Archive of ‘me’ category

hell is a hospital bed in brooklyn // present

“Grampa, Grampa!” the woman next to me screamed. “Can I come to your bed, Grampa? I can’t sleep.” Silence. Maybe it’s over, I think. “Grampa, please! Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Grampa?”

Her thin frame lay mostly exposed above the white sheet, her wispy grey hair like a halo. A frail arm reaching toward the wall, a bony finger catching for a moment on the ruffle of her diaper.  A wild-eyed look of terror and confusion, not to me or the nurse, but just to the world. I knew it well. I recognized it immediately.

“Please,” I pleaded. “I don’t think I can stay in this room.”

“Miss, we don’t exactly have extra rooms lying around,” My nurse quipped. “This ain’t the Four Seasons. You’re lucky you got a bed. Ever since LICH closed, this is how it is. How long you was in the ER, huh? Exactly.” She paused for effect. To let me know I was being a pest. I was ungrateful and probably not empathetic enough. “You lucky you in here. We gonna take good care of you. Now, just relax.” Her tone shifted, perhaps because she remembered I too was suffering. Maybe she could see the look of fear in my eyes, genuine, real, huge. She knew how the hospital functioned. Blood work took half a day, CT scans ordered ‘immediately’ took 14 hours, iv fluids–for a a thirty-something woman exhibiting symptoms consistent with dehydration–8 hours. “You’re gonna be just fine. Just lay back. Call me if you need anything, sweetie.”

She threw in the ‘sweetie’ as a trick, I thought. So I’d let my guard down and so I’d think she was my friend. I pressed the call button immediately.

“Yes?!” a very annoyed voice from a loudspeaker asked insistently.

“Hi, um, yeah. Is there, can I, am I allowed to eat?” I stumbled.

“I don’t know.” The line went silent. “Looks like…no. No eating.”

“I, okay, I”m just…” she was gone.

I lay there, alone, numb from the knees down, my bottom lip still curled and contorted. The stiff, white sheet scratchy against my bare thighs. The neon light humming above my bed. A blue-white glare, hard and intrusive. It’s high-pitched buzzing like a zombie-mosquito, incapable of death, so it drones on, attacking, sucking, blood-letting through the night.

Hospitals are supposed to be places to rest and recuperate, I think. This is hell. This is where people come to be tortured. To humble themselves, to be lowered so far down into the depths of self-pity and shame and fury that they will submit simply because they lose the will to go on. What’s the point? you find yourself thinking. And the next minute you are crying and screaming that you need to get out. One breath of fresh air, the feeling of sun on your skin for just one moment. But, they ask you to wait. To be patient. So you try to breathe and you try to stay calm but every moment in that room–that room with it’s incessant beeps, its flashing lights, its filthy thin curtain, a veil, an illusion of privacy–feels like an eternity. Doctors unannounced, waking you just when you’ve finally drifted off to sleep to deliver, nonchalantly, some upsetting news. To announce a diagnosis, to provide no context, no explanation of process. They give you a card, walk out and in comes another one. With a different title and a crisp new card. Another theory, another acronym. Scrubs come in and poke your belly with needles, they draw vial after vial of your blood with no explanation. Where is all this blood going? you wonder.  Voices drift in, stories of other patients with attitude, with too many requests, with some sob story. This is their workplace, you remind yourself. It’s only fair that they should be so casual. It’s natural. Except that people are dying here. And being born. And doing all of the business in between. And, it’s too hard to be reminded that life, outside of your own experience, is continuing without you. Rivers will continue to flow, trains will stay on schedule, emails will be answered, books will be written. And the exact placement of your body–growing or dying– in space has little to do with the order of the world.

 

diamonds are a girl’s best friend

Here’s why I think rich people are better off… It’s not the designer clothing or high-end furniture, the custom makeup or tailored clothing, not even the personal trainers or vacation homes.

It’s being able to pay for things that make you feel better.

Simple as that.

I don’t mean, things that simply make you feel happier–because lord knows that is ever-changing and fleeting. Not a new pair of shoes or the clutch you’ve been coveting. Not a manicure or a trip to the Bahamas. Things that literally make you feel better. Things that keep you healthy in your physical being.

Seems obvious, right? But, it’s a luxury a lot of us can’t afford.

I know that massage makes my back feel much improved. But, I’m lucky if I can afford one every few months–let alone find the time to go. I know that acupuncture and a more specialized physical therapy (the kind that doesn’t typically accept insurance) is what I need. But, I can’t shell out $150 per visit. Every time my doctor recommends some new and incredible intervention I sort of roll my eyes and stare, unblinking at the wall. Yes, please, tell me all about the recommendation that I cannot take advantage of. Aquatic physical therapy? Sounds awesome. Myofascial release for pain? Sign me up. Rolfing? Sounds like barfing but if it will help then, heck yeah!

These treatments are not things you find in typical, “we accept any insurance” facilities. Hey, I’m lucky to have insurance, I recognize that. I mean, it’s disgusting for that to be true in a first world country (and we are making some great headway on this front) but here I am still not getting the care I need to feel better. Hell, just to be out of pain for one tiny millisecond.

And so, rich people are better off. If for no other reason than the fact that they can pay for the things that will help them feel good in their bodies (and, let’s not rule out the importance of a healthy mind–psychiatrists, another benefit of having a disposable income).

Thus concludes my clear envy of the upper caste.

pretend

OK, here’s the thing about why being an actor is do damn appealing. You get to try out being all these different people — a teacher one day, a ballerina the next. You can be a bitch, a fool, a comic genius, a jealous spouse, an angry teenager, a brilliant surgeon…You get to experiment with a smorgasbord of personalities, and professions, and relationships.

It’s thrilling.

You don’t choose just one look, just one job or just one partner. You switch it up every day. It’s like multiple personality disorder without the social stigma.

It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? No daily routine, no singular identity. It’s not that I’m unhappy in my existence. It’s just that I think it would be so fun to experience a life outside my own. To live, briefly in someone else’s world. Where every choice — from the clothes I wear to the people I love and the place I live — is made by someone else, some other version of me.

on growing up

This is going to sound ridiculous, but a few years back when I bought my beautiful bike, Dot, I became obsessed with getting a matching brown leather backpack. I envisioned riding around on my gorgeous cream colored bike — with brown handlebars and a brown leather seat — wearing a matching backpack in which I would carry my odds and ends.

Back when I was looking, backpacks really weren’t back in vogue yet. Now, it seems as though the 90’s have returned with a bang. And, with that era comes the small, girly backpacks of Friends and Felicity fame. I have been seeing them everywhere. Particularly on the younger generation. So, I’m having a bit of a dilemma. Do I get a backpack? Do I join the masses? Am I too old for this fad? I really wish I had gotten one years back so I could feel, you know, validated by being ahead of the trend.

Now, it just feels like I’m following a trend. I hate that. I don’t know why. Who cares? In fact, shouldn’t it be a source of great pride? Especially considering my yearning to fit in for all those years? I can’t quite explain it. But, all I know is that I have an intense desire to go against the norm.

This is all coming up because I just walked by my dream backpack. It was in the window of what I like to call a, triple-digit-boutique. You know, the stores you don’t even think about entering, because there are no price tags in the single or double digits.

But, it’s beautiful. It’s a medium brown leather, it’s the perfect size, it has these really cool closures made entirely of slightly darker stained leather pieces. It’s art. Perhaps that’s how I could justify its purchase? As a piece of artwork that I can enjoy and pass down to my offspring? Agh. Even I can’t swallow that. But, it’s so pretty!

When I was a kid, I had my own sense of style. A style which generated the argyle sock incident of 93′. “Are you wearing your grandpa’s socks?!” Rachel had asked me and then burst into laughter. I was wearing knee-high blue and yellow socks that I thought were the coolest. Then there was the rumor in 6th grade that all my clothes came from the thrift store (gasp!) which, as it turned out, was mostly true. That was before thrifting was hip. In 95′ I was the “dyke” at my high school both because I had a proclivity toward boys and girls and because (mostly because, in fact) I had short hair. In a school of 3,000 I was the only person who both identified as female and also had short hair. It was a dark time in my small town. And, it was pre-Halle Berry looking all shorn and gorgeous.

I look around and see stylish people, lots of them in fact, because I live in New York City. And, I love the way they look. The seemingly effortless flawlessness. The aura of confidence and cool. The way their shoes are the perfect match for their shorts, which cling in all the right ways. And, their shirts are spotless and pressed and their necklaces hang just so. And their hair? Well, it’s just a different universe on top of those heads. Filled with curling irons and hairsprays, gels and products of all varieties.

So many beautiful people. It’s great, honestly. Makes for wonderful people-watching. But, I also can’t help but sort of look down at my dingy, coffee-stained blouse, my gap shorts and my Park Slope mom shoes and think, who is this person? How does my style reflect who I am? When you’re young you have the luxury of wearing your personality on your outsides. Then, you get a job and you have to start conforming to certain standards and dress codes (depending on the job, I suppose). It’s so limiting. Because, the truth is, if you work five days a week (or more) then you’re mostly wearing work clothes. And, if you’re mostly wearing work clothes then you’re mostly buying them. Then, before you know it, you dress that way on your days off too. Because, what if you run into the super conservative parent of the child in your class whilst wearing your shortest, tattered jeans and a tiny tank top with no bra?

This is how it happened. Slowly. It crept through my wardrobe one item at a time. I bought one pair of gap shorts then four more. A simple gingham top and then a denim one and then that was all I had. Then, I needed comfortable shoes because…I’m on my feet all day and I have back issues. I had a baby and grew two sizes so tons of things just got tossed out (never to be seen or heard from again — the clothes or the previous dress size) and it continued on down the line. I never go out, this dress will probably never fit again, it’s ripped anyhow, and on and on.

Sometimes I think about dying my hair or shaving half my head and I know it would shift peoples’ perception of me. Some would think I was way cooler. Some wouldn’t hardly notice. A few would be offended and some might even have the audacity to complain. My first job working as a teacher’s assistant up in Yonkers in 2001 was a disaster due to my fashion choices. I worked for half a day before being pulled aside by my supervisor who told me the principal was concerned about my appearance and that, unless I took my septum ring out, I would not be allowed to continue working there.

I refused. And, got fired. But, that was fourteen years ago. Before I needed to make rent and buy diapers.

Now, I drool over beautiful, too-expensive backpacks and worry I’m too old to pull things off. I stare longingly at hip-punk girls with bleached hair and tattoos. And, I wonder things like: Does the way we look determine who we are? Or, does who we are determine the way we look? At the very least, the way we look determines how we are perceived. And, then I think about choices. The choice to live in a diverse and welcoming city. The choice to have a career that is still quite socially conservative. And, how sometimes you compromise on one thing you love to get a thing you love more.

And, then I think, relax, it’s just clothes.

on not trying

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.

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

“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.

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

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.”

 

seven things i love about my husband

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.

 

relationships // present

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.

relationships // past

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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