- the summer garbage smell
- humidity
- the school entrance requirements and stress for pre-K, elementary school, middle school and high school. no one should be that stressed out about fifth grade. it’s not normal. or healthy.
- the fast-paced nature of everything and everyone
- the inability of working folks to ever imagine buying anything
- paying exorbitant, embarrassing sums of money on rent
- the never-ending winters
- the way my feet feel at night having walked on pavement all day
- noise–all the time
- living on top of and underneath someone
- so. many. people. everywhere. all the time.
Posts Tagged ‘Park Slope’
pre-nostalgia
categories: new york
Standing outside a dark, gothic church, on a granite sidewalk, staring into warmly lit brownstones across the way. A thick sandwich–fluffy white roll and a large chunk of meat, with just a sliver of lettuce and tomato. There are a multitude of small moments, sights, sounds, tastes–that are distinctly New York. The meat-heavy sandwich, the stone sidewalks, the silhouetted skyline, the people passing by, all of it, only here in this place. There will be new sounds, new faces, new smells that will stick to the insides of my nostrils and adhere themselves to my memories–creating with them a new sense of home, a new aura of self. But these things, these belong to New York City alone. These sensations and sights, these cobblestone streets and gas lamps. These are the romantic images of films, the backdrops of prom photo booths–this is the living, breathing snapshot of New York. No late-summer garbage reek can taint this image. No crowded subway car–hands groping, men preaching, women screaming, people begging–can erase this experience. No neighbors’ blaring talk show radio or NYU drunken frat boy, no snowy March day or shit-filled puddles can diminish this sparkle, this brightness, this feeling of belonging and centeredness.
There are two New Yorks: the one you live in and the one you dream of living in.
It’s the latter that breaks your heart. And, that’s the one you imagine you’ve always lived in, that’s the one you remember and mourn after you’ve gone. Even if that New York was really just a figment of your imagination.
the joys of parenthood
Our apartment is wonderful. It is practically perfect. Sure, I could do without the two flights of stairs and I would KILL for some outdoor space. But, come on, it’s New York City. That’s how it goes.
The thing that is a real bummer. And, one that I think I’m justified in bringing up here, is the fact that we stare straight into our neighbors’ house from a distance of about five feet. Some architect had the brilliant idea to extract a few square feet of brick in between adjoining duplexes in order to provide more natural light. Now, this is wonderful in theory, don’t get me wrong. We get bright beams streaming through our kitchen glasses on the sun’s rise to noon. An eastern-facing apartment is a thing of beauty in Brooklyn.
However, an eastern-facing apartment with a large kitchen window that looks directly into our neighbors western-facing kitchen window is awkward at best.
Why haven’t we put up blinds? Well, it’s become somewhat of a stand-off. You want privacy? You pay for curtains. They’re giant panes and they didn’t come equipped with pre-installed blinds like the rest of our windows.
The problem isn’t that we see straight into their world and vice versa — though that is, admittedly, regrettable. The problem is that their lives are too dissimilar from ours for it to be ignorable. They are four, twenty-something women living the single life in New York City. If they were just, you know, another Park Slope family of three making dinner and listening to Raffi while ignoring their mirror images, it would be fine.
I’ve gotten amazingly good at not looking up, just pretending they’re not there. I can stand at my sink and wash an entire basin of dishes without even batting an eye when I hear their girly screeching from a few feet away. I couldn’t describe what these women look like if I had to. If the police came knocking on my door requesting a missing persons sketch I would literally have nothing to offer. “There’s, like, maybe four of them, I think.” How awkward would that conversation be? “Ma’am, your window stares straight into their apartment. You’re telling me you have no idea what they look like? You can’t possibly be serious.” And, I’d be all up on my high horse like, “Hey, man, it’s New York. This is how we live. I don’t get into their business, and they don’t get into mine.” Anyway, I don’t think there is such a thing as a missing persons sketch. At least not for middle-class women living in the city. I’m sure their images are all over the internets. But, you know, if there was…
So, anyway. I had a story I was trying to tell. It required this preamble but perhaps could have done without the whole police-knocking-on-my-door tangent. Anyhow, here we are. So, my kid is in her high chair eating her dinner. And it takes her forever to eat. So, I’ve already finished and I’m at the window, washing dishes. Staring down, into my steely sink when I hear her say, “Mama, you wanna take a bath with me?” And I think, ugh, it is so much more difficult to bathe with her than to just plop her in, real quick-like, and be done with the whole ordeal. Bedtime is already running late, we stayed on those damn swings too long (as usual) and now everything is about twenty minutes behind where I’d like them to be. And then I think, what is wrong with me? Yes, of course you should take a bath with your two-year-old. She is asking you to and there will not be many of these days left. They will pass quickly and without notice. One day very soon she will be a surly teenager screaming that I’ve once again used her special shampoo and when will we get a second bathroom because, uhhhhhggg, life is so hard!!
“Yes,” I quip. “Of course I will bathe with you, honey” As I push the image of her hating me (though, of course it is inevitable) out of my head.
To which she replies, in her most emphatic voice. Voice really being an understatement here. For whatever reason, she decides that these next words should be shouted. Screamed at the top of her lungs for all, near and far, to hear: “Mama, you have a VAGINA?!”
“Yes, sweetheart. That’s right,” I say calmly without looking up, without even turning around. We talk about parts. All our parts. It’s no big deal. I mean, I could do without the snickering of twenty-somethings from across the way but, whatever.
“You got a vagina just like meee?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“And, papa got a PENIS, right?! And, me and you we got VAGINAS?” Her inflection on questions is like an exaggerated slide whistle on it’s way up.
“Yep, that’s it. That’s how it goes,” I say, turning around to look at her like it’s just a regular conversation. Which it is. It just happens to be in front of an audience.
“Except you got a HAIRY vagina and mine’s NOT hairy, riiiiiiiiiiiiight?” she asks, holding onto the last word like a multi-syllabic lyric.
“That is true,” I say, whirling around and swooping her up out of her chair, escorting us both out of the kitchen and into the solitude of our bathroom. Where we can pick up this scintillating dialogue about our genitalia without our poor, horrified and most likely very traumatized neighbors listening in.
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.
people
categories: brooklyn
I am a totally perfect human. Obviously. I mean, I have a blog, so…
No, but really. I try to be kind and generous (I don’t always succeed) and give people the benefit of the doubt (sometimes I forget). Since my mom died I have been much better at understanding that peoples’ lives are not always what they seem and that we’re all going through shit. At some point or another. Life is complicated and difficult.
Living with chronic pain for ten years without any obvious exterior signifiers has helped me to understand that pain and suffering are often under the surface. I’m just trying to say, there’s more than meets the eye. Beauty isn’t skin deep, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am trying to think of as many lame cliche phrases as I can.
Okay. Back to serious thoughts…
I am in the process of dealing with some really lame folks. Condescending, rude, disrespectful — there are many adjectives that could be written to describe them.
It makes my stomach turn. I can’t shake the feeling that I am being taken advantage of, that I’m being treated with a total lack of human decency. I don’t do well with these feelings. I’m quite sure this comes from having spent a good chunk of my childhood and adolescence believing that I didn’t deserve anything good. That nothing should be easy. That no one should be trusted.
I rebelled. Against believing that everyone was out to get me. I rebelled against believing with total certainty that people were inherently bad. It sets me up for some disappointments along the way but it also ensures that very little gets under my skin. If I believe that people are doing their best then I don’t have to take anything personally.
It’s pretty great, actually. You should totally try it.
So, these humans. They are not being good. They are not doing their best. We have given them ample opportunity to do what is right. We have been understanding and patient. We have given them the benefit of the doubt. Used cordial, even friendly, language in dealing with them. Nothing.
No offense to lawyers but I’m pretty sure he’s a lawyer because everything is black and white. There is no room for doing the right thing, there is only room for, ‘what are my legal obligations to you.’ And, I think that is totally shitty. That’s just my opinion.
We are talking about exchanging BABY items. You heard me. Babies. Those tiny humans that make life so wacky and so wonderful.
Can we not just be normal, civil neighbors? This is crazy. Cuh-razy. Like, I can’t even believe that we are having these conversations because you tried to sell us some junky junk and we were way too trusting (I’m noticing a trend here — perhaps we should rethink how we operate in the world a little bit.) And, so we are just trying to return this junk to you and instead of owning that you sold us crap you are instead using all this lawyer jargon, mumbo-jumbo, double-talk, “proprietary interest,” blah, blah, blah “product we tendered…mitigate your loss…I draw a distinction between…”
I draw a distinction between being an ass and being a good human.
So, I’m frustrated. I’m currently working with my daughter on articulating her feelings. Naming her emotions. So, I will express mine through words and hope that in some small way, it will mitigate my queasiness.
I’m frustrated. And disappointed. I’m shocked and I’m not easily shocked. This should have been a simple transaction. We’ve bought and sold a million things on this list serve. We’ve never encountered someone or something so sketchy. I’m bummed. I’m really, really bummed. We’re out $350 and more than that, we’re left feeling helpless.
And then I think, where do I live? What is this strange world that I am a part of? Where do I fit into this world? And then I feel like an outsider again. Because I don’t want to believe that people are awful. I want to believe that people are mostly good. And that, if you give them a chance, they will show you their goodness.
I’m not some naive commune kid. Well, I am a commune kid. And, I can be a little bit naive. BUT, I do know there are awful people out there. I know there are unspeakable acts of cruelty and violence. I know there are unexplainable tragedies and unimaginable losses.
This is not one of those. And, these are not evil people. They’re just assholes. And, this is not some great loss on our part. It’s more money than I’d like to lose learning a life lesson but ultimately, it’s just money. The bigger loss for us is trust. New York can be a real bastard. Beating you down and then continually kicking you once you’re on the ground. We’ve had some pretty traumatic life lessons here. Again, this is not one of those. I have my priorities straight and my perspective intact.
But, that’s not to say that this isn’t a really annoying thing happening. Despite the bigger things in life and in the world. Despite the (ultimate) smallness of this experience. Despite all of this, I am still frustrated. Ya hear me? I’m frustrated!
And, this concludes my rant.
olfactory receptors
categories: brooklyn, california
Someone woke up this morning and said, “It’s a fine day for a fire.”
Perhaps it’s the rain. Or, the drop from 86 to 81 degrees. I suppose this is chilly for Brooklyn in July.
I can’t imagine why anyone would be lighting their wood-burning stove today. But they did. And, it’s magnificent.
Is it wrong that smoke makes me nostalgic for California? Given the current drought situation it seems macabre to be daydreaming about such things. But, I can’t help it.
My sweatshirt is soaking up the the oak’s insides, the sap sizzling and popping, creating a fountain of bright orange ember. We’re sipping Makers and staring into the sun’s reflection in the moon. Stars. So many stars. And darkness. It’s so damn bright in New York.
I’m roasting marshmallows and drinking bloody beers at 9am. Baking potatoes, canned beans, sausages, whose idea was it to bring the instant coffee? I love you. Waking with the sun. The sensation of heat as a being, an entity, trapped inside your tent, pushing against your ears, squeezing your thighs until your eyes are forced open. The sound of the ocean in the morning. Constant, magnetic, totally, totally scary. I mean, the ocean is gorgeous and hypnotizing and totally terrifying, right? I find the warm sand to be a perfect place to enjoy that majestic beast.
All this in one breath.
Thanks for the smoke, Brooklyn.