It Happens Every Time

I'm such a sucker for it, you know? The people at Fox were thinking of me when they named the show.

So You Think You Can Dance?

And the slightly sad but totally honest answer, my friends, is

Yes.
I think I can.

Dangnabbit. I really think I can. Or, at least, I like to dream that I can. Every time SYTYCD begins its season (which it did this week), I watch, and I feel unsettled. My muscles tense and are ready, the wallflowers at the junior high dance yearning to be asked to step into the beat. I dissect the choreography, wondering at the meaning behind it. And my heart-- well, my heart bounces between appreciation and longing, with just a smidgen of jealousy.

The physical control... the demanding technique combined with the artistic expression... the combination captures me. I'm absolutely enthralled and I find myself wondering, "What if? What if I had trained? What if I hadn't quit those miserable ballet/tap lessons at the age of 13?
What if I hadn't written off those swing dance lessons in college in favor of... I don't know what. Probably doing absolutely nothing. What if I could remember all those line dances I performed when I worked at that restaurant the year following high school graduation?"

What if?

You're thinking it's not too late, right? I know that. Dance lessons are on my list, tucked safely between earning my MBA and becoming fluent in Spanish. But every season, this silly little show causes it to move up a notch, and just for a while, I Think I Can Dance.

Thanks, but No.

Blimpie? Stick to subs, ok?

Of Beaches and Broadway; Great Tunes and Grandparents

A photo montage for you today. It's been a busy last few weeks.


































Chloe was birdylicious (Beyonce, are you groaning? Apologies.) as a Bird Girl in the school's production of Seussical The Musical. Weird, but this 8 year old suddenly looks like she's going on 18.









































My mom sashayed into town to catch Chloe's show. While she was here, we took Jonathan to his first taste of Broadway-- The Little Mermaid.





































And then came Steve's parents for Grandparent's Day. Chloe and I introduced Marilyn to Alice's Tea Cup. Almond tea, crepes, and a little girl time.





































































Here's genius: bringing the beach to the city. If not for the view of the Brooklyn Bridge, I might have believed for the moment that I was in the tropics and not two blocks away from Wall Street. I love it, tho, and plan to spend much time here.


















(Looks like she can read and follow directions)





















Found time for two fantastic concerts this week, too. The first was Leslie Mendelson at Rockwood Music Hall. Wow.... If you value my musical recommendations at all, click through on this one or catch one of her live shows. She's one I enjoy live even more than on the album.
The second show was The Ivy's at Fat Baby on the Lower East Side. Rocking fun. And their album makes for great listening.

Pig Latin Doesn't Count

My offices are in a hotel. This hotel is in midtown Manhattan. And because of this, each day I share the elevator with tourists from all over the world. These tourists are chatty in the elevator for the most part, and I love to tuck myself in the corner of the elevator and let the beauty of their words wash over me. I don't have a clue what they're saying, but the way the words flow, the clicks and the breaths, the pauses and the tones, and the music of it all makes me smile. It also makes me jealous. I want to know that language. I want to understand. I want to join in their story, because there's bound to be one. I want to be bilingual.

Being bilingual or multilingual hints at a life lived in adventure, right?
How did you come to learn two languages?
What risk did you take?
What move did you make in your life? Was it for love? Opportunity? Desperation?
Tell me then... about how your family moved when you were 12 and you didn't know a word of the language... about how you met a man on vacation and fell madly in love and never moved back... about your parents who moved to America, and how they spoke their native tongue at home to remind you of where you came from... tell me your story, because it's there.

Being bilingual also hints at the potential for additional adventure and freedom to move about the world and have meaningful interactions with more people. It allows a more seamless merge into another culture.

So, is it Rosetta Stone time for me? Or am I just feeling a little bit of "the grass is always mas verde on the other side of the fence?"

Greenpace

Spring has sashayed into the city, trailing swaths of tulips and unfurling greengold leaves in its wake. Sassy thing, Spring. And I love it. The colors of spring, so incongruous against the gray concrete, laughingly call to New Yorkers to stop a moment, take it in, and be thankful. Winter causes New Yorkers to hold their breath and put up their dukes. Spring entices New Yorkers to saunter and smile slow smiles.

In fact, there is quite an inverse relationship between the temperature and the speed at which New Yorkers walk. Winter is destination only, get there before your eyes freeze open, chastise yourself for not taking the time to find your warm hat before you left the apartment. Spring is taking the extra 60 seconds to point out the crocuses that have pushed through the hard dirt around the tree in the sidewalk (which, let's be honest, have been peed on by hundreds of dogs since the last time they showed their yellow and purple faces. Makes it even more miraculous to see them). Spring is conversations with the front door propped open. Spring is breathing deeply the clean smell that comes after rain. Spring is greenpace.