Y’all know I’m a singleton, right? If you didn’t know: I’m a singleton. I enjoy my singleton life immensely, but yeah, full disclosure: I also want that demographic to change. And I have to tell you, dear reader, that the desire to change my singleton status becomes even more heightened when autumn settles over the atmosphere.
Is it the image of walking down a leaf-strewn path with my hand inside another’s?
Gazing up at an orange moon and marveling about its wonder to someone else and not just to myself?
The general electricity in the air that seems to call out for change?
Years ago, I mentioned this to my bestie, that I seem to crave the presence of another even more during the fall. “I get it,” she said. “There’s just something in the air that makes a lot of folks feel that way.”
Is it the prospect of dressing up in my burnt orange and boots for a non-solo dinner or movie outing?
Leaving the mark of my fall-inspired chocolate and/or burgundy lip color on another’s cheek?
You’d think that a season where nature dies beautifully and bursting with color wouldn’t necessarily call for the welcoming of love. Or perhaps that’s it exactly. It is the fall of the year, after all. Nature’s last hurrah as it prepares for the unremitting winter to come. Maybe I want to fall in love in fall to prepare for the inevitable chill on its way; the darkening, cold, hushed days that, sometimes, can be unbearable when you’re alone.
#realtalk: It’s a year-round desire. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t entertain the idea of a seasonal love and then moving on when summer wakes up. But there’s just something about love and this time time of year.
C’est la vie en automne, I suppose. Happy Friday, onwards, and bon weekend…
Why relegate candy to your sweet tooth? Shall we not have candy for the eye, too?
This is Superman. I know, I know: you thought Superman wasn’t real you thought Superman was Christopher Reeve. And he is, no doubt. But this is the new Superman. And I mean…Wednesdays were made for that face. They just were.
I first met Henry (not in real life; had we met in real life, I suppose you’d be reading about me somewhere in an article about infamy) in the film The Count of Monte Cristo. A great film. He played Fernand Mondego, the son of villainous Count Mondego. He was lovely. His skin looked like warm milk. I literally said this to my friends in the theater. “Doesn’t his skin look so milky and creamy?” My male friends and my brothers naturally rolled their eyes. Anyway, years later, a friend asked if I knew that Fernand had been cast as the new Superman. “Fernand? Milky Fernand? But he’s so delicate.”
Fernand grew up.
Happy Wednesday. May your superheroes be all manly and such and be cast in the latest Mission: Impossible film (inspiring 1,000 squeals) and grow amazing mustaches and be milky and dreamy, too.
Did you miss Wednesdays with This Square Peg? Here’s a mea culpa for my absence:
Liev Schreiber has eyes that will find their ways into your soul. He also has a voice that will drive you slightly crazy. He’s also immensely talented, with a quiet, still intensity that always captures my attention when he’s onscreen. He can also wear a suit. Goodness.
What an introduction. Let’s get right to it: when Her Excellency was was still on the air with her daily talk show, I won tickets to be part of her audience.
Back in 2011, I remember going on the official website for the show and noticing one of the upcoming episodes. The theme of the impending show was going to be all about best friends. (Title: An Oprah & Gayle Kind of Friendship) Made sense, given the longtime friendship between Madame O and her bestie, Gayle King. The requirement to be part of the audience was to write and send in an essay about your best friend and why he/she was wonderful. That was a no-brainer. I’ve discussed my bestie on TSP more than once. She.Is.Everything. And so I got to writing. Looking back, I submitted the essay with only a small twinge of excitement, being that 1) I was probably 1 of a million people doing the same thing, and 2) I didn’t want that level of disappointment if I didn’t get chosen.
Then I received an email on March 23, 2011. Yes, I searched my inbox for that date. And yes, I’m giddy that the email still exists. Bottom line, the main idea of the email: my bestie and I were invited to join the audience during a taping of the themed episode.
I reacted a bit like this:
So at this point, dear reader, my bestie didn’t know I had done any of this. I kept it all to myself in case we didn’t get chosen. Welp, that didn’t happen. After receiving that email, I called her and engaged in the following conversation:
Me: Hey, are you free on April 11?
Her: Let me check…yes, I’m free. What’s up?
Me: We’re flying to Chicago that day to be part of the audience of the Oprah show.
Me: Are you there?
Her (whispers): This better not be a prank.
Me: It’s not! I wrote an essay and they picked it and it was about you and me and our friendship and we’re going to see Oprahhhhhhhhhh!
Her reactions, from 1-3:
Needless to say, by the time we got to three, we were both primal screaming on the phone. Flight plans to Chicago were made; outfits were discussed (we had been asked by Queen O’s team to wear colorful clothes that would show well on TV); mild disappointment was expressed because a giant rule was that no pictures were allowed inside the Harpo studios; and finally, more primal screams were shared. You guys, it was one of the best experiences of this life. And you know how Empress Oprah’s audience would go mad? I admired her, yes, but I just couldn’t understand the mania these women showed on national TV. Well, I can easily say that on that morning in April, as Oprah was introduced and walked out and waved at us and smiled: I. Get. It. I truly do.
Her presence: dynamic. Her personality: open and charming. Her overall nature: amazing. In the minutes between her walking out and sitting down before the cameras turned on, there was no change. She was the same onscreen and off-screen. She was also just fun. During commercial breaks, she joked and laughed and told us about her painful high heels…it was surreal. My bestie and I spent the entire time just like holding each other in disbelief and Oprah-generated joy. And yeah, we got some gifts, too. And food. It was incredible. I’ll say it again, and in French: incroyable.
But the best part of that whole thrilling experience, dear reader? It involved a years-long, amazing friendship with one amazing lady, that being my bestie, and it involved another love of my life: my writing. My bestie kept saying the following throughout the day. “You are a writer. It was your words that got us here. You are a writer.” It was definitely a boost in confidence with the mighty pen. Nevertheless, the topic at hand, why this woman was such an indescribable presence in my life, made it easy. I didn’t hesitate. The benefits of a worthy subject.
Got any thrilling moments with your bestie that you’d like to share with me? Don’t fret because Oprah isn’t involved in any of them. The comments await you below…
You may have seen him in 42, or Get on Up, or the latest rendering of Captain America, or the recently released trailer for Black Panther, which gave you, me, and everyone currently living enough life to last for more life. I mean…
I chose the photo above because I think it exemplifies, above all, why Chadwick is everything: he loves National Public Radio. He loves NPR. I mean…
He’s talented and awesome and a superhero and a supporter of public radio and…
Let’s end there, shall we? See you in the movie theater in 2018.
It’s been a while since we discussed Wednesday lovelies. Here’s one for your consideration.
You know how I feel about him. I discussed his blueprint status here. Before my dear Idris, it was him. It’s still him. You know how you’ll never forget your fourth-grade crush even though you’re now in college and your current “true love” plays football and loves Shakespearean sonnets? It’s like that. Anyway, the photo above is from January, when Brad came on stage as a surprise presenter for the Golden Globes, and the audience went nuts. Here’s Matt Damon’s reaction from that moment.
Look at Matt. Look at the smiles of the people around him. See the applause. Can you hear the applause?
That’s what he does, y’all. That’s the Brad Pitt je ne sais quoi.
I’ll begin by reminding you, my dear reader, that I stopped drinking coffee in 2008. (See the story about the drums here.) This doesn’t mean that I don’t long for it like I long for the key to our villa. In fact, I miss that warmth and aroma like crazy. I’ve been guilty of sitting next to someone sipping coffee and entertaining images of taking it from them. Without asking. Anyway. Despite all of that, I’m still slightly frightened of that drumming. And don’t say just drink decaf. We won’t remain friends.
Enter Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. Have you seen this online series from Jerry Seinfeld? The premise is everything the title suggests: Seinfeld picks up a comedian in a snazzy classic car, takes them to a coffee shop, and engages in the most intriguing (and often hilarious; they are comedians, after all) conversations with them. It’s wonderful. My sissy turned me on to the show when it came out, and don’t tell her this (the statistics of the older sister being right about everything need to remain undisturbed) but she nailed it. It was right up my alley. Comedians, cars, coffee, conversation. Cawesome. (New word.) What gets me, though, what infinitely thrills me about the show, are the scenes in the coffee shops. Not of the celebrities, but of the coffee. The images of that smooth liquid descending from the machines, of the coffee beans bursting in their bags, of that everlasting steam rising from the mugs. Add to all of those sweet images a whimsical, often jazzy soundtrack, and I’m on coffee cloud 9.
Ever since my stint at this lovely place, coffee shops have been the center of my world. (The books and coffee combination made it extra heavenly.) The café in this place embodied the café in every place: whispered conversations, folks tapping away at unfinished novels on their keyboards, the soft whir of espresso machines. It’s the dreamworld of creatives, people watchers, quiet types, anyone, really. The show makes me want to return to those days when I frequented them regularly. And this is my intention. At least one Saturday afternoon ensconced in a cozy nook at a local coffee shop is doable, no? And so it shall be.
So: watch CICGC, grab a cup, and forgive me in advance for watching you sip.
Are you a coffee and coffee shop lover? Tell me all about it.
#12: That quote to the left about sums it up. Our sense of humor. Our laughter. Our love. (Because, yeah, I’d traipse through a fire and/or super humid room for her, fro or no.) Those times when la bestie utters words that change my life. My goals to always be there for her.
She arrived on Friday night and will be leaving in a few hours. She brought a burst of light and much-needed familiarity into this new place and environment that I’m adjusting to, both emotionally and otherwise. I don’t think I’ll be able to communicate just how I needed that.
I snapped a few photos, but she’ll hurt me if I post them. So just call your bestie and tell him/her that you love them.
#13: I bought a couch!
While furniture shopping yesterday, one of the employees showing us around the monster of the store we were in took me the very couch that I saw and saved from their website. If that isn’t kismet I don’t know what is. Delivery is next Sunday and you shall see it then.
As a singleton, invariably, 1) I’m offered someone’s murderous son/nephew/cousin/friend/random guy on the street as a potential marriage partner, and 2) I receive plenty of tips and advice about my future marriage. Here are a few of my favorites, along with a bit of commentary.
A good marriage consists of two forgivers.I’ve heard this more than once, and I like it. To me, it means that I can forgive him for forgetting that I occupy our home when a game is on and he can forgive me for reacting…melodramatically. (Think screaming “you obviously don’t love me” from our upstairs balcony.)
Marriage isn’t 50/50. It’s 100/100. Another good one. I may be functioning at a third-grade level when it comes to Math and numbers, but this is clear: he will 100 percent buy me pretty presents and I will 100 percent love him for it.
The first year is the hardest; it can make you or break you. My mother said this to me. I believe her. I mean, yes, I imagined Idris and I just swimming in sunshine and roses that first year, but I don’t doubt that there will be some growing pains: what to name our yacht, pestering him to leave the outgoing message on my cell phone, reminding him about our weekly galas in the city (he can be so forgetful)…
Never go to bed angry. True. But what about infuriated, incensed, and/or enraged?