Make it Here.

4 years ago today:

I wake in a twin bed, a yellow comforter on top of me. I'm in a spare room in my then boyfriend's parents house in Connecticut. My cats are noisy, roaming throughout the room, as they'd been all night. I stare at the ceiling for a minute, roll over to look at my cellphone and realize it's not even 6am yet. The house is quiet. I climb out of bed, walk into the bedroom down the hall where he is sleeping, his tall, lanky frame sprawled across the bed. I squeeze my own tall, lanky frame onto the edge of the bed, he rolls over, asks me what time it is, gives me a hug before falling back asleep. I lay there, looking out the window, unable to sleep. I reach over and hold his hand.

The house comes alive soon. People are up, scurrying. There are showers to be had, coffee to be sipped, breakfast to be eaten. There is a christening of a niece planned for that morning, everyone is part of the mad rush to get to the church on time. Except for me. I stand in the family room, still in my boxer shorts and large t-shirt. I look at him, sitting on the sofa tying his shoes. He looks up, asks, "Are you okay?"

"I don't know if I can do this. I'm freaking out."

He pulls me down next to him, drapes his arm across my shoulder. "Of course, you can, Kel."

He stands, gives me hug. He steps back and straightens his tie, grins before running out the door to his sister's car. "I'll call you after church."

Suddenly, the house is quiet, still. I shower, check my email, write a blog post about my moving progress. I load the cats into their crates, carry them out to the Uhaul parked in the driveway. I climb into the driver's seat, start the engine. I follow the directions I was given to 95 and carefully merge onto the highway. I follow all signs leading me to New York City. In an hour or so I crest the Triboro Bridge and get my first clear view of the skyline. I shake my head, take a breath. All of my life, all of my 26 years, I've wanted to arrive in this city with my belongings in tow, I've wanted to Move. In. I realize today - November 6th 2005 - I'm doing it.

My father meets me outside of my apartment building, one of the few friends I have in the city comes over to help me unload the truck. The three of us carry box after box up the stairs, until hours later, my friend has to leave. My father and I continue to unload, navigating our way up stairs with a couch, a bed, and heavy furniture. Once the truck is finally empty we get cleaned up and walk down the block to get a pizza. We order a large pie with every topping you can imagine, from Boston Pizza. Irony.

After our dinner of somewhat lousy pizza, Dad stays on the couch watching sports, drinking a beer. Too tired to look for bedsheets, I pull out my sleeping bag, conveniently thrown on a pile of boxes. I turn off all of the lights in my bedroom. Beyond the muted sounds of ESPN in the next room I am surprised by how quiet the city feels. I stare out the window at the view of the Manhattan skyline. I close my eyes, say a prayer, then crawl into bed, exhausted.

******

A few weeks ago, when I was out in California visiting my brother, he and I were chatting over pizza and beers one night. He mentioned a friend of his who had recently moved to Europe. "I think she needed a push, someone to tell her to just do it." He explains. "And you know, Kel, I told her the story about you - going to London on your own, then backpacking on your own. I brag about you doing that a lot. People are always impressed."

I smiled, thanked Stephen, paused before speaking.

"You know, sometimes when I stop and think about it, I can hardly believe that I did that myself. On my own. But I did. Just like when I went to New York. I sometimes can't believe I did that either, that I pushed myself like that. That I survived the goods and the bads of that. But I did. Whether those ideas were crazy or not, I did them."

******

In my life some anniversaries will always be more important than others. Still, I will always count the ones that remind me of strength, of hope, of risk. It's a nice feeling, those moments when you realize you're just as strong as you once wished and hoped you would be.

Lying Through My Teeth.

As an adult, I’ve never really been the biggest fan of Halloween. I love the fall and adore seeing all the little kiddos in costume, but to me, there is something slightly unnerving about seeing entire groups of adults dressed up in costumes.

This year in particular, what with the holiday occurring on a Saturday and the temperatures being unseasonably mild, I had a host of party invitations that came my way. Rather than poo-poo the festivities, I figured I’d embrace the holiday and went to work on an easy, inexpensive, comfortable costume. (‘Cause that’s just how I roll.)

I started with a $4 white t-shirt. (Thanks, clearance section of the Gap Outlet!)

I got out two sharpies, spread some magazines on the ground so I wouldn’t stain the carpet, and started stretching the truth. (My cat, Nolan, supervised.)


My plan, you see, was to be a little white lie.


I wish I could tell you I came up with the costume completely on my own, but the truth is I saw this idea several years ago at a party. But, hey! Props to me for even remembering the darn thing.

Once the shirt was finished, I threw on a pair of leggings, ballet flats, and was out the door. No face paint, no unflattering outfits, no trampy looking attire yet still in an amusing costume. Fabulous.

While I may have seen the idea before (nothing new under the sun, you know) the white lies I wrote down were all my own doing. In case you can’t read the shirt, for your amusement:
(How many have you told before?)

- No, officer, I have no idea how fast I was going!
- It’s okay, size doesn’t really matter.
- My phone was on silent.
- Yes, it’s a perfect gift!
- The new haircut looks great!
- You didn’t get my email? Something must be wrong with the server.
- I wanted to call but I lost your phone number.
- Your table will be ready in 5 minutes.
- I need to take a sick day.
- Your new boyfriend is awesome.
- Thank you SO much! I just love it!
- Don’t worry. It happens to lots of guys.
- This is my natural hair color!
- I’ll start working on that ASAP.
- It’s fine, I’ll pull out.
- Yes, you look great in that outfit.
- You were the BEST one.
- No, it didn’t break…
- I need to leave early. I have a dentist appointment.
- Too bad we can’t see Manny in the Series…
- Of course he likes you!
- The check is in the mail.
- I’ll call you.
- I don’t think all Yankees fans are jerks.

For someone who moans and groans about Halloween and drags her feet when RSVPing to Halloween related parties, I have to tell you, I actually had a kick-ass time out and about party hopping through the night. And that, friends, is the honest truth.

Elephants Never Forget.

This is a good story.

Last March, I went to New York City for the weekend. I reunited with some of my oldest friends, girls I've known since high school. Saturday morning we got up, got our caffeine fix, and wandered upon a little arts and crafts festival in the Village. (Those New Yorkers, they love their sidewalk vendors.) As we strolled from stall to stall we came upon a collection of handmade jewelry. My friends and I oohed and aahed over several pieces and I, in particular, spent a good part of our time eyeing a brushed gold elephant charm on a delicate gold chain. It was love at first sight for me and that elephant and I was so very tempted to make the purchase right then and there. The vendor had some silver and gold pieces, which I understood to be priced at $50. Still, the frugal side of my brain discouraged me, reminding me I'd be better off putting that $50 toward something more practical.

My friends and I walked on, off to find more adventures in lower Manhattan. All day though, I kept thinking and talking aloud about that elephant necklace. My friends said we could go back to the woman's stall if I wanted to buy it, so later in the day we trudged back into the Village. All set to shell out my hard-earned cash, I approached the stall. That's when I learned that the silver charm was $50 but the 18K gold brushed piece I'd developed my crush on was actually $75. I sighed. It had taken me all day to justify shelling out $50. $75 just wasn't in the cards. With one last longing glance at Mr. Elephant, I walked away.

You know how sometimes, you walk away from a purchase, dismiss it and never think of it again? This was not the case with that elephant. I thought about that necklace often, even after our weekend in New York, wondering if maybe I'd discover something similar on Etsy or in a local Boston boutique.

No such luck.

Until.

Three of my most loveliest friends and I decided to attend this event in Boston the other night. It was a "girls night out" gathering, where women were catered to in every sense of the stereotypical pink drink, giggling, product obsessed way. I mean, the goodie bag we were given actually came with a Harlequin Romance novel. I wish I could tell you I was kidding.

(Now I like pink drinks and products as much as the next girl, but well, lets just say this event made for a very interesting sort of crowd. )

This is really neither here or there though because I would like you to guess who had a table set up at the event? Go on, guess.

Yes! The same woman from New York!

Sugary pink drinks in hand, my friend Brynn and I strolled over to one of the many jewelry stalls and began admiring earrings. I looked down at the woman's business cards on the table and said to my friend, "Huh. I recognize her business card from somewhere..."

I looked at her earrings for another minute or so until the light bulb finally came on. She was the elephant lady! Could it be, I wondered? Did she still have it? I walked to the other end of the table quickly and suddenly, there it was! My same lovely elephant necklace! Reunited at long last! And do you know the best part?

It was $20 cheaper than she'd quoted in New York! (See, we Bostonians don't always fall for those inflated NY prices...)

I grabbed my friends and told them the abbreviated story. "You should get it!" They said. I tried it on.

"I don't know," I mumbled. "Do I really need it?"

"What? Are you crazy? Get the necklace!" my friends cried. (I have smart friends.)

And so, I did. Mr Elephant and I were united at long last, and he has fast become one of my absolute favorite necklaces. The fact that it seems that little elephant found me after all those months? Makes the whole story just perfect.

Man. I just love a happy ending.

Forever in Blue Jeans.

I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this yet, but I’m a tad obsessed with fashion, design, and décor. I love reading about, thinking about, analyzing style. One of my favorite – stylish – bloggers writes an awful lot about clothes and packing. I’m always impressed with her resourcefulness and ability to travel light.

Inspired, I decided to take a cue from her while packing for my recent trip out to Cal-i-forn-i-a.

When I started laying out my clothes, I grabbed my largest suitcase. Then I thought to myself, No. You can pack a weekend suitcase for five days, Kelli. I know you can.

And, I did.

Best packing trick ever? Roll. Everything. It creates more room and helps cut down on wrinkles significantly. (Ironing is probably my least favorite chore ever so I try very, very hard to avoid wrinkles.)

Other big rule of thumb – brown or black. You have to pick one or the other. Now, I’m all for mixing and matching browns and blacks, actually. I don’t follow any of those “rules” that say blue/brown/and blacks have to stay separate. But, I do find, when I’m grabbing the one belt I’m "allowed" to take and trying to narrow down my jewelry and shoe choices, it helps if I’ve decided upon one or the other as a color base.

Now. I had a whole post planned in my head for this trip, one where I was going to chronicle each outfit I wore during the trip, explaining what I mixed and matched, and why certain things made the cut. As it played out though, my family and I did no sightseeing. There were apartments to look at, (many, many apartments) there were trips to Lowes to make, there were leases to sign, and paint jobs needed. There were trips to Public Storage units to make and Uhauls to load and unload. As a result of this, I ended up relying on a single pair of jeans for almost the entire length of my trip. So instead of telling you all about what I wore when, I’m going to go ahead and zone in on this denim, a pair of jeans I was hesitant to even try on in the dressing room but now can’t imagine my life without.

Here is a picture of me sitting on our week long rental’s balcony at sunset, rocking said jeans (naturally).

(I have no idea why this photo in particular is so large on the screen.)

Anyway. These jeans? They are part of Gap’s new denim line which debuted earlier this fall.

Before I go any further, I have to say something about the Gap. I remember clearly the day I first fell in love with that store. I’d hit a growth spurt at the start of 8th grade and NONE of my jeans fit me. They were all way too short and since the only thing growing seemed to be my legs, I began to get questions from my classmates, asking if I was preparing for a flood. My Mom finally took pity on my complaints, drove us to the fanciest mall in the area and steered me into the Gap. To my utter 13-year-old embarrassment, she asked a male clerk for help, explaining that I just needed longer jeans. While I was busy trying to not look mortified, the clerk smiled and said “oh, no problem. Why don’t you try one of our long sizes?” Off I went into the dressing room, size 4L in hand. From that moment on, I was smitten. The Gap made jeans that actually FIT ME. It was heaven.

And so I became a sworn Gap lover. Until, say 2005 or so. I don’t know what happened, (well, actually I have a clue – different CEOs, head designers, lost identity, etc) but the whole company kind of derailed. They were working far too hard to be trendy, their cuts weren’t right, I was a fan of almost nothing. Designer denim was in in a very big way anyhow and Gap jeans just couldn’t hold a candle to other options, unfortunately. In fact, I stayed away from all things jean/Gap related for years.

Then, this fall, I thought I’d give their new line a chance. I pulled a few options into the dressing room (it helped that I had a 25% off coupon) just to see what was what. Do you know? I was actually pleasantly surprised! The things fit well! They looked cute! I liked the different washes!

I ended up heading home – on two separate occasions – with two separate styles.
1.) The deconstructed skinny jean (no photos, yet. sorry.)
And
2.) The boyfriend jean. (Featured above and below.)

Here is a photo of me leaping like a mad woman while wearing said boyfriend jean on day #3 of my trip:

Gang. I LOVE every single thing about these jeans. They’re loose and baggy without looking you know, loose and baggy. (Read - sloopy.) They’re so, so comfortable and the rolling idea? ADORE. They worked especially well out West as I was able to adjust the roll to suit whatever the (sunny, warm, wonderful) temps dictated.

The flip side - seeing as I do not live on the West Coast – is that I do not anticipate wearing these jeans quite as much around Boston come winter. In my humble opinion, they look cutest when they’re rolled somewhat and because they’re loose, you’re better off with a form fitting shirt on top – lest you look loose and baggy all over. (So circa grunge, 1992.) The other little hiccup is they are too big to tuck into boots, a must for New England winters, but that’s what the skinny jeans are for.

Whew! That's a lot of denim talk! Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t get a chance to wear everything else in my suitcase, huh?

On a different note, here is a shot of my handsome little brother:


When I asked him if he liked my new jeans (and began to explain how much I loved the rolling to whatever length I wanted feature) he nodded and said: “Huh. Well, they look like jeans, alright. They’re not really any different from the pair I’m wearing.”

Hrmph. MEN.

Also, here is a shot of the sunset. Because it never gets old to me, being able to see the sun set into the Pacific. (Never happens if you live near the Atlantic, you know.)

Safe and Sound.

The brief version:


I've been to California and back, on a whirlwind trip that moved along far faster than my brain could process in five days.

My mother, my brother and I - we had lots to catch up on, lots of thoughts and memories and moments to process, lots of apartments to look at in an effort to get that brother of mine settled back in the USA and unfortunately not a lot of time. The days, the hours, they move so fast out in sunny California, it seems.

Luckily, I also tucked away lots of smiles and laughs to carry me through until our next reunion.

The most important thing, of course, was to see with my own eyes that Stephen had made it back safe and sound from Afghanistan. And, there was that lovely extra benefit of getting to give my handsome little brother some long overdue East Coast hugs, while we reunited on the West Coast.


I am so very glad he's home.

I and Love and You.

The air is crisp, the days grow shorter, the sunlight isn't as intense as it was just a few months ago. The leaves change color, there's the smell of smoke in the air, the suggested coziness of hunkering down under a pile of blankets with a good book.

I like the fall. I drink more tea, I bundle up with a few more layers, the crock pot comes out on Sunday mornings more often. It's cozy. I linger over the Sunday paper with a hot cup of coffee, I pick up the books I dub "cold weather reads" more eagerly. Songs like this one make me pause, smile. I pull on tights and boots, put away the flip-flops and my summery dresses.

Yet this time of year also always makes me nostalgic, a bit sad, a tinge melancholy. I suppose part of it is the slowing down after a hectic summer, coupled with the knowledge that we'll soon all be hunkering down for a long (long) winter's night.

I miss my family, always, but I seem to miss them the most during the fall. I crave things, moments that I took for granted for so many years when I was young. I think of my Mom, who always bought mums and pumpkins for the front door of our house. I picture my Dad, donning the same navy blue down jacket he's had for as long as I've known him raking leaves, or letting a blast of cool air in through the back door when he'd walk into the living room on a weekend night, pizza box in hand, singing "When the moon hits your eye, like a big-a-pizza-a pie..."

I think of my brother and our next door neighbors piling into the back of the old red and white 1978 Scout my father maintained. Halloween was one of the few times we were allowed to ride in the back. The four of us would sit there, in our costumes, clutching our empty orange baskets. Dad would drive about 1/2 a mile, parking at the end of a neighborhood street. We'd make the rounds, all four of us, ringing door bell after door bell, Dad trailing a few feet behind us. Then we'd all pile back into the Scout, already trading loot under the dim glow of the streetlights we drove past.

Those moments, those times, they happen every year, always. But then, one year they don't. We get too old or too "cool" for trick or treating. We suddenly meet up with friends on a Friday night instead of crowding around the television eating pizza on the night Mom wants off from cooking duty. Of course you don't realize it when it's happening, as the moments, the differences unfolding are subtle. There is a time when we yearn for change, we long to reach and live outside the safe shelter of our homes. We grow our wings, we leave the nest.

Life keeps moving. We keep going, yet I always find myself taking a moment to look back, to remember, to embrace my nostalgia - especially as the seasons change, the leaves tumble, the nights grow long for another year.

Off-Season.

I was supposed to go apple picking yesterday. Believe it or not, despite having grown up about a mile away from an apple orchard and living in New England for ten years, I’ve never been. I made apple picking a New Year’s resolution several years in a row when I moved back from New York, determined to enjoy all a New England fall had to offer. Yet things always came up – the weather didn’t cooperate, we were too late in the season, none of my friends and I could coordinate our schedules to find a weekend that worked, etc., etc., etc.

Earlier this week though, one of my friends and I finally pulled our schedules together. We picked a date, an orchard, a meet-up time. The weather forecast was perfect – sunny, mild, lovely. I turned 30 just under a month ago and I was finally – at long last – going apple picking.

Best laid plans.

Twenty four hours ago there was another thing I’d never done in all my years. Attend a Major League Baseball play-off game. At Fenway. With the Sox playing the Angels, fighting to stay alive and continue their climb to the World Series.

You can imagine, as excited as I was about apple picking, what my decision was come Saturday morning when I learned a friend of mine had an extra ticket to Sunday’s game.

I love apples, don’t get me wrong, but this is what they call a no-brainer.

Yesterday dawned sunny and bright and beautiful. Sox gear was donned, a trek over to Fenway park was made, excitement and confidence coursed through the stadium. All was right with the world. Until. Suddenly, it wasn’t.

If you’re a Red Sox fan, you know how this story ends. If you’re not, well, let’s just say I’d rather not talk about it. The final two innings were the most stressful in my life – in fact, I don’t imagine I took more than one breath during the last half hour of that game. The life was sucked out of Fenway the moment the Angels ran out onto the field in celebration; our descent back to Yawkey Way was so quiet you literally could have heard a pin drop. To be blunt, it was awful.

Oh there’s 2010, better days ahead, chin up, BELIVE, and all that. I know. For a girl who made it inside Fenway so many times this season she sort of lost count (13? 14? games?) I should count my blessings, be happy we made it to the playoffs, and move on to bigger and brighter things. And I will.

But today, I’m wallowing. This morning I took down the team schedule from my cubicle wall, avoided the front page of the Globe, and shed a few tears with some of my co-workers.

Another season, over.

At least it’s only five months until April. Maybe I’ve got time to pick some apples between now and then.