August 2015 archive

31
Aug
2015

on not trying

categories: california, me

When I was in high school my daily uniform was a pair of blue or black Dickies with a belt, a faded thrift store t-shirt and a cardigan. I donned one stars or converse and I wore my hair in a short pixie cut.

If I decided to dress up, I wore platform shoes, a thrifted dress or skirt and a grandpa sweater. Occasionally my mom would save up or my grandmother would give her some cash and we’d go to JCPennys and splurge on new shirts. Or, we’d hit Ross for a new dress and a nice pair of shoes. I wore makeup onstage. Never off.

My friend Joanna was like a different species. She had stacks of high fashion magazines, books about how to apply makeup for different occasions and a credit card that her parents entrusted to her for whatever she deemed necessary. Her bathroom looked like a pharmacy — filled with tonics and creams, toners and foundations, a rainbow of lipsticks, eyeshadow and a garden of perfumes. I remember lifting the lids from those delicate glass bottles, each like a tiny potion, magical, mystical, enchanting. She had a weekday scent and a weekend scent, a special occasion smell and an eau de date elixir which was particularly jasmin-y.

Joanna had a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. Her parents were both doctors and they lived in a giant house at the top of a hill overlooking a gorgeous vineyard. She had a hot tub and cable television and her own car. To me, she was living like the rich and famous.

Joanna introduced me to glitter. And, to accessories. She loaned me her makeup books and gave me tubes of gels and lotions she deemed unfit for her skin type.

She had a brother and a sister, both of whom played instruments, went to college and led what could only be considered normal, healthy lives. In stark contrast to my siblings who were getting kicked out of school (if they were attending at all) deeply involved with drugs and alcohol, and either in serious (and seriously abusive relationships) or living unhealthy lives of solitude and loneliness.

Joanna’s life represented the life I could have led. If my parents were honest and driven and, you know, not polygamists.

We were both good students. Great, even. Honors classes, tons of extracurriculars, college-bound. We had focus. And drive. Something not a lot of our peers had. Joanna was determined to be rich and famous. By any means — modeling, acting, music, writing — whatever medium got her there, she didn’t care. She knew exactly what she wanted.

I, on the other hand, was fueled by the theater. I loved to sing and dance too. But, I knew I needed to be an actor when I grew up. Broadway in New York City. That was my fantasy. I knew it wouldn’t be lucrative but I didn’t care. I would be fulfilled and I would be living my dream in the big city. Where no one knew who I was and no one knew where I came from.

Life took a few turns. I zigged and zagged and ended up on a very different path. When I got into my dream college, which had been chosen for its impressive theater program, I immediately decided to put acting on hold. Academics, I decided. That’s what college is supposed to be about. I did a few productions my first year, The Vagina monologues and some modern take on Greek dramas, but mostly I studied. And read. And, attended lectures and sit-ins. I protested and I drafted petitions, I fought close to home (unionize our food service employees) and far from home (WB/WTF, anti-war, anti-Bush) I marched and made signs and attended workshops on what to do when you get arrested.

I lost acting somewhere along the way. I got more interested in change. And, then education and reform and living the change I wanted to see.

I’m still not so skilled at applying makeup. I don’t use any special creams. I don’t know a thing about moisturizers or toners (what is the point of a toner?) But, I’m very okay with that. I buy mascara from the drugstore and leave my hair almost exactly as it naturally falls. I loathe blow dryers and I just do not have the patience to put on a full face of makeup every day. I choose comfort over style and efficiency over cutesy. I like the way I look all dolled up but it’s just not sustainable for me. I think you have to really enjoy the process. And, you have to put forth the energy required. I just don’t have it in me. And, something tells me that if it’s not there at 34, it probably ain’t ever showing up.

27
Aug
2015

poor choices and the friends with whom you make them // present

categories: brooklyn, california

Age and experience certainly change your perspective on yourself and on the world. But, mistakes continue to be made well into adulthood. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever stop making them. The good thing is that those big, scary mistakes are all behind me (I hope) and the little ones are really not such a big deal. I can recover from an ill-informed decision every now and again. A silly purchase, a non-refundable fee, a bad movie, a terrible meal, a baking project gone terribly wrong, a pair of shoes I swear fit perfectly in the store. These are bummers in the moment but not life-altering moments in time. Not the kind of decisions you look back on and think, That was a crossroad. And, I chose to go one way instead of the other.

A size-too-small pair of heels will not make or break me.

My language around choice has shifted. My comprehension of consequence has comfortably settled into a spacious, well-lit corner of my mind. My actions have equal and opposite reactions. I realize this. I live with this knowledge. I find myself making a decision and thinking, yes, I am comfortable with the possible outcomes. They are not all great but, I can live with any one of them.

I just read this Op-Ed by David Brooks about making life-altering choices and he had this to say, “When faced with a transformational choice the weakest question may be, What do I desire? Our desires change all the time. The strongest question may be: Which path will make me a better person?”

I am not someone who shies away from change. I’m not afraid of my life being different from what it is now, I’m not afraid of switching up my daily routine. It doesn’t fill me with fear to consider changing jobs. I’m not afraid to move, or make new friends. I don’t love moving but I’m never sad to do it. I don’t mourn places, I don’t mourn stuff. I’m really good at getting rid of clutter and not getting overly attached to tangible objects. I don’t tend to be overly nostalgic or sensitive. I have been known to be a bit of an, “out of sight, out of mind” kind of a gal. I don’t list these qualities as positive or negative attributes. They are just an honest assessment of who I am in this world.

My husband and I are both from California. Most of our family is out there. Quite a few of our friends are there too. We love the weather and the geographical diversity California has to offer. We miss the produce and the access to nature. We miss a lot of things. But, we also love New York. We love the easy access to amenities, the incredible public transportation, the food, the architecture, the anonymity, the never-ending list of things to see and do and hear and eat.

But, since having the baby…you know where this is going…it’s been very difficult to justify this lifestyle. We aren’t going out every weekend, or taking advantage of all that this great city has to offer. We hardly ever eat out, we never go to bars, we might go to a museum once every few months when there’s an exhibit we can’t miss. We work all the time, our rent is outrageous and we have no outdoor space, which feels really crummy for someone who loved being outdoors as a kid.

We’ve always talked about going back to California. It’s always been a conversation but it wasn’t a serious one until I got pregnant. Let’s see how it goes, we decided when we found out I was pregnant. We’ll see if we can’t make New York work for us with a baby, we’d agreed. Well, we’re two years into the experiment and it is both an incredible place for child-rearing and a horrendously, awful one. On the one hand, you have access to incredible stuff, a lot of which is free or cheap. On the other hand, childcare is SO expensive and schlepping your kid and a stroller and the bazillion things you need as a parent, is exhausting, to say the least.

So, this leads me to the question of what to do. Do we stay? Do we go? And, it brings me back to this Brooks article and the query of what will make me a better person. What will make my daughter a better person? Diversity and culture, access and education? Or, family, nature, clean air, and a slower pace of living? I honestly don’t know the answer but it plagues me daily. Am I a better mother with familial support, a house and a backyard to run around in? Or, am I a more contented person living in a city where I can have a fulfilling career and lead a life brimming with excitement?

It’s a crossroads, for sure. And, whatever decision we make, I hope to not look back on it with any regret. We will bide our time and determine what is right for our family, with the knowledge, also, that nothing is permanent. A step in one direction does not have to determine the rest of our lives. And, mistakes are inevitable. Desires change, realities shift. For now, we live in Brooklyn and are pretty darn happy in our day-to-day lives. Although, I must admit, that California sun will be looking pretty enticing once winter rears its ugly head.

26
Aug
2015

snack shack

categories: california, commune

When we were kids we used to go to this awful, polluted lake. Of course, we didn’t realize how polluted it was at the time. But, we probably should have. It was a man-made lagoon inside a gated community. I don’t really understand how or why my family decided that this was the best place to go (or how we managed entry every weekend??). I suspect we went because it was the closest place to go. Never mind the fact that we were just a few miles away from one of the most beautiful rivers in California. Three forks of stunning views, giant, hot rocks, fishing, canoeing and general good times. Unlike the piss-warm water we swam in, the river produced nice cool, snow-melt from Tahoe’s Sierra Nevada’s. The river was filled with minnow, trout and suckers, all harmless and skittish. Contrasting the lake’s giant catfish who had zero fear of humans and would frequently nibble your toes as you swam.

Despite all of this, as a kid I thought it was the greatest place. Sandy beaches, a floating dock, a playground, boats…and the snack shack. Now, growing up we weren’t allowed to eat sweets. No soda, no candy, no chips, no processed foods of any sort. The problem with this kind of avoidance is that it creates what all abstinence-only programs create. Immense desire.

I would save up pennies, nickels and dimes — change from couch cushions, payphones, sidewalks and store floors — to get those small, individually packaged, plastic-wrapped jolly ranchers. Watermelon, sour apple, cherry, they were all exotic and bursting with flavor. The intense sugary sensation stinging my throat and bringing tears to my eyes. They were five cents a pop and I would buy as many as I could. The only problem was that they all had to be consumed almost immediately and, obviously, I had no intention of sharing. If not eaten by day’s end they would melt in the hot sun, or worse (because a melted candy is still edible) they would get sand in their plastic creases and become too gross, even for a junky.

On occasion, we would be treated to a meal at the snack shack. If money wasn’t too tight and we’d all been perfectly behaved that day. Chicken fingers, french fries, stale chips with oozing, orange cheese-product. We felt just like the other kids. Eating their hot dogs and listening to the top 40 over distorted speakers, sitting at the picnic table, talking about their favorite t.v. shows and who’s pool party was the best. We felt like we were part of some larger human experience, the childhood we might have had. Hell, we felt American.

25
Aug
2015

on grief

categories: commune, family

The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.

22
Aug
2015

i’ve never heard my father’s voice on the telephone

categories: me, new york

“That’s a poem. Right there. What a strange thing,” my poetry professor said, breathing heavily, leaned forward in his gray, ikea swivel chair. We sat in his windowless office, each of us sucking in the same stale air. Beads of sweat ran down his balding temples as he wrung his hands, wiping them on his slacks every few minutes. It was the beginning of September but it was still hot. Swelteringly hot. And humid. Cicadas still whistled outside, the grass was limp with heat and I swear there were some confused fireflies still flitting about in the early evenings. Fall had not yet fallen in New York.

Why haven’t I taken a writing class? I wondered as I flipped through the course offerings the summer before my senior year. “You should really think about seeing one of our writing tutors,” my Environmental Studies professor had said after reading my first paper. I ignored his recommendation but continued to double or triple-load my coursework for the next three years. I agonized over which classes to take. I read and reread course descriptions, desperately trying to figure out which classes would be best suited to my particular interests at the time (environmentalism, social justice, policies and politics, latin american studies).

The start of my senior year of college hadn’t been easy. Summer had ended with the realization that my on-again, off-again boyfriend was a covert heroin addict. By mid-year my mother was actively dying from early-onset Alzheimers and I had undergone unsuccessful back surgery which left me in more rather than less pain. So, an easy course load, I decided, was the only way to get through the year. Poetry, photography and one more sociology course for good measure. One entitled, Protest & Art: How art has birthed movements and movements have birthed art. Or something to that effect. In my four years I had established myself as the social sciences darling. My professor had even asked me to sit in on the interviews and help him pare down the admittance list. But, this would be the year to take an art class, finally. And, a writing one too.

I spent my first few weeks of classes lying on the ground, having received approval from the office of Students with Disabilities. I hobbled in, explaining that lying prostrate on the floor was the only way that I could cope with the pain. I hadn’t responded well to the pain meds and was hesitant to pop pills anyhow. I’ve never been much of a medication person. I blame it on my hippie upbringing. A sacred physical vessel and all that.

“How is that possible?” Jeff asked, puzzled. “You have a relationship with him, right? By that I mean, he is in your life. You speak to him. You visit him when you’re back in California, yes?” he paused. “So, how do you make plans? Do you email him?”

“No,” I explained. “He doesn’t do anything directly.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. His interest piqued. I could see him floating ideas for his own poem. My strange upbringing and experience perfect fodder for his dark, human-experience poetry. “So…what would happen if you were to call and ask for him?”

“Well, I suppose that if he were available…and wanted to talk to me…that he would speak through one of the women.”

“Speak through them?! Like, a medium? Speak through them metaphysically?”

“No, no. Speak through them, literally,” I said, regretting having mentioned it at all. “No one would go and get him. But, if he happened to be in the main house when I called and felt inclined — for whatever reason — to say hello, then it would go something like this:

‘Say hi to dad for me.’

‘She says hello.’ the woman would say aloud to my dad who would be sitting down for lunch.

‘School’s going well. I’m really enjoying my poetry class,’ I might say.

‘She says she’s liking her poetry class,’ she would relay. Then she would either hold the phone up near my father so I could hear his response — provided he had one — or he would reply and she would paraphrase his words back to me. This would go on until our (very short) conversation came to a lull. At which point I would lie and say that I had to go and they would know that I was lying but be more than happy to oblige. And, I would say goodbye and they would yell ‘goodbye’ and that would be that,” I explained.

“Hmm,” Jeff squinted as he caressed his stubbly chin. His brow furrowed, hunched forward, dripping with perspiration.

“Yep. That’s what I meant when I said I’d never heard his voice on the phone. I don’t know, it’s just one of those weird quirky things, I guess. Not a big deal. I’m not sure how that gets worked into a poem. But, then again, what do I know about writing,” I admitted, biting the inside of my cheek and tasting the sweet metallic flavor of blood.

“Fascinating,” he continued. “Just fascinating. Do you have other stories like that? Other, as you say, ‘quirky’ tales from your childhood?”

“Um…I don’t know. Probably. Honestly, it didn’t really occur to me that it was weird until I said it out loud and you told me how strange that was.”

“Right. Right. Well, keep digging. Think back to a specific time in your life. Remember a smell. Or, a sensation. One word someone said. Poetry can come from anywhere. Read tomorrow’s headlines. Start there if you can’t come up with something from your own life. There’s always an interesting story. A beautiful headline. I want five poems by next week. Let’s pick back up in our conference next Wednesday.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said with a half-smile and backed out of his door, winding my way through the dim corridor and out into the orange September sun.

20
Aug
2015

bad choices and the friends you make them with // past

categories: california, me

It was just before midnight. We were all hanging out in the parking lot of our high school theater after a Saturday night show. We were riding high, feeling like superstars. We’d had a great review in the local paper and a packed house since opening night. We were still in our stage makeup — white faces and red-orange lips. I was wearing tight capris, a white muscle tank and black converse. My uniform of the month. Partially inspired by my character, Rizzo, who was a badass and, I thought, a true feminist.

A few of the local musicians who’d been performing in our live orchestra were hanging out. They were older and cooler and capable of legally purchasing alcohol. We drank forties crouched behind the concrete steps, ducking behind the large, round pillars when security circled around, shining their patrol lights in our direction.

I was adventurous. Some may say, wild. But, I was always safe. Well, mostly safe. I never drove drunk. I never drove with someone who had been drinking. I always had a party-buddy and we watched out for each other. If she passed out, I was in charge of getting her home safely and vice versa. We also had a designated driver, non-participant-partier, who was so damn sweet and such a good friend. And, also a Mormon. Which meant that he never drank and never did drugs and was always available to drive us home or hold our hair while we puked or carry us in his well-tanned, muscular arms after we decided to roll down a rocky hill. An idea that seemed really amusing before the scrapes and bruises set in.

“Your turn!” one of the guys shouted in my direction. It looked fun. It seemed pretty stupid, I knew that even then. But, the guys made it look so easy. “You just jump out and start running,” they’d explained. Like it was as simple as pulling on a pair of socks. Jump out of a fast-moving car and you will be fine. Sure.

“Okay, go!” I screamed. The green door of Sid’s Volvo was wide open, the toes of my chucks peering from the sticky, carpeted floor onto the dark pavement. As the car sped up, I started to reconsider my choice. This is crazy, I thought. I can’t do this. But before I could lose my nerve — or my standing as the toughest chick they knew — I jumped. At first it seemed fine. I was pummeling through the air fast — faster than I’d ever run on my own — but my legs were moving. My feet were hitting the asphalt so hard I could feel the muscles in my thighs constricitng and my knees were already aching. But, I was so busy screaming and smiling and flailing my arms and keeping up with my feet that I didn’t see the curb. That little six-inch block of concrete. That unassuming, completely inconspicuous piece of scenery. It had never seemed like a threat before. But to a human running faster than her body is capable, hurtling at the speed of an automotive, it was enough to stop me in my tracks. Well, no, actually, it was enough to send me flying through the air, in a high arc, which ended with my right knee on the sidewalk. All of my weight, all of that inertia. Knee, meet concrete. Concrete, meet and destroy knee.

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” I shouted, forcing back the ocean of tears stinging behind my eyes, hoping that my tight capris would contain my already swelling knee. “Haha, it’s all good,” I lied. “That was hella crazy. I’m gonna go get a drink of water,” I said, limping toward the fountain on the other side of the theater lot.

“Are you okay?” Josh asked, running up behind me.

“I’m fine. Jesus! Leave me alone! What the fuck?!” I screamed at him, embarrassed that he’d noticed I was hurt. I had hoped to limp off into the dark, get some water, assess the damage, maybe cry a little and then return to the group and pretend that I was fine.

“Hey! Not cool. Don’t yell at me just because I’m the only one who actually came to see if you were okay. You’re obviously hurt,” he said. He was right. I knew it was bad. My knee was already the size of a softball and I couldn’t straighten my leg beyond a ninety-degree angle. He reached his arm under me and helped me to the drinking fountain. I took a long swig and smiled up at him.

“Thanks,” I offered. “You’re right. Thanks for being the only one who gives a shit.”

“Sure. Are you okay? Seriously?”

“I’ll be fine. Can you bring your car around. I think I need to get some ice on this. Will your mom be cool with me coming over again tonight?” I asked, skeptical he’d say yes. I’d been sleeping at his place almost every night for two months.

“Of course. You know she loves you. God, she loves you more than me, I think,” He replied. He must have told his mom what’s going on at my house, I thought. Or maybe she’s just super chill. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. They had central air in the summer and heated floors in the winter. They had a huge house with clean, waxed wooden floors and a hot tub and a giant kitchen that was always stocked with food. It was heavenly.

“Cool. You’re the best,” I sniffled as he guided me to the grass. “I’ll wait for you here.”

 

19
Aug
2015

seven things i love about my husband

categories: family, me

1. He is the most honest human on the planet. Almost to a fault (not like, ugh, I wish he was a liar but, maybe a teeny white lie wouldn’t hurt…?). He is good and he is ethical (maybe it’s a journalist thing?) and he will always adhere to his moral compass. Even when it is so very tempting to be bad.

2. He is hilarious. And witty. It’s not immediately obvious because he is so well-mannered but he is a total goofball and the most fun person I have ever known.

3. He is up for anything. He is adventurous but practical, which is the best of both worlds because it means he dreams big and plans accordingly. I don’t think I have booked my own flight in ten years. If we get divorced I will be seriously lacking in holiday-planning skills. I will live out my days as a couch potato.

4. He is scary smart. Like, so intelligent that sometimes I get a tiny bit self-conscious about my vocabulary (or lack thereof) and the way I stumble through sentences and forget words or just lose track of what I’m actually trying to say. But, then he tells me that I’m brilliant and I know he really believes it because he is ALWAYS honest, even when you don’t want him to be, and so I feel better.

5.  He is really good at making the people around him feel loved. He tells me every day how much he loves and appreciates me. He calls out all the things I do and doesn’t ever take me for granted.

6. He lets me be me. He loves my idiosyncrasies and never makes me feel bad about the parts of my personality that I see as faults or flaws. He finds it adorable that I don’t know common American phrases. When I say things like, “Happy as a crab,” he cackles. Then listens when I defend my position because, really, crabs DO seem much happier than clams.

7. I love watching him with our daughter because I know that she has the best father in the whole entire world (kind, patient, hard-working, intelligent, hilarious, creative) and I am so grateful that he is the person I chose to create a human with. We are so lucky, she and I.

 

17
Aug
2015

the napping house

categories: brooklyn, family, parenting

You’ve all heard parents talk about that magical time during their day where they get a ton of stuff done, right? You know, they answer emails and cook meals. They do laundry and call friends. Doze by the television…

That magical hour (or two or three! if you’re lucky) is called the daily (or twice/thrice daily) nap.

I have never experienced this nap.

Maybe once or twice. But fewer times than I can count on one hand.

My baby has always napped on me. Only napped on me. On the boob, in my arms, in the carrier. She won’t nap in her crib, won’t nap in the stroller, not even the car. Don’t get me started on the car. She’s a puke machine in the car. It’s a good thing we’re hardly ever in one.

I am not one of those parents who keeps her baby ON her at all times. I co-slept until she was about four months old, she slept in a crib next to me until six months old and then we sleep trained her into her own crib at seven months. That’s another story. A traumatic one.

She has just never been a good sleeper. She is practically perfect in every other way (no bias here) but the sleep thing has never come easily to her. Which means we have been sleep deprived for two years.

There is no explaining the reality of sleep deprivation. There is no way to truly understand it without experiencing it. It makes total sense that it would be used as a torture device. It’s super effective at making you feel completely insane. Loopy, confused, heavy. You start seeing things crawling across the floor and realize there’s nothing there. You’re dizzy and drowsy, you get tunnel vision every time you stand up too fast. If you’re like my husband, you faint on the subway platform and get hauled out by EMT’s and labeled officially “exhausted.”

Since she’s been in daycare she has had almost no trouble at all with naps. While there, just to clarify. While on-site with them. Occasionally she skips those too but more often than not she will nap just fine at daycare and then not at all on the weekends. It’s horrible. It’s stressful and it’s just not fun. You end up planning your entire day around this thing that will likely not even happen. But, you have to try anyways. Because, otherwise, it means a cranky kid who then has to go to bed extra early which throws all your weekend plans into the gutter.

I have spent entire days trying to get this kid to nap. I wish I was kidding.

Well-meaning parents would give us their best advice. Use a sound machine and blackout curtain, let her cry for a few minutes, run her around right before nap time, don’t nurse her beforehand, nurse her a ton beforehand, play music, go outside, put her in the carrier, put her in the swing, swaddle her, let her appendages be free. There was no shortage of miracle nap cures. But, nothing worked for us.

This past weekend she napped on Saturday but not until 3:00. Which meant a super late bedtime since her typical daycare nap is 12:30. It also meant hours and hours of trying before success. Sunday we had no nap. Not for lack of trying but, my husband and I have decided that we will no longer waste half of the day trying to get her to take a nap she’s refusing to take.

So, we try not to let the nap run the house. The nap will happen or it won’t but either way we’ll make our plans and we’ll live our lives. Thank gods the nighttime sleeping is going well. We’ve had to do a lot of re-sleep training but mostly it has been quite a success (minus a few unavoidable detours and speed bumps).

All I can say, is that I cannot wait to be done with the nap thing entirely. And for those of you who have kids who nap. You probably have no idea how good your life is. Appreciate it. For you are truly blessed.

 

13
Aug
2015

relationships // present

categories: me, new york

You’d think I would have learned my lesson about matchmaking. I’ve had a few epic fails that should have forever discouraged my efforts.

Perhaps I persevered because I assumed it only applied to romantic endeavors. Well, as it turns out, it is just relationships in general. Just, matching humans with other humans that I am bad at.

This past weekend I attempted to link two of my favorite couple friends. I thought, we love these people. Why wouldn’t they love each other? We all have kids about the same age, we’re all fairly liberal-leaning, we’re raising our kids in similar manners, we are somewhat similar in income levels, no one is too snobby but we’re all a bit snobby in just the right ways 😉 Everyone is in a committed relationship that works for them. Perfect, no?

I pictured renting a house by the lake in the Adirondacks every fall, a winter cabin in the Catskills where our kids would build snow people and drink hot cocoa. We’d all take turns going out on date nights, we’d drink wine and make elaborate, decadent meals. We’d be the dynamic six! Raising kids, working hard and still making friends in our thirties!

Well, best laid plans.

Perfect, dream world, fantasy stuff. That’s what that was.

Turns out my super-awesome friends who I adore and want to share do not so much adore one another. How this could be true, I do not know. They are all — all of them(!) — wonderful people. Like, friends forever folks. But, then again, my two best girlfriends are friends (in air quotes) who, I am quite sure would cease to even attempt to maintain the illusion of friendship if I were taken out of the equation.

Why is that Sex and the City foursome so incredibly difficult to actualize. Who are these people who like each other all exactly the same amount? Four besties. Who has that? I have all these wonderful friends but I get them in a room and my teacher friends don’t know what to say to my college friends and my musician friends have no clue how to interact with my mommy friends and then add my husbands friends (who have now become my friends) into the mix and it’s just a shit show of awkward exchanges and crappy small talk.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m guilty of it too. I go to my husband’s friends’ weddings and I have no clue what to say to people. I use my daughter as an excuse to get out of any conversation that isn’t going well. “Oh, darn. She’s gotta go potty. Talk later…” or “She’s getting so tired, I’ve really gotta get going. Great to meet you…” I mean, it’s bad. Who am I? What have I become? I used to pride myself on this social crap. I was the queen of banter. The master bullshitter. I could hang with anyone. Rich, poor, liberal, conservative, old, young. I was the puppet master. Now I use the cheap, I’m sorry, my mouth is filled with hors d’ oeuvres so I can’t talk to you, excuse. Or the, I see you coming for me so I’m going to duck into the other room to grab my phone which is probably, no, definitely ringing. Silently. But, I am expecting a call. So, I’ve definitely got to grab this, trick. The eye aversion, what a delightful chandelier. The, I see someone I actually know beeline. The, excuse me I need to ______ (use the bathroom/get a drink/find my husband) line.

I have no idea what happened. It’s not for lack of confidence or a lack of topics to discuss. It’s not because I don’t find the people interesting or because I think I’m better than anyone. It’s just pure laziness, I think. Really. Honestly. It’s the, I am so fucking tired and the last thing I want to do is chit chat, reality of adulthood and parenthood.

And, so maybe this is the problem with my couple friends. It’s not a wedding reception but it’s kind of the same idea. I already have friends. I’m already stretched too thin between my job and my kids and the few friends I do have so why would I make time or put forth any effort to extend my circle to include people who’s company I may (or, more likely may not) even enjoy? I get it. It’s a bummer. But, I get it. I feel the same way. I just have selfish motivation for creating these bonds. All I want is a damn cabin in the woods and a few friends who get along to split the cost. Is that really too much to ask? Sheesh.

13
Aug
2015

relationships // past

categories: me, new york

I am no Yente. Or, maybe I am. Wasn’t she terrible at her job? I can’t quite remember. The point is, I am not good at matching people. In fact, I suck at it.

In college I tried to set up two friends of mine. They liked the same bands and were about the same level of hotness. They were both fashion-conscious but not fashion-obsessed. Both pianists, born one month apart. They each spoke two languages and had mixed-race parents. From my perspective they seemed like the perfect fit. How could they not like each other? And, of course, they had me in common. They both liked me, it should follow that they would like each other.

In retrospect, perhaps it’s that they were too similar. Or, perhaps it’s that there is so much more to falling in love than having things in common.

Whatever the reason, it was a complete disaster.

“What could EVER have made you think I would like him?” Ari asked me the next day.

“What do you mean? He’s not hot enough?” I asked.

“No, that’s not it. He’s cute,” Ari offered.

“He’s really smart. He just moved here from California. Maybe he just spoke more slowly than you’re used to.”

“No. No, he’s definitely an intelligent guy.”

“Was he a dick? I don’t see Colin being a dick. Were you a dick? Shit, Ari. Please don’t tell me you were mean. Were you mean?”

“I wasn’t mean. But, I don’t think there’s any question as to how I felt..”

“You were mean. Did you crush him? I’ll kill you if you crushed him. I don’t understand. What was the problem?”

Apparently, it was the opposite of love at first sight. Yuck at first sight, maybe? In another world, had they met in a music class or at a show it might have been different. Maybe they’d have talked and discovered how much they had in common. Maybe they’d have been friends. Not lovers, for sure. Clearly there was no attraction. But, friends perhaps. As it was, I had to make promises to both of them that they would never end up in the same room together. I don’t think they even wanted to be in the same borough.

For reasons I still don’t understand — despite the fact that it was clear from the get-go that there was absolutely no connection — they felt compelled to go through with the entire evening. From start to finish. Which would have been no big deal if it was a movie — which can be enjoyed in silence — and dinner, where you can spend most of the night with your mouth crammed full of food. Alas, it was not. It was a complicated, perfect gay New York evening which had been planned down to the last detail and lasted from eight o’ clock to midnight. Four hours of socializing with someone with whom you felt no inclination to date or even to get to know. Drinks at some dive-y, dingy bar in the east village. Cock? Something phallic-sounding with naked bartenders. Then dancing at Barracuda in Chelsea and on to a performance art “gallery” and a late-night meal at some pop-up bar/restaurant/club in the meatpacking district. It was all way too cool sounding, even for me (a punky, artsy, barely-twentysomething).

Maybe it was too cool for Colin too. When I really thought about it, Ari was edgy. Colin was quiet. Ari liked to dance. Colin liked to watch dance performances. Ari hardly ate whereas Colin loved a four-course meal at an expensive restaurant. Ari made moody, piano music and Colin was happy listening to Sondheim.

What was I thinking? Of course they were a terrible pairing. They seemed so good on paper but when you broke down the nuances of their interests, looked a bit more closely at the details, you would see that in actuality, they had little in common. And, their “perfect” date night probably could not have been more different. I’m guessing Colin wanted to run scared at the sight of the bartender in his skivvies at their first stop in the village. I imagine it was all downhill from there. Awkward dancing where Ari probably flirted with everyone but him. Some strange performance art in which a woman screams at you whilst sitting atop a pedestal, a crap “meal” in some pop-up that was probably located in a shipping container off the West Side Highway or a giant warehouse on a cobble-stoned street in the meatpacking — which still reeked of actual rotting flesh back in those days. Colin probably thought he was being taken somewhere to be murdered. Those neighborhoods looked pretty different in 2003. Not scary but after dark “sketchy” wouldn’t be too far off base. And, especially to someone new to New York.

I think Ari intended for the night (if it was going well) to stretch into the wee morning hours. The really interesting spots weren’t even getting started until well after midnight. Thankfully, he’d held back on those details and left Colin to fend for himself around 11:45. Colin hailed a cab and made his way back to his friends apartment off union square. He called me two days later, confused and slightly traumatized.

“Ari was a bit…intense,” he said. Code for crazy. “He certainly likes to party,” he continued. Code for, he’s way too hardcore for me and also, he cuh-razy! I forget that people are one way in their friendships and another way in their romantic endeavors.

“I’m so sorry,” I groaned. “I heard a bit about it from Ari.”

“Yeah. Shit. I can’t really imagine how it all looked from his side,” Colin confessed, feeling embarrassed and low.

“Oh my god, it’s not you. It’s one hundred percent my fault. You two were not right for each other. You are sweet and thoughtful and you don’t have to enjoy cock in your drink to enjoy cock in your…well, you know what I mean. Listen, you deserve someone who will give you a night you’ll enjoy. Theater, dinner at an actual restaurant with signage and like, chairs and stuff. Ari’s pretty wild. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m really sorry.” I felt so crummy. Colin felt rejected and Ari was pissed at me for wasting one of his Friday nights so that he could “babysit my friend.” It was an all-around disaster.

Never again, I swore. I will never try to set any of my friends up again.

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