August 2015 archive

11
Aug
2015

rainy days

categories: california, me, new york, teaching

I love them. So many people talk about how depressed they get when it rains. But, it just makes me feel content. Quiet, introverted. I want to curl up next to a crackling fireplace and read a book. A real book. With paper pages. Of course, on the East Coast you get rainy days even when it’s warm. Which is very different from how weather works on the West Coast. In California if it’s raining, it’s cold. There is no such thing as a warm, summer deluge. If it’s raining in the summer, El Nino is nigh.

Now, if you’re living in Portland and dealing with rain for 60% of the year I get being bummed seeing yet another gray day. But, I think growing up in a very dry place — where rain is celebrated and welcomed — really set the tone for my relationship with precipitation.

I’m not sure there is a better smell than rain. The scent that emanates from wet pavement after the first shower, it’s indescribable. The way arid, dusty soil soaks up the water, the honeyed steam, like a cloud of sweet smoke rising from the ground. The way the grass intensifies in color and in fragrance. The trees take on that earthy, mustiness. City or country, it’s magnificent.

I love going to the coast on gray days. Perhaps because most days on the Pacific Ocean are gray. We’re the only ones camping on Fire Island in October. Which is great for us. My ideal walk on the beach includes fog in the distance, rich, thick clouds over head and the smidgen of moisture in the air. A hot, sunny walk? Ugh, no thank you. I’m not really a lay-sprawled-on-a-towel to tan kind of gal, I guess. I mean, I think the cluster of freckles and a little bronzing of my face helps to conceal the dark under-eye areas — and the mess of wrinkles I’ve accumulated over the years — but mostly, I am not a tanner or a swimmer. I’m an appreciater. That’s a word, I swear.

I love teaching on rainy days. The kids come in soaked and jittery. We spend a little more time doing independent reading and a little more time on art projects those days. I play music and turn off the lights. We sit silently at the window to listen to the pitter-patter or more likely, the downpour outside. I giggle and make silly faces, I dance and sing and take it upon myself to be the sunshine. They moan and groan about not getting to go outside but then get really excited when they tell me about the movie they’re going to watch with their families when they get home. They sulk over being wet but then I watch them refuse the umbrella their adult has brought and jump into the nearest puddle, splashing and screaming, stomping their muddied boots, heads upward, catching water droplets in their mouths, palms open, stretched skyward, happy.

I think, even if it’s just secretly, everyone actually loves the rain. Or, at least, that’s what I’d like to believe.

10
Aug
2015

missed connections

categories: me, new york

Remember when those ads were a thing? Before twitter or really, any social media? Friendster was pretty big amongst my friends. But, Facebook was still just for Harvard kids. I knew people who loved to read those ads for entertainment. Some of them were really sweet. Some were raunchy. Others were sad and desperate. Most of them seemed pretty innocent — but I’m sure that was my naive early twenties talking.

Anyhow, the morning after my first sleepover at my boyfriend’s teeny, tiny apartment on the Lower East Side, I met up with two of my girlfriends to discuss the sex over coffee at Kate’s. Was it good? What positions did you try? How drunk were you? You know, the normal girl-talk, post-coitus convo. So, we’re blabbing loudly. And, laughing and drinking copious amounts of coffee. And this handsome, rotund, bearded (before beards were cool) dude sitting at the table next to us tries to strike up a conversation. We sort of humor him and talk for a few minutes. Turns out we’re both from Northern California and that we both listen to Neurosis. We’re both musicians and thinking about starting bands. It’s casual, innocent, and short-lived.

The next day, I’m back at my boyfriends apartment and we’re trying to figure out where to go for breakfast. He suggests we head over to Kate’s on Avenue B. I say, sure but I’ve just been there. And, I start telling him about breakfast with my girls. The great food, the strong coffee and the the two dudes sitting next to us. “Wait, what?” he asks. For a moment I think he’s pissed. But, he’s definitely not the possessive type. Is he stoked? Maybe he’s seeing me as desirable to other men and that’s exciting?

“We talked for like five seconds. It was nothing,” I say.

“Hang on,” my boyfriend says picking up his laptop. “Holy shit.” He says a few minutes after opening his computer and typing in something. “I knew it!”

“What?” I ask innocently.

“You’re a missed connection. Ha! I knew it. You had to be.”

“No way,” I say in disbelief. “That can’t be. I was having breakfast with Rach and Laney and literally talking about…”I pause to think about how best to phrase it, “you.”

“Hmm.”

“We were talking about you. How much I like you and stuff. He must have overheard a lot of it. Our conversation seemed totally innocent. He’d just moved to the city and was just trying to make friends…”

“Right,” my boyfriend snorts. He’s not jealous. Just amused. He’s enjoying this and I am too. I’m thinking this looks pretty good to a new boyfriend — you’ve got me but other people want me, so don’t you forget it. “You were wearing a faded, black pixies t-shirt and had a sexy septum piercing,” he reads. “You hailed from Northern California, have impeccable musical taste and a laugh that lights up the room. I wanted to ask you for your number but I’m pretty sure you weren’t interested…” he pauses to look up at me, eyebrows raised. “If you are, give me a call,” he continues.

“Damn. You vixen you,” my boyfriend says half mockingly, with lust-filled eyes. “You don’t have conversations like that without a guy wanting more. You don’t let the perfect girl slip away,” he says with a crooked smile as he pulls me in close to him. His warm breath against my cheek, his hand gently sliding up my back. He leans down and I am tingling, almost buckling at the knees as his lips get closer. “I mean, I think you should probably call him,” he quips and gently pushes me back with a huge grin.

“Dick,” I say. “Maybe I will. We’ve certainly got a lot in common. There’s..” But before I can finish the sentence he’s grabbed me and wrapped me in his long, lean arms, and pressed his soft lips into mine. He smells like soap. And pine. Of musty, salty sweat. And, I know we will never think of this bearded, missed-connection-guy again.

And, we will not be making it to the diner for breakfast either.

 

07
Aug
2015

social expectations // past & present

categories: me, new york, teaching

I’m out in East Hampton teaching for two weeks. It’s a strange place. I haven’t spent a lot of time in communities like this. Seasonal. Divided. It must be very odd to be a full-time resident here. This insane influx of people and of money for three months out of the year. And then they’re gone. The shops close, the restaurants die down, the traffic (thankfully) subsides.

I went to Montauk once for spring break with a few of my college girlfriends. It was March in New York so, off-season. It was great. Gorgeous beaches that we enjoyed on overcast days in our hoodies. The ground was still covered in a light dusting of snow and there was only one open bar. The Point. I will never forget the morning after our shot-drinking, pool-playing night there. A dark blue Toyota truck rolled by us as we sauntered through the diner parking lot the next morning. “You girls were the hottest thing at The Point last night,” some mustachioed blonde said with what sounded like a southern twang. That was it. No hooting or hollering at us. No whistles or unwanted leering. Just a simple pronouncement and off they went.

The summer school crowd is made up of those who need remedial work in math or reading, students with special needs and English language learners. It’s a pretty wonderful group of kids.

Sitting inside, in an over-air conditioned classroom and looking out at the sunshine is pretty difficult. At lunch, we sit outside on the grass and play tag and hide-and-go-seek. We stare at the sky and pick up stray dandelions. We inspect nearby trees and wipe the oozing sap from craggy bark.

As I sat on our little peach blanket (which we started using at lunch because Kai was so genuinely terrified of bugs she couldn’t even set foot outside without screaming — a city girl if ever there was one) discussing for the third day in a row why a cereal bar is called a cereal bar despite bearing no resemblance to the breakfast food, I felt content. And, at ease. A feeling I rarely experience in the city. A sense of calm that is unattainable in a place like New York.

“Are you having a picnic?” a voice said from above us. It was a small, plump girl who looked to be about eight or nine years old. She had her long, brown hair pulled back into two low-hanging pigtails. She wore an ill-fitting pink, ruffled skirt and a too-tight white polo.

“Hello,” I said as I squinted into the sun to see her.

“Are you having a picnic?” she repeated.

“Carmina, you could say, ‘Hello. How are you?’ and then introduce yourself to them,” said her teacher coming up behind her.

“Hello. How are you? I’m Carmina,”

“Hi Carmina…”

“Are you having a picnic?!” she interrupted before I could introduce myself.

“Sort of. We’re all eating our lunch on this blanket in the grass. So, yeah. That’s pretty much a picnic,” I answered.

“You can ask, ‘Is it alright if I join you?'” her teacher prompted.

“Oh. Can I join you?” Carmina said as she plopped down on the blanket next to Kai.

“Sure. Please do,” I said with a smile. “Would you like some grapes? We’ve got plenty.”

“Yes,” she responded as her hand grabbed for a handful of green grapes which she quickly shoved into her mouth with a wide grin. “Mmmm.”

“Carmina, what grade are you going into next year?” I inquired.

“Um. I don’t know.”

“Fourth grade,” her teacher answered. “Carmina, you’re going into the fourth grade. Remember?”

“Oh yeah, fourth grade,” Carmina replied.

“Carmina, can you say ‘thank you’ for all the grapes? I’m sorry, is this okay? Is it okay that we’re crashing?” her teacher asked nervously.

“Of course!” I offered. “It’s wonderful to meet new people and make new friends.”

“Carmina, you could ask Kai what grade she’s going into next year. Or, what she’s doing this summer,” her teacher suggested.

Carmina obliged. She asked Kai a few questions. I asked Carmina a few about herself. Some of which she was able to answer, some of which confused her. We chatted while sitting in the warm sun, on the soft blanket protecting us from unwanted insect encounters and ate grapes.

It reminded me of so many encounters I’d had with my mom. She would approach groups of people and attempt to join their parties, sit at their tables, interject in their conversations. She had always been a social butterfly. Her habits were guiding her but her mind could not keep up. She would walk into these social situations and I would hold my breath. Never knowing what to expect. Would people see right away that she was a child? Would they be frustrated by her confused and confusing behaviors? Would they scoff? Would they say cruel things to her, or to me?

Mostly, people were absolutely lovely. Bringing me to tears with their empathy and compassion. Other times, I would end up running after my very perturbed and hurt mother because they hadn’t understood (or cared) that she was not functioning on an adult level.

I love working with children with special needs. I love working with older folks. I love babies and kids in general. It’s all the people in between who I find to be the most difficult.

05
Aug
2015

youth is wasted on the young

categories: me, new york

It’s true. Life seems so difficult and confusing when you’re a teenager. You have no idea what’s ahead. The complications, the compromises, the loss, the reality of life and work and making a living. I look back and think about how carefree and unencumbered I was in high school. Did I feel that way? Hell no. I was confused and conflicted and I was sure that life couldn’t get any harder.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a positive high school experience. You won’t hear me complaining about bullying or hardships during that time (middle school was a different story.) Those were my years of total freedom. The first time I spoke honestly about who I was and where I came from. The first time I dressed and talked the way I wanted to. I made real friends — people who I liked and liked me back. I sang, I danced, I did theater, I lived at my friends houses and I took every honors class I could. It was a magical moment. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time.

I ran into my old boss today. A woman so kind and so lovely, not to mention beautiful and elegant and brilliant and…am I gushing? Well, she’s gush-able. Annabel. Even her name conjures up images of gorgeous, stylish Brits doesn’t it? No, perhaps that’s just me. Well, she is exquisite and brilliant and so much more. Anyhow, she was my first “real” boss at my first “real” job. I’d worked in restaurants and coffee shops, tutored, babysat, interned, etcetera. But, this was my first salaried position. My first job that provided health insurance. It was a big deal.

And, of course, for this reason — I had no idea how good I had it. I was full of unjustified indignation. I knew my boss was amazing. But, the job itself left much to be desired. It was an entry-level job and it was in a boutique in Soho and I didn’t care about what we were selling and I didn’t care about the rich and famous people buying it. I worked with people who were shallow and lazy and egotistical — the worst kind of colleagues. And, I felt overworked and I looked around at these idiots making commission and jerking off in between customers and just felt taken advantage of. Really, I was bored out of my mind and completely unsatisfied. As it turns out, meaningful work is pretty important to my overall happiness.

The truth is, the job was incredible. I showed up to work at 10:30. We went out to fabulous dinners at restaurants I would never have been able to set foot in otherwise. We drank fancy, overpriced cocktails in fancy, overpriced bars. Secret, exclusive bars that would have taken one look at me and escorted me out had I not been under Annabel’s opulent wing. We threw fabulous parties and ordered artisanal coffee every morning. I had it good.

So, what did I do? I complained, I rolled my eyes, I wrote passive aggressive emails about keeping office supplies organized. I talked shit about all the employees and ate more than my fair share of office snacks so I could feel like I was sticking it to…someone. I took long breaks and longer lunches. I showed up hungover and spent hours browsing Facebook. I was an ungrateful little shit.

I was lying on a random beach (that I’d never before been to) in East Hampton (which I would ordinarily have no reason to be in) and who should come walking by? Annabel! Annabel in all her glory. White-blond hair, fresh, freckled face, pink lips, oversized sunglasses, a wide-rimmed floppy hat, a perfectly fitted jet black suit and three gorgeous kids in tow. Annabel, the hard-partying, I’m not sure I ever want to have kids woman I knew over ten years ago. Still as sweet and charming as she was then.

“Annabel!” I screamed as I realized who the owner of the tight butt I’d been admiring was attached to.

“Treacle! How are you?” she responded in that raspy, part-posh, part-country accent that both excites me and sets me right at ease. “It’s been…it’s been a long time. These are my rascals. Rugrats, she’s a teacher. Better behave. Say hello.” Each sweet, bright-eyed and far too well-behaved child said a quaint “hello” one after the other. As if rehearsed. “I”m in a bit of a rush. Must pick Soph up at the train station. You remember her? Anyhow, please email me. I miss you. I’d love to catch up.”

“Sure. Yes. Absolutely. I just wanted to say, I suck,” I blurted out.

“What?!” she asked.

“I mean, I was just talking about what an ungrateful shit I was when I worked for you. And, I just wanted to say that you were an incredible boss and I had it so good back then. And, I realize that.”

“Sweetie, I know,” she said.

“But…”

“I know,” she repeated. “You let me know then. You were so sweet and a wonderful employee. I adored you. We all did,” she smiled. That smile that makes men drool as she passes.

“I wasn’t. You’re too generous but, okay. Go. I’ll email you. We’ll catch up,” I said. She thanked me and then scooted off, husband and kids trailing behind her. Up over the mountain of sand and into the bright sun.

And, she was gone.

This is a post that has mostly turned into a love letter to an old boss. Who is deserving of said love (which, will perhaps be the subject of a different post). But, it’s mostly a post about not knowing what you have when you have it. I think that’s worth remembering. Because, I know that I will look back on these days and think, Shit, I had it good then. One kid and the freedom that provided. Living in New York, taking trips up to the Hamptons. I thought life was so hard. Look at me now.

So, here’s to not knowing what you have. But, at least trying to. Here’s to recognizing that life gets both easier and harder. But, whatever the case, the past will always look pretty damn good with a little perspective and a lot more experience. Here’s to being young and wanting to be older. To being old and wanting to be younger. And, here’s to Annabel.

04
Aug
2015

breath

categories: me, new york

I lay there, with the coastal breeze against my warm skin. I feel a slight chill as it hits the beads of sweat gathered under my knees and at my forehead. The air is sweet. Wet and sweet. I feel the dampness of my humidity-soaked blouse, my greasy hair swept across the nape of my neck, the way my sandals push too hard into my arch, the tightness of my mid-rise jeans.

Looking into the treetops, through the winding branches. The green leaves, moist and sticky. Through the pink and white feathery flowers. Into the light blue, cloudless sky.

I listen to the wind move through the leaves. Shivering, undulating, spraying the air with moisture. The sound of the sun shining and the clouds expanding. Of the tree branches creaking and their leaves humming. Of the ground contracting and the grass whispering.

The sound of silence.

In the city you don’t get to have these moments. The time to lay beneath a persian silk tree and stare and think — and not think — and daydream and remember picking the bipinnate leaves from the very same tree that grows outside your childhood home some three thousand miles away. The feeling of running your thumb and forefinger along the stem and plucking each individual leaf part from its place.

I would love to set aside ten minutes every day to breathe. To think about nothing and to talk to no one. To be outside, to stare into the sky and not do anything. Just breath. Why does that seem so unattainable?

03
Aug
2015

real life

categories: family, me, new york

It is so easy to focus on the small and insignificant things in life. The things that feel so big and so relevant in the moment.

It’s easy to obsess over a conversation on the playground with some cuckoo parent. Or, to be consumed with anger over the small injustices of the world.

The problem with perspective is that it is not enduring. You get a dose of it. A wake up call. And then, within days, you are back to your old ways.

This is a commonly mocked theme in movies. Hero is schmuck. Hero has near-death experience. Hero realizes the err of his ways. Hero makes amends. Hero goes back to old schmucky ways.

Well, I’m here to say that it is all true. The cliche, the all-too-familiar storyline. It’s real. Or, at least, it comes from something real.

My cousin had a baby. And, he is sick.

And, all I can think is: I am lucky. I am grateful. Life is good. I should be more grateful for what I’ve got. I have this deep, dark, sticky feeling in my gut. This sadness and queasy uneasiness. For him, because he is small and helpless and in pain. And for her because she is four days post-birth and if you have ever pushed a baby out of your body you will understand what that means — physically and emotionally. And, I am filled with terror. And dread. And, fear. And gratitude. And love and respect and hope.

I had been living in New York for under a month when the terrorist attacks on September 11th took place. The city I knew and had already fallen in love with changed in an instant. The city I had dreamed of, had imagined and planned for, transformed overnight.

Those were dark times. Filled with fear and loss and confusion. People were angry and vengeful and wary of one another. Of skin color, of religious beliefs, scared of neighbors and politicians and strangers near and far.

But, also, through it all — there was an amazing sense of camaraderie. Of togetherness. Of community and a shared cause. A unified vision of hope and of support and of love.

It was such a confusing time. A time I still am not sure I can even write about. I was so filled with anger because we were going to war and I felt the lives of all those innocent people were being used as a means to an end. I could hardly acknowledge the sadness over the anger. I was horrified at the act of violence and destruction that had occurred. We all felt vulnerable. New Yorkers and Americans across the country.

But, we all felt unified too.

I tried to volunteer at the World Trade Center and was turned away. All of us from SLC. Because, they had too many volunteers. There was such an influx of support that they couldn’t even manage the numbers of people lining up to offer aid. How beautiful is that? I still can’t think about anything about that attack, that day, that year, that time in our history without crying. My adoration of the firefighters and aid workers and men and women who gave their lives that day will never, ever fade.

Horrible things happen. Horrible, scary, unimaginable things. Every day. Most of us live our lives in a bubble. We wake up and drink our coffee. We go to work and come home. We eat dinner and watch television and kiss our children and go to bed. And, do it all over again. There are details in between that shift from one day to the next. But, mostly, that’s it. There is comfort in that routine. We moan and groan and wish for more vacation days and better bosses and more competent colleagues and less creeps on the subway. But, that’s our lives. Monotonous, mundane, predictable.

And then, in one moment. It all changes.

Your mother is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimers. Your 10-month-old falls down nine concrete stairs. You’re rushed to the hospital for emergency life-altering back surgery.

Life is messy. Mostly it’s not. Mostly it’s kind of boring. But, as the cliche goes — when it rains it pours. And, when life is pouring down on you. Ceaselessly. And when you feel like you will never get back to normal. When you crave that monotony, that boring, tedious job, that humdrum life — you glimpse just for a moment how great it actually is. How lucky you are. And how fragile it all is.

I am grateful to have a husband who is kind and loving and brilliant. A daughter who is gentle and sensitive and hilarious. I am grateful to have people who love me and who let me love them back. I am grateful for family and for friends. For a career that is meaningful and for a body that is, mostly, getting by pretty well in the world.

It is so precious. And, so fleeting. And, I know I will forget this in one week’s time. But, life is good and there is so much to be thankful for.

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