid Nancy Drew fan as a child …Plus, being raised by a woman who conmsidered the National Enquirer to be a reputable newspaper…And my hidden fascination with the make-up of peoples' individualistic normalcy.

Oo, you work at such and such a place?

You're from such and such, USA?

Neat.

What's on your coffee table?

Can I look in your fridge?

I care very little what brand you wear, your thoughts on Kaftka, how much those Stickley bookends cost you, who you are or are not sleeping beside. It's not a matter of who but how. What cards are in your wallet? How many shampoo bottles and bars of soap do you have in your shower? Can I look at your bookshelf?

The things that you rarely explain unless someone arrives too early or too late …The things that you organize, stash away or restock when someone visits or when you're in the beginning stages of a new relationship, you suddenly become aware of the order of things, your things and with one glance is so normal to you or abnormal to another.

This may be a bit lowbrow but it's sort of like the argument, which my friend Neil is rather adamant about, that everything you eat is a vote (Ah, food politics, I consider that a lowbrow parable, a stretch to explain my point …Please bare with me) …Everything we purchase, everything we throw away (or in Neil's case, recycle), everything we put in order or casually toss aside speaks volumes of how we are. I argue saying "who" we are because I don't want to go down the road of "we are not what we own/don't objective objects/things are just things" blah blah blah hooey. It's the how verses the who.

Then again, I'll readily admit and take your argument that I think entirely way too much.

I'm just saying that tea leaf reading is a multi-million dollar industry (I have no concrete data to prove this) but the contents of one's purse, the contents of one's coffee table can tell us plenty.

Then again, this could also lean towards assumption.

"I just assumed that you LIKED institutional-white walls and tattered powder blue carpet."

RETREAT!

Dear Ms. Self,

You just wrote 4 pages on some hair-brained schemed defense for shamelessly spying on your neighbor. Not only did you write 4 pages on such but you likened it to Nazi Germany and the spread of the Third Reich way of thought.

Please do not waste anymore time trying to explain that it's 1AM and that you should be in bed. Do not mention the amount of coffee you drank today or that one glass of wine. Do not backtrack and try to explain that you haven't written anything in days.

Being tired and a touch slap-happy is no excuse for such ramblings. Millions of people died, Self. A whole culture was nearly wiped clean off the face of the Earth.

You're clearly stalking your neighbor and have never been to Nebraska.

You are creepy. You are writing a letter to yourself.

Apologize and go brush your teeth. Don't forget to floss. Go put on your pajama pants …one leg at a time.

Yours,

You

TREATY

I am sorry. I'm sorry Nebraska-girl …I'm sorry Germany …And Poland.

[Cut to scene from childhood]

Mom: "Mandy, honey, not everyone is going to understand your sense of humor. When the kids pick on you it's because they are intimidated and jealous. You're ahead of the game and very mature for your age. A lot of great minds were made fun of. Einstein. The Wright Brothers. Martin Luther King. Richard Simmons. Not that Woody Allen, though, he's a pervert."



[Cut to foreseeable future]

Mom: "Hey honey, have you been writing anything new?"

Me: "Actually, yes …Want to hear it?

Mom: "Of course, baby. I love your writing."

10 minutes later …

Mom: "Hmm …That's nice, Mandy. Why are you apologizing to Poland? And Woody Allen IS a pervert! Oo! Have you watched that copy of 'Sharky's Machine,' that I gave you, yet? Didn't Rachael Ward play a great hooker?"

Org. Post: Sunday, December 30, 2007

It’s All The Same Price: 70% Acrylic, 15% Wool, 15% Mohair

First things first, a big thank you to the driver who honked his/her horn as I completely wiped out on the sidewalk, last Friday. Thank you …Your honking both served as a way to censor the expletives in my mind and to truly capture the moment for all to see.

In case you were concerned, Mr./Ms./Mrs./Sir driver, I'm ok. The stiffness has made it's way from my tailbone to my neck and throughout my left arm/wrist. I have a bruise the size of Alaska and I've been reliving memories of when I was 12 yrs old, when I dreamt of becoming an Olympic figure skater.

I'd also like to thank the woman who, on Saturday, took it upon herself to make an impromptu left turn and almost hit me with her car. I'm very diligent about crossing signals, ma'am and I take my stance as a pedestrian very seriously. I appreciate the foot distance you gave me to get out of the way and I assure you the look of shock on my face wasn't to embarrass you. It was a moment of realization that I was almost killed by an elderly woman, in an Astro van with a handicapped parking tag on her mirror. That is not how I'd choose to go out but thanks anyway for bringing that realization home (and the offer).

And now to our scheduled program.

Today had me thinking of New Years' past (actually today, per usual, had me thinking about a lot of things but for the sake of a theme, I'm going with New Years').

The first New Years, after my parents' (drawn out and overdue) divorce …I spent it with my Mom and Matthew. I made pasta and Pillsbury croissants (the height of fine-dining when you are 14). We ate our dinner on the sofa, with glasses of sparkling grape juice (though my Mother's smelled different) and watch "The Blob" (the original with Steve McQueen). Matthew fell asleep on the floor by the time the ball dropped and I followed suit, curled up on the sofa with my Mother, the faint smell of weird sparlking grape juice on her breath.

It's the one New Years that seems both normal and somewhat profound at the same time. Either way, it's the only one that really sticks out in my memory (I was so proud of my oven skills) and knowing what I know about the years to follow…I wouldn't change a thing. Though, that said, I'm happy to never have to be 15 or 16 again.

Throughout the past couple of weeks, I've found myself following a pattern.

Insert one of the following:

-Reading

-Watching a movie

-Brushing my teeth

-Laying in bed, wondering if my neighbor below me can hear the hollow echo of Alton + and his mighty

feet.

That's generally the beginning of my recent habit. Perhaps I'm walking to the store. Either way, I ultimately

find myself in front of my laptop's glow, a blank Word document before me. The blinking line.

I sit there, much as I am now, though in this case I'm making that blinking line work for it's due pay.

I was reading, music playing, Alton and his mighty feet thumping away (I should take up jumping rope, what does it matter? I'm sure it's all the same to my neighbor, downstairs) …I'm wearing quite possibly the most comfortable cardigan I've ever owned and while I feel compelled to return to my reading, I'd hate to break the pattern.

The New Year, that's what I'm getting at (sigh of relief). With Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanza and the arrival of winter behind us, I've been puzzled as to why people are still wishing one another a "happy holiday" (First though: Little late, hmm?) …Ah yes, the New Year, must have slipped my mind. Which is a complete and total lie as in the my brief moments of quiet time, I find myself debating on just how to go about summarizing 2007 ("brief" being yet another complete and total lie …I'm sure I'd have more quite time if I allowed for such and didn't cram every non-working moment with some errand, project or need for distraction).

Time's running out and if within a month's time I'm still following pattern, debating 2007, help me …please.

So here it is: Switzerland. I'm going to take the Switzerland stance, that which is neutral. I'm neither leaning towards pessimism (more of a refusal for such old hat) nor am I going for the sort of (be it) forced optimism, popular amongst this time of the year. Pessimism, optimism, regardless of how genuine, oddly seems phony or a put on, come New Years. Like any year or day, I'm hopeful. It's hard to deny such when with each passing year (and hindsight) reveals a progression of learned lessons and continued mistake be it upward or downward.

Looking back at this passing year, I remain firm on my Swiss ground. There were triumphs, big (my apartment, full-time, friendships and if I can be so candid shedding the remnants of a faltered relationship that went on for far too long) and small (this cardigan I'm wearing right now, a great meal, clean radiators and my latest and greatest thrift finds). There were disappointments of equal scale (small: "Maybe I'd like you better if you had bangs" and big "Maybe I'd like you better if you had bangs"). Surprises, realizations, new additions (Alton), rainy days, humid days, obstacles (Oo that move), renewed strengths/weaknesses/gratitude, comings/goings …You get the picture. And just as the year before it, the scale widens.

So while I want to write something that might inspire or cause some in-depth reflection …Or perhaps reveal something unknown about me. I'm sticking with neutral and continuing on whatever (excuse me for the term) path I'm on. I haven't a clue what the new year will bring but I know there will be 366 days (it is a leap year, afterall) to reveal it all and maybe this time next year I will change my stance …Russia, perhaps?

[Freeze frame, slow dissolve, cue inspiring yet ominous music, the passing out of "Do you like me, circle: yes or no" cards]

….And so you have it. Happy New Year.