Blizzard

This may be the last time I'll actually be able to see my driveway for the next few days. When I left my house this morning it was already snowing in Westchester, and starting to stick. Apparently the worst of it is still a few hours away, and I plan to be curled up on the couch, Nora Roberts book in hand, by the time it really starts to come down.

With snow forecasts for White Plains somewhere in the neighborhood of 1-2 feet, we are hunkering down for quite the winter blast.

Since I grew up in Pittsburgh, I am no stranger to monster snow storms. When I was little, and there was a blizzard, my mom always made cookies and hot chocolate and we spent the day playing outside.

So we are going to do the same. The plan is to whip up some cookies when I get home, spend the worst of the storm inside, and then get out and have some fun once the wind dies down. 

This is winter. Might as well enjoy it.

If you are in the path of the storm, stay warm, cozy and dry.

See you on the other side.

Happy snow day!

The Wedding

A hush descended over the room as the six piece string orchestra began to play.

The groom took his place next to the minister, and behind the closed wooden doors at the back of the room, the members of the bridal party lined up for their walk down the long aisle under the soaring church ceilings.

The first strains of Pachelbel's Canon in D wafted through the bridal room as Emily stood, alone. The music that she had thought such a lovely and traditional choice now sounded mundane. The knick-knacks strewn across the bridal room tables that she had thought so nostalgic now grated on her nerves as the floral covered walls seemed to close farther in on her with each passing second.

Emily's hands clenched tightly at her sides as she gasped for air. The ivory lace dress she had chosen so lovingly was making it hard to breathe and the bridal room felt like a sauna.

Any minute now the wedding planner would knock on the door, signaling it was time for the bride to make her appearance.

Emily caught sight of her reflection in the gold-framed mirror. Wide-eyed and pale, she looked nothing like the radiant bride the photographer captured just an hour before.

The whole morning was filled with people. Her mother, grandmothers, bridesmaids and sisters gathered in the room with their laughter and smiles, joining her in the mysterious female rituals that make up a wedding day. The noise they created drowned out the murmur that had been filling Emily's head for the past week.

She had tried to ignore it. Dismissed it as pre-wedding jitters, but now that the noise was gone, the murmur became a roar.

YOU ARE MAKING A MISTAKE.

Emily's breath hitched sharply. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, and a cold sweat trailed its icy fingers down her back.

As the maid of honor stepped over the threshold and into the church, the wedding planner knocked on the door to escort Emily to her father, waiting at the top of the aisle. Her brides didn't usually wait behind closed doors, but she thought it sweet that Emily was so adamant about not wanting Josh to see her dress until the very last second.

When there was no answer, the wedding planner smiled, thinking how excited Emily was, that she was too distracted to hear the knock.

But when she opened the door, the bridal room was empty but for a wedding dress pooled on the floor and the curtains over the open window fluttering cheerfully in the breeze .

Countdown to Sochi

If you have been reading this blog for awhile now, you know that I love a good pop culture event, and that my most favorite pop culture event of all is the Olympics. Every two years, in a burst of patriotic pride, I am glued to my TV for the better part of two weeks. I devour news stories about Team USA, and regularly check the medal count. I cheer for ice skaters, gymnasts, runners, swimmers, skiers, and even for the athletes in the more obscure sports like shot-put and bobsled.

This past summer I was, quite literally, consumed with all things London. And when the torch was extinguished, I started counting the days until Sochi - 541 days from the closing ceremonies of the 2012 summer games, if anyone is interested in keeping track of that sort of thing.

Well. This morning, as I was walking to work, I happened upon this sight when I passed Rockefeller Center. Now, being more of a Good Morning America girl myself, I usually walk past Rockefeller Center as fast as possible to avoid the fanatical Today Show crowds. But today, for just a minute, I joined the masses. Because right on the plaza where Matt, Al and Savannah usually make their appearance for the 8:00 hour, stood a fully functional ski slope. And milling around and on the slope were Olympic figure skaters, skiers and broadcasters, all celebrating one year until the 2014 games in Sochi, Russia.

So I stopped to join the celebration. And because when there is a ski slope in Midtown Manhattan, one must pause and enjoy the moment.

I love me some Olympics, and there are only 365 days until they once again grace our TV screens.

Let the countdown begin.

Don't Take the Left Elevator

As the elevator doors began to close, I glanced up and realized what I had done.

I stepped into the left elevator.

In the two years that I had lived in the building, there was a code of conduct to which I always adhered. Don't try and get the mail until after two in the afternoon, lest you face the wrath of the mailman. Don't do laundry late at night because the change machine is always out of quarters after nine. Don't make eye contact with the man in 2303, who is most certainly a serial killer. And please, for the love of all that is holy, don't ever take the left elevator.

The left elevator was a sly devil. Always had been. There was no cell phone service in the left elevator. The doors took awhile to open when it stopped to pick up passengers, and sometimes it just skipped floors, even when the buttons were pressed. The car shook as it reached both the highest and lowest floors in the building. And sometimes, without warning, the elevator just stopped. Like it did once when I was in it the first week I moved into the building. With a mild edging towards full-blown claustrophobia, once was enough. I never took the left elevator again.

Until that morning. I was engrossed in a book, and I wasn't paying attention, and I realized my mistake just a split second too late.

The elevator began its shaky descent as I tried to ward off the anxiety threatening to rise.

Everything is fine. Just because you happened to get into this elevator for the first time in two years does not mean that this is the time you'll get stuck. Just twenty more floors. Focus on your book. 

I was patting myself on the back for being all reasonable and adult and facing my fears and everything when, somewhere between floors seventeen and eighteen, the elevator shuddered to a halt.

Stopped completely. Stopped making any kind of noise indicative of motion or functionality.

Panic slammed into me like a truck as I fumbled for my phone to call David to insist that he use the superhero skills that he is convinced he possesses to get me out of this tomb.

My phone lit up with the time. 8:47 AM. But where there should have been bars showing my service level there was a big X. No cell service in the left elevator.

I hit the alarm button, but there was no response.

I'm too high up. They probably can't hear me all the way down there. 

Ok, just keep pressing it. Someone will hear eventually.

It's morning right? There are definitely people waiting for the elevator. New Yorkers are impatient. They won't wait for long. They'll wonder why it's not moving and come up to investigate.

But what if they don't? What if it's like that guy who was trapped in the elevator in a midtown building for an entire WEEKEND before anyone noticed. He had to eat lifesavers and pee through a crack in the door.

WHY ISN'T ANYONE ANSWERING THE ALARM?

My breath came in gasps, and sweat poured down my face. The walls of the elevator were closing in on me, and the fluorescent lights suddenly seemed too bright. Too hot. Too everything. My heart was slamming against my ribs as my mind raced on a hamster wheel of panic.

David will assume I'm at work. Everyone at work will assume I'm sick. No one will miss me until tonight. I'll be stuck in this elevator all day. By the time they find me it will be too late. I'll be insane like that the guy from the midtown elevator. I don't have any lifesavers.

I've been standing here forever, WHY HASN'T ANYONE NOTICED YET?

I had resorted to pounding on the door, hoping someone on the floor above or below me would hear and come save me, when, without warning, the elevator sprang to life and commenced its slow descent.

When the car reached the first floor I practically pried the doors open and flung myself out into the lobby, wild-eyed, vowing to only take the stairs from now on.

I ran past the doorman and all the people waiting to get on the elevator muttering things like "stuck forever," "left elevator," and "broken." I was like the crazy lady on the corner who talks to herself all day and all night. But what else could you expect from someone who was stuck in the elevator for an eternity?

As I walked out the door of my building I pulled out my phone - cell service restored - to e-mail work to let them know I would be late because of the endless elevator malfunction.

While I was typing out the e-mail the time caught my eye.

8:51 AM.

I had only been stuck for four minutes.

Superbowl Stream of Consciousness

I wasn't bitter, I swear I wasn't.

Ok, maybe I was a little. But the Steelers can't be in the Superbowl every year. Or make the playoffs. Or even be a good team. So I was willing to let it go.

And maybe I consider the Ravens a slightly lower life-form than the flu virus I am desperately trying to avoid this year, but I thought that my brother-in-law, who hails from Baltimore and bleeds purple and black as deeply as we bleed black and gold, kind of deserved to feel some of the football glory that we Pittsburghers have felt in recent years. I guess it's not easy being the sole Raven in a sea of Steelers fans. It's an AFC North clash of the titans in this family of ours, so I was willing to give him this one, if that's how it turned out.

And anyway, beyond my undying love for football and my ever-present fascination with the sparkly gold tights worn by the 49ers (I may hate the Ravens and everything they are, but black tights are far more flattering than gold. Just saying.), I was intrigued by this year's Superbowl, nicknamed, in delightful fashion, the "Bro-Bowl," the "Super-Baugh," and the "Har-Bowl," by the intrepid periodicals that are sold for twenty-five cents each every morning outside Grand Central Station. If you know anything about me, you know that I'm a sucker for a good pop-culture event. So, awesome commercials, coaching brothers' teams playing each other, a retiring defensive player who may or may not be (but probably is) an actual murderer playing his last game, and a blackout in the biggest football game of the year? Count me in.

And since I was watching the game by myself last night, and didn't have anyone with whom to share my musings, I was left to my own devices (well, along with my Twitter feed and my Google Reader) to process the fascinating happenings of last night. My stream of consciousness went something like this:

I wish I could read roman numerals. I keep forgetting what number XLVII is. I think the last Superbowl roman numeral I could legitimately read was XXXIX.

I'm so intrigued by the Harbaughs' sideline dispositions. I wonder if they really hate each other when the cameras are turned off. I wonder how the Harbaugh parents are handling the game. Why don't they just hug it out at the end of the game? Maybe a handshake is more manly. For the life of me I can't remember which one is John and which one is Jim.

The Budweiser Clydesdales are awesome. Amy Poehler should just be in every commercial ever until the end of time. Oh, ew, my eyes. They're burning from this nasty Go Daddy commercial.

Oh, look, the lights went out. Kind of like that time last year that the lights went out when the Steelers were playing the 49ers at Candlestick Park. The 49ers are old hands at this. I wonder how many times the announcers can say something like "the lights are out at the Superdome" before mentioning Katrina. Why is Bill Cowher wearing that gross tie? Maybe Beyonce killed the lights with her utter fabulousness. Who gets fired over this? Thank god for Twitter, it's making this blackout endlessly entertaining.

If Ray Lewis is so hell bent on convincing everyone that he isn't actually a murderer, why does he paint those scary patterns on his face for every game? Does he think mentioning god every time he's in front of a camera will make people think he's innocent even though he might-have-but-probably-did kill some people awhile back? If he's MVP of this game, will Disney World let him come down this time?

The Ravens' owner should consider dialing it down on the spray-tan and tooth whitening. The orange hue of his skin makes his teeth look like they glow in the dark. Seriously, it's winter, and you live in Baltimore. You look insane.

Purple is a stupid color for a football team.

I really want to punch Joe Flacco in the mouth.

It's so boring when football is over.

49 days until the draft.

213 days until the 2013 season opener.

Here we go.

What do Your Mornings Look Like?

Mine look like this.

A thirty minute train ride.

A latte.

A romance novel.

Every morning.