Some days you wake up with a hankering for open spaces and the smell of the ocean.
You imagine your inspiration would soar if only you could hear the waves crashing and the laughter of children outside your window.

You pack a few things, grab the hand of the one you love and head towards what you imagine will be a super productive weekend.

I didn’t write a thing.
Not one word.

I sat on the beach and read Her Fearful Symmetry.

I didn’t think once of sunscreen until my love said: “You did put some sunscreen on, right?”
I stared at him until he threw a towel over me and his hat over my face.
For a second there I thought he would ask me to drop and roll.

Today I’m red and shinny and swollen, like a berry about to burst.
But I had lots of fun and I saw/heard a few funny/terrible comments that could easily be turned into stories.

This man was telling his family about his days as a hubcap stealer, when he was young.

This girl wondered out loud about making a seaweed skirt. Mermaid fashions. Her beau’s response was: “Let that go, it’s disgusting!” forever crushing her mermaid designer dreams.

These two brothers, were re-enacting the old story.
The older one buried his sibling and refused to help him get out.
“I can’t move!”
“I know you can’t.”
Their father was right next to them, reading the newspaper, not saying a word.
The little boy started to cry.

But enough possible stories.
Back to the facts.

I don’t know what these are.
They would come with the waves are then quickly bury themselves in the sand.
Does anyone know the name of these creatures?

We saw lots of dolphins, but we were really bad at taking photos.

We saw dozens of seagulls with two feet

But only one with one foot.

And we saw people slightly overdressed for the beach.

On the way home, we took the scenic route and found hidden treasures

and breathtaking views.

We also found an unusual but reasonable schedule on the back of a truck.

We both enjoyed the weekend tremendously, but as soon as we crossed into familiar-radio-stations territory, we both agreed that being home is very much its own reward.

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And we’re back on the cruelest month of the year!

This month we’ll be reading The Stories of John Cheever by John Cheever or Tell Me: 30 Stories by Mary Robison.

Photo Credit: John Groseclose

“My ideal life is a quiet one. I like to read, to sit still in the same chair, with the lampshade at a certain angle, alone, or with Meagan nearby, and now and then, if I’m lucky, I’ll come across a lovely phrase or fine sentiment, look up from my book, and feel the harmony of some notion, the justice of it, and know that everything is there. That’s life to me, those privately discovered moments.”

— Charles D’Ambrosio The Dead Fish Museum: Stories

I’ve spent the day reading Summer by Edith Wharton.

My love is cooking dinner for us tonight.
He’s a better cook than I am.

I bought some candles for the table.
It’s no special occasion, just Thursday evening.

Monsoon season outside.
Flashes of lightning illuminate the empty, darkening sky. Rain hammers the roof.

This is my quiet life.

I have brooches.
I don’t mean 4 or 5.
I have around 50.

My sister and I inherited them through the generations of women in our family.

Considering my sister has about the same amount I have, it’s safe to say that our female ancestors REALLY liked brooches.

I remember the one my mother wore on my wedding day.

I remember both my grandmothers wearing them to decorate their coats and scarves in winter.

I remember my great grandmother wearing them to close the shawls she wore at home. Even after she went blind, she would feel through her brooches every morning and pick the one she wanted to wear that day.

So now I have brooches.
For years, I haven’t known what to do with them.
They don’t really go with my t-shirts and jeans.
Putting them on the lapel of my jackets felt grandma-ish.
I though about putting them inside a cool shadow box or framing them.
I actually did have one, a very dear one, framed for my mother.

But I wanted to wear them.
I wanted to follow and honor the tradition (and apparently common taste) of all those women who gave me life.

And today, being silly, I found the way.

Wearing my hair up, in a messy bun, I get to wear my brooches.

I’m going to be wearing my hair up quite often.

Photo Credit:pazsnewyorkminute

The other day, while exiting a subway station, I saw a random shady character climbing the stairs and yelling after another guy: “It’s balsamic, baby!”

Either slang has taken to a new low or salad dressing has gotten a lot more exciting.