Crystal Clear

The sunlight glinted off that thing like the prisms we played with in 7^th grade science glass. If you left it in the wrong place, it may well have burned the house down, so great was its power.

It was a crystal bowl from Ireland. Or was it cut glass? I never understood the difference. You have to cut glass to make crystal, right? So who cares? However it got the way it became, it involved skilled Irish craftspeople slicing and polishing glass.

It had been in our house since I started reaching for things that were just out of my grasp. My Dad’s Irish immigrant mother had given it to my parents as a wedding gift. That was the earliest version of the story. The later versions involved her bringing it, and only it, with her on the boat as she made her way to New York from the bare potato field her parents decided held no future for her.

In any case, it wasn’t until later when I really thought about it that I asked myself how or why an 11-year old girl would be charged with bringing a large glass bowl across the sea to unload it in the shadow of Lady Liberty, as if she had nothing else to worry about on this journey. If she was truly my grandmother, she would have sold it immediately upon leaving the ship and gone off and bought herself a new pair of shoes.

But I digress. That’s what we Irish do, we digress. Some people call it exaggerate, I call it digress. So this bowl, this prize, sat upon its perch on the little dark wood antique dresser for years collecting beams of sunlight but never my DNA. No one in the house was allowed to touch it. Looking at it was even saved for special occasions. How it was dusted and polished remains a mystery, since I never saw my mom do it, and I always carefully worked around it when I was earning my allowance each week.

Imagine my shock and awe then, when I came home late one night during a college break and found my dad and his friend putting golf balls into it on the living room floor. My mom was out of town.

With each resounding ping the little white ball made, they laughed harder and became more daring. I started drinking beer right along with them, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to take a shot at the bowl.  It was enough just to watch them.

I remember how much I enjoyed seeing my dad laugh so hard and look so handsome. When I do the math now, he comes out to be in his late 40s that night.

They built ramps; they laid towels down for sand traps, and used tin foil to make the path to the bowl more difficult as the game went on. I went to bed before they were done. The bowl was exactly where it was supposed to be the next morning, looking deceptively untouched.

And now almost every night I touch the bowl as it sits on the lower shelf of my nightstand, holding whatever book I’m reading.  If you look closely, and the light’s just right, you can see the tiny chips along one edge.

Hashgram

I'm doing a blog post about an app. 
A techie app. Not the kind you eat at a party.
The kind that searches photos, and boy, does it find em.
But only if they were taken using the Instagram app.
This is when it gets all meta.
I'm using words like meta. 
Anyway, if you use Instagram, your photos are now pulled into a beautifully simple app called Hashgram.
There you can search for photos by keyword or user name.
What should we search? Oh I know, Springsteen. Ok.

What you get is this nice looking page of all the photos people have been uploading into the Instagram app lately. Some are hashtagged #Springsteen and some just have the word Springsteen in the description. You can even pin them on Pinterest or tweet them. Now your head is spinning.

So when you take a photo, add a hashtag if you want it to be sorted into a certain group on Hashgram.
That's it, you don't even have to download anything to use this one.
Simple and pretty.

Don't forget to look yourself up using the user search, and admire your own collection of photos.

You can always count on me for the very latest in procrastination tools. Now go.

Hey Santa

Last year I wrote a Christmas post that pretty much covered all the fun memories I have of Christmas past. Looking at it now, I wonder how in the hell I had time to do it. You might want to read it, and we can both remember fondly the days I had nothing better to do than write about my old tin dollhouse.

So here's the thing. It's Christmas 2011. Where'd that come from? I've talked to so many people who say they aren't feeling it, they aren't ready. Maybe it's because we just aren't taking the time to reflect like I did last year.

Here's a quick little Christmas memory that flashed through my mind this morning.

It was our first day back at second grade after our Christmas break. We were all sharing our Christmas stories. When it was my turn, I told my teacher, Sister Juanita, "At our house we leave Santa cookies and beer. But he always just leaves the cookies and drinks the beer. So my brother and I get to have the cookies when we wake up!"

She tactfully said, "Oh, that Santa."

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.

Oh, maybe have a look at this, too. It fits nicely.

Drunk History Christmas with Ryan Gosling, Jim Carrey and Eva Mendes from Ryan Gosling     

What Have You Been Doing Since June 15th?

Personally, I've had my ups and downs. How about you?
It was a beautiful summer, but it went by too fast, like they always do.

On June 15, we got word that our cousin, a Marine, was injured in Afghanistan. He lost both legs in an IED explosion.
In other words, he defeated the enemy that was trying to kill him.
He's kind of a badass.

Here he is--Sgt. Collin Raaz from Iowa City, Iowa on November 1, taking his first steps with his new legs. Click below the photo on the link to watch the video and read more about Collin.

 

http://iowacity.patch.com/articles/iowa-city-veteran-learning-to-live-without-legs

Collin's philosophy:  "I would say it is physically difficult enough, and I don't need to add to it by creating mental or emotional problems on top of that."

That's all.
Now get out there and kick some ass today, people.

GREER Chicago

The first time I visited GREER Chicago was magical. It's one of my favorite stores anywhere, owned by one of my favorite people anywhere. I was lucky enough to go back last weekend.

GREER is on a busy corner on North Wells Street in Old Town, one of the most vibrant and interesting parts of Chicago. If you're there, you must go.


GREER is owned by Chandra Greer, who's made it her personal quest to take civility seriously. Stationery is her avenue, and her store offers buyers endless ways to communicate with paper. She provides the tools: paper, cards, pens, stamps, envelopes, posters, books and calendars are just the beginning.

On this visit, I took special note of Chandra's great attention to detail throughout her beautiful store.

Beauty is everywhere, via words and objects.

A stack of Civilettes, Chandra's personal creation -- a missive that can be tucked into gifts and cards, and reused. The small cards say thank you, good job, I'm sorry or I love you. More on the Civilettes and Chandra's story.

Floral designs, some made from fabric, cozily tucked onto a shelf.

Here's what I mean about the attention to detail. The thoughtful vignettes get the ideas going in your own mind as you browse.

The use of vintage pieces and antiques lovingly enhance the wares on display.

Is it a card you need? You'll find the perfect one here. You'll find several perfect ones here. Chandra's known for her support of indie designers, and you'll see things here you won't find elsewhere.

A classic, one of my personal favorites.

A peek inside an antique display case at the beautiful writing instruments.

A selection of beautifully wrapped gift soaps is tempting as a treat for yourself.

I mean, who does this? Flawless and witty attention to detail.

Ready for Halloween. GREER is a must-do destination for celebrating any occasion or event.

The ever-changing window displays delight the lucky neighbors who pass by regularly.

Pencils!

The selection of ribbon for packages or projects is another reflection of Chandra's excellent eye for beauty.

Humor and inspiration abound on the recycled rubber bulletin board via handwritten quotes.

Mariesa and Wendy, two of the adorable and awesomely helpful GREER girls. They both made my visit so fun as we chatted about jewelry, journals, big life changes and what not.

If you can't make it to the store, the website is equally stunning. A custom poster design by Hammerpress with the store's motto will greet you there. Delicious copywriting too! 

Thanks again for making my visit so special, Ms. Greer!

Fever: a guest post by Nina Paturel

My friend Nina wrote this piece. It's so her. This is Nina: One day when she was young, her father drove home to pick her up so she could meet John Lennon who was eating at a nearby cafe. But when he asked her to come meet John Lennon, she thought he meant Jack Lemmon, and she had no interest in meeting Jack Lemmon, so she kept doing what she was doing. She hasn't changed all that much since then, which is a good thing. I love her. I think you will too.

On Tuesday at 8 am I got a text from my friend Juliet who lives in Slingerland NY. It read: Missoni. Target. 9am. Juliet is up on Target’s designer line: before Juliet, I didn’t know a designer line existed there. I had a 10:45 appointment so I thought I’d go after and peruse the aisles of The Hudson Valley Mall’s Target store.

I had yet to know of the zany zigzag stripes of Missoni, knew nothing of the shower curtains, towels or children’s line, had no idea about the bold colors on the clutches, socks and throw pillows. I pulled in around 11:30 and parked next to Kaja, an employee of mine who was just getting out of her car with her sister. They had glazed over looks in their eyes. “Are you here for the Missoni?” She asked, “Yes.” I replied. I was here for the Missoni; it was starting to sink in.

I could feel the competition begin; I heard the starting gun. I know this store like the back of my hand. I walked in and took a sharp left landing at the corner of the women’s section. Empty. Literally a few straggling pieces left in xxl and petite.

Shit, it’s gone, all the stripes I didn’t even know existed a few hours ago, that I now need, are gone. Besides Kaja and her sister, there were a few other women there checking their watches and mumbling, “ Where is it all? It’s only 11:30, I knew I should’ve taken the kids and come before school,” arms hung low at their sides in a dejected pose. Some women pretended that they also didn’t know Missoni existed but I could see the look, the look of sheer and utter disappointment.

I allowed myself four seconds of regret before I hatched another plan. I sped over to the children’s department thinking I could squeeze myself into an extra large girls’ something, anything. On the way there I passed the last two pairs of lonely Missoni socks that I grabbed and chucked in the cart without slowing down. Arriving in the young girls section I saw that I wasn’t alone. There was a gaggle of grown women holding a small child’s sweater or shirt up to their bosom and thinking to themselves, out loud I might add, “I could fit this.”

I then nonchalantly scoped out the leggings. Ah, yes, perfect. One pair was hot pink and spaced dyed and the other a beautiful brown ribbed number with three perfectly placed stripes at the bottom of each leg like only Missoni can do. The last two pairs of extra large. I dropped them into my cart like I’d just found the golden ticket. In my mind I WAS Charlie. I hummed along to the tune, feeling like I was digesting a Thanksgiving turkey. I was full and happy. Completely satiated. In the checkout line I saw a few women who had two full shopping carts of Missoni goods. Two. Full. My bubble of pride deflated slightly.

The line gave me time to pause and think about the craze I had just taken part in. It was an urge so deep that I stooped as low as shopping in the children’s section, not for my son or my granddaughter but for myself. I was as disgusted with myself as I was happy.

The next day as I slipped my bare legs into those happy little cotton leggings, I thanked my friend Juliet for including me in the madness that is Missoni.

PS: I was at Target today, and called Nina as I was standing in front of the paltry remains of all the Missoni items. I told her I was holding a shower curtain in my hand at that moment. "SHUT THE FRONT DOOR," she said in typical Nina fashion. "Do you want it?" "No." We laughed, deciding we actually thought it was rather ugly. After I told her what else could be hers, she did instruct me to bring her one thing. She's about to go on a very long trip, and now thank gawd she'll do it in style.

Happy Birthday

“Bye love, have a great day, love you,” and with a kiss, he’s off. It’s not unusual for him to return at least once for a forgotten item, after one minute or ten. So when I hear the garage door vibrating, followed by him coming in the door, I barely look up.
“I have to see what my ducks are doing,” he says. This is new, even for him.
He goes to the window and finds the ducks are in the neighbor’s yard. “They’re after that corn,” he says, hurrying to the cupboard to snatch some bread.
“Don’t feed them!” I say, “They’re filthy.”
He smiles, “Oh, they’re gone soon, come on.” He’s already out the door, so I go to the window to watch, unwilling to actually join him.
He stands in the hot sun, tearing chunks of bread and throwing them to the ducks, who by now have abandoned the corn and gathered in front of him. He’s laughing and talking to them.
“Hey dude, it hit you right in the head.”
I think about the difference between us. He’s on his way to work, but sees some ducks taking a shortcut through our yard, so he stops for one last bite of joy. I know it won’t be the last time he does that today.
I’m still in my pajamas inside, not yet ready to plunge into the sunshine.
He comes inside, and I laugh at him.
“Ducks really are very beautiful up close,” he explains un-self-consciously. “They have blue feathers, their eyes sparkle…they’re supermodels!”
With that, he’s off.