Tut Tut

Okay, so let’s take a moment for a true confession. Every time our dear friend, Melissa Suzanne leaves on a vacation (in search of bluer skies, celestial fro-yo, and perfectly arched California waves), I realize how truly codependent I am. It’s not like I’m oblivious to this fact at other times; it just becomes more relevant when Miss is “off the grid.” (You feel me, right? You’re missing that consummate wit and wisdom just as much as I am.) At any rate, Miss asked if I would bless LLS a la besitos as a guest blogger while she digs her toes down deep in the sand, unearths this summer’s frothiest beach read, and bites into the tastiest fish tacos on the pier.

So, because I’m as honest as Abe, I will tell you I racked my mind for things to share in my dearest friend’s absence this week. If this were my blog, I could bore you all to death with my delight in how often the candy dish at work had Rolo’s in it, or how often I procrastinated packing with boxed sets (will that Gilmore Girls never get old...) However, as I intend to honor LLS and its great blogmaster, I’ve chosen instead to share a few thoughts about the weather (more specifically, the rain--tut, tut).

Every time the weather turns drizzly, gray and thunderous, I get twitchy and excited—like a kid on Christmas Eve. I don’t know how I became so twisted, or why I suffer such irony (except for the ever present discovery that I am, in fact, twisted and ironic). However, part of me knows my love of watery weather comes from my terrific mother. As a child, my mumsie would build a tent in the middle of pouring rain (it was an Alvin and the Chipmunk’s tent and it was awesome.) Then, she would make pancakes, stuff our fort full of down comforters and read book after book to my older brother and me. Time stood still in the magical world of our tent—I loved the sound of raindrops pounding on bright red plastic above my little head.

The day Miss and I became the dearest of friends we were designing a perfect Martha Stewart moment on a Florida beach. We had flown out early to prep the St. Petersburg campus for the next onslaught of great youth. Naturally, after a summer of EFY, we were ridiculously tired and felt the need to rejuvenate in a manner Oprah would condone. So, we drove to the nearest supercenter and bought two nautical striped towels, two matching straw hats, and two matching straw bags. With our Martha-like loot, we felt equipped for prime Floridian real estate and a dose of inappropriate tanning behavior (dear Lindsay, we do not tan this way anymore…promise. xoxo.) Approximately three minutes after our arrival, we fell asleep. This was not the kind of beach snooze that one generally enjoys. In fact, we both slept so deeply, that 3 HOURS LATER we awoke to a sky so dark that waves were lapping at our ankles. The once crowded beach abandoned us, stepping over our dead bodies and prim Martha Stewart Living setup to save themselves from a violent torrent. Awakened by warning drops, we considered our lone option—to haul ourselves out of the downpour, save our beautiful straw hats, and run to the nearest pasta shop (which, by the way, happened to be called “Life, Love and a Lil’ Sauce”—and, if I remember correctly, the sauce guy—mixer of noodles with marinara—was, indeed, quite saucy. Then again, I looked like a drowned rat in a bucket of straw. So I’m quite sure he thought the same of me.)

I was reminded of this moment (hence this post) just last week on the Brooklyn Bridge. My husband (aka foxy Doxy) and I had polished off a pizza at Grimaldi’s and gone in search of gelato. Further, because we’re prepping to take Manhattan this fall (just like the Muppets), and because Dox is crazy as coconuts about running, we were searching the terrain (prospective runs for him and baby runs for me) on our gelato walk—did I mention my inclination for irony above? That night, however, our travels took us over the bridge. And, being happy little westerners, we didn’t once consider the looming clouds in the distance (because, really, clouds often mean nada in Utah, right?) On this particular night of nights, however, the faraway wisps transformed into a WATERFALL OF HAIL (no, this is not innovative cursing. It was sheets of actual rain, sleet, cats, dogs…you get the idea). Furthermore, foxydoxy and I were stuck midway between Brooklyn and New York with visions of sugarplums in our heads. Okay, the visions were more in my head. But a girl will pretty much walk over bridges through a tornado for her gelato. So, we did just that.

You may wonder why I’ve proceeded to guest blog, fairly randomly, about the rain. Honestly, as this week our own clouds have threatened to spill over (and sometimes even have), I’ve felt that little girl, Christmas Eve feeling, and remembered how the rain ushers the best parts of life. (Ok, so I wasn’t a Primary devil child. I did catch the lesson about rain growing spring flowers) But sometimes the obvious principles can have the most prolific effects. So really, it was just a moment last week, halfway between Manhattan and Brooklyn that I looked over at foxydox with huge water droplets streaming down his grinning face and knew moving to NYC would bring good things for us—even though, at that point, we had no apartment, and seemingly little direction for such a large scale life change. Furthermore, in that moment I remembered what it felt like to be a toe-headed little girl, safely tucked away in a plastic fort with my mums and my brother while storms pounded down on our heads. And, I remembered the day several years ago when I met my dearest Miss and together we battled Florida’s finest conditions; since that day she has taught me so much about weathering life’s unpredictability with grace and generosity. In fact, when it comes to “rain,” Miss is the Morton Salt girl. No one sings in the rain with better style. The girl has estilo! In fact, J. Crew may have stolen the wellies from her. ( But LBH, we all know where they got the straw hats). Plus, I feel I can say these things about Miss as the guestblogger this week, even though she’ll hate it. (And to Miss, I promise next time I’ll besito the blog with my opinions as to why Sephora should replace Starbucks on every corner. Because really we need more Belle.)

And finally, regardless of whatever storms are falling in life—whether it’s trekking to NY or Boston (J), having a child, a husband or not a husband, dealing with illness, or just enduring the daily grind of work or school, I honestly hope I will rush into rainstorms like the Morton Salt girl…or at least an Audrey (yelling “cat, cat” while raindrops splash on my Maybelline lashies and I pledge to give up “the mean reds” for watery kisses by the pawn shop while Moon River plays softly behind me…p.s. I feel ashamed to clarify that said Moon River passion is with darling husband, NOT the sauce guy from Florida…) So, now, as foxydoxy has informed me that our basement is currently flooding (really, I’m not kidding), I will have the opportunity to try out my new “rain” philosophy. I’m not getting the Christmas Eve feeling as much with this one, but I will still try to be a Morton Salt girl. Miss, hurry home so I can borrow your wellies, please!

Loves,

Em (at least one of them…)