The rain had ended by the time Laine and I closed down the party at Harry's apartment. We walked out onto the shiny, wet Upper East Side street reeling with our giddy laughter, clomping in our black boots, and swimming in a variety of house red wines.

As we crossed Third Avenue at 66th Street, a bright yellow taxi gave us a friendly toot and pulled over for us, without our having to exert even the most half-hearted attempt to hail it. We climbed inside and Laine plied our driver with the Hershey's kisses and miniatures that we had stockpiled in our pockets as we were leaving the party. The tall buildings on 59th Street holding their late night vigil above Central Park as we made our way through, our warm laughter and tipsily verbose conversation with the driver, and the sleek, loud whoosh of water kicked up from the road by our gentle rolling tires all combined to engulf me in present tense.

A weekend in New York is a box of perfect snapshots. Every moment crystallizes into something tangible, a kind of immunity bubble in which you can take up residence. There is nothing ordinary, nothing quotidian about existing here, no matter how familiar the city becomes or how at home you feel inside of it. Yesterday on the subway Laine said that she had this impending, just-around-the-corner feeling about life. To me, that's New York: a burst of glittery magic around the corner of that block just ahead; a tangent of new possibilities and experiences and people to leave you richly fulfilled.

On this cold, cloudy Sunday morning, pregnant with snow, as Laine sleeps up in her tree house loft bedroom, I feel anticipation bubbling up inside of me. We're a blank canvas waiting for its first brush of genius. We're brunch and a museum. We're an afternoon city walk, a visit to the tree at Rockefeller Center, afternoon tea, and a Christmas gift exchange. We're endless wide-eyes and huge smiles and bursts of girlish laughter. We can spin out of ourselves at any moment or sink in to the reality of our bright, shining present. It's all here. It's all waiting.

Just for us.

Yesterday I saw my favorite Christmas commercial for the first time this season. It's the one where all of the red, silver, and green Hershey's kisses are ringing like bells to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." And then at the end, the last little kiss rings just a bit longer than the others and when he's finished, he wipes his little Hershey's kiss paper-insert-tag-thing across his kiss forehead and says, "Phew!" For some reason that would probably puzzle most people and definitely drive Todd completely insane, this makes me cry.

I'm weird like that. There are just certain things out there that touch me. Strange things pierce my heart with these tiny pinpricks and overwhelm me with emotion. It's not that they're all sad, but they simply touch me. Their simplicity sparks something. They make me feel innocent, naive, and in a strange way, blissful.

My emotions lately have been seismic, to be sure. On Monday, I cried as I unwrapped the old ornaments to hang on my brand new tree. Seeing the tiny little drummers and trumpet players inside their glittery red, blue, and white balls-- my favorites from childhood-- formed the familiar lump in my throat and welled tears inside of my eyes. The Rasta Santa. The little girl on her swing. The mouse sleeping in his matchbook. They all affected me in the sweetest way.

I think things are harder this holiday season. Harder because of the ease of it all. Harder because it's not worse. I've found myself turning in odd directions to look for those moments in every day that demonstrate the living, breathing beauty that surrounds us all, like Ricky Fitts's plastic bag on that windy day. And I've let myself get wrapped up in the bliss, overtaken by the emotion. Simply appreciative of the ability to appreciate such tiny treasures.

So I'll continue to cry at that commercial. And I'll smile when someone says "Bless You" while I'm on my ninth sneeze as I'm crossing Wisconsin Avenue. And I'll throw my change into tip jars and tell clerks to have a happy holiday. I'll play my old Firestone Christmas album with Steve and Eydie singing "Sleigh Ride". And I'll lay in bed under my fluffy white cloud-like comforter, stare at my Christmas tree, and thank my lucky stars.

Every single one of them.