bird by bird

A couple weeks ago, three girlfriends and I hopped in a rental car with beach bags and an air mattress and drove out of the city to spend the weekend in Provincetown, MA. Our weekend was everything a girls-only-Cape-Cod-beach-weekend should be. We rented bikes. We ate lobster. We went to a drag show. One of the drag queens said, "Fashion is like herpes; either you have it or you don't. In P-Town, people have it." Did I mention how pro-LGBT Provincetown is?? It was so amazing, and so clean, and none of us ever had to worry about wearing make up or getting hit on. Also, when we popped into a sports bar to watch the US/Portugal game, we had the place to ourselves. It was maybe the only bar in America that had four straight girls sitting at the bar while all the men boutique shopped outside. At the end of our weekend, we swept the sand out of our cottage, returned our beach cruisers, and left P-town with sunburns and that damn Michelle William's song stuck in our head....

Six years ago on the last Father's Day that I got to spend with my dad, my sister and I gave him a burnt CD and a new anchor for his boat. Though at the time they were gifts that we put moderate thought into, looking back now, I realize that the gifts we gave him were really gifts that he had given us our whole lives. He gave us music and he gave us an anchor. From the day my sister and I were born, our dad surrounded us with music. Whether he shared it or played it or taught it, music was everywhere we were. When we were little, he recorded us singing our favorite songs while he accompanied us on his keyboard. Allison sang "You Are My Sunshine" though she was 3 and had a hard time pronouncing the word 'sunshine.' I sang "American Pie" because it was our song, and he taught me every line. As Allison and I got older, we started taking piano lessons too, and though we weren't very dedicated to practicing our lesson books, Dad helped us find sheet ...

“I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. " --Henry Rollins

Ok, fine. I got a bike helmet. It's not cute or sexy and it smooshes my hair and leaves a red mark on my forehead. But I did it.  I do love my brain.

On Monday night after work I meet JG and her Aussie travel buddy at one of my fav Union Square spots. We sat outside, drank beers, and talked about the big (and not so big) things in our lives. JG shared a hilarious story about a tandem bike on her wedding day, and I told her about my nannying adventures with three little monsters. I smiled the whole time. JG is someone who I met at the end of my college career. We didn't take the same classes. We didn't have the same social circle. We never lived together or traveled together or graduated together or any of those typical things that friends go through that make their friendship solid. Yet, JG and I are solid. I talk to her without effort; my insides pour out because she's such an attentive listener and a thoughtful participant in conversation. I hope she feels that way too, because I'm eager to hear about her life and her heart and her day-to-day goings on. After drinks and plantain chips and guacamole, JG and her ...