A while ago, I wrote a blurb on a scrap sheet of paper. I finally added it to an old picture I had of my grandfather and my cousin.

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Last week, I found out there was a trailer for Wes Anderson’s new movie, Moonrise Kingdom. I haven’t watched it yet. Not because I’m not interested – I am. I just like having it there, waiting for me. Knowing I can enjoy it whenever I want. It’s something I occasionally do with cupcakes. I sit and look at them. I enjoy having them there. It’s almost better than actually eating them.

Almost.

Anderson is a polarizing figure for a lot of people. Even I, from my perch of adoring fandom, am able to see he’s not perfect. The sentimentality of The Life Aquatic felt forced. Darjeeling Limited was unnecessarily misogynistic. But most of the time, he strikes the right cord, and makes me believe that life is meant to be full of sepia tones and musical vignettes and narration by Alec Baldwin.

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I can, at times, be a little opinionated (I know, I know. Shocking, right?). I’ve found myself at odds with all sorts of people – local politicians, NFL referees, the judges of American Idol - due to our differing viewpoints. I can’t help it. I’m Italian. We’re a passionate bunch.

Recently, a disagreement with someone had my blood pressure spiking in a way I had not felt since last year’s winner of Idol was announced (SCOTTY McCREERY? REALLY? Okay, fine. Whatever). I found myself stuck on the whole situation for literally hours – wondering how someone could see things so differently than I did.

I calmed down though, after reminding myself that our different ways of looking at the world are part of what makes it wonderful place. (Also, I ate a half-dozen M&M sugar cookies. That may have helped).

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On a flight back from New Jersey last week, I found an old boarding pass that I’d been using as a bookmark. It was, incidentally, for the same route I was currently on – Newark to Seattle. I needed something to write on, and I didn’t want the bother of opening up my laptop. Looking at the boarding pass, I’d apparently done the same thing before: I’d written the beginning of a blog post on it, then promptly forgotten it. I don’t remember what I had intended the post to be about – it never got published, never got beyond the few words I had scribbled down.

I don't know why I bothered to block out my last name or mileage number. You guys know everything about me, anyway.

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Standing in the stall of bathroom on the second floor of Nordstrom’s, I lost it.

I stood, sniffling, as women around me buzzed in and out of stalls, chatting with friends and helping children wash their hands. I tried to compose myself: it wasn’t working. I was holding back the tears, but only barely.

It was stupid, really, when I thought about it. We’d been in the Lego store in Aventura Mall in southern Florida. The friggin Lego store. Not exactly the place you’d imagine would be the site of spite and vitriol. We wandered around with my cousin’s kids, who were excitedly pointing out things that they liked. I pointed to something, and in the process, came within a foot of touching a fellow shopper – a well-dressed middle-aged woman. I did not, I would like to note, actually touch her. But I am sure I interacted with some molecules that later grazed her personal space, and for this, she was not happy.

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It is the first Monday of the new year, and I am sure many of you, like me, are in the throes of a rather nasty vacation hangover. I can picture you, wherever you may find yourself (at the office; in a minivan full of children you don’t really know or like; in central holding as you await bail for a crime that you are fairly certain you didn’t commit), an errant piece of tinsel still in your hair, a few crumbs (remnants of a long-ago eaten holiday treat) grazing your lips. You whisper, “I do not want to be here,” but no one responds. Your current fate is now more tortuous than watching a Nick Cage movie marathon.

Or perhaps you are of one the lucky few who has woken up, bright and early, bursting with energy and excitement about all the new year has to offer. In which case I don’t think we can be friends, because you probably also enjoy tetanus shots, jogging, and eating an apple for dessert.

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I visited Occupy London on an unseasonably warm and sunny day in late October. In a paradox that is no doubt indicative of who I am, I stopped off at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Occupy protesters were gathered, before heading off to Spitalfields (the famed shopping district).
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