I left the office to meet up with Kate and her out-of-town friend for a bite before they headed to the theatre and I trudged home. We had french fries. French fries were a good idea after a day as quiet and Wednesday Morning Coming Down as I’d had after last night’s glamour.
When we parted at 57th and Broadway, I had a boring subway ride home without the comfort of my new ipod and no evening plans except sitting at home, staring at my walls. Intentionally, mind. Even a chic kitten like me needs a night off.
But as I walked to the N/W on 7th, I decided to pop into Lee’s Art Shop. I’m one of the least artsy people I know, but there’s something about the tools of the trade that bring me a certain high-minded calm. I like seeing rows of tempting paints and reams of clean paper. I’ll graze my fingertips over bristly brushes and run long swathes of ribbon through my hands. It’s soothing, all manner of wild untamed creation just waiting to be born out of such simple materials.
Without much money to spend and no great ideas to spend it on, I managed to walk out of there thirty minutes later, eight dollars lighter and toting a much-coveted little black chalkboard and a box of Crayola chalk. I would hang it on the back of the front door, I thought, at exactly the middle height between Stuart and I, and we could put grocery items or reminders on there.
On the half-block walk to the train, it started drizzling in that dark-sky, early-fall sort of way. I was glad to be wearing a light coat and I bought a coffee from a vendor and drank it under the gleaming eaves of Carnegie Hall, making a mental note to go see a performance there one day. Something where I could watch the smooth wooden curves of a cello from a darkened velvety theatre chair.
On the rainy walk home from the subway, I stopped to pet an adorable lab-collie who was blinking the droplets off his black lashes. I laughed with a woman pushing her sleepy daughter in a stroller about the absurdity of standing in the rain waiting for a light to change. She had a voice like a young girl and lives on my street. Now I know who lives in the pretty white house.
And here I sit, ready to do some design work for our wedding party invites. I’m listening to rain falling outside my window, listening to songs that Stuart left on my computer in March, wearing his Cowes Week sweatshirt. The chalkboard looks lovely, and while there’s no useful information on it yet, I think “ceci n’est pas une chalkboard” is a pretty good start.
Somehow, with eight dollars, a coffee, a light rainstorm and friendly neighbors, New York managed to comfort me. Not a bad night for a rather blue day.

What does it say about me that when I’m really excited about an upcoming event (a trip, a movie night, getting married and going to Maine for three days), my excitement expresses itself through PLANNING VARIOUS OUTFIT CONCEPTS?

Okay. I’ve blithely ignored my spam comments, since they’ve rarely appeared on my main page and I’m too lazy to deal with deleting them. My back pages are a veritable smorgasboard of erection drugs and online gambling. But I’ve just reached my limit -
Someone/thing has actually posted spam to this site. This is a spam post that I didn’t write. Whoever did, used MT to do it, and it looks like they simply replaced the pre-existing blog*spot entry to do so.
I am stunned and fuming and at somewhat of a loss. I have changed my password, already a completely made up word, to something different and equally esoteric. Various brilliant techies have searched my activity logs, checked around online for noises about spam-posting, and seem nearly as baffled as I am.
So I decided to post about this. Because it looks very much like something or someone hacked into my site to use it for spam. And it’s the first we’ve heard of it happening. Any ideas are welcome.
In more brash language,
FUCK THESE SPAMMING FUCKERS AND THEIR FUCKING SPAMMY FUCKFACES.

Me: How do you like the wording?
Biscuit: I would suggest including the word “wedding” in there somewhere. Instead of “jaunt to the courthouse”. Which could mean “We’re going to pay someone’s bail.”
Me: Wouldn’t that be great? Having a “Get Out of Jail Party”? I guess someone we know would have to go to jail, though. Who’s the most likely?
Biscuit: N. Or L. No, definitely L. N is too crafty.
Me: What would L go to the big house for?
Biscuit: Getting in a brawl. Or prostitution.
Me: Would it have to be black and white? That’s SO August 2004.
Biscuit: No way. It’d totally be a Lock & Key Ball.
Me: I hope L gets arrested soon.
Biscuit: HAHAHA.
Me: Wait, what were we talking about…?
Biscuit: When?

We got approved yesterday. The man said “Welcome to the United States”. We bought a plane ticket for October 7. We booked a little B&B in Bar Harbor (thanks to my generous beautiful brother’s wedding gift).
I’m happy.

If I was Dooce or Sarah Brown, I’d write something funny and witty in capitals involving Steven Colbert or poop. See how I don’t even have the energy to link to them? That’s how lazy I’ve become.
I’m up at midnight because I’m calling Stuart at five AM in his hotel room to wish him luck, kisses, and my hand in marriage. His interview with the US Embassy is this morning and I’m nervous so that he doesn’t have to be. I’ve been sitting here all night, obsessively looking at the inexpensive flight we found for his October arrival, hoping it doesn’t dissipate into thin air once we’re approved. And, to quell the vast nameless internet’s doubtless fears about two people you’ve never met, I’m sure he will be approved, because I have to believe these things because I’m goddamned Pollyanna these days.
Which explains the title. No edge, people. Go elsewhere for your edge and your wit and your irony. Tonight, I’m all LON-NYC flights and staring at my half-empty bed and checking out cozy bed & breakfasts in Bar Harbor and discussing courthouse weekend plans with my mother and mooning over pictures taken on ferries in March and praying to whatever Immigration Dieties exist out there (there must be a Hindu god for that, right? There’s two hundred thousand of them…*) that the man I love comes out of those tightly controlled, US soil gates tomorrow bursting into song that we’ve been approved.
So cmon. You wry hip people believe in true love and happy endings somewhere in your cynical black little hearts, right? Cross a finger, or a toe, or step on a black cat or something**. I’m in love and I’m waiting here.
No Edge. All Bunnies. That should be my tag line.
* That’s an Eddie Izzard reference. If you think I’m insulting Hindus because you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’re a phillistine and should be ashamed.
** For chrissakes, if the SPCA calls me on that, I’m turning this blog around and going straight home.

I realize that the glamorous side of the weekend was all black and white and vodka and glitter and cigars and cake and heels and danger…

but the rest of the weekend was movies and french toast and wandering through the sunshine and flowers and soft tee shirts and late mornings and laughter and…

… yes, blackberries. fresh blackberries.

Kate took a mix CD out of the carrier and slipped it into the car stereo.
“You’re really going to like this song. You’ll either laugh or cry, but you’ll like it.”
I stared ahead on the road, smiling at the sun glancing off the metal signs pointing us homeward from a few hours relaxing on the Rhode Island shore.
I never understood before, I never knew what love was for, My heart was broke, my head was sore … What a feeling..
I rolled down the window and felt the breeze lift my short hair off my neck. I remembered the breeze on the back of a Staten Island Ferry in March. I remembered the feeling of awe, of complete surprise, that so much love had lain dormant in my heart for so many years, and yet, with the right words and smile and eyes, how quickly this emotion had leapt to the surface.
Tied up in ancient history, I didn’t believe in destiny, I look up you’re standing next to me, What a feeling…
Going sixty down a sunny freeway, with the smell of salt in the air, and my hand making resistance waves through the tangible air, I remember that feeling knowing love when I saw it again. The way the flowers live through an eternity of night but know the caress of sun each morning and turn instinctively towards it. I saw it in Stuart’s eyes, reflected back at me, and I threw away any shard of resistance, gave in, and haven’t looked back.
What a feeling in my soul, Love burns brighter than sunshine
Let the rain fall, i don’t care, I’m yours and suddenly you’re mine
Suddenly you’re mine and it’s brighter than sunshine.
It didn’t matter, in that moment, that Stuart wasn’t physically next to me. I watched the sun glint off the concrete under my racing red car, the sparkles dancing on the surface of the blue Atlantic that separates us. I arched my back and tilted my head towards the open window, and a content smile stretched across my face. There he was. There he is. And here he’ll be.
Brighter than sunshine, indeed.

I hadn’t seen Amy for about a year when I bumped into her at Billy Blues, in Houston, in early 2000. She looked sweet enough to eat, with sad pretty eyes and that caring head-tilt she probably didn’t realize she did. We said hello, and the next minute she said,
“I’m really sorry about your dad, honey, I’m glad he’s getting better. I’ve been thinking about you.”
It took the wind out of me. My father had been in the hospital for 2 weeks in Johannesburg, after being medivac’d there from the Congo for an emergency quadruple bypass because of a heart attack. He’d been alone when it’d happened, alone for another fifteen hours as my mother grabbed her purse and some clothes, flew from Houston to New York to tell me, and from New York straight to Jo’burg. I’d joined them there, one frantic week of double-time semester wrap-up later, and spent those two weeks driving from hospital to hotel and back again every day.
I’d only arrived in Houston with my parents a few days before, and while everyone knew where I’d been, Amy and I hadn’t directly communicated about it. We were casual friends – you know the type. Hello, what’s new, oh what a funny thing you just said! Laugh, laugh.
And yet, there she was, a kind hug and a few words whispered in my ear simply because she knew it had been hard. I gulped back tears of gratitude and was humbled by her kindness.
Amy’s sudden quiet selflessness made me sit up and take notice at the different kinds of Good People. There are so many people who, unwittingly, use generosity and consideration as a tool to better their public image and by extension, their self-esteem. I’ve never held it against anyone, this more dramatic form of imparting kindness upon others. I’ve done it myself, sometimes, to curry affection from one or another person.
But I think of Amy’s second-nature kindness. I think of a friend who thought nothing of quietly slipping my roommate some cash for us to take a cab because she knew we were both strapped and wanted to see that we were home safe. I think of my brother, who never picks fights with anyone even when he’s at his most stressed, most strapped, most frustrated. I think of another friend who will see the best in anyone, even people he dislikes.
And I remember Amy’s immediate concern for other people, and the simple direct way she said exactly what she wanted to say without making a fuss or drawing attention. How her words meant, you’re on my mind. I think about Good People, and I consider myself blessed to have so many in my life.
Because really, with kindness, it only takes the smallest selfless gesture.

The sky-pirates may have been making the frequent rounds above our heads, but at the table it was all drinks and laughter and teasing and cosmos and apple martinis and shaggy dog jokes and revolutionaries and “pumpkin!” and birthday cake and hugs and smiles and did I mention the drinks?
Mouseover for snarky commentary, as per usual.