Archive of ‘me’ category

oh, boy

so, i’m having one of those days. you know the kind. maybe i’m having one of those weeks, even. where punctuation just seems superfluous and getting dressed feels like an overwhelming task. forget showers. and, who needs makeup these days? i don’t know exactly why. moving stress. pressure to see people and do things. keeping track of way too many things in my brain: moving van, packing materials, medical records, refilling prescriptions, selling this dresser, giving this shelf away, bringing these four bags to the thrift store, bringing this box to the used book store, scheduling dental appointments, finishing up work tasks, doing all those last-minute new york city must-do things! it’s just too much. and, we’re trying to be all on top of shit by packing early but really we just keep spending time with our friends because…when will we see them again?! and, you know, we’re not cooking enough and we may have gotten rid of our plates a tad too early and we can’t replace the grapeseed oil because how can we go through a bottle in 3 weeks but also HOW WILL I MAKE POPCORN?!

so, i think it’s safe to say that the stress has officially gotten to me.

i’m not sleeping, i’m eating a lot of chocolate and my belly has that constant butterfly feeling like i’m about to get onstage and perform.

we got a tree. i thought it would make me feel all, in-the-spirit and festive. i just keep looking at that thing with total animosity. it’s got a real attitude problem, let me tell you. it’s just sitting in the corner of our livingroom being all beautiful and put together, staring into our chaos and judging. it’s a judgy little fucker, i mean it. tall, perfectly “tree”-shaped (some might say a bit too perfect, really. i mean, come on. show off), it’s all sparkly and calm and it just stands around. doesn’t offer to help out or pick up. it’s not doing any of the cooking and that bitch can drink! i mean, we are filling her bucket up at least once a day.

so between my judgy tree and the million tasks i’m attempting to stay on top of and still working full-time and a toddler who is becoming less and less comfortable with her dwindling book collection…things are about to get real. like, life is changing in a huge way ‘real’. like, everything you have known and everything you thought you wanted is about to be in your past ‘real’. like, the place you ran from, the place you thought you would never return to is about to be your future ‘real.’ and, truthfully it all sounds a bit terrifying. wonderful and filled with potential. exciting and exhilarating. and also gut-wrenchingly terrifying.

the shadow

It comes out of nowhere, oozing edges from the depths of my insides and just sticks–to the underside of my skull and the inner membrane of my ears. To the back of my throat and the tips of my lungs. It stays, takes up residence for a while–turning blue skies into deep seas. Stretched out, creeping into all that lies ahead and consuming all that is left behind. And then it’s gone. I hardly even remember how it got there–how long it stayed or exactly how I felt being in the dark for so long. Then the cloud comes briefly overhead, blocking out the sun, just for a moment. Long enough to remind me that I cannot control the weather–not the direction of the wind, the depth of the snow or the fullness of the moon. That in fact, I am helpless to shadows. And so, I welcome them back like an old friend. Come on in, I say. Won’t you stay for tea?

somebody help me, i’m being spontaneous

I read that when faced with the option, people are something like 80% more likely to turn right. I couldn’t find the original study I read (many years ago), but this essay is related and pretty interesting–it’s retail-oriented, specifically, which got me thinking–is it just when we’re shopping that we tend to veer right or are we right-centric in general? I mean really, how often are we in a situation where we don’t know if we want to go left or right? When we’re tourists, I suppose. When we have a free afternoon and decide to just stroll. But, really it’s quite unusual to just be wandering aimlessly. Most of us know exactly where we’re going before we get there.

The study goes on to say that malls and department stores have made decisions based on this data. For example, The newer clothing lines or more attractive displays are to the left–because we’ll naturally go right, but we have to be enticed to go left. Airports put fast food on the left but shopping on the right (we’ll cross for food but not for a spur-of-the-moment trinket or magazine from a newsstand.) Fascinating stuff.

So, I think about this a lot–when I enter a building or cross a street, when I’m shopping or wandering aimlessly. What am I naturally drawn toward and what catches my eye? How would I choose to enter this store if I wasn’t thinking about directionality? Then I start to think how, if we could all just move in an unencumbered way, with no specific destination to speak of, we’d all just be turning in circles.

So, whenever I get the chance, I go left.

convenience

We spent the weekend in a cabin in upstate New York where the water was non-potable and came directly from the nearby lake. We had to brush our teeth with bottled water and skip washing grapes and carrots–preferring a few specs of dirt and grime over “beaver fever.” So, of course this was just some tiny inconvenience in our very privileged lives. It’s so easy to focus on the small, first-world problems we encounter in our daily living (I am all too guilty of this!) but damn, it just takes one small disruption to my safe and simple life to knock me on my ass and get me thinking about the bigger picture. People have real problems in the world–like, trying to survive. Meanwhile, we flush drinking water down the toilet on a regular basis.

I grew up in California, which means you grow up water-savvy and water-conscious. Even after fifteen years in New York City, I still cannot fill a bathtub more than half-way, leave the tap on while brushing my teeth, let the water get adequately heated before hopping under a shower head. If there is a drip it must be remedied immediately, dishes are washed with as little water as possible, washing machines are stuffed to maximum capacity to minimize the total number of loads–I’m pretty sure that last one is a really dumb idea.

The point is, I have mass amounts of water-phobia. Yeah, I’d call it a phobia. I get sick to my stomach, a nervous twinge in my gut if I leave the water on for too long. I guess it’s from growing up with that consciousness–with the idea of conservation being ingrained in me from very early on. The strange thing is, I cannot pull up one memory of someone telling me to turn the water off, to be more careful, to take shorter showers. I can’t think of one single instance from my childhood of an adult lecturing me on water use. Which leads me to one of two conclusions: either the habit was formed by implicit modeling, or I blocked out those memories for whatever reason.

I am inclined to believe it is the latter since there are giant chunks missing from my brain. Although, I suppose it is possible that it was simply through living in one way when it comes to water–never questioning or testing that boundary–that I picked up these habits. And, perhaps they continue due to a physical inability to dislodge them as well as a cerebral propensity toward them. I don’t know. But, I do know that heading back west will not change much in terms of my water consumption. It will not be a difficult transition because I have not been able to rid myself of the constant nagging in the back of my brain, saying TURN THAT TAP OFF!

gratitude

I am thankful for…more things than I can possibly list. Here are a few from today:

  • husbandhead–who continues to love me even when i’m a total nightmare
  • my brilliant and hilarious kid–i don’t know where you came from but i’m so glad you’re mine
  • my sisters–i could not be in this world without them
  • my totally rad in-laws–lucked out there
  • my ridiculously, incredible, loving, supportive friends–the family i chose
  • great food
  • red wine and whiskey
  • pecan pie
  • candlelight
  • my (mostly) good health
  • fall
  • a great cheese platter
  • warm and loving people who make me feel warm and loved
  • perspective

i don’t believe

In most things, really. Just, like, in general I’m not a big believer. I don’t believe that vitamins do anything except make your pee smell funny. I don’t believe that cleanses cleanse anything, least of all your colon. I definitely do not believe that fat-free anything is real or is in any way shape or form healthy for one to consume. I don’t believe it when people say that their lives are perfect. I don’t believe conspiracy theorists when they tell me things about the world–any things about the world–or that anyone is actually capable of looking as flawless as the cover of a magazine. I don’t believe in any gods to speak of, nor do I believe in curses or bad luck or jinxes.

That said…there really is something to be said for the community that comes with believing. Whether it’s praying to a higher power and joining a flock of fellow-believers, or being a part of an ensemble, a team or a sorority–there really is something incredibly powerful about the bond that is created and the level of support and love that exists in those communities.

Sure, it can turn ugly. Fast. But, when it’s good it’s really fucking good. And, when I see it out there in the world–a group of churchgoers, a meditation class letting out, a choir singing on the street, a barrage of sweaty soccer players after a game–it leaves me feeling a little envious. And, nostalgic for something I never had. How can you be nostalgic for something you’ve never experienced? It’s possible, that’s all I can say.

So, the question is…what do you join when you’re not much of a joiner? How do you create community around nothing? I mean, nothing in the Seinfeld sense of nothing–which is to say everything and not just one single thing.

How do you worship, meditate, relax, unburden yourself without a church, a god, a singular vision? And, how do those meet-ups not end up feeling like work, like an obligation, like something you stare at on your calendar–for which you daydream up excuses?

Weekly craft nights, monthly conversations solamente en español, soccer leagues, zumbathons, even a regular girls’ night can feel like a burden. Not because I don’t want to do these things (they are things I love!) but because I just don’t want to give up the time, or find the babysitter–or pay for the babysitter, or it’s cold out and I can’t motivate, or I’m tired, or my back hurts, or I’m right in the middle of a super sweet Netflix situation. 

It’s like, theoretically, I want to belong. But, in practice, I just want to sit on my couch and binge-watch Gilmore Girls.

dreams and realities

Last night I had a dream I was sitting on the street, crouched over a leaf-filled gutter, picking out half-smoked cigarette butts and piling them together. I got really excited when I found a fully intact parliament. This is my brand! I thought, pulling out a bright green lighter with which to light the beautiful white cylinder.

When I awoke I found myself craving that parliament. All day I wanted the sting of smoke in my throat, the gasping feeling my lungs make when I inhale, the dizziness of a cigarette smoked to its butt. I even thought about buying a pack. I’m not a smoker, but somehow that longing had been imprinted on me from the dream. It’s amazing how dreams can influence an entire day.

My husband gives me copious amounts of grief–loads of eye-rolling and guffawing–when I awaken from a nightmare in which he has somehow wronged me. “I can’t be held accountable for what I do in your dreams,” He says. Oh, I know. But, that doesn’t stop me from having feelings of angst toward him for at least an hour (sometimes more). I know this is unjustified, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

In middle school my friend Tiffany and I would hitchhike the three miles up Rough and Ready highway where we would loiter, without notice, in front of the Country Store and Post Office–bumming smokes and picking up the half-smoked carcasses the cowboys would toss in our direction on their way inside. She grew up in a trailer park a quarter mile northeast of our school–conveniently, within walking distance. She lived with her mom, who worked most days and nights–and, an older brother who we adored. He was tall and handsome, clever and silly and he was nice to us. Which, was a rare thing for an older sibling in our neck of the woods. Eat or be eaten or something like that. I always had permission to go to her house because we could walk there, which meant no one had to deal with pickups or drop-offs–a parent’s nightmare.

Their home was small and cozy. Brown and tan shag rugs, cream-colored walls, dark-stained furniture, a small, yellow electric stove and a huge television just a few feet from their tiny couch. The entire place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and moldy carpeting–and some part of the ceiling was always leaking, a slow stream of brown water accumulating in the plastic buckets below.  It was warm there, always, even mid-winter. Lamp shades were adorned with colorful scarves, emitting an inviting glow, cigarette burns concealed by lacy doilies offered a personalized touch, and the most spectacular sight of all–a beautiful glass cabinet filled with tiny ceramic figurines. There were little lambs encircling a sheepherder in a bonnet, cows lazily lounging on their stomachs, bunnies mid-hop and my personal favorite, a spritely-looking fox with a  long, red, bushy tail.

Tiffany shared a room with her mom which, fortuitously, granted us access to all of her mom’s things. Behind the sliding closet doors were dozens of tight, lycra skirts and impossibly high heels laid out like flowers on a polyester fiber carpet bed–she had ombre-hued scarves and felt hats in every color. A wardrobe in stark contrast to my mom’s earth-toned pantsuits or sequined, holiday sweaters with their giant shoulder pads. Tiffany and I spent hours perusing her mom’s clothing, trying on her skirts, dancing (and falling over) in her red patent and black suede pumps, filling our lips with reds and purples, giggling through clouds of face powder, spritzing our soft wrists with Vanilla Fields and ckOne. Her mom’s bureau was covered in gold tubes of mauve lipsticks and cream blushes, puffy black-bristled brushes and silver chains and bangles. My mom didn’t even have a dresser, let alone an entire space for jewelry and makeup.

We’d cover our faces and bodies with colors and scents and put on fashion shows for her brother and his friends. They’d look up every now and again, immersed as they were in their video games or the newest Nightmare on Elm Street installment and give some nod of approval or a half-hearted smile, which was enough to set our hearts a-flutter and send us back to her mom’s closet where we would create yet another persona–this time geometric leggings and pink leg-warmers, a black tube top and a flowery scarf tied into a bow on top of our crimped hair. The iterations were endless and the glee those sessions inspired was magical. It provided a necessary escape for both of us. Her, from the absence of parental units and the loneliness and isolation of her living situation. Me, from the violence and turbulence of my world, which produced a similar form of isolation and loneliness. Both of us outcasts.

Her mom had this giant waterbed in the middle of her room on which we were strictly forbidden from playing. Which meant, of course, that we spent most of our time lounging there–reading magazines, listening to the Cranberries, talking about boys and how silly school was and whether or not we should shave our legs or wear deodorant. I was fascinated by the thing. I’d never felt one before and was horrified the first time I sat on it. The warm water enveloped my bottom, my hand sunk every time I tried to escape and the way the watery mattress pulled up around my sides made me feel nervous and trapped but in an exciting kind of a way.

I wasn’t allowed to watch scary movies at home. Bad for our bardo, dad would say. Those images would stick with us in the afterlife and cause a lot of problems. So, of course, I watched any and every horror film I could. My friends’ parents were much more relaxed about  imprinting their children’s psyche with images of death and violence–also, no one was paying attention. Tiffany’s brother loved horror films–the more gruesome, the better. It was in their living room, squished between Tiffany and the cloud of Marlboro smoke her brother blew in our direction, that I first saw Freddy Krueger. I was terrified, I wanted to leave but out of fear of judgment from her very cool brother and a morbid curiosity, I stayed. My eyes wide and palms sweaty, I sat through the entire film.

By the end I was shaky and traumatized, I followed Tiffany like a zombie, through our bedtime rituals and into some conversation about why Lance wasn’t paying any attention to her and did I think that David might be my boyfriend since we’d french-kissed on that dare? I listened, I nodded, I grunted yes or no and hoped she would go on like that forever, delaying bedtime until the light of morning. That night Tiffany and I slept in the waterbed–which we often did when her mom worked the graveyard shift. The scene of the boy being stabbed and drowned in his waterbed played over and over again in my head. I couldn’t stand the suffocating feeling of the liquid underneath me. I was sure the mattress would burst and we’d be sucked down into a watery death. I was positive that if I went to sleep Freddy would come for me. I tortured myself for hours–lying awake, too scared to close my eyes, too embarrassed to wake Tiffany or call home. Eventually, sleep overtook my body and when I awoke to Tiffany shouting obscenities at her brother I was relieved we had made it through the night. But, for weeks the images haunted me, they came for me in my dreams, they hid behind bushes and in the silhouettes of dark trees. The wind was Freddy’s whistle, the playground his battlefield, even my bedroom which once had provided such solace and comfort brought me nothing but terror and dread.

It’s easy for me to recall these sensations because I still have them. I still lie awake at night–thinking not of movies but of the state of the world. I still cringe–not out of fear of ghosts but fear for my daughter. I’m still afraid of the dark–not the darkness of my room but the eerie quiet of an abandoned street after dusk. I still feel helpless–not against Freddy Krueger but against real and tangible evils over which I wield no power. My nightmares haunt my waking hours, the distractions of adult life the only thing that keeps the monsters at bay. Age hasn’t made me less scared or less prone to anxiety. It has simply changed the object of my fear.

identity

In New York you’re constantly bombarded with people on the street. People living on the street, people hanging out on the street, passersby on their way to and from work, red-eyed dads trying to get their kids to sleep at 2 AM, all sorts of folks on any given day. I would say I’m hit up at least a half-dozen times for money or a donation, a contribution, a signature or a flyer about god, about a new restaurant, about a salon giveaway, there’s always something–in fact, there’s always a million things.

Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I stop, sometimes I’m in a hurry. Sometimes I shoo them off, exasperated and frustrated–usually that’s on a really hot day when I’m in a big rush, and can’t they see my kid is having a miraculous nap in the stroller? But the interaction that always seems to leave me reeling is when I get stopped with, “Excuse me ma’am, are you Jewish?” Every single time I am stopped in my tracks. Do I lie? Is it really a lie? I’m not a practicing Jew. It’s my father’s side, so, does it really count?

And then I get to thinking about religion versus cultural ethnicity and internal identity versus external realities and how those all intertwine and get boggled up. You would think that after fifteen years in New York–and since I am besieged by this question during every high holiday–that I would have an answer at the ready. But, I don’t. Sometimes I say yes and other times it’s no.  And, no matter what I say I end up feeling kind of lousy.

Is it a fabrication to say yes? Is it a lie just to say no? Do I really want that horn blown in my face? Am I really expected to repeat that Hebrew verse? But, no matter what the answer, I feel like a fraud. If I say yes then I feel like the minute I can’t recite properly they know I’m full of shit. If I say no, I envision them walking away mumbling under their breath about how I’m so obviously Jewish and why would I lie? And, I get this queasy feeling in my gut.

Who am I versus who I am perceived or expected to be? Where do I fit in? Who do I belong to? If not to them, then to whom? Am I an island? And I start romanticizing organized religion. Which is not a useful pastime. Because, I have yet to find one organization that I would truly want to be a part of. Am I the only one for whom this happens? Is it strange that a simple question turns into a deep philosophical dialogue about selfhood and identity? Perhaps. Or, maybe everyone’s walking around questioning who they are, not internally, but who they are in relation to the world around them. Which is a very different investigation than who we are on our own–what we do, what we believe in, who we love, how we live–those are somewhat simple to determine. It’s a question of belonging and of community, having nothing to do with confidence or success or education.

Are we all still in high school, searching for our clique?

semantics

You know what I’m sick of? Academic-minded folk who forget social norms when attempting to engage with you in a meaningful political conversation. They’ve got the whole active-listening facade down, and the, “we’re engaging in a meaningful dialogue” routine nailed but then they focus on some bullshit minutiae and alienate the person they’re talking to and end, therefore, any chance of real change/persuasion/perspective-taking/a truly meaningful exchange.

Language is important. I get that, I feel that. But, give a little leeway. Come on! Don’t jump down someone’s throat because they aren’t speaking in an uber-pc, guarded, academic manner. In fact, praise them for feeling safe enough to share their real feelings, gently find a way to model your language expectations. At the very least, use a kind and respectful tone (not an accusatory judgmental one) if you do decide to “correct” them. Or, better yet–listen to their meaning, don’t focus so intensely on how they’re saying things.

We all have different linguistic norms, a variety of cultural conventions. How can you possibly shame someone for their cultural insensitivity while simultaneously doing the same with your words? It is infuriating. I watch this dynamic play out time and time again. Typically between a well-meaning do-gooder (a non profit, an advocacy group, a professor or graduate student–or, worse, an undergrad, ugh) and a layperson. You know, someone who is not an expert in whatever field the do-gooder is an expert in. Education, technology, women’s rights, immigration, healthcare, whatever…it could be anything. Those are just some areas in which I have seen an alarming amount of hostility amongst “experts.”

Just have a conversation, for gods sake. Just be a human and talk in a real way where you aren’t just waiting to make someone feel inferior.

Rant over.

the time-suck of perfectionism

I have seen so many good and capable and smart people in my life do so little due to the petrifying possibility of perceived failure. Failure in the sense that the end-product did not live up to their impossibly high standards. I consider myself somewhat of a perfectionist–I’m detail-oriented, organized, controlling. Some of those to healthy degrees and some to not-so-healthy obsession levels, depending on the project. But, when push comes to shove, I will half-ass the hell out of something to meet a deadline. I may not feel good about it and there might be a whole lot of whining about how it could have been better–but I will get ‘er done. I may be consistently, dependably late to social functions but I am not late to work. I may be capable of many long sleepless nights but I’ve yet to meet a deadline I didn’t, um, meet.

I think it’s about seeing the big picture. I just threw this ridiculous Halloween party. I was thinking about it and planning it out in my brain for months. I had all these ideas for really specific details and got super excited about making decorations and just going all out. Which, isn’t really typically my deal. I mean, I can throw together a pretty sweet cheese plate but I’m never up for hostess-of-the-year, or month, or anything. So, I’m thinking it all comes down to inspiration. If you’re inspired and excited by something then planning and prepping and crafting and whatever-ing is fun. It doesn’t feel like work, right? And, if you start far enough in advance it isn’t even stressful. Make a few tissue paper flowers here, cut some foam doorknobs there, bake in advance (throw it in the freezer), rope in some friends (craft night!), and keep the big stuff simple. Wow, I love how I just got totally preachy, like I actually know what I’m talking about. I most definitely do not know what I’m talking about. This is probably the first successful party I’ve ever thrown. And, I’m not sure anyone actually had any fun. But, at least shit looked pretty.

Anyhow, I diverge from my point. Minutiae. This is what I wanted to talk about. And, how some folks get so focused on the teeny, tiny details that they just can’t let go and relax if a line isn’t straight or a flower isn’t puffed just so. It drives me crazy. Let it go and move on. It will look fine amongst the fifty other flowers. Who cares if that one isn’t perfect? But, that’s the thing. Those of us who obsess can’t just tell that little voice to shut up. It is a very loud and very obnoxious voice. Like, that fucking parrot from Aladdin mixed with Fran Drescher in The Nanny. But, amplified by the dudes from Spinal Tap, so, you know, up to eleven. So, yeah, that would be hard to ignore. And, here’s the thing of it. It’s a real problem. I don’t mean it’s a significant one. I mean, it’s a genuine issue that a lot of people struggle with. The tablecloth has to be the exact shade of blue and it doesn’t matter if it takes five online shopping hours and an entire afternoon driving around. We will find the right tablecloths or we will not move on to the next item on the list.

It is infuriating. It is mind-boggling. Because, I would have grabbed the first tablecloth that was mostly right and moved on to the cutlery. Ugh, first world problems, am-i-right? But, for real. We’re talking about actual, real issues here. Like, an inability to surrender a single ounce of control–an unwillingness to let go of one small section of your vision. It’s exhausting is what it is. And, then you do things like cancel your wedding reception because you can’t handle the stress of finding matching tablecloths. That’s maybe when you realize you need help.

I mean, this is not just something you can talk people out of. And, in some ways I look at that level of attention–that commitment to a pure vision–and I kind of envy it. I am baffled by it and it makes my feet annoyed and my toes get all squiggly and I bite my lower lip a lot and pick at my fingernails and have to take long, controlled breaths so I don’t scream–but I’m also kind of impressed by the level of dedication. Like an artist being unwaveringly true to her craft–taking no shortcuts, refusing any substitutes. Maybe folks who struggle with this issue are just artists whose canvas is life. Aquamarine blue! Not sky blue, not ocean blue, definitely not blue-green, but aquamarine blue. I mean, I bet Picasso didn’t let just anyone mix his paints…

Deep thoughts tonight, guys. Look out.

 

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