I Can’t Live If Living is Without You, Downton Abbey

When it comes to Downton Abbey, you’re either in love with it or you have no idea what it is. I fall into the former category. I cannot get enough of Downton Abbey. I love watching the show, I love chatting about the show with friends, and I love convincing people that they, too, should jump on the Downton Abbey watching train.

Downton Abbey came into my life on a lazy Sunday. I had no intention of leaving my bed and was therefore looking for something enthralling to watch on Netflix. Netflix suggested that I watch Season 1 of Downton Abbey. I had remembered seeing a lot of buzz about the show on Twitter (in part because I  wondered why so people were misspelling the word “downtown”) and was in the mood for a good British costume drama.

From the moment I saw the beautiful opening titles with the beautiful music and shots of Highclere Castle, I was hooked. Then, the show’s story lines began unravelling and I became obsessed. I can’t believe the heirs to Downton Abbey went down in the Titanic. Poor Mr. Pamuk. Why won’t Anna and Bates get together already? Why is Thomas made of pure evil? What is a weekend? How could Edith expose her sister Mary’s secret? Why do I have such a crush on Matthew Crawley? Will Matthew and Mary end up together? Between the scandals, the romance, the plotting, the costumes, and the scenery, I ended up watching the entire first season in one sitting.

Now that Season 2 has come and gone, I don’t know how I’m going to get my Downton Abbey fix. There are only so many times a person can re-watch the seasons. Already I’ve re-watched Matthew’s proposal to Mary a good 15 times or so. I could always print off the Downton Abbey paper dolls and come up with my own story lines, but I’m not 12. There’s always Vanity Fair‘s Downton Abbey trading cards. They might bring some Downtonian joy into my life. I even taught myself how to play the theme song on the piano, so a little more practice couldn’t hurt. But let’s face it, nothing short of watching Season 3 will satisfy my Downton Abbey cravings and Season 3 doesn’t air until January. Why do you make us wait so long, PBS? WHY?!

I guess I’m just going to have to come to terms with the fact that Downton Abbey won’t be back on my television for another 11 months. Instead of focusing on the giant void the show’s absence has left, I’ll instead focus on the joy the show brought into my life. I’m thankful for the time we shared and look forward to another season. In the mean time, I’ll just have to get some new hobbies.

Write Me When You Get To Liverpool

At the end of a visit with my grandma, just before we’d go our separate ways, she’d shower me with affection and leave me with a few words of wisdom. One of her favorite things to say before parting was “Skriv till mig när du kommer till Liverpool.” This phrase was Swedish for “Write me when you get to Liverpool.” It was something her mother, who emigrated from Sweden to Wisconsin at age 15, always said to her and in fact, it was what her mother urged her when she set off for America. At the time my great-grandmother set sail for America, the major hub for ships was Liverpool. Liverpool would have been the last city where she could have written home to alert her family of her whereabouts and general state of things before heading to America. “Write me when you get to Liverpool” was their way of saying, “Call me when you get there.” My grandma often used it in a “don’t be a stranger” kind of way. It’s stuck and I often say to people in my family, “Write me when you get to Liverpool” whenever they go on a trip.

As I’ve been preparing to move to New York City and saying goodbye to friends, I find myself using archaic sayings to people when we part. I don’t really like to say things like, “Goodbye, I’ll miss you” or “stay in touch.” At this point in my life, I am surrounded by people who I will always remain close with, so I don’t need to remind them to stay in touch, as we always will. I also don’t like sentimental goodbyes around the time of an exciting move. Sentimental goodbyes imply that something sad is happening and actually, this move is quite the opposite. Instead of sappy goodbyes, I find myself saying, “If you’re ever in Manhattan, look me up.” Like someone could grab a White Pages in Manhattan and be able to find me listed there. It’s also my way of reminding people, “Hey! You now have a friend in New York! Use that to your advantage.”

Similar to “look me up,” I also enjoy saying, “Drop me a line.” These days it’s fairly easy to drop someone a line via text message, Facebook, Twitter, and [insert your favorite social network here], but I envision the line to be dropped in the form of a hand written note. As if a friend in town would write me a note (preferably on parchment paper with the help of a quill) alerting them of their whereabouts and I would then meet them at some dark bistro in Manhattan for a drink and a meeting of the minds.

I’m not one for sappy, dramatic goodbyes. Instead, I prefer a simple “see you later” or “look me up” to remind my loved ones that really, nothing’s going to change except the distance between our respective houses. However, I do promise that I will write when I get to Liverpool.

We Tell Ourselves Stories In Order to Live

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live…We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the ‘ideas’ with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.” –Joan Didion, The White Album

I’ve been thinking about these words from Joan Didion a lot lately as I’ve been preparing to move to New York. While I’m incredibly excited to move into my new apartment in New York, the prospect of carving out an entirely new life for myself is a little overwhelming at times. I’m leaving behind the comforts of a job, health insurance, and my childhood home in search of new opportunities that I haven’t secured yet. At the same time, this is all incredibly exciting. I will be a resident of Manhattan, something I’ve only ever dreamed about. 

In order to maintain the excitement of possibility and to forget about the worries that surround moving to a new city with no job in tough economic times, I focus on the narrative. Instead of focusing on how I am plucking myself from a comfortable life and catapulting myself into a new city filled with unknowns, I tell myself stories about what my new life in New York could be like. It’s these little stories that get me through the day-to-day details of facilitating a move and the anxiety of not having a job or insurance two weeks from now. Here are some of the little stories I tell myself as I pack up my belongings and give away clothes I don’t need:

  • You can work at the Gap and work your way into the fashion world. 
  • You can nanny and be the next Mary Poppins for a family on the Upper East Side
  • Moving to a new city is like that time you studied abroad, but without the hassle of going through customs or changing your currency. 
  • Just fake it ‘til you make it. 
  • Give it two years and if you have a terrible time, you can always move back to Wisconsin and live in the country. 
  • All of the east coast is at your disposal: eat lobsters in Maine, visit old friends in Boston, eat clams on the shores of Rhode Island, pop down to Washington DC and say hello to your representative, check out North Carolina, gamble in Atlantic City.

Maybe none of these imagined stories about my new life in New York will ever come true, but telling them is enough to keep me plugging along on this new journey. Something will eventually pan out and when it does, I will be looking for a new narrative to keep me going.

A New Year Brings New Things

I’ve never been one for making New Year’s Resolutions. I’ve always operated under the notion that if you want to make a change, then make it already. You don’t need to wait for a new year to begin in order to make positive life changes (or any life changes for that matter). In fact, I prefer to make life changes whenever I feel so inclined. If that happens around the time of a new year, then it is only a matter of coincidence.

While I’ve never really made formal New Year’s Resolutions, I have often made lists titled “Things I Must Do.” These lists functioned as big ideas that when completed would contribute to my overall quality of life. Tasks such as “be outside,” “go to new restaurants,” get my driver’s license,” “buy good photography to hang up,” “watch classic ’80s films, “read poetry suggested by my professor,” “buy a Mates of State album” were all examples of things that I felt compelled to do in order to bring myself to the next level of awesomeness -at-life.

Now that it is 2012 and many things still remain on my “Things I Must Do” list, I’ve opted for a slightly different approach at accomplishing these “big idea tasks.” Instead of debating back and forth and spending hours agonizing over  what to do next, I’ve simply picked something I’ve always wanted to do and made that my number one priority. For me, that something is moving to New York City. So instead of talking about taking action, I took action and will be moving there next month.  Though this change coincides a little with the start of a new year, the passing of another year has only signified to me that I don’t want any more time to pass without making a move.

So, here’s to 2012! I hope that before the year’s end, you can accomplish some of your “big idea tasks.” Whenever you feel so inclined, of course.

5 Christmas Presents I’d Ask For If It Was Still 1985

The holidays always make me feel nostalgic for the days of yore, when things felt simpler and Fisher Price reigned supreme as the creator of all of my favorite things. As Christmas and New Year’s roll around, I find myself taking stock in the things I’ve done and the things I would like to do in the coming year. I also find myself buying myself Christmas presents when really, I should be buying presents for other people. I don’t consider myself to be a good gift giver, I prefer to give non-tangible items such as laughter and joy. When it comes to receiving gifts, I’ve always subscribed to the “it’s the thought that counts” mentality. This year, instead of making a Christmas wish list and distributing it to all interested parties, I’ve decided instead to make a list of Christmas presents I’d ask for if it was still 1985 because 1980s nostalgia is the gift that keeps on giving. Here are 5 Christmas presents I’d ask for if it were 1985:

1) Fisher Price Roller Skates

These things were amazing because you didn’t even have to take off your shoes in order to enjoy the benefits of roller skating. Already wearing shoes? Just tighten the Velcro and you are all set to go skating around town. Or at the roller rink. Perfect for someone who doesn’t like to waste her time on mundane tasks such as taking off her shoes or tying shoelaces. Plus, they come with Velcro.

2) Jem & The Holograms Cassette Tape

Jem & The Holograms personified what it meant to be 80′s girl rockers. Their music, their makeup, Jem’s earrings that transformed her from a normal person into a superstar rocker; perfection. I want[ed] to be Jem. I would also love a pair of those earrings.

3) Fisher Price Walkie-Talkies

These should really replace cell phones. They are just as convenient, as long as your friend has one too. You don’t even have to communicate with real words, morse code will take care of that for you. Don’t know morse code? No problem, it’s printed on the front of your walkie-talkie. Roger that. Ten four.

4) Teddy Ruxpin

A talking bear. Is having a companion stuffed animal that talks too much to ask for? I didn’t think so.

5) This Volvo.

I’m about to get my driver’s license and this is the car I want. A 1985 Volvo 740 Turbo. I have so many fond memories from my family’s 1980 Volvo sitting in the backseat squished between my two siblings while swinging along the open road on various road trips, most memorably through the Smoky Mountains.

Though I won’t hold my breath for any of these items to appear under the Christmas tree or in my stocking, it was nice to take a little trip down memory lane. And that is a gift in and of itself.


I Love It When You Retweet Me

“Will our tales of digital courtship capture the imaginations of our daughters? Will they be impressed when we tell them about that time the text message was misinterpreted, or how the cute boy re-tweeted our Vampire Weekend reference? Will they care?”–Charlotte Alter, “Guns, Ammo, Romance?” Published November 17th in the New York Times.

Romance in the digital age.

When I was small, I never imagined that my heart would palpitate at the sight of an instant message from my real life crush’s screenname, an unexpected text message from a beau, or a retweet. Sometimes it creeps me out how much of a thrill I get from connections in the digital world while ignoring what is lacking in the actual world. A retweet? That’s all I get? No handwritten letter? No surprise visit? No stroll down the lane? No reading sonnets aloud by the fire? No fortepiano duets? No froggy went a-courtin’? Sometimes, I think I was born in the wrong era.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think any of this is any one particular person’s fault, it’s just a sign of our times. Things progress as they always do, but I’m just a little disappointed that my stories of romance will never rival the ones my grandma told. I can just picture the tales of romance I’ll recount to my grandchildren some day:

“Hey kids, you want to hear about romance? Let me show you my gchat history! You’ll read some very romantic exchanges in there!”
“Grandma, why is there a 30 minute time-lapse between responses?”
“Oh never you mind. Want to read some of my old text messages? See there was this boy and he texted me to ask me how my day was going and…”
“Let it rest, Grandma.”
“I think I have one love letter somewhere…”
“We’ll take your word for it.”

No, I imagined my stories of romance would be more like my grandma’s. Tales of being escorted home from school by a handsome boy; letters from the WWII front; a man who demanded to paint her portrait, a portrait which hung in her house for 50 years; the man she met at a church fair who later became my grandpa.

While all of these things are all still possible, technology has taken away the urgency of face-to-face contact. As an obsessed avid iPhone user, I definitely enjoy a surprise text or tweet, but it doesn’t really make for a great story. I don’t quite know what the answer is, except that I want stories that could at least be in the same category as those tales of romance my grandma once told me.  In the meantime, I guess I’ll settle for a retweet.

A Work in Progress

As many of you know, I’ve been hounding away at my NaNoWriMo novel and I’ve been sharing my progress in a series of posts in the books section of the Huffington Post. Some of you have been asking if I will let you read the story when it is done (and I will), but I thought, why not share some excerpts with you now?! This story has been so fun to write and although I’m behind on the word count (I’ve always been a procrastinator), I’m farther along than I ever have been in previous years. 11,365 words and counting. I have a clear idea of where I want to go with the story, but it has taken some interesting turns in the meantime. Below are some excerpts that I’ve pulled from what I’m writing. Let me know what you think!

Excerpt #1Jocelyn, the maid of the main character Laurel Cornwallis, is getting ready for work.

Crying is for babies, and a woman who escaped from El Salvador at fifteen years old to give her six month old son a better life was not a baby. A woman who reared two children all on her own while working three jobs and living in government subsidized housing alongside scores of other families who were simply trying to make it, was not a baby. Still, she thought of her mother and what her mother would think about this apartment and the fact that she had no control over her two children. And it broke her. Jocelyn was half tempted to pour herself a vodka cranberry, or a Cape Codder as the local folks called it, and lay flat on her couch until she fell asleep, but that’s not what she was raised to do. Besides, it was her day to clean the Cornwallis home on Beacon Hill.

Excerpt #2–At the Cornwallis home in Beacon Hill, Jocelyn starts her work.

Jocelyn always started with the dusting of the shelves in the bedroom. She liked to take her time and examine the photographs and the book titles of the musty books that sat on the shelves frozen in times. Some of the words in the titles were hard for her to pronounce, but sometimes she practiced saying the unfamiliar words out loud as she dusted and mopped. Prejudice. Ecstasy. Persuasion. Wuthering. What was a wuthering, she often wondered. She’d have to remember to ask Mrs. Cornwallis one of these days.

Excerpt #3–Laurel (Nee McIntyre) is vacationing in the South of France on a school holiday with her parents at their summer home, during her university days.

It was to be expected that both Mr. and Mrs. McIntyre were already gone from the flat when Laurel awoke that morning. Some family vacation this was. She had stopped relying on her parents for companionship from pretty much the beginning of her conscious life, but since she had taken the time to allot time for them during her break from university, she expected them to make it worth her while. She probably should have just gone to Barcelona with the girls like they had begged her, but she wanted to attempt to create some positive family memories before it was a completely lost cause.

Excerpt #4–Laurel and French friend Nathalie are having a snack out in town and this man comes up to eat at the table next to him. They hardly pay attention to him.

Meanwhile, the gentleman sat at the table pondering over what to order. His French was pretty much non-existent, with the exception of a few medical terms he had picked up along the way, so it was difficult for him to decide what to order. He lacked the basic French vocabulary that most people pick up in grammar school. Un croque monsieur was not even something he could recall. He settled upon a cheese plate, because he recognized words like “brie” and “gouda” and everyone knew what fromage was. Given his stature, you’d assume someone like Anthony Newell Cornwallis the third would speak impeccable French, but actually he was fluent in Latin and Italian. French had not been on the menu at his exquisite prep school in Massachusetts.

When the waitress came to take his order, he was unable to decipher the classic French phrases that any beginner level French speaker could understand and then assume that had mastered the language simply because they knew how to speak to a waitress at a French restaurant. The old “vous avez choissiez?” followed with a “c’est tout? Parfait.” And if she was feeling hospitable, maybe a little, “Encore de l’eau, monsieur?” He bumbled through his order and she smiled and poured him more water and then brought him a glass of wine.

Excerpt #5–Anthony Cornwallis is reflecting upon the last night he spent with his girlfriend, Melanie, before leaving for his trip to France with the boys.

Melanie, ever the decorous one, had already returned to her slip and had her hair pinned up into a perfect bun. Anthony, wrapped in the sheets so as not to offend Melanie and her bun, opted instead for a cigarette. He took the liberty of putting some whiskey into their matching snifters and let them sit on the nightstand as he inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. He preferred to smoke something stronger, but there were ladies present. As Anthony was basking in the comfort of his silk sheets against his raw skin and the rhythm of inhaling his cigarette, Melanie sat with her back straight up like a cat’s leaning against the bedpost. She was so stiff, that Anthony was pretty certain she didn’t even need the bedpost to keep her upright. He wanted to reach out to her, to put his hand against her cheek, to run it through the back of her hair, but her hair was already tied into a rigid bun. He knew this wasn’t the woman for him, but she would make a dutiful wife and an effective mother. Wasn’t that all he needed? He was a medical student, after all, and he would be bringing home all of the bacon and some more to grow on.