While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Good grief Heidi. Christmas time is here!

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I’ll be honest, Christmas stresses me out. Consequently, I end up blogging less around this time because my head is crowded with the things that distract from the true meaning of the holidays. You all know what these things are so I’ll refrain from ranting. (OK, one rant: The cavemen from Duck Dynasty just released a Christmas album – Duck the Halls. You can purchase it for $11.88 at Walmart, where the Duck Dynasty reigns supreme over every department in the store thanks to a MAJOR licensing agreement with America’s favorite bearded buffoons. I can only imagine what the workers in Chinese labor camps must think of us as they pump out Duck apparel, home goods, antibacterial band-aids and now a Christmas album. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lame. Rant over.)

As a child I loved Christmas. (Duh, right?) I was neither spoiled nor religious, which meant at Christmas time I fell somewhere between the girl in a department store dress who went skiing and got the Barbie Power Wheels Jeep and the girl in a homemade jumper who read about Jesus and served soup to homeless people. I loved Christmas for all the twinkly reasons that many of you love Christmas.

I loved decorating my bedroom with strings of white lights. I loved curling up with my dog under the Christmas tree. I loved how the house looked from under the glittering pine branches, all speckled with ruby lights and homemade Christmas ornaments; my family coming and going in sweaters and scarves.

I loved watching the snow fill our yard. I loved being the first one to walk in it. I loved stomping a path to the grape fields. Always an alpha female, I loved knowing my sisters would have to (literally) follow in my footsteps. I loved listening to Christmas music. In the days before CDs, I’d record tunes right off the radio. Each Christmas I’d create a mixed tape of holiday songs, many of which were half-songs since I was repeatedly late to pressing the record button on my purple radio. I loved helping my mother address Christmas cards. I loved baking cookies. I loved advent calendars, mostly because behind each window was a piece of chocolate. (Who wouldn’t love that?)

I loved watching Charlie Brown make a statement with a sad, droopy tree.

I loved that my aunts, uncles and cousins would gather every Christmas Eve at my Nana and Papa’s house. I loved that even though we didn’t see each other all the time, we were guaranteed to see each other at Christmas time. I loved seeing us all shuffle around in big socks, my aunts huddled over serving trays, my cousins telling crude jokes, my uncles wondering how anyone will get home in the snow.

I loved Christmas because it stirred up a dreamy kind of feeling. Not because I knew I’d be showered with gifts or visited by Santa – though I’m sure these trappings played a small role in my excitement – but because everything seemed a little less ordinary in December.

As an adult this wonder starts to wane. Why? Because Christmas is a lot of work for adults. There’s the cooking, the baking, the shopping, the Christmas card distributing, the house decorating, the house cleaning, the present wrapping and a steady stream of exhausting social obligations. Traffic gets ugly. People get irritable. Money disappears quickly. Kids get greedy. Retailers trick you into thinking you need to buy reindeer antlers for your car and the next thing you know the inflatable snowman in your neighbor’s front yard is flipping you the middle finger.

Unless you’re Charlie Brown this stuff doesn’t bother you until you get old and crusty, but if you’re anything like me, you’re probably thinking I’m too young to be old and crusty! If during the other 11 months of the year I can be merry and bright, why then can’t I be merry and bright during the merriest and brightest time of year?

This is where the Lance comes into play. In an effort to NOT BE A GRINCH, I plan to count down to December 25 with posts, contests and a few unusual giveaways that evoke the warm and fuzzies, starting with a Q&A tomorrow with children’s singer/songwriter Mifflin Lowe, whose new album Wilton Wilberry and the Magical Christmas Wishing Well is so much more worthy of your attention than Duck the Halls.

A ripe old moment

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|| Note: This is a post for my Opa, whom I’ve written about many times in the past. (See The pitfalls of downhill roller skating or While my Opa was sleeping, or Dies ist Opa.) He died Jan. 6 after suffering for several years with Alzheimer’s disease. He was a jovial, outgoing sprite of a man whom most people describe as a character. He spent as much time creating life stories as he did telling them. Even at his foggiest, he could captivate a small audience, albeit by then most of his tales were wildly embellished or completely untrue. When it became clear that his star in this world was fading, I began the subconscious process of squirreling away memories — both significant and slight. The one you’re about to read falls under the second category. I’m not sure why it floated to the surface. Memories are like dreams sometimes. When they roll in you must abide. ||

A memory: I’m seven, maybe eight years old. I’m holding a coffee can that has two holes punched through the tin. An old shoelace is knotted through each hole to form a kind of coffee can necklace. It’s hot out. July, maybe. I’m in Upstate New York, wearing purple jelly sandals and a tank top. My arms are browning under the midday sun. My tongue is stained with blueberries.

I hand the coffee can to Opa.

I loop it around his neck like I’m crowning him with a gold medal after a long race. It dangles against his chest like a clumsy locket. Inside the can is motor oil, or at least I think it’s motor oil. It’s thick and black and Opa won’t let me touch it.

“Dees is dirty stuff,” he says, as he plucks a beetle from a raspberry bush and drops it into the can.

I trail closely behind him. My sisters too. The air smells like grass and manure. The breeze is subtle, but my hair is fine and flies away easily. We’re in my Oma’s garden, a large unshaded plot divided into neat rows of cucumbers, zucchinis, tomatoes and berries. We’re inching our way through bushes, my sisters and I, our shadows following Opa’s shadow, our legs burning from thorn pricks.

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Crazy is in the eye of the beholder

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When I was in sixth grade, my teacher pulled me aside to “have a talk” in the hallway.

This happened in the middle of the day, in front of all my classmates. I was embarrassed and nervous. I had no idea what I had done wrong to prompt this private discussion.

I remember it better than I should.

My desk was pushed into a square with six other students’ desks. I know now that this was to encourage teamwork. For me, it mostly encouraged talking. I’m chatty. And goofy. A storyteller. I like to make people laugh. This was true even as a child. I figured a hallway scolding meant I’d done something disruptive in the talking department. It wasn’t the first time I’d been reprimanded for not shutting up.

Oh, but I had been on a roll of good behavior!

We had been writing that week, a lot of open-ended stuff. I had turned in a few wild short stories; stories I was proud of, though for the life of me I can’t remember what they were about.

Man, I wish I could.

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The Electric Bicycle Diaries: Turtle Porn

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My father recently started riding a motorized bicycle to work.

I’m pretty sure he’s the only fella in town with one of these things, so if you live in North Collins, N.Y. and a man buzzes past you at 20 mph with a lunchbox strapped to the back of his seat, it’s my dad.

He bought the bike last fall while visiting me in Florida. He got it second hand for $150. It originally cost $800, or so he says.

It took him five hours to properly disassemble it so it could be bubble wrapped, packaged and shipped via FedEx to New York.

It arrived broken.

My father, crestfallen, immediately began searching for replacement parts. Because he’s a veteran at fixing broken shit, he had his bike up and running within a few days. The only problem was it was winter and there was snow on the ground.

“I’ll just have to wait until spring,” he chirped enthusiastically.

Well guess what folks? Spring is here and my tool-and-die-maker father has been leaving his house at 5 a.m. and pedaling motoring through rural back roads like a blue collar Pee-wee Herman in steel-toed work boots and a reflective vest.

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A love letter in a Rubbermaid tote

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lace wig

I’ve never been a big fan of fate.

It’s a lazy ideology and an easy way to make sense of the fortunes and misfortunes that steer the course of our lives.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a wistful dreamer with an overactive imagination; raised without a religion, save for the convictions I borrowed from a dog-eared copy of “The Little Prince.”

I’m not saying fate doesn’t exist. I’m just saying I’m better equipped at tempting it than I am at waiting for it to happen, because often it’s the choices we make (or don’t make) that decide our destiny.

I found proof of this a couple months ago buried under a stack of clothes in my bedroom closet.

A love letter in a Rubbermaid tote.

I came across it the way we often come across faded notes and old photographs: by accident, by chance, by fate or whatever you’d like to call it.

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Western NY must sip: Winery of Ellicottville

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Over the summer, one of my nearest and dearest childhood friends opened a winery in Ellicottville, N.Y.

Psssst … Joe and I got married in Ellicottville in September 2009. Sam Sheehy and his father-in-law, Dominic Spicola, opened the Winery of Ellicottville on Monroe Street in the village just one year later.

Had it been open for our wedding, you can bet our bridesmaids and groomsmen would have enjoyed wetting their whistles here.

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Peace. Love. And cold.

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I’m cool with the cold.

It can stay for a bit longer.

I know I moved to Florida for a break in the gray. For warmth. For sun. For sundresses. Flip flops. Enormous sunglasses.

But I miss the cold. I miss bundling. I miss warming my face over a hot cup of soup. I miss the crunch of snow. Skiing. Snowmobiling. The utilitarian function of long baths. How when you step outside on a bright white day, the air doesn’t move. Even your breathing is silent, as if your lungs are also wearing a sweater.

I realize how much I miss the cold when the square-jawed weathermen in Florida start shaking in their Izod shirts and advising people to cover their plants and dress their children in snowsuits every time the temperature drops below 50.

The cold is such a novelty in Florida, like juggling monkeys or monogrammed pillows.

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Girl Gone Vile

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Ohnoyoudidn’t!

Oh yes I did.

Why?

Because I modeled in my first fashion show Sunday night.

A woman I interviewed this summer asked me to participate. (Note: this was before I got pregnant.) The forces behind the show apparently didn’t mind that I was pregnant, so I went ahead and strutted my stuff baby bump and all.

The experience brought back a similarly glamorous memory. Ladies from my generation: surely you remember the disturbing popularity of Glamour Shots.

I blame my mother for this frightening photo. She coerced me into posing for it after she got her hands on a free coupon. Of course.

I was in sixth grade. SIXTH GRADE. I look like an 11-year-old wife of a politician. You should see what the back of my hair looks like. The “stylist” was only concerned with POOFING the front. My mother calls it the “Barbara Bush picture” namely because I’m bedecked in pearls.

I secretly think she subjected me to this hideousness so she could laugh her ass off.

It goes without saying, the picture lives in infamy among close friends and family. Inspired by this weekend’s fashion show, I decided to scan and dissect it for your viewing pleasure.

—

PS. Happy Birthday to my best friend Ro! No one loves to giggle like you do. Here’s a post to start your day on the right cackle.

Flight 10.10.10

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| Flight 10-10-10 |

I shot this footage Oct. 10, 2010 back home in Western New York as part of the One Day On Earth project. My father is the pilot. On this particular flight, he took us from Gowanda, N.Y., where he keeps his two-seater Cessna at a gravel pit that doubles as an air strip, to Dansville, N.Y., where we walked across the street to McDonald’s for vanilla milkshakes. On our walk back to the airport, I spotted a group of kids awestruck by the planes taking off and landing. They’re the heart of this video. I imagine when my dad was a little boy, he looked a lot like the kids I filmed climbing the fence along the runway.

The One Day On Earth project is a collaborative documentary shot by people all over the world. It was open to all people. Anyone with a cell phone camera capable of shooting video could submit footage. The overriding tenant was that ALL footage had to be captured on 10.10.10, hence the name ONE Day On Earth.

I happened to be home Oct. 10 to photograph Kim and Jon’s wedding. So when my dad asked if I wanted to go up in the plane that Sunday, I said sure, on one condition: be cool with me sticking a camera in your face.

The resulting six-minute video has been edited in a way that might make you dizzy. For some reason it made sense to speed everything up.

The first song is Blue Turning Gray by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

The second song is Walking, Running, Viking by The Benevento/Russo Duo.

The third song (one of my personal faves) is Io by Helen Stellar.

Kimberlee & Jonathan | October 9, 2010

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Western New York | The Quintessential Fall Wedding

When my friend Kim asked me too shoot her wedding in our hometown, I was honored and thrilled. When she told me it was in October, I was even more thrilled.

The fall in Western New York is breathtaking and Kim and Jon picked a date that turned out to be the peak of fall foliage.

A trolley named The Fonz transported the wedding party from North Collins, where Kim and I grew up, to the church, where I once wrote an article about a pipe organ for our weekly newspaper, to Knox Farms, where the groomsmen dutifully posed along a fence until it broke. (See below.)

Take 1: Down goes the fence.

This one’s even better: the guy in the middle goes down and his fellow groomsmen catch him.

I loved photographing Kim in the makeup chair at John Roberts Salon. Here’s a little fun fact about Kim: in college she used to sleep with a full face of makeup in case there was a fire drill in the middle of the night. The night before her wedding she also slept in makeup.

Beautiful, makeup or no makeup.

Mirror, mirror in my hand. Who’s the fairest bride in the land?

Kim desperately wanted to take pictures with her two pooches, but in the end she decided we didn’t have enough time between primping and trolley pick-up. Instead she brought a framed photo of her fur children to the salon, where they sat in spirit and watched the bridesmaids get up-do’ed.

The wind in the willows & the dress in the tree.

By all means, kick off your heels in the leaves and stay awhile.

A little collage action.

Kim and her dad.

Each lady delicately pinned a flower to her waist.

The unveiling.

Kim has a photo of she and her dad ambling down the street in front of their house when she was a little girl. She wanted to recreate that. Here’s the shot from the front.

And from the back. Hello shadows.

Bouquets courtesy of Etsy. Wise choice!

Pretty maids in a row … boarding The Fonz.

Kim and her mom.

This shot is one of my favorites for a few reasons. We’re sitting in the church parking lot. Guests are filing into the church, including the groom and his groomsmen. Kim is hiding behind the Just Married sign in the back of the trolley so no one will see her. She’s watching all the people she’s ever known in her life walk from their cars to the church to see HER get MARRIED. It’s a surreal moment and she realizes it. I imagine the look on her face is a combination of nervousness and anticipation.

I can’t say enough good things about the bridesmaids. They were all so sweet, patient and lovable. Not to mention stunning in their purple dresses.

Back at Knox Farms. As we meandered through the property in The Fronz trolley, I spotted a few dilapidated barns that I thought would work splendidly for photos. (Juxtaposition!) But of course our farm “tour guide” wouldn’t allow us to shoot beside these crumbling structures. (Liability!) I thought they were being overly cautious until the fence fell.

At one point Jonathan busted out a pink suit coat and aviator shades. I’ve never seen a dude look so dapper in pink.

I don’t know which is more delightful: The fact that there’s a ray of light cutting through this shot. Or that Kim is posing like a model in a bridal magazine.

Wondering how to pump up a hungry crowd at the start of a wedding reception? Make your entrance under an awning of inflatable baseball bats.

The koozies were an ode to one of Jon’s favorite outdoor hobbies. (That’s my best friend Ro holding the beer. She also served as a hand model at my wedding.)

Jon and Kim engage in a twisted-arm champagne toast.

And then dance like no one is watching.

—

To J+K: Thank you for letting me capture the day. Much love and congratulations. I hope you’re having a fantastic time zip-lining through the Dominican Republic.

To those of you who don’t believe in fate: Kim told me there was a “Post-it note mishap” in the early stages of the wedding planning process that resulted in accidentally booking the church for Oct. 9 instead of Oct. 2 –– her original wedding date. It turns out the mix-up was fortuitous. The Oct. 2 weather was dreadfully cold and rainy. The Oct. 9 weather? Well, you saw the pictures.