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?
I saw this question on a post from The Curvy Fashionista from last year and was moved to answer the call. Thanks for the inspiration, TCF. Ok, here we go.
You’re giving me the side eye, aren’t you? Because I chose you as the favorite part of my body? And you’re like, please honey, that is a LIE? Please, let me explain.
I know that I’m unfair to you. I know that when I do my mirror checks my eyes drift down to you and I shake my head at your weird shape and your unwillingness to submit to ab exercises. I tsk tsk at you. I touch you sometimes during the day to check if you’ve transformed into that muffin top thing that invariably happens when I sit down and tsk tsk some more. So, yeah, we’re not pals. You’ve heard me refer to you as my “problem area” time and time again and I get that you’re so through with me. And that’s why I’m professing my love for you.
Belly, you’re cute. You’re part of the curves. You like music. You help me with digesting. You’re part of this entire body that I’ve learned to love and accept and take care of.
Yes, I’ve long allowed the gazes of others toward my mid-section when I wear certain outfits to mess with my mind. And rather than ignoring their appraisals, I blamed you and myself for not being more disciplined in trying to decrease your roundness. But we’re done with all that. People can look all they want. I certainly will continue with caring less. The fact that is that you are my favorite part of my body. Just like all the other parts. I will continue to nourish you and lather you with lotion. I won’t gaze at you with disdain. I’ll hum Billy Joel’s “Just the Way you Are” whenever you like. I’ll love you, because you’re part of the composite order of me.
Welcome to a new feature on This Square Peg, where I share the random memories that come to me during my morning commute to work! You’re welcome.
There’s always a catalyst to the memories. This particular morning, as I stepped off the train, I saw a young woman who reminded me of a girl that was in my Introduction to Shakespeare class in college. Immediately, I was
transported back: back to those heady days when I was a happy English major and a Math class fugitive, and specifically, when I was head over heels in love with my Shakespeare professor. Regarding the luurrve, can you blame me? Prof E was a true lover of the Bard (as was I, and still am), handsome, funny, and wore glasses. I swooned from day one.
So the Prof would hold these readings once a week, where members of the class would voluntarily meet and read a play–whether Shakespeare or Christopher Marlowe or anyone in between, it was a fun way to get to know each other and discuss literary thoughts and conventions outside of class. Needless to say, I signed up as soon as possible. The night of the reading I joined, we were dismissed for a short break. After a pal and I grabbed something to munch on, we were heading back to the reading room. This was when it all happened, when I suddenly got all up in my feels over my professor. I’ll never forget the following conversation.
Me: I think I love him.
Me: Professor E, of course. I’m in love with him.
Pal: Oh, Lord.
Me: He’s amazing. He’s so smart. And funny. And cool. And awesome.
Pal: Ok, [Government Name], chill out, though. Keep your voice down.
Me: I can’t! I want to shout it from the rooftops. I love him!
Pal: Seriously, stop talking right now. Don’t say another word. Don’t.
Me (suddenly freezing and turning toward her): He’s behind us, isn’t he?
Like clockwork, Prof E walked from around us. Of course, to add to the sweet misery of it all, he turned around, grinned at me, and said he’d see us in the room. What happened next:
Me: I’m going to kill myself.
Pal: You’re not going to kill yourself.
Me: Yes, I am. We’re on the 3rd floor, right? I’ll jump right here, from this balcony.
Pal: Get away from that balcony. Look, it’s no big deal. So he knows you love him. He’s probably flattered.
Me: I want to die.
Pal: Later. We need to get back.
(Can I tell you how cool my old friend was back then? She was the senior to my junior, listened to most of my melodrama with the same dry, unruffled, and hilarious reaction, and let me escape the craziness of college days in her dorm room. The best.)
Anyway, as you can imagine, going back to that room took all the strength I could muster. But Prof E never made it awkward. After that day, we continued to have our interesting discussions, in and out of class, as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn’t declared my love for him on the third floor of the Johnson Center. Sigh. I’ll never forget your rimless glasses, Prof E.