Fingers to the Letters (an Attempt)

In an attempt to partake in the New Years resolution fad, I’ve decided to try writing up a little something about my day (each day) for the next 365 days. A lot happened in 2012 - so much that I can barely remember what - and that can only mean that 2013 and the remaining years ahead will be that much packed and equally, if not harder, to recount. (Especially as I get older.)

Today looked and felt like every other day I have known. I woke up feeling new / ready to live life differently. I do this by waking up early. Not as early as I would like, or as early as someone who prides them selves on early rising might, but early enough so that I don’t feel like my day is already passing me by like the hands of a classroom clock in some 80s movie. I brushed my teeth – an act that will usually jostle Michael from sleep – and pulled on my running clothes. It’s been a lazy vacation filled with pasta and cookies and all things delicious and wrong and I have a wedding to go to at the end of February, so 1/1/13 is when the running routine buttons up and makes the serious face. I forgot that it was New Years Day though and that my gym would be closed. And the weather was cold, like really cold, and I couldn’t bring myself / convince myself to torture my little lungs outside. It was also my parent’s 37th anniversary and another one of my resolutions is to see my parents more / be nice to my parents more, so Michael and I walked over to Sackett Street to see them for some 9am coffee talk.

I wanted to buy my mom flowers, but the only place open was Apple Tree, and the bodega guys hadn’t put the flowers out front yet. (Another sign that the day was still early / young.) I read somewhere once that we spend a lot of money bringing things to people whenever we go somewhere and we should feel more comfortable offering up ourselves, our presence, but of course it looks better when you come bearing gifts. But I had no gift and that was that. Although, I did bring my dad a homemade ring-a-ding from Betty Bakery, which are freaking delicious if anyone is interested. The cake is so moist and of course there’s the white cream and a thick chocolate shell holding it altogether with a dusting of cocoa on top. It’s rich and wrong and I do wish I didn’t view sweets as “wrong” but unfortunately, I do. There are mixed feelings there.

After Sackett Street, Michael and I drove to Coney so he could take the polar bear plunge. Once he ran in, I tried to get close to the water so that I could get him his towel, socks, and sweats all the more quickly, but apparently I missed him and he ended up sans all of that for a good 3 minutes. His friend dug holes in the sand so that he could bury his feet for warmth. Major fail on my part; I felt bad. The car was super warm once we started driving back to the neighborhood and I kept joking about how cold my nose was back on the beach. Because, ha, he was cold all over, and poor me, my nose was kind of cold. Wah, wah.

At home, we took showers and I heated up some leftover chicken soup from El Nuevo Portal (the best chicken soup) and then we went back to Sackett Street where Arthur, Claudette, Yarden, Max, Amy, and grandma all were. They’d gone to brunch at Provence en Boite – something that does not happen every day – and was nice to see; a familial start to the New Year for everyone. (Another one of my resolutions revolves around the idea of  “family first.”) We sat around the living room, speaking loudly and over one another - a Flatow thing – and actually laughed a whole lot. Arthur had me cracking up, tears in eyes, that sort of laughing, and it felt good to be giving it all up to the belly. Another resolution of mine should be to laugh more but I’m not sure how to force that one. I feel like that shit just has to find you, not the other way around. It should catch you off-guard. That’s how it works. For me, I want the joke to just be taken too far. Keep it going. Take it to a new level. Even resurrect it amidst the next context of conversation. Get ridiculous.

I forgot to mention that Michael offended me at some point between chicken soup and belly laughing, but that it was over and put to bed between the car park on luquer and the walk up the block to eat at prime meats with his parents. It was Norm’s birthday (62) and we got seated at the furthest table, nestled in the corner, with votive candles, personal carafes of wine, and spaetzle. Unfortunately, I confused spaetzle with schnitzel and had no idea I was in for another pasta dish. I was hoping to start 2013 off with some healthy restaurant eating (not that schnitzel is healthy… but it’s sure as hell not spaetzle). However, the good thing is that there is always tomorrow. Like I said up top, it’s the story of my life.