We’ve stopped work today to discuss love.

My boss is finding herself in one of those situations where one must choose between love and location. Her boyfriend has been offered a professorship at a prestigious overseas university and she wants to stay put on American soil. And they’re crazy about each other. You know, one of those couples.

So, I find myself screaming, “Be a sucker for love! Go to England!” like I would at the end of some romantic comedy involving say, Colin Firth. This coming from the girl who, in the past, wouldn’t cross a street she didn’t want to for a boy. Now I’m championing for her to cross an ocean?

Love, the tricky bastard, is hard enough to find, that the less-practical part of me thinks that if you’re going to be moved by love, why not move for it? My boss has her feminism, though, and her dreams and career ambitions. And I have my what, sentimentality?

In a bitter moment, I once wrote that there might be no such thing as falling in love. I had decided that the notion of finding overwhelming, incomprehensible kismet with a man — that the “in love” feeling — was just some cocktail I was drunk on after watching too many John Cusak movies.

My theory that boiled down to this:

The adorable Mr. Cusak crushes the “Nice Guys Finish Last” idea by not only finishing far from last, but “finishing” with the most adorable, shockingly down-to-earth, gorgeous girl-next-door co-stars. And he doesn’t make it look easy. So we believe him. It was tough for him, so it was real.

And what do sentimental hearts learn from that?

Love exists, if simply to make us happy AND there are good, silly, but endearing men willing to make a fool of themselves (say, by standing outside your house with a boom-box playing some meaningful, yet sappy song) just to say, “I think you’re pretty damn special.”

And then, somehow it is not only acceptable to believe in purely-motivated, tender, ecstatic love…but it is also fashionable.

And as we all know, I’m never one to argue with fashion.

I’ll keep my theories to myself as my boss works out the practical details of this very difficult decision. But if it were me? I’d probably be looking for my passport.

Sucker.

Today, I am so v. unfortunate to be participating in what the Monkey Profession calls a Charrette. Basically this is a sort of planning retreat where you expend loads of mental energy and refuel with bull shit.

You’re jealous, right?

If you come rescue me, I’ll be yours forever. And I do windows.

This is v. important, y’all. Please vote.

mini skirt + knee high boots =

A) stylish
B) trampy

Maybe I’ve watched just one too many episodes of the Nanny but I came out of my room in a denim mini and tall brown boots feelin’ pretty darn cute. But Roommate tells me I look like I’m “tryin’ to get some.”

Shoot. Guess that means tomorrow I’ll be returning stuff.

Oh, wait! Now he’s explaining! Let’s listen, shall we?

“It’s those long-ass legs of yours!”
“So, you mean, if I were short and stumpy, this would be okay?”
“Well, um, yeah.”
“Nothing I can do about that.”
“And you thought those legs were a gift!”
“Hmmm… no, but now I definitely won’t. Here I thought I was MADE for the mini skirt.”

My personal war on terror is being fought with laughter. And potentially, Wookies, it seems.

J: Is the landlord going to do anything other than replace the glass?
H: I dunno. He didn’t say. But I’m hoping for something like a new force-field around the house.
J: That, or Storm Troopers that lie in wait for any danger to come by.
H: No! Storm Troopers really scare me. I’d be afraid to get lasered if I startled one of them. But you know… What about Wookies? You know I’m really good with animals. They wouldn’t scare me AND they would really mess up intruders.
J: And they could dust all those hard to reach places.

–Wookie in pink and white apron with feather duster–

“You’re the best wookie EVER!”

“AAAARRRRRHHHH” (or however one spells Wookie noises)

H: Sweet! I HATE dusting!!!

Ari: Little early for a wake up call.
H: No kidding! See, if someone had shot my house at say, 7 AM, it would have been much more acceptable.
A: And appropriate as a wake up call. Maybe they thought you had doughnuts to make. Were the cops cute at least?
H: No. They sure were stupid, though.
A: I don’t think the smart ones work that early.
H: Maybe we just got them pre-Dunkin Donuts.
A: 5am… Disgusting.
H: Seriously. Thugism should have regular hours. Like Stop ‘n’ Shop.
A: I absolutely agree with you. You ought to teach a course!! At the Learning Annex.
H: I don’t know if thugs would start to resent all the guidelines…. And the checks for the class would naturally bounce, too.
A: Well… am quite glad you are feeling better at least to where you can joke about it.
H: I think if I don’t joke about it, I’ll be scared all the time…

Which is the sad truth. What with Roommate having a traveling job that will take him out of town again this weekend, humor is about the only thing keeping me from running ‘cross the street in my pajamas and crawling in bed with my friendly neighbors.

The landlord feels pretty terrible, as he’s sure this has to do with the previous tenants, whom he evicted and then had some nasty litigation. Cream of the crop, the last tenants. Turns out, the cops were by on a regular basis for domestic disturbances. I’m afraid Roommate and I are so v. boring by comparison. Here we are, cleaning the yard, making home improvements, being good quiet neighbors and we’re supposed to be thuggin’ up the place. I’ll simply have to watch a few hours of Jerry Springer for tips.

Came home early from work. I was just a wee bit too tired to stick it out for the day in this ridiculous Ally McBeal suit and heels, being gnawed at by this morning’s state of affairs. Please, God, don’t let Kitten eat a bullet. She would, Ya know. So, cabbed it home and first thing was first: I took a tour of the living room to assess the damage.

A brief inspection yielded several finds, including half a dozen BB’s scattered throughout the room. And now all I have to say is,

You fucking terrorized my house with a BB gun?? Sheesh, man. If you’re going to be up and about at 4:30 AM, you should at least be armed with a decent caliber gun. What is wrong with you? You’re no thug. You should be ashamed.

Oh yeah, I talk tough, don’t I? Well, I’m not. I was scared into numbness this morning, standing there in my robe unable to do anything while my roommate cleaned up the mess, called the police and filed the report. Well, I made breakfast. That’s something.

You can’t start off a day of being a victim of random violence on an empty stomach, now can ya?

It sounded like ice being poured into the kitchen sink. But it wasn’t. It was really the front-door glass shattering and falling to the floor, from a shot fired into my house.

Four shots, four shattered windows and shards of glass all over my living room furniture. The police have come and gone and now I’m wide awake at 5:00 wondering what the hell just happened.

Find myself showered and dressed and it’s only 7:56 in the morning. Duty has called (a bit too loudly for a Sunday morning, I might add), and off I go to work. I’m not exactly thrilled.

But, yesterday’s shopping excusion was ever so successful. And when I get home from work this afternoon, I expect you to come over thirsty and sit at my kitchen table with your hand on my thigh.

‘Cause I got me a fancy red tea kettle and a hot new mini skirt.

Yeoow!

That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

The sun is out (though, so is the wind), I am about to embark on an alarming display of consumerism, armed with too much spending power (though, should be paying off my Visa) and I just unearthed this really ass-tastic pair of pants from my closet.

I
will
be
invincible.

My girlfriend will be here soon, and our first order of business is the Home Goods store where I will buy, even when my practical Inner Goddess is balking, The Red Tea Kettle. Even if it IS way more expensive than the less appealing, but equally functioning, chrome ones. I’ve been longing for it. I want it. I want it to come live at my house and make lemon tea.

The rest of the day will be filled with “If you’ll just sign here” and “Black or brown, Em? Or both?” and “You’re sure it’s not too short?” And it will end with good friends and a big piece of red meat at nieghborhood BBQ joint. Which will then end the reign of the ass-tastic pants, but what can ya do?

(Oh, and Matrix Revolutions? Disappointing. Too much love, not enough fighting. And for this girl, that’s sayin’ a lot.)

Work has been so busy lately that my lunch hour, and hours after work, are spent on the phone and attached to the computer planning, of all things, a retirement party for one of the Higher Ups. Is this my job? Am I a party coordinator? Apparently I threw such a stellar Halloween party that the Powers that Be decided I must WANT to do this sort of thing. Um, yeah.

And thus, I am not out dancing. I’m tired. I stayed out for a bit with my Work Boyfriends (they hold my purse while I shop, escort me around, walk me to my trains, and bicker with me when I’m being a pain) and was even asked by one of them to be his date to the Holiday party. Which is really great and a huge relief. Great in that he and I have lots in common: We both love boys. And a relief in that, well, after two years with J there, I was planning on going solo. And not thrilled about it.

Speaking of J… We had a very strange conversation today. Over the last few months, he and I have fallen into this civil, “If I hear from you, cool, if I don’t, probably better” correspondence pattern. So, today, after a week or so of silence, I get:

J: Wanna hear something silly?
H: Yes, tell me something silly.
J: Well, you know of that girl, Kathryn in London, right? Well she sent me an email on Wednesday saying that she has a boyfriend and it has gotten serious, and she felt I should know. To be honest, I was a bit hurt. Silly, huh?
H: No, it’s not silly. Not silly at all. Miles — even a big stupid ocean — really mean nothing when it comes to that sort of thing. I’m sorry.
J: I need a cookie and a hug.

—- An hour or so later, J makes a very stupid joke —

H: Oh jeez. You’re too much.
J: Yeah, I need a brain scan…
H: At the very least! This Kathryn thing really has you bugged, huh?
J: Holy shit, how could you tell????
H: Gee, I wonder.
J: No, honestly. Am I acting weird or something?
H: No. Probably not to other people. I just know you way better than you think. Remember when we first went down the crapper? I emailed B that morning and said, “J is seeing the blonde from the hot tub, isn’t he?” I just know things.
J: I am as clueless as they come, and here you are reading my mind… I really do love you!!!!!

And here, let me check my watch. Yes, that’s what I thought. About nine months too late for that to mean a god damned thing. Funny how I love you rolls off so easily now that it carries about as much weight as Callista Fucking Flockhart.

I almost feel sorry for the guy. Oh, alright, no almost. I do feel sorry. But I just don’t know what he thinks I can do for him, besides buy him a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, pat him on the back and say,

There, there. You totally had this coming. Karma, baby. She’s a bitch, ain’t she?

“Let’s go get the shit kicked out of us for love.”

And that, my friends, sums it up. The film rocked my evening. My day, really.

Along with:

A haiku from Indie Rock Boy. The fact that we actually made it from getting drunk and making out in cabs to this snarky friendship (where he’s allowed to yell at me for smoking) with minimal awkwardness, stands as one of my bigger accomplishments in the post J, I Am An Idiot Tour of 2003.

This kick ass ring I’m wearing. Yeah, a present to myself. I got all humiliated and hurt and cried myself to sleep yesterday. And when that happens, a girl should just buy herself a present. So, that is precisely what I did. Tomorrow is manicure day. And new boots day. The gifting never ends!

These pajamas. And a hot shower and that I left my towel on the radiator. Warm towel? Don’t mind if I do!

A great story about getting splashed by a has-been celebrity. But, that’s a story for another time. I’m tired and he wasn’t that cute.

I’m tired of hearing myself complain about work. So no more work talk.

Last night M read my fortune in Tarot cards and I got to ask questions of the pendulum’s sway. It’s all about me, they both said. But not in a selfish way. It’s about what I’m supposed to be learning from life right now. Thank you, Mystic Powers of the Universe.

He’s a believer in many things; most of all, in people. His heart will break right along with yours if you tell him your troubles. And he celebrates your successes and talks to the Universe on your behalf. He speaks of ex-lovers with a sort of holiness usually reserved for prayer. And he thanks you for your company, which you can’t believe because all you’ve done is selfishly absorb some of his goodness. No, thank you.

In other news, the novel is progressing. I’m open to sharing bits now to get some feedback, though I sort of wonder if I’m becoming like one of those mothers. You know, the kind who flaunts her child and hasn’t quite realized… that is one ugly baby!

Have big plans for dancing, finally. The Work Boys, who I have been slighting lately, have put their DKNY-soled feet down and insisted I stop being so lame. And I’m totally willing to oblige. I’ve got money in the bank, some pent-up frustration, and some killer Dirty Dancing moves.

Tonight my dinner was gin and half a dozen cigarettes. And I don’t smoke.

I have learned that you should never say to anyone, “In the worst case scenario…” followed by, “Second worse would be..” Because, invariably, you will soon be living Worst Case Scenario, with Second Worse filling in from time to time as the relief pitcher.

I walked home just now, the river fog pulling at my mascara, my mouth tasting of cigarettes — like a smoker’s kiss — and I thought of my fortune this evening, of haphazzardly finding kismet in a bottle of Sapphire gin and in the kindness of new friendship.

The leaves were glowing gold in the lamps on the footbridge, and I found myself thinking of the movie, Camelot. And of the song. Do you remember it?

In short, there’s simply not
a more congenial spot
for happily-ever-aftering
than here in Camelot

I sang it for an audition once. I may have it wrong now; but that’s okay. I am drunk. How topsy-turvy that perfectly-arranged kingdom became!

At any rate, the leaves were beautiful and the night was so still that all of the day’s great impossibilities seemed… a bit more possible (that being what imaginations are for). And right there, the abuse of the work day slipped off into the river to go with the current or be churned under by tomorrow morning’s crew teams.

Of course, I’ll still feel really shitty that hard-earned recognition went ungranted. And that I’ve never really learned to say the right thing when it counted. But what I realized while crossing over the river, and what I’d learned tonight over a bottle of gin, was that it’s not always predictable. Plan, prepare, decree, and your world will still go all topsy-turvy on you.

My fingers smell of tobacco and I’m tired but happy satisfied. If I fall asleep now, I’m pretty much assured pleasant dreams.

We ride home from work, Michelle weaving in and out in some seemingly haphazard pattern, one which only she understands. She reminds me of that Discovery Channel special on bees, with the way she drives — dodging and dancing through traffic. A bee after pollen.

Chatting and laughing, we mock those mellow, falsely fresh NPR disc-jockeys while her three-year-old wreaks havoc on my hair from her harness in the back seat. First she tugs sharply, and I wince, but I say nothing. Not even a quiet, ‘ouch.’ The attention is nice; I don’t want to discourage her.

I feel her miniature hands grasp at the strands of my unbrushed ponytail, the way she might hold tight to the string of a balloon, afraid it will lift away should she let go. For blocks she is silent, her fingers frozen, curled around my hair that is spilling through the gap between my headrest and the seat. Thread through a needle. And she can’t get enough of it. White girl’s hair.

“Like Rapunzel,” I say.
“No,” Thea says. “Like Barbie.” Only it comes out, ‘bah-bie,” her accent every day growing more and more to sound like that of her Indian babysitter, Mantaz.

Her mother laughs. “Poor Thea,” she says.

Her Carribean genetics, passed on from mother to daugher, will make Thea full-lipped and caramel-skinned, and her dark hair tightly curled. She will never have Mantaz’s cascading black mass of hair, or my thinner, paler version. She will not have petroleum-produced strands like Barbie–nor any other of Barbie’s plastic, pale features. She will instead be pouty, hot-tempered, mysterious and exotic. Poor Thea, indeed.

I feel her small digits tangle in the mess at the bottom of my ponytail as they work, with the still under-developed grace of her age, meticulously removing the knots and snarls. Petting and admiring. I will let her envy me for now–while my cookie-cutter sameness is fascinating and appealing, and before she develops a sense of self and moves on from that generic, stiff-armed doll. I will let her envy me for now.

She isn’t tired of Barbie yet.

A couple hours ago, I will chilling with two-year-old Maya on the floor of my office, blowing bubbles. You know you’ve made kids happy when they squeal like piglets. And we were squealing. Two piglets in the middle of all this brushed steel and stuffy black leather. Bubbles can be fun like that.

But then Maya had to go home for nap time.

So, I was sitting in my office feeling… resentful — about being some place I just didn’t want to be — when the phone rang.

“This is H..”
“I’m across the street with a bottle of red wine.”
“Joan!”

So, I disappeared to the Monkey Firm’s annex across the street and sat in the sawdust, having a drink (or two) with my old boss.

Drinking with Joan is like getting a fabulous new haircut. You come out of the experience feeling great, even though nothing substantial has really changed. You’re still you, and you still have to go back to your stinky job, but you’ve had an attitude make-over.

And it was just what I needed.

I was raised in a religious household.

It was religious in that my mother took us all to church every Sunday and sat, frowning through the whole service (even as a small child, I was pretty aware that she did not buy into it). And religious in that my father blamed God for everything. The lawnmower would break, and there he’d be, storming around on the lawn, arms upstretched like Tevye the Dairyman, telling the Almighty in no uncertain terms that He owed him new Toro.

In my youth, I bought into it. Or wanted to. Sometimes, am not certain what I believed, or to what extent. But nevertheless, I wore out my leather-bound bible looking for sure-fixes to teenage broken hearts. I kept to a ridiculously strict (and horribly self-righteous) moral code, somewhat out of fear of other-worldly punishment but mostly out of the hope that I’d be rewarded with something. Something better than what I had.

And that something never came. In fact, nothing came. Neither tremendous gifts of fortune — except what I worked for — nor punishments of lightning, pestilence or plague — when I stopped following that long list of arbitrary rules.

Regardless, I still find myself whispering “thank you” when something suddenly falls into place unexpectedly, or small pleas of “help” when my own instict fails me. And whether or not Someone actually hears my outburts or not, doesn’t interest me. Sometimes, it’s just the pause, the time that it takes to seek solace, that does the most good.

Dear Baby Sister,

H

Sometime during Saturday night’s drunken fiasco, I let Sarah B unwind my hair, so as to satisfy everyone’s curiosity. It felt a bit like we were making an Amish porn flick. Everyone got real turned on when we started showing some ankle later in the night.

Things I do remember:

Sarah B making us wear red lipstick.
Confessing that I love Fran Drescher.
Benjamin buying daisies from a very amused street vendor at 3 AM.
Drunk blogging and having a very hard time at it.

Things I can’t quite remember:

Why Sarah B made us wear lipstick.
What made me refer to an event as pre-Nanny.
Why a total stranger bought me a drink at the last bar.
At what point Benjamin put on pink pajamas

A fine time was had by all. Can’t really remember having so much fun with near strangers. Felt something like having my imaginary friends suddenly become very, very real. Sarah B’s mother (despite her daughter’s potty mouth) must be congratulated for raising a lady, and Benjamin’s for raising a v. conscientious and gentlemanly host. Next time, however, stop me at five lemon drops and remind me that the Pad Thai was nothing special.

Slept the whole way back from the Big City, and as soon as I finish typing this bit, I am crawling under the covers to cuddle with Kitten and read.

Cuddling is totally the new black.

A lengthier report will surely follow. But for now, my vodka soaked brain is pretty incapable of coming up with anything more than a big yawn.

Temporarily remedied the lonley meal issue by cooking for a friend tonight. A little steak, a little shrimp, some really to-die-for mushrooms. I had no idea I was such a gourmet!

My guest brought the wine. And now, I am tipsy. And trying to pack. Lightly.

The last time I packed under the influence, I ended up in Europe for ten days with my mother and a suitcase containing half a dozen scarves and not nearly as much underwear. Ah, not so bad, really. An excuse to buy things.

A very spur of the moment decision, and I am off to the Big City for the weekend to… drink, mostly. And because of logistics and such, have got to go from car, to train, to museum, to night-on-the-town in the same outfit. That’s crazy talk! It nullifies any idea of trendy shoes, revealing hem or neck lines and anything uncomfortable for travel. Uh, well that leaves… well… I’m totally going to have to borrow something from my roommate. Sweats? Wait… don’t I have a mumu somewhere? shudder.

More wine, please.

Oh, and Krissa… love, do you still have my cell phone number? I have yours. Will it be stalkerish if I call you? Five or six times every hour?

The sun is out today. I hardly know what to do with myself.

On the way to work, I stopped to harass the geese.

Aren’t they late for fall migration? I asked them as much, but they didn’t answer. They were having breakfast and really too busy to give me a good response. Which also made them too busy to run away from me. I must have been a sight to see, standing in the middle of thirty geese, inching closer to pet the slow movers.

I have a certain attachment to these geese. I was there when they were hatchlings, having swimming lessons in the river during lunch time. And when they were in their awkward stage, I was there during afternoon walks to toss them bread and listen to them honk at one another. We made jokes, my Hungarian friend and I, that these geese, being of the Canadian variety, spoke only French. I did the interpretation. It was often pretty hilarious. My French is a little rusty, after all.

This is my third fall and my third set of geese to grow up and move on. Only, these guys are late. It’s November! Maybe they’ve decided to stay this winter. Rebel against nature and tradition. Maybe it’s part of some extended language immersion program, and maybe next spring, I won’t have to translate.

Are cats allowed to have cheese? Cause, um, Kitten just scarfed some provolone and is lookin’ real proud of hereself.

don’t puke. don’t puke. don’t puke.

I’m a very social creature.

A social creature who values her alone time — alone and lonely, rarely being the same thing. Growing up, being alone was a commodity even more valuable than jelly bracelets and Guess jeans. Back then, it was a habit of mine to drag a 3×3 piece of plywood from my father’s workshop to the wheat field across the street (god bless rural America), set it down a safe distance into the grain and sit, hidden, reading the newest Sweet Valley Twins or Nancy Drew I’d gotten from the school library.

I can still pass hours by myself, busied with whatever interests me at the time, and never feel… that I’m by myself.

But I felt it last night.

I have, of late, taken up a new hobby. Inspired by a domestically gifted girlfriend, am now trying my hand at cooking. And by the way my corduroy mini is fitting this morning, I’m pretty sure it’s been a successful venture. But considering last winter’s hobby included a man-child named J and hefty amounts of diet pills, well, this one’s indubitably healthier. A couple (fifteen) pounds never hurt anyone, right?

The thing about cooking, though, is that recipes are made for pairs. And as result, there are six small, disposable plastic containers on the shelf in my fridge, their purple lids labeled with things like Broccoli Cheese Soup, Basil Shrimp, Roasted Garlic Pork and Mushroom Bacon Quiche. All single servings, left over from dinners for two, eaten by one.

I saw them there last night, all lined up and labeled in my obsessive compulsive way, and thought, this is meaningless.

I miss having someone to eat the other serving (and usually part of mine). I miss having someone to sit on my feet and keep them warm while we have a bit of after-dinner living room time. Sometimes it’s Jeopardy; where I’ll turn into Super Know-it-All Answer Girl. I miss having someone to tell me to shut up and let the guy with the bad hair piece answer. Sometimes it’s Reality TV. And I miss having someone to Oh-My-God with over the cattiness of the Joe Millionaire Girls.

I miss really good kisses. And knowing glances. And misunderstandings. And I miss those moments that you know the misunderstanding is over and you can go back to really good kisses and knowing glances.

My life is easy, but my feet are cold and my fridge is full of fake, single serving Tupperware. Because until something changes, I’m still cooking for one.

Walking to work this morning, I had to leave my normal route and take the long way.

It was the only thing I could do — leave the sidewalk and stick to the patchwork of grass and leaves on the Business School campus. The way I was feeling, I was afraid that if I kept on my usual path, there’d be a place where the cold slab concrete sidewalks met up with the steel gray skyline, and I might simply disappear into it. I could just see my Technicolor scarf fading into the test pattern on and old black and white TV and then, not only would everything feel drab and lifeless, it would be. Like waking up in Pleasantville. Only, no amount of bubble gum chewing or heavy petting could restore things. Not until spring, anyway.

The grounds crew looked more like a housekeeping staff, busy vacuuming the lawns, still green under their yellow dusting of leaves. I wanted to stop them, maybe ask them to leave a bit of color. But it’s their job, and it’s November, and that would really only be postponing the inevitable.

If only hibernation were viable option. After all, I already have the necessary extra layers for warmth and sustenance. I just hate seeing the world die every winter and waiting so long for its resurrection.

whatever this madness is in me spinning like a top
on a bed of anxiety over a deep dark drop
down into nothingness
into withoutyouness

Hi,

It’s been a while.

I was thinking of you this morning as I was cleaning the house in one of my fits of OCD-related fury. I made myself late again. But you know how that goes. If I can’t make anything else right, at least the microwave will be clean.

I was missing our jokes about Advil bottles and closet doors. I’m getting better at closing the things I open, by the way. I still leave water on the bathroom sink, though. And I was missing our arguments about that. Then I stared missing the ways I never figured you out and the stories you forgot to tell me.

But mostly I was missing the way you knew all my faults and liked me anyway.

Love,

Me

It was pointed out on Friday night that Halloween is my holiday. I think that was somewhere between the photo session with me being showered in chocolate candy, and my yelling,

“Who the hell ate all the Butterfingers?”

J came along to Friday night’s festivities. Told me that I looked like Roller Girl in my costume. Have NO idea who that is. Enlighten? Halloween party of choice was small, but packed with close friends. J proceeded to get unbelievably drunk and had to sober up at my place before he could drive home. Would have been so much easier to let him crash there, but, well, the politics involved in that is simply not worth the extra effort in staying awake til 4 AM as he dried out.

Went apple picking/ frolicking on Saturday afternoon. Did much more frolicking than I did picking. In fact, only managed to pick one apple (to eat) and a handful of crab apples (to throw). The frolicking was great though, and only wish that had worn more appropriate shoes. Ah, such is fashion.