picking up the pieces

I stand in my bedroom, in the dark, hands on my face, surveying the open dresser drawers, bare nightstands, and glass on the floor. The heavy July air pushes in through the open window and I hear my own voice in a manic chant, "Who the fuck steals lamps? Who the fuck steals lamps?"

It's been said that nothing bad can happen to a writer, because everything is material. 

In other words, catastrophes make for interesting stories. 

I can't disagree.

In mid July, Ryan and I traveled to a sleepy mountainside in southern New Hampshire to see my best friend get married. It was breathtaking [photo as evidence]. 

Days later, we arrive home after midnight. We'd driven to the airport separately, and so Ryan pulls into the driveway maybe a minute before me. I cut the engine and start to step out of the car when he asks, "Did you put something in front of the door before you left?"

Me: "No. What are you talking about?"
Him: "Did you leave a light on?"
Me: "No," racking my memory and at the same time fighting the immediate dread that pulls at my throat.
Him: "I just tried the door and it won't open."

We walk together around the front yard and see nothing. We walk into the backyard and notice a small silver-colored stake sticking out of the grass.

"What's that?" I'm asking at the same moment my eyes dart up to the back of the house. Light shines out through the shattered window. We'll later realize that the metal stake is our curtain rod.

Adrenaline tells me to run, and I do. I grab my bag (phone inside), and then I'm standing at our neighbor Jerry's door, trying to knock in a non-frantic way but failing as my knuckles hit faster and faster to no avail. 

In the background I hear Ryan on the phone with 911. I'm pleading with him to walk away from our house, to get out of sight, imagining the intruder running toward us, gun raised.

Minutes later, three cop cars appear. They search the house, find it empty, then ask us to identify what's missing.

And that's where this story began. Me, in the bedroom. Our bedside lamps missing. I'm staring at a naked pillow, whose case was likely used to carry my jewelry box, laptop, our knife set, DVD player, and iPod dock. Our kitchen stools are gone. The table that matches was left behind in the hallway—propped against the door—which explains why Ryan couldn't open it in the first place.


An hour passes. The police take photos. Search for fingerprints. Bear witness to me collapsing in the kitchen when I realize that, with my computer gone, I'm missing years of photos and writing. Then they're gone as quickly as they came, and Ryan and I are left.

Fear is a terrible emotion. I'm scared to stay at the house, but scared to leave it again. It's a feeling that lingers for weeks.

But as we lay wide-eyed in our own guest bedroom that night, tucked away in the basement, he wrapped his arms around me and whispered, "Tomorrow, we'll start picking up the pieces."

And we have. In the months that have passed, we've replaced what we could. I still miss the irreplaceable things—my mom's rosary beads, my aunt's earrings, etc.—but remind myself that they're only things. Then I remind myself that karma is a huge bitch, and someone out there has one hell of tidal wave headed their way.

I've neglected to blog since this incident, knowing I had to write about it and also knowing it would force me to relive it. Even now it makes my heart pound. But now it's done, down and out, and we can move on. Here's to happier things.

a very honest mother's day letter

Mom,

I remember having clean clothes to wear every day growing up, but I never remember thanking you for that. 

There was one wet Fall day... I was so angry at  you—I can't remember why—and I stormed out of the house, into the garage. A few minutes later, you followed and told me to hold out my hand. You dropped a peppermint into my selfish palm—a peace offering. I sneered, stuffed it back into your hands and walked off into the woods, a quarter-mile into the forest to my fort. 

I was stuck inside my anger, the way pieces got stuck in the Candy Land gumdrop squares. You liked Queen Frostine and I liked Princess Lolli. Or maybe I liked both, and you tolerated the game just because you loved me. 

When you wouldn't let me shave my hairless legs, I told you I hated you. 

My chest was flat and I took it out on you.

I said I didn't want to be a "housewife" and, at different points in time, I yearned to be a hairdresser, an FBI agent, Julia Roberts. You told me I looked time her. You told me I could be anything I wanted to be. 

In the haze of adolescence, I couldn't feel anything beyond my own fingertips. I had a sharp tongue, and I used it.


I'm sorry. 

I eat uncooked pasta now. You always did that while making us dinner. 

I find peace in yoga classes, the same ones Dad and I would make fun of you for. I drink chamomile tea.

On occasion, I stand in the kitchen with one foot firmly on the ground, the other propped against the inside of my knee—your signature stance.

I see you reflected in a handful of my habits, in ways that might have annoyed me when I was younger—in ways that I love now, because I feel like you are always with me.

You're wonderful, and I love you, and I'm so happy to have you.

the psychology of twitter

While forcing myself to jog this evening, I caught my internal dialogue talking in Tweets. Short little quips. Not full sentences.

I started worrying... is my brain being crippled by Twitter? Will my writing suffer because I can only process thoughts 140-characters at a time? Should I take a Twitter hiatus? But would I then need to take a Facebook hiatus? What about blogging? And what about Instagram, my newfound love?

A hiatus will not work. I sadly can't go a weekend without these things, let alone a month. 

So my next thought, as I'm panting along down the trail, is Why? What is it about all these things that draws me in? What's the psychology behind it?

Get home. Take off muddy sneakers. Walk to computer. Google search "the psychology of Twitter."

The first result, an older article from PsychologyToday.com states:

At its worst, Twitter is an exercise in unconditional narcissism - the idea that others might actually care about the minutiae of our daily lives. I believe that this phenomena of micro-celebrity is driven by existential anxiety. I twitter, therefore I am. I matter. I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and, doggoneit, people like me!

Yes, yes, we can all agree that social media, in all forms, is dripping with narcissism. BUT— here's my but—what about its documentation value? Or its artistic worth? Or its power to spark curiosity and creativity? 

Truth is, the journalist in me loves capturing and recording little glimpses of everyday happenings. 

This morning I took the stairs instead of the elevator and I found this. Random, beautiful, and creepy at the same time because it led me to wonder... how on Earth did a single long-stem pink rose end up in a dirty stairwell of a downtown parking garage? Who dropped it, or threw it, and why? What's the story there?

There are stories everywhere—tiny fragments of life waiting to be shared. THAT (tinged with a bit of narcissism) is why I love these things we call social networks.

convos with kiddies

My cousin Luke is 4 and a half. My cousin Emma just turned 8. I spent the weekend with them in North Carolina. Here are just a few of the conversations we had:


Me: I'm just a big kid.
Luke: No, you're an adult.
Me: I don't want to be an adult, I want to be a big kid.
Luke: Do you like drinking coffee?
Me: Yeah.
Luke: Do you like drinking it all day?
Me: Yeah.
Luke: Then you should stay like that.

Emma: I wish you could stay longer. Do you have to go back home? So you can keep your house?

Me: Yes, I have to go back to work so I can pay for my house, and my food, and my car and everything.

Emma: Well... what about a hotel?

Me: How'd you get to be so cute?
Luke: I don't know.
Me: Do YOU think you're cute?
Luke: Yeah.
Me: How do you know you're cute?
Luke: Because I really am!


Emma: Are you in Auntie Susan's family, the Pasquariello family?
Me: Yes, you know Auntie Susan is my mom. But I got married to Ryan, so now McGinnis is our new last name.
Emma: McGinnis. OK. But you're still in the Pasquariello family, right?
(strange timing considering my last post)


Me: I don't want to leave. 
Luke: Don't you want to see your husband?
Me: Yes.
Luke: Then you have to go.

on the 12th day of christmas

12 Days of Christmas, 12 Days of Gratitude starts now.

The past 12 years have been very kind to me. I've...

• Gotten my drivers license 
• Had my first kiss
• Graduated high school 
• Rocked out at some kickass concerts
• Learned a lot from a few bad relationships
• Made it through college with a little help from my fabulous friends
• Traveled to 2 new continents
• Made my way through 3 jobs at 3 great companies
• Married the love of my life

A lot can happen in 12 years. In 1999, I was your average 15-year old, unsure and awkward. Although I'll never fully accept the title of "grown-up," I really do enjoy being 27. So thankful for the life I have today, and all the people who have helped me get to this point.

november so soon?

Earlier today I about had a meltdown in the middle of Pottery Barn when I found out half the things we'd put on our wedding registry were no longer available, including the plates that we already own half a set of.

I could feel myself turning red and I was swearing like a sailor, barely under my breath. Ryan had every reason to walk away and let me throw a temper tantrum on my own. But he didn't. He stayed, and he let me vent, and he talked me out of making several bad decisions like:

• Buying other plates I didn't like just to get it over with, or
• Knocking over all the displays in the store

After my "Italian temper" (his words) fizzled out, we detoured to Cheesecake Factory for snacks and a beer, so that the trip wouldn't be a complete bust.

Did I overreact? Yes. Do I feel a bit silly about it now? Yes. Am I lucky to have a guy that understands me better than I understand myself sometimes? Truly.
So instead of writing an angry email to Pottery Barn, I decided to make a list of everything that made me smile this weekend. Cheers to changing leaves — and attitudes.

Friday night downtown dinner date
chilly but sunny Fall weather
sleeping in
Dunkin Donuts
a full refrigerator
take-out pizza
college football
cuddling on the couch
good red wine
Georgia winning
South Carolina losing
a clean house
and a husband who helps clean it

like an ice cream cone

Starting a new job is an awful lot like trying to eat an ice cream cone on a warm Fall day. When you're first handed the cone, you're trying to pay, and get napkins, and keep it upright all at once. Then you're frantically licking to keep it from melting all over the place, or to keep it from rolling off.

You're so focused on controlling the cone that it's hard to just enjoy the ice cream. You can't help but think a cup would have been so much easier. But you know that, eventually, you'll get the hang of it. You'll be able to take a breath without chocolate dripping all over your hands. Sooner or later.

all's fair in love

When we got engaged last August, I had no interest in taking engagement photos. But then, a few weeks ago, I changed my mind. The state fair had come to town, and there are few things in life I love more than fairs — the fried dough, the corndogs, the candy apples, the lights, and especially the people-watching.

Thinking back to last summer, I had this vivid memory of being at the fair with Ryan. It was a Friday night, and as we got off the Scrambler (the one ride I insist on riding every year), he spun me around in a pirouette, and we were belly-laughing and too dizzy to walk straight. I wished that I had a photo of that moment to match the snapshot in my mind. And then — Eureka! Why not take engagement photos at the fair?

I contacted a local photographer with the last-minute request; she agreed and offered August 20th as a possible date — which just so happened to be the one-year anniversary of our engagement. The rest, my friends, is history.

P.S. As someone who doesn't like taking center stage, this really pushed me out of my comfort zone. Instead of doing the people-watching, we were the people-being-watched. But I think it was good practice for our wedding day, and I was surprised at how everyone sort of faded into the background when I just focused on Ryan.

a poem a day

The best five minutes of my morning commute: the Writer's Almanac on NPR. It usually airs between 9:05 and 9:10, when I'm usually driving into work (late, because I have an abusive relationship with my snooze button).

Garrison Keillor has a voice so regal, I'm convinced he could read the ingredients off the side of a Cheez-It box aloud and they'd sound like priceless verse.

I love this poem from last week, as Ryan and I have spent countless hours pouring through glossy magazines and window shopping since we moved into our house in September. It's good to pause and remember that "we already have everything."

what an adventure this is

I'm reading Anne Frank's Diary of a Young Girl for the first time. May seem like a strange pick for the holiday season, but it's a wonderful reminder to not take a single thing for granted. In the face of such terror and harsh living conditions, listening to bombs dropping night after night, eating boiled rotten cabbage for weeks on end, and after 22 months of confinement, Anne still manages such a positive outlook — and she's only 14 years old! I can't help wishing that I had an attitude like hers:

"I'm young and strong and living through a big adventure; I'm right in the middle of it and can't spend all day complaining because it's impossible to have any fun! I'm blessed with many things: happiness, a cheerful disposition and strength. Every day I feel myself maturing, I feel liberation drawing near, I feel the beauty of nature and the goodness of the people around me. Every day I think what a fascinating and amusing adventure this is! With all that, why should I despair?"

one more start

A good book. A warm bed. A strong cup of coffee. A clear sunny morning.
Wonderful reminders that I have all I need, and I want for nothing.



"I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning." -J.B. Priestly

the physchology of baking

I have a confession to make. I've been baking compulsively since I moved to Indiana.

Muffins, Cookies, Breads, Brownies. I didn't know what my problem was. And then Laura said something which made a whole lot of sense.

First you must know that what Laura and I have in common, other than being natives of Campton, NH, is that we've both had a lot of free time on our hands (for vastly different reasons, I should add). But more than enough of it, to the point where free time isn't fun time anymore. It haunts you, in a way. (I know the busy people who happen to read this are shaking their heads in annoyance, thinking Well I wouldn't feel that way... but you'd be surprised).

So, with no knowledge of my baking endeavors, what she said was this:

"Sometimes I just need to bake some brownies, you know? Just to have a set of instructions, and be able to follow them, and you know exactly what you're gonna get."

And there it was.

To be able to control the variables. To know that it's a project that you can actually finish. To feel as if you've fulfilled some sugary purpose. To be able to look at that huge stack of baked goods at the end of the day, and know that you created it. That you changed something.

It sounds foolish, but it's immensely gratifying when life is otherwise a smorgasbord of starts and stops, scrubbing a dirty old house which never comes clean and job hunting (me), bullshit insurance paperwork and trying to reclaim a normal life (her).

This is the part where I wrap up with some sweeping, uplifting commentary, right? How about a cookie instead?

going a little nuts

This will be one of those entries where, in the beginning, I intend to make one concise point. But then, as one idea bounces to another, it will surely meander along, making murky thought-puddles instead of points. So, you've been warned.

This is what my house looks like now. While I try to be patient and accept that it's all "part of the process" as Ryan so kindly reminds me, it's driving me a little crazy.

Then, the other day, I get a much-needed life lesson from a squirrel. How is such a thing possible? you wonder.

I'm sitting in my car, in the driveway, listening to NPR (and just so you don't think I'm all-too-classy, I was also finishing my McDonald's fries). I see this freakishly huge squirrel in the backyard, carrying what looks like three miniature tennis balls in his mouth. He approaches the fence. I stop eating the fries. I grab my camera.

He tries to push his way under the fence, but doesn't fit. Does he quit and drop the loot? No. Does he give up and eat his meal on that side of the fence? No. After several failed attempts, he climbs up and over. Success.

The lesson here is obvious. It's like the little engine that could, except that he's a squirrel, not an engine. And as previously stated, he wasn't little. He was very large (and orange — what is it with these Indiana squirrels? They're all orange).

So then I get to wondering, what was that he was carrying anyway? I do a little research....

At first I think it's a fig. And I get excited like any English nerd would, because as a Plath fan and fellow neurotic, I've always loved this Bell Jar passage:

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.

Alas, it's not a fig. My best cyber-sleuthing skills tell me it comes from a Black Walnut tree.

No deeper meaning there. Just a squirrel with a nut.

a little perspective

While I was still sleeping this morning (in our makeshift basement bedroom/cave, avoiding the mountains of unpacked boxes looming upstairs), my dad emailed this photo...

Sunrise over Atlanta, from 375 feet up in the Bank of America building. And I'm reminded that my mountains of boxes are more like molehills.

It's a great big beautiful world, isn't it?

street dreamin

Standing in the Kroger magazine aisle, last year sometime, I has this priceless encounter...

Scrappy-looking 15-year-old boy, with an armful of bootleg CDs: Are you buying a house?
Me, with an armful of glossy house magazines: No.
Scrappy: Oh, are you getting those for a class then?
Me: No...
Scrappy: Oh shoot! Girl, you're street dreamin!

And then he walked off, without even trying to sell me a CD because, clearly, I fell into the category of "street dreamer." And while I'm not 100% on the definition, my guess is it's the urban equivalent of what my mom means when she says, "champagne taste on a beer budget."

Nail on the head, Scrappy. I was caught street dreamin in the middle of Kroger, and promptly called out.

BUT! A year later, I'm actually looking for a house — a real house! Granted, I won't be the one to slap the big fat down payment on the table, but I'll be paying half a mortgage. That counts, right?

Ryan and I spent most of Sunday cruising around with our real estate dude. Saw a few nice places, but haven't found it yet. We both have this feeling that when we see "our house," we'll instantly know it's the one. These were two of our favorites... can't tell much from just one picture, but trust me, they were cute.

philosopher's graffiti

[Found on the side of a boarded up Jiffy Lube, up in the 30075]

fading summer

"Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?"
-Robert Frost

Resisting change, I believe, is one of the most basic human instincts. And I'm completely guilty of it. Though I love the start of a new season, I can never wholeheartedly embrace the change. There remains a part of me that clings to the familiar. In this case, a part of me that is not ready to pack away the flip-flops, sunscreen and flowing skirts. A part of me that pouts when the sun sets before 8:00 pm.

But I'm learning that one way to welcome a new season is to bid a proper farewell to the passing one. Given this, I'm trying to appreciate the last days of summer — noting the nuances of the season, and all that it carries. Because just when I start to think, I'm ready for fall (like when my legs, arms and even knuckles are swollen with mosquito bites), I find some new little piece of summer to fall in love with.

Take, for instance, your typical chlorine-soaked suburban swimming pool. Have you ever looked at the bottom? Like really seen it? It is dizzying, but amazing. The sun cuts through like tiny laser beams, dancing and scattering along the bottom, in a strangely chaotic-but-fluid rhythm, breaking patterns as soon as they are formed. Or, the way the water feels when you swim? It envelops and transforms your body into a foreign, nearly weightless being. Swallowing you whole, the water feels like a strong wind blowing against your skin, but from every direction at the same moment. [model: my cousin Emma, age 4 1/2]

I'm grateful for these last days of the season. But I know that, as with all things, this too shall pass. My obsession with summer will end September 21. My obsession with fall will promptly take its place, on September 22, with a vengeance.

one dazzling moment

"When we are mindful of every nuance of our natural world, we finally get the picture: that we are only given one dazzling moment of life here on Earth, and we must stand before that reality both humbled and elevated, subject to every law of our universe and grateful for our brief but intrinsic participation with it." -Elizabeth Gilbert

50 years from now

My grandmother, Mimi, just turned 75 in early August. She was visiting us from North Carolina over Labor Day weekend and Nick, my 17-year-old brother, was determined to fit 75 candles on her birthday cake. A seemingly impossible task — oh, but not when Dad has a blow torch handy. This was the result:75 and it only took her two breaths to blow them all out. And she was so excited to see that many candles. I hope I make it to 75 candles.

Only about 50 more years until I'm that age. Thinking about that reminded me of this list I started keeping 2 years ago, "25 things to do before I die." I try to update it every once in a while. The last time I wrote it was about eight months ago:Publish book of poems
Backpack in Italy
Road trip to the west coast with Trey and Nick
Have a boxer/lab mix
Work in another country
Work for the Peace corps or a nonprofit
Work for refugee services
Live in Boston
Redo an old house
Have organic vegetable and herb garden
Live on a farm
Learn to play an instrument
Learn how to speak the basics of another language
Get married to someone I'm madly in love with
Learn how to ski again
Learn to surf
Hike a volcano
Have 4 kids
Adopt a baby from another country
Volunteer at a nursing home
Buy Dad a motorcycle
Travel to Ireland with Mom
Go hang gliding
Run a 10K
Travel to one new place every year
I'm realizing that in the past eight months time, I've actually crossed four things off this list: I've learned to ski again, run a 10K, traveled to two new places and have started working with a refugee service (volunteering).

Maybe the reason I keep this list, and the reason why I love lists in general, is the added sense of accomplishment they bring. When life starts to feel stagnant — when the weeks form familiar patterns, and long hours of working gunk up like plaque in my memory — lists like this one serve as a reminder that things do change, milestones come and go and each day is a chance to do something you haven't done before. (And yes, I am "that girl" who will occasionally write down an item on my daily to-do list after I've already completed it, just for the satisfaction of crossing it off.)

So it looks like I have a few open slots on my list of 25. Any suggestions on what to add?

a grand scale

Often when I start to feel overwhelmed, I like to think about how small a human being is in the grand scheme of things. Thinking of this adds some perspective — it helps me remember that whatever issue I may be facing is less than a speck of sand to the universe, and that in the long run it will wash away just as quickly and easily. I found these two photos and thought they were too breathtaking to keep to myself:

In the upper right corner of the image, the Small Magellanic Cloud is a nearby dwarf galaxy to our own Milky Way. It is visible in the Southern Hemisphere, and is roughly 210,000 light-years away. (Nasa)

Grains of sand up-close (magnification 95x), from Plum Island Mass. (Discover)

Don't think I'll ever look at the night sky or the beach quite the same way again.

"To see a world in a grain of sand // And a heaven in a wild flower // Hold infinity in the palm of your hand // And eternity in an hour." -William Blake