Travelogue

Wake Up

Over the last few months, I’ve been waking up very early, in anticipation of the flood of calls from plumbers who can’t make it that day or carpenters who need me to pick up some wood for a new job I’ve undertaken, a gut renovation of an older home. I stumble into the bathroom, splash my face and squeak the crust out of my eyes to review my handwritten notes for the day ahead.I’ve always dreamed of creating new living spaces for individuals or families and now I’m finally doing it.

But this morning, the birds wake me up instead. Or it could be the sweetness still lingering in my mouth from the night before, from three perfect profiteroles, a pastry -each the size of a walnut- sliced in the middle and filled with vanilla ice cream, surrounded by pools of bittersweet chocolate that would stir even the most complacent individual from slumber.

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The New “F” Word

I’m watching the latest CNN update about the Ukraine. My headphones are soaked from the sweat dripping down my brow. A middle-aged guy I kind of know, a few elliptical machines away, yells something over to me. I yank off my headset, reluctantly leaving Carol Costello in her chic scarlet dress.

“QUIET” he says to me in a very loud voice. “Pardon?” I whisper back to this overly energetic dude, still trying to be polite. “ Am I lifting my heels too loudly for you?”

“No,” he cackles. “Quiet is the name of a book I’m reading by Susan Cain and I think you’ll love it. It’s about the power of introverts and how undervalued they are in society. ”

“Okay!?!” I say with a smirk, wondering if he thinks I’m an introvert in need of empowerment.

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Lost in Paradise

“I’m moving here,” I announce flinging my arms up to the indigo sky.

My kids look at each other, with a “Here we go again” smile.

“Be realistic, mom.You can’t sit still for a minute. How are you going to survive two months, let alone a few weeks here? You will go berserk.”

“No, I won’t.” I stomp my sparkly pink toed feet in the sugary sand. “ You can all visit me,” I chirp like a baby Robin who’s just left the nest. Dreamy-eyed, I imagine escaping to a small painted house, only a bike ride away from the closest beach, routine morning hikes alone and quiet afternoons spent completing that novel and screenplay I’ve shelved for years.

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Because I was too lazy to put on my reading glasses, and it was night time, I had difficulties trying to post a “selfie” on Facebook of moi in Central Park( a “selfie” being one of those narcissistic self portraits documenting our every move, and now officially recognized as a new word of the year by Oxford Dictionaries). By accident I pressed some function on my twitter account(hey the icons are both blue and white) and managed to invite all of my contacts that have ever existed to follow my tweets, even if I’ve deleted them years ago.

Over the last week I’ve been getting back these apologetic responses from old uncles and long lost friends, politely declining the tweeting invite.

The sad thing is, I really don’t tweet or even know what to tweet. And even if I did no one would notice cause I’m not that famous. Certainly not famous like Richard Branson or Sarah Silverman, who are the only tweets I follow. But a weekend ago, I felt pretty famous, and I didn’t even need to tweet.

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