Archive of ‘me’ category

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.

30
Jul
2015

but, you’re so young…

categories: me

…and other things you should never say.

Full disclosure: I have said pretty much all of these things.

1. “But, you’re so young…” Shit happens. At any age. Don’t make someone feel crappy for having to deal with something terrible when they’re young. A dying parent, a chronic illness. This remark provides zero consolation and is a relative term that only proves you yourself have probably not had to deal with anything serious in your lifetime. Mazel tov. Keep it to yourself.

2. “The only thing that matters is that you and the baby are healthy.” Do NOT say this to a woman who has had an unplanned cesarean birth. It will make her feel like shit. It is not the only thing that matters. It is the most important thing, sure. But, do not diminish her (very valid) feelings by saying they aren’t relevant. It is possible to feel elated and heartbroken all at once. Let her know it’s okay to be sad. It’s normal to be upset when your birth plan does not go according to plan. Especially when your birth plan does not include being so high on special K that you do not even remember the moment your child came out of your body.

3. “You do not look (insert age here).” This is not a compliment. It is another way of saying, “you’re old but you don’t look too bad.” It’s shitty. Don’t say it. Not to a 30-year-old not to a 60-year-old. Just don’t. This goes for, “You look great for your age,” too.

4. “That must have been really hard.” If you are saying this, the answer is probably, “Yes, it was unbelievably, fucking hard.” Don’t tell people how they are feeling. Don’t project your judgment on their lives. Listen. If they’re struggling to name their emotions feel free to offer an adjective. Otherwise, just listen. Repeat their feelings back to them.

5. Don’t ask a million questions when someone doesn’t fit your model of “normal.” It’s offensive. It makes people feel like a freak in your personal freak show. Gender identity, sexual preferences, lifestyle choices…it’s just peoples lives. That’s all. It doesn’t feel weird for them. They exist in the world much in the same way you do (alone, misunderstood, taken for granted). Their choices, their childhoods, their preferences, theirs. Unless they’ve opened themselves up to the conversation, it’s off-limits. If you need drama, watch reality television. I can’t tell you how many nights I have spent providing the freak-cult-girl entertainment at parties. It’s exhausting.

6. This is not about saying the wrong thing. It’s about saying nothing. When a person loses someone they love don’t ignore them. Don’t assume that bringing it up will only upset them. Mention their loved one by name, in fact. Say something as simple as, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Don’t pretend it isn’t happening. It’s the worst feeling in the world to be grieving for someone you love and to feel like no one around you has even noticed. Too often we worry about being insensitive or hurting someones feelings after a death. More often than not, it is the silence that is the most painful. I don’t know anyone who has lost a loved one and wanted silence. Parent, child, sibling, grandparent, friend. It’s terrible to be going through the world feeling empty and also feeling like everyone else is just the same, going about their business like your mom didn’t just die. It’s nice to know your pain and grief aren’t being ignored. It’s important to know that others miss them too. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” I don’t care if you mean it or not. Just say it. And, in the off-chance that a grieving person is capable of asking for specific help, do it. You will never feel better about yourself. Bringing a new parent a meal is wonderful. Bringing a grieving person a meal is unforgettable. They will never forget that kindness.

28
Jul
2015

the power of sound

categories: me, new york

Cicadas.

Have you been hearing them lately?

Not those periodical, magicicada broods that only emerge every 13 or 17 years but the regular old East Coast annual cicadas who sing their mating songs in the late summer.

God, they are beautiful. At first I assumed they were sprinklers. “Damn, these East Coasters use their automated watering systems a lot,” I thought.

I moved to New York in August of 2001. My soon-to-be college roommate and I decided to meet up and road trip our way through New England two weeks before our first semester of college. Get to know one another and see the sights while we were at it. You know, the thing naive kids plan. And their parents probably say things like, “Two weeks?! You’re going to spend two weeks with a girl you don’t even know? What if you hate her? You’re going to have to spend the next year with her whether you like her or not. Better to just meet her in the dorm. There’ll be other people around, you’ll have a whole shared dialogue, a shared experience. Don’t do this. It’s not a good idea.” I don’t know. I mean, my parents didn’t say anything. But, that’s probably what hers said. Smart folks.

I got into Penn station around noon, dragged my giant, purple backpack to the closest wall and sunk down into it. It had never been this stuffed, this unwieldy when I lugged it through Europe the year before. I’d carried that thing everywhere. Rode trains illegally spilling wine and god-knows-what on it, sprayed a bus full of Scottish riders with pepper spray (accidentally), broke into the coliseum (purposefully — I plead young and stupid) with it waiting outside, ate pizza in Rome with it as a table, drank Whiskey in Drumnadrochit while it sat emptied and sad on my shared hostel floor. My pack had perched silently in the seat next to me when I was craving the English language and went to see Charlie’s Angels in Berlin. It had provided cushioning from the cold sidewalk when I ended up with nowhere to sleep in Barcelona in January (before scooting off to a warmer Valencia) and a perfect barrier between my body and the creepy french man wearing the trench coat in my train car (why are trench coats still so creepy and molestor-y?) on the way to Paris. And, here it sat. With me. Again. Ready for my next adventure. Ready to meet the girl with whom I would share a bedroom for an entire year.

We’d been talking for weeks over the phone. Her name was Lisa, she was from Florida, she liked Cat Power and Bob Dylan, she had a car (road trips, donut runs, weekend adventures!) she was an artist and had a cute, round face, two giant puppy-dog eyes, dyed black hair and a boyfriend who was a vegan photographer.

She loathed all things processed (my cheese-doodle eating really freaked her out) and had about twenty pair of low-top chucks. Actually, they were purchased as high-tops but she cut the tops off to make them more punk-rock looking. You know, I bought these new but they look used, kind of a vibe. Her family was loaded. Really loaded. She showed up in a bright green 2001 Volkswagon Jetta, fully loaded, black leather seats, moon roof, the whole deal.

She was so ashamed of that car. She was so ashamed of her wealth. Don’t get me wrong, she took full advantage of it. But, she was incredibly embarrassed. In college, or at least at Sarah Lawrence College, it was NOT cool to be wealthy. It was way cooler to be the poor kid on scholarship. So, you know, me. Except, it wasn’t actually cool to be that kid. It was just cool to seem like you were that kid and then go out and buy things and live a life that is only possible with lots and lots of money.

By the time I got to college I was pretty much done with my hard-partying ways. Small town, no rules or restrictions, I got into a lot before reaching legal adulthood. I’d taken some time off between high school and college to travel and take care of my mom so I was significantly, sigNIFICANTLY older than my peers. Okay, I was two years older. But, I will tell you right now, the difference between 18 and 20 is big. Giant, even. I was practically an adult. I had a dying mother, an abusive boyfriend and I’d already had alcohol poisoning twice.

I didn’t know what to make of this rich girl who acted poor. At first it was charming. She has money but she’s like me. Then it was confusing. She buys expensive clothing but cuts the labels out so no one knows it’s expensive? Then, I just got pissed. Why is this bitch pretending life is hard when it is so fucking easy for her?

I know now that money doesn’t make life better. But anyone who says it doesn’t make life easier has never been dirt poor. Having grown up with no money doesn’t make me an expert on poverty but it makes me an expert in my own experience. And, what I can say is that listening to people with money talk about how, “money doesn’t buy happiness” is super frustrating. I mean, I agree. But, it’s too simplistic a statement. Life is hard for everyone. We all have our very own, unique struggles. But a hard life and no money makes for a really hard life. There’s just no getting around that one.

This was all before the days of facebook and social media. I barely had an email address. There was no way to cyber-stock your future roommate. Seeing her in that bus station was seeing her for the first time. She’d described herself over the phone and I spotted her as soon as she approached the depot. We had an agreed upon meeting place because, that’s what you had to do back then. Make decisions and then stick with them. Decide things ahead of time and follow through. Dark days, they were.

“Oh, wow. So, you’re like really punk, huh?” she had said upon seeing me.

“Um, yeah. I guess so. I mean, not really but I kinda look the part, I guess,” I responded, trying to decide if she was really cool for just laying it out on the table. Or, kind of a bitch for being so weird about what I look like.

“Hmm. Okay. So, should we get going or…this place totally creeps me out. Let’s just get out of here and get on the road. Cool?”

“Cool,” I replied. “Let’s go.”

The first day was all pleasantries. Back stories.

Day two was filled with compromises. Sure, I’m happy to visit that teensy artsy town you really want to go to. I concede. I’d love to drive the extra-long scenic route, she lies. And so on.

By day four it’s clear we don’t like each other. By day six it’s starting to feel possible that we might, in fact, hate one another. We have nothing in common, aside from a few bands. We don’t understand one another’s life experiences and we are both completely devastated that we will have to cohabitate for any amount of time.

Days pass. There are fun moments. Laughs and what would later become inside jokes, good food (mostly vegan), some nice people along the way, quaint towns and gorgeous beaches. We journal and read and listen to lots and lots of Cat Power. We do our own thing, we make loads of phone calls (from pay phones because…that’s how long ago it was) and we just sort of get through the next week.

As we pull off I-80 into Stroudsberg, Pennyslvania we are miserable. We hate each other. We know we hate each other. The secret is out. School hasn’t even begun and we have nothing left to talk about. We’ve pretended for too long (12 whole days!) and neither of us has any patience left. It’s all out on the table. She’s a rich girl pretending to be some eco-friendly, street-savvy artist. And, I’m a small-town fuck-up with a giant chip on her shoulder, too heartbroken to be open and too jaded to be forgiving.

We just have to get through one more night. Bronxville is on the horizon but it’s late and we can’t check into the dorm until the following morning so we have to find one last place to stay before…before an entire year of this begins.

“Let’s just pull in here. This looks promising,” I say. It looks cheap and I’m broke. I know if I don’t suggest something she’ll have us staying in a Marriott.

“Why don’t you just let my parents pay for us to stay in a nice hotel?” she pleads.

“Lisa, not everyone can call their goddamn parents and ask them to subsidize their lives. I can pay my own way. I’ll cover my half but we’ve gotta stay here. Deal with it.”

“Shit. Fine. This place looks like a rape motel. If I get raped, I swear to god I am so suing you.”

“You’re not going to get fucking raped, Lisa. Jesus, you are so dramatic. It’s dark, it’s cheap. There’s cheaper and darker. Believe me. We’re fine,” I say. “Just back the car into the space so it’s harder to open the trunk if someone tries to steal our shit. And put your fucking cd’s in the glove compartment. You can’t leave them lying out like that.”

“Fine. But, I’m super uncomfortable with this. Just for the record.”

“Great. Your grievance has been recorded,” I mutter under my breath. I hear the car doors click loudly just as the cracked glass door to the front desk area swings shut behind me.

Lisa quickly unlocks the doors when she sees me coming. Doesn’t want me to know she’s scared, I think. “I got us a second floor room. No one will even bother with the second floor. If anyone’s getting raped it’ll be some first-floor fool,” I say with a smile.

She chuckles. Just a bit. But, enough to break the tension and lighten the mood. Maybe this will work, I start to think. I stop and let her walk ahead of me. She’s carrying three heavy bags and limping under their weight. Maybe she just needs a little bit of reality. And, time away from her folks. She’ll come around, I think as she turns the corner.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lisa screams.

“What is it?” I ask, running to see what’s the matter. The light is out in front of our door. The ground is moving. The door is humming. The wall is alive. “What is THAT?” I ask.

“Cicadas,” she explains. “They’re disgusting.”

“Whoa! I think they’re beautiful. Holy shit, listen to them. I’ve never heard anything like it,” I say. “They’re amazing. They look like a cross between a Mystic and a Skeksis. Right? Like, before they split.”

“What are you even talking about?” she hisses.

I can’t believe she’s never seen the Dark Crystal, I think. I fucking knew I didn’t like her.

“How do we get in?” Lisa asks. She’s starting to look genuinely scared. And pissed.

“They’re like tiny dinosaurs. Holy shit. They’re so creepy. But cool. And, that sound. It’s like music. It’s dreamy. I feel like they’re hypnotizing me. They’re magical. These things are magical, right?”

“You are such a weirdo.”

27
Jul
2015

adult books (the non-pornographic sort)

categories: me

I hate a question that starts with, “What’s your favorite…”

I loathe having to make a choice. That’s not entirely true, I just feel like there is a time and place for one thing or another. Salty or sweet depending on the day. Or both, if that’s what I’m in the mood for.

My favorite color? To look at, to wear, to paint with? Favorite movie? For when I’m in a foul mood, for when I need a laugh, for when I want to be challenged?

You see what I mean? Context. It all comes down to the specifics of the moment.

That said, here are a few of my all-time favorite reads. Books that have left me quiet, introspective and immobilized for days at a time. Books I couldn’t put down. Books whose beauty made me feel like, “Well, that’s the last book I’ll ever read. How can anyone top that?” That is especially true for Pale Fire. I’m not sure there is a better book than that one.

So, here are my top picks. I’m sure I’m forgetting some, but these are the ones that have withstood the test of time (and memory):

A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison

Pale Fire & Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

To the Lighthouse & Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson

I like a lot of nonfiction. In fact, it took me a while to really embrace the fiction world. Nabokov, Camus and Woolf helped me with that problem (could I sound more elitist?) I used to be kind of a book snob. Judgy and snooty about popular, summer reads. Now, I love those books. They don’t make my all-time favorite list but, they have their time and place.

Again, it’s all about what I’m in the mood for. Lately, I want a lighthearted, easy read. I’ve gotten similarly lazy with my audio endeavors. I used to listen to a ton of experimental and punk music. Now, I spend a lot of time in the genre I like to call “easy listening.” I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I also watch really crappy t.v. shows. My Netflix queue would horrify my 20-year-old self.

I think this is what they call, “getting older.”

23
Jul
2015

marriage

categories: me

It took five years for my boyfriend to convince me that marriage might be an okay thing.

I had never pictured myself getting married. I hate white dresses. Not a big fan of dresses in general. I want nothing to do with diamonds and the whole idea of being engaged definitely did (and does) not appeal to me. He, on the other hand, had always envisioned getting married.

About a year into our relationship I told him that if he proposed I would break up with him. Sounds dramatic but, really, I just hated the idea of being surprised by such a huge question and then being put on the spot to make such a huge decision. This is not to say that I don’t understand the draw of the proposal for some people. I think it can be incredibly romantic and sweet and it makes some folks really, really happy.

For me, I’d prefer to be the one proposing. Scratch that, what I would really prefer is a conversation. You know, “Do you want to get married? Is that interesting/appealing to you?” Something like that.

Marriage ain’t no joke. It’s what “bwings us togeder today…dat bwessed awangment, dat dweam wifin a dweam…” Sorry. Couldn’t help it. The Princess Bride clergyman will never be outdone.

I was saying…marriage…it’s a (theoretically) serious commitment by TWO (usually) people. As in, this is not something to be entered into alone. You should really talk about that shit before you make the decision to do it.

I mean, I think that when people propose they’re pretty confident in their partners’ answer. And, for others, there has even been a conversation about it — probably a sort of vague, roundabout one.

We can’t really remember how it all went down. We were sitting in our living room. It was a Saturday or a Sunday and we’d just finished a late brunch at home (huevos rancheros, maybe?) We were sipping bloody mary’s and one of us brought it up. Which one? We can’t remember. Not because we were drunk. Just because, well, it doesn’t really matter.

“You wanna get married?” someone asked.

“Hmm. I don’t know, do you?” the other responded.

“I mean, sure. Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Great even. I mean, I really love you. I think that’s why you get married,” someone said.

“Shit. Okay, yeah. YEAH! This is awesome. I’m in. I really love you, too,” the other replied.

“Right. And, we’ve talked about the commitment part. It’s us. For good. Or, at least for a good long time.”

“Yeah, and our lives are already totally entangled. I mean, we bought a turntable and a t.v. together. We’ll have to talk about who gets what in the divorce.”

The next day we went to Tiffany’s and picked out simple gold bands. He paid for mine and I paid for his. If you’ve ever been to Tiffany’s (which we hadn’t) it’s a whole experience. I mean, they don’t mess around. We figured we’d splurge on the rings and bequeath them to our offspring. It may be the only thing of value they inherit.

A classic gold ring. I’m not sure there’s a better heirloom to pass down. I got a gold band (years later) from my great uncle after he passed away. It was engraved October, 1910. Exactly 99 years before we were married.

“When’s the big day?” Adam, the sweet, mild-mannered Tiffany’s employee inquired.

“Oh, we’re getting married. We’re not having a wedding. We’re just doing the whole, you know, marriage part. Skipping the rest,” we responded.

“I see,” he said. We regretted it immediately. Couldn’t we have come up with some wonderful lie? The poor guy didn’t know what to talk about. Clearly, his entire conversational repertoire was reliant upon people having, like, real weddings!

“Are you pregnant?” my principal asked upon my return to work. “Is that why you snuck off and got married last week?”

“Nope. Not allowed to ask that, Eileen. But, nope. Not pregnant. Just married,” I responded.

“But. What about the wedding? What about your families?” she continued. “Won’t they be mad?”

As it turned out there were a few people in our lives who were a bit sad. Not mad, just bummed to miss the moment. You know, that beautiful ‘I do’ moment. But, they got over it and we threw a party a year later. No fuss, no stress, just a big celebration so everyone could come together and eat and drink and dance.

It was perfect. For us.

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