A Little Piece of Youth

I made a huge decision last weekend - I took out my bellybutton ring.

I remember negotiating with my dad when I was 15. The deal: If I passed my Advanced Chemistry Final with a 90 or better, he would allow me to get my naval pierced. When I received my report card with a solid 98, I went with my mom to a local tattoo parlor and headed back to the piercing station. I picked out a cute pink ring (which I have worn since that epic day). Although the procedure itself was painful, and even though I couldn't sit down for a week, it was totally worth it. I showed off my naval piercing that summer at every chance I got. I wore cut off shirts and bikini tops. I felt rebellious and young and hot. And this piercing was totally removable.

Cut to 12 years later - my naval piercing is constantly getting caught on my tights/stockings and buttons of high waisted pants. I'm indoors for most of my summers with so few opportunities to show off my belly ring and I wouldn't wear a cut off shirt if you paid me. I went in for a research study and was embarrassed to admit to the technician that I had to remove a body piercing before I could continue. A close girlfriend had gotten me a very awesome fashion guide in preparation for my trip to Paris. Apparently, naval piercings are a serious fashion faux pas. It was time for me to grow up and take out this symbol of my youth.

I slipped off the naval ring on whim. I hadn't seen my naked belly in 12 years. It wasn't so scary or traumatizing. In fact, I felt kind of liberated. I no longer had this silly trinket clinging to my midriff. I felt mature and grown-up. Alex told me how beautiful my bellybutton looks with nothing in it. When I went to screw the top back on to the hook of the ring, it fell on the floor and disappeared. And I took that as a sign. It was time for another step toward adulthood.

Here's to being a responsible adult who gets stuff done!

...or something.

27

12 days prior to my own, I helped celebrate Alex's 27 birthday at Hill Country with a group of his friends. It was a lot of fun - yummy barbeque, live band country karaoke, and southern style drinks served in mason jars.

Now it was time to celebrate my 27th birthday. Each year I plan a night of drinking with a group of my friends here in NYC. This year, I decided that since my birthday falls on a Sunday, it's the perfect excuse to get my closest friends together for a traditional NYC brunch.

Brunch is such a staple of Manhattan culture. On any given Sunday (or Saturday), you will find tons of groups, young and old, planted at restaurants ordering eggs and drinking mimosas or bloody Mary's for hours. It's relaxing and fun and delicious.

At 2:30 on April 15th I gathered a group of friends at Philip Marie in the West Village and we had a lovely brunch.

We followed it up with some espresso and delicious sweets at Milk and Cookies


Monday at work, I celebrated my birthday (again) with my coworkers complete with 3 flower deliveries and delicious cupcakes.

I felt very loved at my office. That last arrangement from my boss smells so beautiful - it's wonderful to go into my little grey cubicle, close my eyes, and feel like I'm in a garden.

Growing up is scary and I'm happy to be where I am at 27. 27 just sounds so much older than 26. In addition to adding another year to my life, do I really have to add another syllable to my age? Slowly, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I am growing up. I no longer resemble that baby face in my college ID picture. In fact, in a month, I'll be going to my 5 year college reunion (has it really been 5 years since I was at the University of Delaware having the time of my life?). I've lived alone in the city for (gulp) 4 years now. I spend too much on rent and clothes and I never have cash in my very fashionable wallet. I couldn't be happier. I wouldn't trade my life for another.

Tooting my Horn

A few weeks ago at a performance, the bell of my horn was having trouble connecting to the rest of the instrument. I could feel the grooves of the horn mismatching with the grooves of my bell as I assembled my instrument.

It looked like this:

But I needed it to look like this:

The principal horn managed to magically attached it to make it one piece but when I took it apart at the end of the night, I couldn't put it back together myself. Eek!!!

First, I had a panic attack. Then I assessed my options and decided to bring my horn in for some cleaning and repair to New York's best brass instrument repair shop, The Brass Lab.

I trekked out to Brooklyn early on a particularly cold Saturday morning with my horn in tow. Scared and hopeful I transferred from the 6 to the L (which was actually running on time) and arrived in a quiet section of Bushwick, an under-developed town on the outskirts of Williamsburg, land of the hipsters. Fortunately this studio was on the top floor of a loft in a modern building. The space is shared with "window developers." They build the backdrops and sets for window displays and in New York City, window displays are an art form. I took a large elevator up to the top floor of this eclectic building full of creative people.

Chuck McAlexander has been repairing horns for over 40 years. He took one look at my busted instrument and saw the terror in my face. He was kind when he reassured me that he has a guarantee - he wouldn't send me home until my horn was back to 100%. What a relief! He even let me back into his workshop and taught me how to assemble a valve. After chemically cleaning my instrument and repairing the damage, my horn was as good as new.

Then I met my good friend Abbie in Williamsburg for a cappuccino, a catch up session, and some great people watching. After my lovely day in Brooklyn, I headed home to try out my horn.