Temporary Tattoos

My to-do list currently has over twenty items on it. This is not counting my OTHER to-do list on my phone, which has had exciting items like "install printer" and "legally AKA Zelda" for at least fourteen months now. We don't really pay attention to that list anymore, which is why I have the paper handwritten list with "current" items in front of me. Most of them have to get done by Monday - Tuesday at the latest. I've done about seven of them so far, and am optimistic I can get to at least five others today.

But it's okay. I come from a family of List Makers.

Role-Playing: Receptionist

I have been a receptionist since May 7, 2007. Prior to that my only real employment experience was work-study Office Assistant in my college dorm - basically just sorting mail and doing my homework (or reading trashy magazines. Don't judge me. There's no judgement here.)

My first reception gig was at a firm that, prior to May 7, 2007, did not have a receptionist for that department. Which meant there was no strict outline of what I should be doing, or much training beyond "here's how the phone works, here's how the mail works, call back if you have a question."

I had. NO IDEA. How to be a receptionist.

Contract Audience

Last week I was walking through the labyrinthine (SAT word!) Times Square subway station with friendLauren and we passed that large open space near 7th that almost always has some musician or break-dancer performing.

This time it was a group of about five musicians, drummer, guitars, etc., called The Beetles, playing (of course) Beatles songs, and they were playing one of my favorites, "Here Comes the Sun", and they sounded gooood.  So we stopped to listen, along with the sizable crowd already gathered.

A little girl of about ten - who, let's face it, was way too happy to be an actual Native New Yorker, so we shall call her Touristette - was ecstatic to be there. "There" being either New York, Times Square, a subway station, or in front of a group of live performers. Or all of the above, because she's ten and capable of that kind of EVERYTHING-ecstasy. This ecstasy manifested in a sort of free-for-all dance explosion. She spun, she hopped, she threw her arms out, she laughed, she bobbed and weaved, and she soaked in the happy. This dance occurred in that dead-man's-land empty space that always bubbles between gypsy performers and the watching crowds, so she was in effect part of the show.

Climb Too High

One of my favorite stories about my brother is one I actually don't remember at all, though I was sort of present at the time.

Dashiell was around two and safely ensconced in his room, probably for the intended purpose of a nap (hah!). He was still a crib-sleeper at the time, and his crib was near a bookcase. We did not yet know this was a Bad Idea.

My mom, who was out in the living room, heard his little voice crying out "Mommy down! Mommy down!" She assumed he wanted out of his crib and went to retrieve him.

I think you can figure out where this story is going.

Did you know it's National Poetry Month?

I didn't. But now I do. And so do you. And do you know what that means?

yep. You get a poem from me today.


"7 AM Love"

You approach the platform slowly,

knowing

you will not make this train.

I stand

at the door, my hand on the bar.

I could have held the door for you –

I didn’t.

  Our eyes meet and we smile,

half forgetting we don’t know each other yet,

then,

          remembering,

          our eyes slide away in apology –

    water on paper.

The smiles linger, forgotten, on our faces.

I will not see you again

– if you ride the train for a year –

this is not my usual hour.

But for three seconds, you had a perfect smile.