Grandfather

His freckled hand shakes slightly as he reaches for a glass of wine from the round glass table in front of him, but his fingers curl around the stem with ease. His thin lips, a bit wrinkled with time, reach for the rim and smile as a sip goes down.  He pushes his silver rimmed glasses back up the ridge of his nose and turns the hundredth page of a large book on his lap. His blue eyes scan quickly over the words in a way only someone who has read more than a thousand books could do... Page one hundred and one.

The door to the porch is open, and the few white hairs on his head blow in the breeze. Despite the warm air, his thin skin beckoned a light burgundy sweater. His hips began to ache in his chair, so he places the book face down on the table and slowly stands up. He shuffles to the door, slightly hunched in the shoulder, and steps outside into the sun, letting the warmth sink down into his bones. A squirrel darts across the trees, rustling the leaves. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose, bringing the smell of pine into his senses.

Back inside the shelves are lined with picture frames. In the center of the mantelpiece is a black and white photo of a man you would hardly recognize in horn-rimmed glasses posing with his family - a slender woman with short curly hair, a young girl in Mary Janes, and a smaller boy with sandy blonde hair. Surrounding it are the memories of a lifetime gone past - a young soldier boarding a train, a happy couple on their wedding day, a family picnic on a red checkered blanket, a college graduate holding his diploma, a child's first time ice skating, and a young woman on a horse.

After a short walk to the end of the porch and back, he carefully sits back down in his chair. He lets out a soft groan and picks up his book. After a few more turns of the page, he's interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

"Papa! We're here!" Small footsteps run across the floor.

He snaps the book shut and quickly stands, opening his arms wide to envelope the bouncing curls that were already jumping into his embrace.

Sunday Memories

The bar was dark inside compared to the bright sunlight shining on the parking lot. Peanut shells covered the floor underneath the round wooden tables and chairs. It was anything but quiet. Various televisions played on every wall while men drank pitchers of beer and yelled at the players on the screen. A shaft of light burst across the wide, open room as a man, about in his late-forties wearing a green baseball cap and matching green zip-up sweatshirt, opened the door. Then, a small shadow appeared from under his arm. As it walked through the door the shadow quickly turned into another matching green baseball cap and sweatshirt with long blonde hair bright as the sun. She smiled, revealing a few gaps in her teeth. 

They sat at one of the tall round tables, her feet dangling high above the ground. He ordered a beer and she ordered a soda with extra cherries. As they waited for their drinks, he slid a notecard across the table. "This is your cheat sheet," he said.

On the notecard was every rule of football, the sport of all sports, and what it meant. She had barely learned how to read, but studied it hard, wanting to please and impress her father. As the game began her father would explain what was happening, pointing back and forth between the TV screen and the notecard and making gestures with his hands. "Oh! Did you see that guy move before he hiked the ball? That's a false start."

She nodded her head enthusiastically every time, watching the players run around on the screen. At the end of the first quarter she asked, "Is it over?"

A muffled laugh was heard from the men around her and her father chuckled and shook his head. "Not even close."

During the second quarter she wolfed down a hot dog, no ketchup, no mustard. Just hot dog and bun. She nibbled on some fries and sipped her soda while her father roared at the TV screen with the other men, throwing their hands in the air and clutching their foreheads, thrusting fists above their heads and high-fiving. They argued back and forth about which team was better and whether the referee's call was right or wrong. All the while, she nibbled on her fries, sipped her soda, and watched the players run around on the big screen.

She didn't understand why the time on the screen went by so much slower than on the clock on the wall. Each quarter was supposed to be fifteen minutes, but it seemed a whole lot longer. Finally, after a few more fries and another soda, the game moved into the fourth quarter. Her father seemed eager, as he was sitting on the edge of his seat and had balled his hands into fists on the table. She checked over her cheat sheet one more time and looked back at the screen. The player in the middle of the line threw the ball back between his legs to the player behind him, the quarterback. She could remember that one. The rest of the players ran all over the place, some to the left, some to the right, and some ran right into one another. A yellow flag flew onto the field and the men in the bar all yelled and threw their hands up.

"Facemask!" A little voice piped up over the noise. 

Her father looked down and smiled. "Yes! That's right!" he said and put his hand up for a high-five. 

She smiled, reached back, and slapped his hand as hard as she could.

Should Second Graders Have a Facebook?

Theodore Roosevelt Park on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It's a warm day and I'm sitting on a bench reading Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes when a couple of young girls sit down to eat lunch on the bench next to me. At first, I admit, I was annoyed. I wanted to sit and enjoy a quiet afternoon in the park, not listen to little girls talk about whatever little girls talk about - Barbies? Horses? Okay, it'd be alright if they talked about horses.

From eavesdropping on their conversation I learned they were in the third grade. Several other children sat around the benches to eat their bag lunches. One of the boys had a 'make your own pizza' Lunchable and I have to say, I was a bit jealous. Yes, it is immature, but those things are both fun and delicious!

Anyway, I tried to ignore the two girls next to me as I read my book, but then this question caught my attention:

"Should second graders have a Facebook?" One of the girls asked the other.

I stopped reading.

"Maybe if they're really talkative," replied the other one.

I laughed a little bit.

"But, I mean, they're second graders, they're so small," she said, gesturing to some of the other kids who, by the way, did not look any smaller than these two girls.

"Yeah."

"Do you think fifth graders should date?"

I'm so glad I'm listening to this conversation, I thought, smiling ever so slightly.

"I don't know."

 "It's so weird. They're 10. I told my dad about fifth graders dating and he was like, So what? I kissed girls when I was 10," she said as she reached into the Michael Kors bag on her lap and pulled out an apple.

At least this girl had a sense of style. And good eating habits.

"That is so sad," she said after a brief pause.

I dated a boy when I was 10.

"Yeah, like, you kissed your mother when you were 10," laughed the other girl.

What?

The two girls laughed together and then continued talking about something else that wasn't as interesting, like play dates or whatever.

Kids these days.

The Big City

New York glitters from afar. Even on a dull gray morning from the Staten Island ferry, the city shines beneath the clouds with a light that nothing can overshadow. A million eager eyes gaze longingly at the mass of concrete that rises out of the ground like a mountain standing on a tiny island. It is the city of opportunity - where anyone can do anything and be anything they want. In New York, nothing is impossible.

The streets are filled with rushing cabs and pedestrians, and even underneath the city it's busy. Trains rumble underground carrying people to work, to play, to almost anywhere. Anyone is welcome on the subway - from the homeless man wearing garbage bags for shoes to the two older ladies wearing Chanel tweed jackets and pearls. At rush hour there is no such thing as personal space. Everyone gets real friendly with one another - sometimes too friendly.

At 96th Street everyone begins to clear out. The further up you go, the less crowded the subway becomes. On a hot afternoon in Harlem, the kind of afternoon where it seems that heat not only bears down on you from the sun but also up from the ground at your feet, children dance and play in water rushing down the streets from a nearby fire hydrant. A group of older men sit in their folding chairs under the shade of a tree on the corner, listening to music playing out of an old portable radio and arguing with each other across the sidewalk as people walk by. The Hudson River gleams under the sun off Riverside Drive and offers a cool breeze to families in the park.

As the sun goes down, the lights at Times Square shine brighter. The heat of the day gives way to a warm summer evening and friends gather at their local watering holes for drinks and dinner (it's impossible not to find a good meal in New York). All those pedestrians walking anonymously through the streets earlier in the day don't seem so anonymous now. They are your friends, your neighbors, your fellow New Yorkers.

There is nothing better than a night in the city. You drink, you dance, you meet all sorts of new people, and you end the night with a giant slice of pizza. When you wake up the next morning to birds chirping through the open window, the city doesn't seem so big, so ominous as before. Day after day, this apple gets a little bit smaller and one day, you'll be holding it in the palm of your hand.

Central Park

The gentle melody of a saxophone lingers through the air and thin leaves and flower petals fall over the cobblestone walkway like snowflakes drifting in winter, but, unlike in winter, the curling tree branches are covered in lacy green leaves that flutter and sway in the breeze and far below the grass thrives in the warm sun while birds dart about playing games among the bushes. It is a veritable paradise amidst an industrious urban empire. One moment you are among the swift taxis and brusque traffic of Fifth Avenue, the next you are walking around Wonderland.

All types of people ramble around the park- men, women, children, artists, dancers, crafters, tourists, residents, wanderers, idealists, realists, runners, yoga enthusiasts, and so many others. Paths wind this way and that, around lakes and ponds and reservoirs, under dark tunnels and over bright bridges and through branch covered passageways. In the distance, atop the trees, are sky reaching buildings with golden tops.

The sun sinks lower in the sky and shadows of intertwining branches dance across the walkway. Gray and white pigeons peck at the ground and squirrels run between one tree and the next. Laughter echoes in the breeze that scatters leaves across the ground. Horse-drawn carriages go slowly by as children run in circles around picnics where their parents sit on blankets sharing food and glasses of wine. Not a single soul seems troubled or discontent; it is a world of happiness.

Moving East

           I sat on the floor with my hands in my lap. I had four suitcases total. Two for clothes, one for shoes and one for decorations, like my photos and books and those kinds of things. I sat there and stared back and forth from my piles of stuff to the suitcases to my piles of stuff and back to the suitcases. I did this for probably about fifteen minutes. There was no way it was all going to fit, but how do I decide what to bring and what to leave? Maybe if I stared at it for long enough, it would all just magically fit.

            I have a pretty good collection of books and DVDs. There are the classics like On The Road and The Breakfast Club, nonfictions like Into The Wild and Anthony Bourdain’s Medium Raw, and then there’s the bestsellers like The Help and Crazy Stupid Love. I also have that collection of magazines. A giant stack of European Vogues and other random magazines like Wonderland and a National Geographic featuring the fifty best NG photos of all time. I have tons of kitchen stuff too, like a clock shaped like a chef and a pot made solely for making hot chocolate and probably about ten different mugs and twenty different shot glasses (my favorite is the crooked one that says ‘Tipsy in Indiana’ that I bought at a gas station when I was passing through). I have a porcelain elephant, a couple of small African masks I found at a street fair, and a large poster of a monkey getting drunk. I also have a Jimi Hendrix record, but no turntable. How could I leave any of that behind?!

            Yes, I do have a lot of random ass shit. Very few of it makes sense when put together in one place, but I love it all.  Now I realize that moving across the country may not be as easy as I thought it might be. I don’t even have an apartment yet, let alone a job, and I’m leaving tomorrow, but I’m sure everything will work out. Must stay positive!

            I left the shoes for last. This would also be very hard, as I had picked out more than twenty pairs from my closet that I wanted to take. Four pairs of boots, four pairs of ballet flats, a couple pairs of Sperry’s, umpteen high heels, a pair of kitten heels, a few pairs of sandals, and so on and so forth. The same notion came over me as I sat on the floor looking from shoes to suitcase. Maybe if I stared at them long enough, they would all magically fit. I started with a couple pairs of tennis shoes, then some heels, then the flats and sandals. In total, I am bringing fifteen pairs of shoes to New York. I’m not even sure how that worked out. Possibly it was all the squishing and shoving until not even a baby shoe could fit in there.

            As we arrived at the San Francisco airport the next day, my mother and I that is, I noticed a few odd looks from passersby as the driver unloaded one large suitcase after another after another. They probably also noticed that I was wearing boots, a jacket and a hat as well as carrying a wool coat and a large stuffed purse even though it had to be almost seventy degrees out. With six bags in tow, four of which were mine, we looked like a couple of gypsies walking up to the United check-in desk. And, as you can probably guess, we were those people at security. The ones who have too much stuff and take forever and end up having to have their bags checked for possible weapons. The weapon turned out to be a candle. Watch out! It’s a weapon of mass nasal sensation!

            We arrived in New York and took a car to our hotel, The Warwick, where we finally got to unload and change out of the clothes we had been travelling in all day before going to dinner at a hip New York restaurant, Tao. We sipped on cosmos, got rather inappropriately hit on by a man who invited us to sit with him and his friends (I mean come on, I’m with my mother!) and ate some of the most delicious coconut shrimp tempura and orange chicken I have ever tasted. So far, New York was off with a good start.

            Next, apartment hunting!

Welcome to the World, Little Filly

As I peered through the bars of the stall door and as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness, Sara's chestnut ears perked forward and she took two steps toward the door. There was a shuffling behind her as the filly stumbled around trying to stay close to her mother's side. Her long legs splayed out in front of her to keep her balance and her short black tail tucked between her legs. She was light brown all over save for a small white sock on her left hind foot. She had her mother's beautiful eyes.

Outside in the grassy field, two more fillies ran circles around their mothers. Butterflies fluttered through the air in the sun and off in the distance you could see the shining ocean. Tall trees swayed back and forth in the breeze. One filly slipped and fell to the ground and lied there as if it were on purpose. Her mother crouched to her knees and bent her hind legs down and heaved her body to the ground to roll around in the grass next to her baby.

Back inside, the filly was trying to figure out how to scratch an itch on her neck without falling over. She attempted to lift her hind leg toward her neck a couple times, but gave up in the end- balancing on four legs was difficult enough. It was only eight hours ago that she had first come into this world.

Welcome to the world, little filly.

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A slight breeze whispers through the grass in the late afternoon sun, blowing his main and tail into soft waves as he munches softly on the tufts of green blades. His large brown eyes are relaxed, his eyelashes glowing in the light. He lifts one foot and stomps it back down to shoo a fly away. Warm air wafts rythmically in and out of his nose and he snorts every once in a while to clear out the dust.

            

Over the wooden fence are rolling green hills and small farms dotted with oak trees. The only road for a few miles has a single car rolling over it- a ’97 black Chevy pickup- disappearing and reappearing from behind the trees. It slows and turns onto a dirt and gravel road, kicking clouds of dust into the air behind it. As the pickup comes to a stop in front of the wooden fence, his right ear flicks backward and his eyebrow lifts. The door opens and a young woman hops out wearing jean shorts, a white tank top, and sneakers, her hair shining golden in the sun and riding on the breeze.

              
At the sound of her voice he lifts his head and turns. At the sound of his voice she smiles.

Memories of Paris

The air flurried silently, casting a frozen breath over everything it touched. It stung my nose and cheeks as I walked through a garden of snow and ice. Snowflakes fell slowly to the ground, the thin layer of powder crunching with every step I took. The sky was blanketed with gray clouds as if I had been trapped inside a glass orb covered with cashmere sweater. The trees were barren; not a single leaf hung from their branches. Tire tracks rolled through the snow in front of me, perhaps left from the truck of the gardener on his way to tend to the desolate garden. A large ferris wheel loomed up behind me, its hinges fixed from the chilled air as well.

I was alone.

In the distance, through the fog, I could see the top of Le Tour Eiffel, its hard edges smoothed out by the gray light. I had been taken back in time to what seemed a simpler age, a time when everything was black and white. Writhing branches stood starkly against the white sky and ponds lie still, their beautiful women frozen in longing. Chairs sat empty around the fountain while ravens and swallows pecked at the ground for morning morsels. A door to the summer gazebo swung back and forth with the breeze, revealing more lonely chairs inside.

I walked through the frosted hedges to the edge of the garden, turning right down Rue de Rivoli. Small black cars with round headlights drove past as I skipped across the street in my knee-length white and navy plaid coat with embellished collar toward a cafe in hopes of finding une crepe au nutella et bananes. To my dismay, the cafe was closed on Sundays.

Standing on the corner, the breath rising from my lips frozen within an instant, I tucked my hands in my pockets and looked down the street from left to right, following the small black cars that drove past. To my knowledge, either way was as good as the other, so I chose to turn on my wedge-heeled boots and walk down Rue de Castiglione behind me. Gray buildings rose up around me with white awnings hanging over their doors. A young girl in a red coat and white stockings ran down the steps of Hotel de Vendome, stopping on the sidewalk to turn and wait for her mother and revealing a red ribbon curled around her hair. The doorman smiled and tipped his hat as he opened the door to a black taxi. Several square suitcases sat on the ground.

The air kept biting at my nose, I could feel the tip of it turning pink with the cold. After a while, the black taxis driving by turned into sleek town cars and the narrow street stretched out to both sides and around a large column. The buildings turned a soft peach decorated with snowflake-like lights and terraces framed with black and gold iron. Faces stretched out above each archway and every window glimmered beneath the lights. Despite the gray sky, Place Vendome shone with something, je ne sais quoi. The awnings were still white, but it was the lettering that caught my eye.

Dior. Chanel. Tiffany. Louis Vuitton. Lanvin. Cartier.

One Night

She walked in to the overwhelming aroma of spilled beer and popcorn. The bar was more crowded than usual tonight; the loud and obnoxious fraternity boys filled the booths, standing on tables, raising their glasses to clash with one another while their sorority counterparts sat below them, cautiously eyeing one another and sipping on vodka soda; a few football players sat at the bar taking shots of Jaegermeister and turning in their chairs to glance at the girls that walked by; the bartenders furiously mixed drinks and poured beers as college students waved cash in their faces, yelling in their order through a haze of noise; the usually stoned crowd sat in the corners, yelling unusually loud at each other as they tried to reconcile between their intake of marijuana and their excessive amounts of Jack and Coke; at the end of the bar, those who had obviously drunk too much too early danced ridiculously next to the jukebox that played hit songs from the sixties and seventies, awkwardly bumping into one another while trying to keep beat; from the front it looked as if there was no room for anyone else to fit inside, but the bouncer continued to check IDs and usher the line of people inside.

She edged her way through the crowd ignoring any glances from boys who got too close and made her way to the back, worming herself into a position next to the bar. She stood there quietly, credit card in hand, and waited for a bartender to notice her. As she leaned against the bar she stained her blue floral dress with the remains of beer, vodka, and soda that lay on the surface. The girl next to her stumbled upon turning with a handful of drinks, spilling vodka and cranberry juice all over her black leather boots.

Once she had a drink in her hand, she turned and walked down the back hall, passed what she assumed were the beginnings of one night stands, and out the back door. Curls of smoke wrapped around her, soaking into her hair. She sipped her drink and the soft sting of whiskey lingered in her throat as she looked around for a familiar face. She peered around a group of smokers hovering near a small fire pit and walked a few steps closer to see him. They smiled at each other, feeling somehow drawn to one another as their eyes meet.

Winter

I woke up this morning to find a light dusting of snow on the ground. Getting snow in Eugene is rather rare- it only happens a couple times a year. Having never lived in the snow, I can appreciate the beauty of the delicate flakes lightly falling to the  ground, slowly accumulating to form a glistening layer of white. There is something about the utter silence of snowfall that makes it so enchanting.

Snowflakes begin to cover my jacket, my gloves, my hair and eyelashes- each one made up of tiny structures only visible up close. Cars drive by slowly, afraid that if they go too fast they might slip on the barely-there powder on the streets. The cloud cover makes the air feel warmer despite the snow falling from the sky. Every California girl is hoping this will continue long enough to start a small snowball fight or make a tiny snowman.

But alas, the snow stops after only an hour. The dust on the ground begins to melt, dashing all hopes of a winter playground. The day becomes normal again- cold and wet.

The coffeehouse is warm, almost too warm. The tables are filled with people- students doing homework, graduate students working on a thesis, families out for a holiday breakfast, and chatty old ladies socializing with one another over coffee. Only one table is open, where I set my laptop down and begin working, forgetting all about my wishes for a snow day.

Wine

It pours out of the bottle into your round glass. Its deep, slightly translucent color catches the light, glowing red through the sparkling crystal. You stir your glass around in circles on the table a few times, allowing the wine to reach up to the rim of the glass before dipping back down again. As you bring it to your nose you smell the fermented grapes, oak, and a tinge of pepper. Everything goes silent as you close your eyes, breathe it in deeply, and tip the glass to your lips. You hold a small sip in your mouth, letting it sink in to your taste buds. The grapes are sweet, the oak is smoky, and the pepper is tangy, a perfect combination of flavors. Swallow. You open your eyes. And then, without any intention, the corners of your mouth begin to turn up....

Happiness.

The Christmas Tree Tragedy

I woke up to the sounds of my mother hollering.

"GARRYYYY!"

No answer. The water was running in the kitchen.

"GARRYYY!"

"Just a minute!" he replied.

"NO! NOW! THE TREE IS FALLING!"

I jumped out of bed and got to the hall in time to see my father running toward the living room in a desperate attempt to catch the tree, decorations and all, as it slowly fell to the ground. Everything went silent until the crunching sound of our precious ornaments sent my mother, who had been trying to water the tree, into a frenzy. As she yelled at my father for never listening to her and for ruining so many of her Christmas memories, I slowly backed away into my bedroom.

When we horse-people are upset, the only place we know of to take our minds off the dreary things of the day and make us feel like new is the barn. There is nothing like the sound of your horse nickering for you as you walk toward his stall to make you feel better. Needless to say, that is where my mother ran off to for the next few hours.

My father and I stood in the living room staring at the pathetic fallen tree for a minute. He sighed. "I knew I would get blamed for this." I was just glad I didn't get blamed for it.

There was nothing left to do but clean up the mess. We began removing ornaments, broken and unbroken, from the branches before attempting to pick up the tree and put it back in its rightful place. But, as fate would have it, the stand was broken. Time to troubleshoot.

We leaned the tree up against the book shelf and I held it there, hoping my fate didn't include getting crushed by a Christmas tree, while my father went to the garage for some bungee cords. We safely tethered it to the book shelf and my father went in search of a new stand while I finished un-decorating the tree.

"Well, you might as well have music while you do this," my father said as he turned on some cheery Christmas music. It really brightened the mood.

When the tree first fell, I thought only about four ornaments had broken. But as I began searching among the pine needles, I found a few more broken ones hanging in the branches: the front half of a penguin, the top of a bell, an angel with no wings...

"Wouldn't it be great if we could get the tree back up and decorated before your mom gets back? Then we could pretend like it was only a dream!" My father said as he entered the living room with a brand new tree stand.

After much fussing about, we got the new stand on the tree and had it upright in minutes. Now, we were determined. With Bing Crosby singing 'White Christmas' in the background, we began putting the ornaments one by one back on the tree. When my mother walked in the door, there were just a few ornaments left.

I realized that throughout this whole catastrophe, the lights never went out.

Coming Home

The snow falls lightly outside as our fire quietly burns and crackles, keeping us warm while we sit together, each with a glass of wine in our hand, catching up on the past few weeks. Holiday decorations are everywhere: vintage Santa Claus pillows, stocking hangers, nutcrackers, wreaths... Garlands with frosted fruit and pine cones cover the mantelpiece and the large doorway to the dining room. Dad just finished putting the lights on the tree and now it awaits us to decorate it with our wide assortment of ornaments.

Outside, the trees shake with the wind, accompanied by a slight whistle, blowing the snow sideways to pile up against the house. Tony Bennett's 'Winter Wonderland' can drown out the noise.

Back at school my apartment is cold, the only fire being one we can order on TV. We rarely turn on the heat in order to save money. We wrap ourselves in sweaters and socks and blankets to keep warm, but still my hands and feet are icy.

At home, where Mom and Dad are willing to splurge for the heat, I am warm and toasty. Their house is what one would imagine when they hear Christmas songs about going home. It's welcoming, festive, warm and cozy, and has pretty much everything you need: good food and wine.

But really I live in California so the whole snow thing is just in my imagination...

Christmas Tree Hunting

Some people go hiking through a Christmas tree farm or the forest up in the hills to find that perfect tree for their living room, cut it down themselves, and bring it home to decorate with lights and ribbon, ornamental bells and balls, figurines of Santa Claus and reindeer, angels, snowflakes, candy canes, bows, icicles, and other assortments of random items, porcelain dogs and cats, ballerinas and figure skates, football icons, famous monuments, Baby's First Christmas, trains, trolleys, pretty shoes, a giant glass fish, and pretty much anything else you could think of. Or is that just my family?

As festive as cutting your own Christmas tree down sounds, my family goes the other route: driving the 2 miles to the local tree lot (literally some trees on a section of parking lot sectioned off by a chain link fence) to look at some of the bundled trees while I play Christmas music from my iPhone. I stood next to the dirty trailer with an old and scruffy, but friendly dog, listening to music while my parents looked through the trees, making comments every now and then like, "That one's too skinny" or "That one's too bushy."

But then there it was: the tree. It towered above us with an air of dignity, its green pines shining brightly against the hazy white sky and every branch lightly hanging off its trunk, each one reaching out a little further than the last. Maybe it was Nat King Cole's velvety voice softly singing about 'chestnuts roasting on an open fire' through the tiny speakers on my phone, but at that moment I felt it: Christmas was here. And there was no stopping it.

Everyone knows that when I get the Christmas bug, it's sticking around until New Year's. Christmas music, Christmas movies, Christmas tea and hot chocolate, Christmas cookies.... but nothing tacky. I keep it classy: no Christmas sweaters or Christmas jewelry, no singing elves or shiny tinsel. I admit I do have a snowman snow globe though...

I don't know whether it's the chilly weather outside, the smell of holiday spices, the family togetherness, the Christmas cups at Starbucks, or even the idea of Santa Claus, but for some reason, the holidays are a happy time for me, so I like to keep it going for as long as I possibly can.

Happy Holidays.

An Afternoon at Vero Cafe

It's quiet except for the comforting sounds of Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald singing overhead and the occasional rumble of the espresso machine. Students sip their coffee over crowded tables filled with laptops, books, and papers. A professor works on his lecture in the corner while another man reads the newspaper at the other end of the table. Coming here is like going to your parents' house; it's warm and cozy, smartly decorated, and has the familiar smells of good food and music from a bygone era. I would live here if I could; it's my usual spot on Mondays and Wednesdays. A place that feels like home, but has few of the usual distractions: roommates, your favorite television show, the dog, a bed....

My latte is now cold. Something that should usually happen after sitting here for two hours working on a media analysis (something I am now distracted from because I'd rather be writing this) for a class about gender and diversity in the media. Somehow watching a music video some students made about our football team and discussing the presence of gender and racial issues when there really aren't any doesn't strike me as being productive.

Luckily, the atmosphere at Vero keeps me from getting too angry about it. How could someone be mad while listening to Michael Bublé? I could also be down about the stormy weather outside, but it only makes being inside a warm coffee house that much more enjoyable.

The leaves outside hang on by a thread while the blustery wind continues to use all its might to tear them off the branches. Autumn in Oregon is the most beautiful of autumns, even when it's pouring rain. You get to see every leaf turn from green to red to orange to yellow, and then fall to the ground, covering the streets and sidewalks. Students slip on wet leaves on their way to class, adding a little humor to my walk through the rain. Everyone is happy to see the humid nights of summer go to allow for the chilly days of fall to come, the smells and sounds of the holidays.

And then winter comes.

Misadventures in Las Vegas

We had only three goals: don’t get married, don’t get arrested, and don’t die.

When I booked a trip to Las Vegas for Halloween with my three friends, I had no idea what we were in for. I had no idea that coming back alive wasn’t a joke; it was serious.

Three of us left the day before Halloween so we would have more than one night to spend in Sin City. That was a Sunday. Meaning we had already been celebrating Halloween in Eugene on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Maybe arriving at the airport early so we could start drinking should have been a clue that this trip could be deadly. Maybe buying a drink on the plane should have been a clue that this trip would be deadly.

The plane landed smoothly on the Las Vegas runway, the sparkling lights of the Strip clearly in view. I gawked at the green lights of the MGM Grand, the miniature Eiffel Tower next to the Paris, the red and blue towers of the Excalibur, and the sparkling lights running up and down the sides of the Luxor. Despite the fact that I could now see the city, I still couldn’t believe we were here.

After an overpriced taxi ride, we stepped out of the car and marveled at the giant marble fountain in front of the Monte Carlo Hotel. This was it. We were here. There was no going back, not that we wanted to.

Fast forward to 6 A.M. the next morning: one girl made it back at a decent hour and was happily sleeping in bed surrounded by potato chips; one girl lost all her possessions and was banging on the hotel room door trying to wake the other one up; and one girl was nowhere to be found.

We still had one more night left. Thank God for cell phones.

After connecting with each other, we found that the one who had gotten lost had actually stayed the night in another hotel and had all of the other girl’s possessions in her purse. All was right again, at least for now.

Our fourth friend showed up around 2 P.M. on Halloween dressed like a sailor and, like the rest of us, had already started boozing. So what did we decide to do? Start boozing, of course.

Still dressed in last night’s costumes we headed down to Diablo’s, a sinful bar on the ground floor of the Monte Carlo. And what do you think we ordered? That’s right, two shots of tequila and one two-foot-tall margherita each. The first shot felt like I had just poured acid down my throat. The second shot was even worse. By the end of the two hours we were there, we had talked much too loudly and inappropriately next to a family table and danced on the bar spinning a giant Happy Hour drink wheel.

Here’s the problem: drinking that early in the day means things might not go so well that night.

Later, dressed as a cat, a bunny, a peacock, and Harley Quinn, we left the building in search of a Halloween party. We were both admired and insulted on the street, scratched and dented a brand new limo while trying to sit on the hood for a picture, and those of us wearing extremely tall heels (namely me) almost fell in the street. But, somehow, we made it to the party unharmed.

The Marquee Club at the new Cosmopolitan Hotel is a rooftop club with a fog-filled dance floor, two bars, a pool, and an amazing view of the Strip. I’m sure we would have had a wonderful time if one girl hadn’t gotten a panic attack once inside.

Getting out of the Cosmopolitan was like trying to find your way out of a maze. Or maybe it was only that difficult because we were so drunk. Whatever the reason, we probably spent longer trying to find our way out than the amount of time we were actually inside the club. For some reason, we decided to go up the stairs rather than go down, and because we were moving so quickly, I nearly broke my neck trying to run down the stairs once we figured out we had gone the wrong way.

After finding ourselves in the “Employee Only” section, we finally made our way out to the not-so-fresh air of Las Vegas. The bright lights we once found so enticing were now painfully blinding. All we wanted was to get back to our hotel.

At 10 A.M. the next morning, I woke up to the sounds of vomiting. Costume pieces and feathers covered the floor. Empty bottles of alcohol and shot glasses turned on their sides stared at me as if to say, “You asked for it.” I still had whiskers on my face.

The excitement I once held in the Portland airport to get to Las Vegas had now turned into excitement to get back home. Little did I know, it wouldn’t be so easy.

One girl vomited the entire way home.

One girl fell asleep on the floor of the Las Vegas airport.

One girl got not one, but two nosebleeds on the flight.

And one girl missed her flight completely.