All Good Things Must Come To An End

My phone rang this morning. At six. The time of day reserved for pesky fax machines. I hate those calls. Annoying loud beeps waking me from a restful slumber. Except this morning when I fumbled for the phone and looked at the caller ID, I saw the number was his. I knew something wasn’t right. I knew that if he was awake at two in the morning his time and he was calling me at six in the morning my time, something needed to be said. It was at that moment I cursed. I cursed that the caller wasn’t a fax machine.

The conversation went in circles. Around and around, sometimes overlapping and sometimes straying ever so slightly. Like a Spirograph. Tearing through the paper. When my rambling didn’t make sense to him, I realized it didn’t make sense to me either. You know how that goes. Sometimes a conversation is between two people but not really. I was speaking words just for the sake of saying something. I was unraveling my thoughts in random order. Or maybe I was rambling simply to avoid hanging up.

When we finally said goodbye, it was seven. I pulled on my workout clothes and went outside for a long walk. My feet pounded the pavement to the music pumping through my earphones. Then, ten minutes shy of reaching home, my iPod froze up. Meaning I had nothing screaming over my thoughts. So I spent the last leg of my walk clenching my jaw and doing everything in my power to think about absolutely nothing. I focused on the sensation of my muscles tightening around my mouth. I focused on the sound of my breathing. I focused on avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk.

I came through my apartment door sweaty and thirsty and wishing I had a bat to slam against the floor. I wanted to swing my arms and send my energy through something. I wanted to feel the power of my efforts reverberating back into me. I wanted to purge myself of the frustration knotting me up inside. I grabbed a bottle of water and dropped onto my sofa. Then I called Leslie. To test drive speaking the reality aloud. Because once I spoke the words, once I heard the words exit my mouth, maybe the surreal feeling defining my morning would fade back to normal.

“Change your flight,” she insisted. “Move your Sunday flight to Friday.”

“I’m not sure. I think I’m okay. I mean, I feel curiously normal,” I said with a nervous giggle.

“Hold on, I need to put you on speaker. So I can drive, apply make-up and still talk.”

The line went dead.

“Sorry about that,” Leslie said when I answered the phone. “Make-up can wait.”

I went back to talking in circles. I orbited the topic so many times I lost count of my laps. With my sweat absorbing into my sofa, I looked at the clock. I had to shower. I had to get dressed. I had to be in front of a client in an hour to review their health insurance. Because what better tedious topic to distract me from the traffic jam of thoughts in my head than hospital costs and prescription copays. I ended the conversation and went about my morning routine. Although this time around I was a little off. Like I forgot to shave under my left arm and I accidentally used the conditioner first.

By the time I finished my meeting and got into the office, it was noon. As I flipped through my emails, the phone rang. It was Leslie.

“I don’t know if you want to talk but I at least wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Not up for talking. But funny enough, totally comfortable writing about it,” I said.

“Should I call you later or do you want some space?”

I ignored the question. Not intentionally. It’s just that when I opened my mouth, the words that fell out were unrelated.

“When I drove out of the city after my appointment every fucking song was about love or heartbreak. And I wasn’t even listening to the country station. Anyway, eventually I broke. Somewhere on Broad Street I cried. To Dave Matthews. Crash.”

“Okay, that song would get me too. Regardless of just breaking up with a man I love. Uh, you might want to avoid all Annie Lennox,” Leslie suggested.

“And David Gray,” I chimed in. Then I laughed, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because laughing felt better than the other emotion bubbling up in my belly. That empty, hollow, butterfly-less belly.

“I’m going to go. Maybe finally eat something. Or not. Ah, the silver lining to being sad - weight loss!” I joked.

“For the record, I’m really proud of how you have handled everything. You’re being really rational and realistic. But listen, don’t forget - it’s okay to feel emotions. And you will.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, the admission somehow triggering a release.

“Think about coming down earlier. I can get Olivia to make all of your favorite animal noises. Or, you know, stay there and come down as planned. Either way, I’m here for you. No matter the time of day.”

“Thanks,” I said, a knot rising in my throat. The kind that makes my voice waiver and tremble.

I put the phone back in the cradle and felt my eyes start to water. At which point I looked up to the white tiled ceiling in my office. I quickly blinked my eyes and quietly whispered a mantra - don’t-cry-don’t-cry-don’t-cry. All I wanted was to push the tears back in. None of it worked. So as a salty stream stained my right cheek, I grabbed my sunglasses and wallet and keys and darted for my car. And as the back door to the office slowly closed behind me, I yelled back in to my coworkers.

“I’m running out,” I said. There wasn’t any reason for me to get any more specific.

Spinning the Globe

Last summer I toured Spain and Portugal. A few years earlier I spent July traipsing around France. But as June starts to wind down and July looms on the horizon, my travel calendar is blank. Sure, I’m going to Atlanta for July 4th and again in August for a performance. I’ll probably head to Boston to see the Hopper exhibit and I’ll relocate to DC for a weekend with Allison. That’s all fine and good but none of that has sparkle or sizzle. So a few weeks ago I set out in search of a summer trip to someplace exciting.

My research first started with Africa. I’ve always wanted to do a safari and the timing feels perfect. I’m young, I can take the time and I have the urge to experience it all.

“I think I’m going to Tanzania,” I announced to my mother.

“Why?” she replied.

“For a safari – I can see elephants and giraffes and lions and a bunch of other amazing animals.”

“I’ll take you to the zoo,” my mom offered.

Not willing to be sidelined by her close minded perspective, I got down to researching my options. Let’s see, six nights in Tanzania is $1600 plus $200 in local fees - piece of cake. I then went to Kayak and plugged everything in. When the $3,000 price popped up, I fell off my chair. Yeah, um, a Safari in Africa will have to wait.

“I think I’m going to Cambodia and Thailand,” I announced to my mother a week later.

“Why?” she replied.

“Because I can’t afford to visit Africa the way I want to. At least not now. Plus, Angkor Wat looks amazing,” I exclaimed.

“Isn’t it the rainy season over that way?” my mom questioned.

“Whatever - I won’t melt,” I countered.

“Melt? Nah. Be washed away in a monsoon? Perhaps.”

Undeterred by the prospect of traveling in head to toe Goretex, I set off in search of a trip. Let’s see, eight days in Cambodia and Thailand is $700 plus $100 for local fees - done and done. Then I loaded Sidestep and plugged in the dates. When a travel time of 29 hours popped up I gasped. Yeah, um, Southeast Asia will have to wait until I have more days to spare.

“I think I’m going to Egypt,” I announced to my mother.

“Why?” she replied.

“To see the pyramids and everything else the country has to offer.”

“You realize you’re Jewish and blond and traveling with an American passport, right?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, my confidence slowly shrinking.

“And your last name, the one stamped in your American passport, is universally Jewish. As in one of the original tribes – you know that too, right?”

“Okay, I’ll shelve Egypt,” I conceded.

Tired and frustrated but still eager to travel internationally, I went back to the drawing board. And I settled on a trip to Belize. One where I could explore the culture and the environment while still chilling out and relaxing. I emailed the tour company to confirm availability. The owner rang me back to say the trip was full. But there was room on the Costa Rica trip. I could white water raft, mountain bike and sit by the beach. I sat down and tallied the price for the trip and the flight and it works out to be a steal. But for some reason, it feels passé. Costa Rica is like Pan Asian cuisine – so yesterday. Sure I’ve never been. Sure the trip sounds amazing. I just can’t get myself to sign on the dotted line.

“So where are you going this week?” my mom asked, a sarcastic tone tainting her inquiry.

“I was thinking of just driving up to the Cape, parking my car in Hyannis and taking a bike over to Nantucket for a week.”

“Where would you stay?” she asked with a hint of jealousy.

“The hostel. Out at Surfside,” I said knowing this made no sense whatsoever. Me spending a week living out of a hostel and relying on my mountain bike for transportation had way too many things wrong with it. Most importantly, my inability to fetch ice-cream from town on a nightly basis.

“I know we look alike but I’m pretty sure there is no way you’re my daughter.”

And so I’m back to square one. Researching Thailand and Egypt and Tanzania. All the while, Costa Rica lingers on the periphery. Maybe I should just toss a map up on the wall, close my eyes, spin around twice and throw a dart. My luck? It will land on Newark.

Three + Three = Me

Three things that make me cranky:

(1) Capri pants. Just writing that made my stomach churn. Listen up ladies, no piece of two-legged clothing should hit any place between the ankle and the knee. Period. I don’t care if you’re tall or short, thin or fat. I don’t care if you pair it with wedge espadrilles and chunky turquoise jewelry or grosgrain flip-flops and a skinny fit Ralph Lauren pique polo. I’ve worked in retail for over ten years and I’ve followed fashion for the last twenty. I drooled over Tom Ford’s first Gucci collection. I spent a year saving my pennies to purchase a chic Prada pencil skirt. And I have followed the insanity otherwise known as John Galliano. Last I checked, Huck Finn wasn’t designing for the runway.

(2) Oversized soap. I lurv Fresh’s lemon soap. It’s smooth and yummy without being too girly or fragrant. But it also costs $12 a bar and the only place I can find it is Blue Mercury across town. I spend no less than ten dollars in gas and an hour of my life every time I fetch a stash. So last week when I was at Target, I caved and bought a lemon soap the size of a nerf football. It was wrapped in tasteful paper and tied with a sisal bow. I’m a sucker for pretty packaging. More importantly, it was right there in front of me and cost all of seven bucks. On Sunday night I unwrapped the soap and placed it in my shower. On Monday morning I dropped it on my left foot and injured my big toe. On Tuesday morning I dropped it on my right foot and bruised whatever bone holds the foot together. On Wednesday morning I dropped that piece of shit soap in the trash where it has taunted me ever since.

(3) Retired old people with way too much time on their hands / My neighbors. I live in a complex mostly populated with old people. Correction - really old people. At least three times a week I can hear an ambulance idling outside my balcony. Looks like another unit’s going on the market! Anyway, in the winter my neighbors plan weekday bus trips to Atlantic City where for twenty bucks they get an all you can eat buffet lunch, a second rate performance by a has-been crooner and a roll of quarters to play the slots. In the summer they congregate at the pool clustering chairs in the shade to kibitz and kvetch. And regardless of the time of year, they get all up in my grill about using two washing machines at the same time or they nosily stare into my unit when I fling the door open and stumble in with five bags of groceries or they stand really close to me in the elevator and ask questions like am I visiting my grandmother and what unit does she live in. For the record, I moved in over two years ago, no I don’t want to meet your grandson and for the love of fucking GOD stop wearing that offensive perfume that hasn’t been manufactured in fifty years. Now move out of my way so I can press the damn button and get on with my youthful life.



Three things that always make me giddy with glee:

(1) Hearing my niece and nephew call my name or at least try to call my name. Olivia’s still struggling with the ‘g’ part so she usually calls me Aunt Pay which really just makes her cuter than she already is. Aunt Paige, come play with my trains. Aunt Pay, read me a story. Aunt Paige, let’s go play on the swings. Aunt Pay, you are SO much more fun than mommy and prettier and smarter too! Okay, I’m still teaching them this last line but I think Anders will turn the corner soon enough. Anywho, I could have spinach in my teeth, a booger hanging out of my nose and my skirt tucked into my underwear - I’d still be awesome in their innocent eyes. Plain and simple, being an Aunt rocks.

(2) Writing something that I think is brilliant, even if it isn’t. Be it a sentence, a paragraph or an entire story. If you aren’t fortunate enough to be blessed with my creativity (cough, cough), well, think about putting a puzzle together. One where the picture is all blue sky and white clouds. The end point is the image splashed across the lid of the box. With everything spread out on the table, you shuffle the pieces around. Sometimes they connect and sometimes they don’t. You switch things around. You study the lid. You step back. You lean forward. Bit by bit, it all comes together. And then you snap the final piece into place. Pure magic.

(3) Hearing from him. I spend a ridiculous amount of my workday on the phone managing clients and vendors and all of the crap that goes wrong between the two. The last thing I want to do in the evening is cradle a handset to my ear and gab. Blah blah this and blah blah that. I’d rather read a New Yorker or walk on my treadmill or zone out to John Stewart. Well, with one exception - when the incoming number flashing on the phone is his. Everything else matters, just not as much. So I toss the magazine on my coffee table or mute the television or hop off the treadmill and with a silly girl grin I reach for the phone. Those moments are better than eating a perfectly warmed slice of peach blueberry pie served a la mode while sitting under a starry summer sky with the distant sound of the ocean rolling up on the shore. Yup, it’s better than that.

Stripes and Chintz and Toile, Oh My

As annoying as my mother can be, she does come in handy with home decor. So on Friday evening I had her stop by my apartment. I’d finally bitten the bullet on my flooring debacle and since I can’t decorate to save my life, I thought she just might shed some light. All I needed was for her to confirm the size of the area rug I wanted to buy for my bedroom. That was it. The size of an area rug. For my bedroom. Period.

“What’s going on here?” my mom asked when she stepped into my entryway, her arms flailing every which way.

“For the record, you’re the one who picked that all out,” I said while pointing to my living room sofas.

“No, this,” she said while scrunching up her nose as if the treadmill she was pointing to was emitting a foul odor.

“That there is exercise equipment. I work out on it. Regularly. And while it consumes the entire dining area, it is going absolutely nowhere. Because for once in my life,” I said, halting mid-sentence when I noticed my mother walking away from me.

“Paige, come in here,” she ordered.

“Yeah?” I fearfully asked as I strolled down the corridor and into my bedroom.

“These drapes are atrocious,” she said while pulling one away from the wall to get a view from a different angle.

“Yeah, I bought those with you. At Target,” I defended. “They matched the Ralph Lauren pattern on my shams and cost less than an arm and a leg.”

“For the record, I would have never let you buy these. They’re crap,” she announced before letting go of the panel and wiping her palm on her slacks. “Grab your bag, I’m taking you shopping.”

And off we went on a whirlwind weekend tour of stores I usually avoid. From Pottery Barn to HomeGoods, Domain to Lowes, I walked the aisles in search of decoratey things. Most conversations went something like this:

“I like this.”

“No you don’t. It’s hideous and goes with nothing. Put it back.”

Monday morning couldn’t come fast enough. Finally I had a legitimate escape from my mother the interior design Nazi. I stumbled into my office at around nine and got right down to work. Then my mom rang to remind me to order the previously selected replacement bedding. Instead I called Leslie.

“Mom had me looking at a $4,000 sofa on Saturday,” I said when she picked up. “I spent about that much on my kitchen. More importantly, what’s the traditional height of a bedskirt? Pottery Barn has two sizes and both seem silly long.”

“I can’t wait to redecorate,” Leslie answered with the excitement I reserve for enjoyable experiences like sitting on a beach or having sex. I could tell she was already drifting off, her mind dancing around visions of toile and chintz.

“The height?” I pressed.

“What are you doing?”

“Ivory. Matelasse. Same as what I now have but preferably without the suspicious stain running from the upper left corner down to the lower right corner. And no, it isn’t from sex. I washed it to get one stain out and this one appeared in its place.”

“You washed it? Good job - now the stain has set. You were supposed to dry clean it,” she said before finally telling me the height on the bedskirt. “You know, not to confuse matters but when I did the lake house, I used Restoration Hardware. I like their bedding better.”

I got tense. My palms started to sweat. My stomach started to churn. The edges of my vision went blurry.

“Paige? You there?”

“I can’t do this. I’m allergic to decorating. I'll catch you later. Like once I stop hyperventilating.”

Five minutes later, my phone rang. It was my mom.

“I was thinking. Maybe you should paint one accent wall in your bedroom. To pull out the blue from that rug you bought Friday night. Because you have to incorporate that color elsewhere. Or I guess you could buy a throw. Something you can casually toss on that dark wooden armchair you still don’t own.”

“Why buy an armchair when I can pay you to stand in the corner and hold it?” I asked.

“I am free on weekends! Ooh, that’s the other line - I’ll call you back,” my mom said before the line went dead.

I hung up the phone and started rubbing my temples to release the pain. Then I closed any and all computer windows that involved decorating, grabbed a mini-peanut butter cup from the communal candy dish and went back to work. Maybe the dry cleaner can get the stain out of the duvet I already own. Or maybe I can buy a replacement of sorts from Pottery Barn or Restoration Hardware or some other place that sells that crap. Or maybe I can leave it as is. Hey, nothing a little dim lighting can’t remedy.

I'm Melting

I have a secret. But you can’t tell anyone. It’ll completely ruin my reputation. Seriously now, I didn’t spend the last thirty years building up this flawless (cough, cough) image of who I am only to let one measly confession destroy it all.

Scoot closer. Lean in. Okay, are you ready? I want kids.

Oh.

My.

God.

I think I need to vomit. Wait, no, I can’t breathe. And my vision is getting blurry.

Okay, so while I never said never-ever on the procreation front, having a kid was also never on my must-experience-before-I-die list. Fall madly in love with a man who loves me similarly, go on a safari in Africa, master cooking the perfect roasted chicken, write a book worth reading – yeah, those all made the list. Spend nine months hiding my fat ass under polyester tents, squeeze a watermelon through a hole the size of a quarter, convert my boobs into a local watering hole, change soupy poopy diapers – yeah, nowhere even near my list let alone on it.

I guess things can change.

On Saturday morning, my niece Olivia had a fever. Instead of leaping around the kitchen excitedly singing a song only she knows, she lazily lounged in her high chair pushing an uneaten Pop Tart around the tray. Her glassy eyes were half closed and her ponytail was already keeling to the right.

“Hold you,” she pleaded in my direction.

And so I plucked her wet noodle of a body from the confines of her personal dining table and curled her into my arms. As I rested her weight on my right hip, she nuzzled her head against my neck. Her body molded into mine while I walked circles around the dining table. I’m not going to lie, I melted.

In the scurry of relocating to Chuck E. Cheese with a detour to retrieve my parents, I plopped Olivia on the sofa and darted for the door. Around a half hour later, I was at the venue. In the distance I could see a hazy Olivia meandering into the party like a drunkard, her pink croc clad feet scuffing against the industrial carpeting.

“Do you want me to hold you?” my mother warmly asked Olivia.

“No!” she emphatically yelped. “Aunt Pay, hold you!” she said before zigzagging over to me. Sitting off to the side with Olivia on my lap and her head resting against my chest, I melted a little more.

By Sunday, Olivia was feeling well enough to have a crankfest. She halted long enough to say goodbye and give me a kiss, which involves her wet lips flatly pressing against my cheek. Then she went back to being whiny about something silly. When I slipped out the door she had a little bit of a foot stomp going and her favorite word ‘no’ was repeatedly passing through the air. Nonetheless, I somehow found it all endearing.

My flight home took two hours. Getting from the tarmac to the gate took another thirty minutes. Even though the carousel in baggage claim was rotating, the luggage didn’t plop down onto it for an hour. And thanks to an accident on the expressway, there was a five mile jam. By the time I got home, I was exhausted. I dropped my bags on the floor and my body on the sofa. I rifled through my mail, turned on my computer and kicked off my shoes. Then I grabbed the phone off the cradle and checked my messages.

“Hey Paige, it’s me. Just wanted to thank you for coming down this weekend to help Anders celebrate his birthday. It means a lot that you were here. Oh, and I think you have a new best friend. When I took Olivia upstairs for bed, she said, ‘I say night-night to Aunt Pay’ and looked around for you.”

Leslie’s message rambled on for another minute or so but I have no idea what she said. I was no longer paying attention. People, forget melting - I was a puddle on the floor.

A Matter of Choice

I stepped off the escalator and scanned the car rental counters in search of my parents. They’d flown up from Sarasota and I’d flown down from Philadelphia, happily meeting in Atlanta to help celebrate Anders’s birthday. I spotted my mother leaning against a wall and made my way over.

“It’s ten dollars more if I’m added as a driver,” my mom said.

“Um, okay. I’ll get it,” I replied somewhat confused as I reached for my wallet.

“It has nothing to do with money and everything to do with principle,” she defended.

“Well, based on this so-called principle, any and all antique shopping you want to do this weekend will involve you hitchhiking to and from,” I countered while extending a crumpled ten dollar bill.

“Good point and put your money away. You’re offending me.”

After retrieving the rental and loading everything in the back, I hopped behind the wheel and steered us onto the highway. The sun dipped below the horizon as I set the radio to something country. Around half an hour later, I pulled up in front of the hotel my parents had booked for their visit. And exactly one hour later, we piled back in the car.

“Now what?” I asked as I turned the key in the ignition.

“Well, I’m not staying here. On Monday they quoted me $89 a night for a room with a glass shower door and tonight the price is suddenly $239 a night? That’s a complete bait-and-switch and I refuse to fall for it. If they won’t honor the rate, I’ll go elsewhere.”

“Can I just take you to the Ritz or the Hyatt? My treat,” I offered as I flipped my Swatch over to confirm the time. It was late, I was tired and I smelled like airplane. The last thing I wanted to do was go on a grand tour of Buckhead’s three star hotels.

“Just drive over to the Springhill Suites,” my mom stubbornly insisted.

I turned out of the parking lot and headed a mile up the road. When I pulled in front of the hotel, my mom went into the lobby. My dad and I lingered in the idling car and placed bets on the verdict. Fifteen minutes later, my mother quietly crawled into the backseat and closed the door.

“It’s $119 a night. And I was the only white person in there,” she said, whispering the word white the same way a Jewish person whispers the word cancer or divorce.

“Sounds great - I'll get your bags,” I said as I opened the car door and darted for the trunk.

With everything plopped down in a pile, I kissed my parents goodnight and got back in the car. When I glanced in the rear view mirror, I could see my mother still standing there sporting a look of terror. The same don't-leave-me-here expression reserved for small children on the first day of school. I shifted the car into drive and peeled out before either of my parents could change their minds.

“I don’t know what happened to mom and dad but they’re cheap as all fark,” I said to Leslie when I got to her house. “They went from Relais Chateaux and Le Bec Fin to Hampton Inn and Chick-Fil-A. I just don’t get it. Absolutely nothing in the middle,” I said.

“Yeah, I know, though don’t go knockin’ Chick-Fil-A,” Leslie mumbled as she rolled over and went back to sleep.

The following morning, I retrieved my parents at the hotel and relocated the three of us to Chuck E. Cheese. Olivia wasn't feeling 100% so she lingered on my lap away from the activity. Leslie tended to Anders and my parents flitted between the two kids.

“I love Connie’s bag,” my mom said as she slipped into the booth next to me and Olivia.

“Prada. Spring collection. And easily $1,200. You would never, and I mean never spend that kind of money on a handbag,” I taunted.

“Never say never. It isn’t that I couldn’t. It’s just that I choose not to,” my mother defended as she twirled the pearl dangling off her David Yurman earring.

“Oh yeah? How's that choice of hotel working out for you?” I asked as Olivia nuzzled closer to me.

My mother squinted her eyes and glared a look of death before formulating a response.

“I’m choosing to ignore your last comment,” she said before scooting out of the booth and drifting back to the party.

Neither Here Nor There

Sometimes I hate being here. Not because I spend half of every morning peeling slats of parquet from my heels only to return them to the jigsaw puzzle otherwise known as my condo floor. Not because I have only three pairs of clean underwear left in my dresser, two of which are exactly the tattered panties my mother would gasp about. Not because the contents of my refrigerator include eggs that expired two weeks ago, milk that expired three weeks ago and a half used jar of tikka masala sauce. No, sometimes I hate being here because it means I’m not there - a revolving destination of someplace else.

Sometimes I want to be eight hundred miles south with Leslie and the kids. I want to walk unannounced through the back door, scoop Olivia into my arms and swing her around like an airplane until my shoulders ache. I want to chase Anders around the backyard until he collapses in a giggling heap and screams for help. I want to read the kids bedtime stories before retiring to the kitchen with Leslie where we’ll wash the dinner dishes, sip the remaining wine and girl gab the way we used to back when I lived with her. Because there I know a sense of home found no place else.

Sometimes I want to be five thousand miles west with him. I want to roll over in the morning, stretch my legs, rub my eyes and extend my arm so I can rest my palm on his bare back. I want to sit across from him at the dinner table and think until my head hurts and laugh until my stomach aches. I want to know that even though he’s watching television in the living room and I’m scribbling in my journal in the bedroom, only a stretch of wall to wall carpeting separates us. Because there I know a sense of safety found no place else.

Sometimes I want to be three hundred miles up the coast and two hours out at sea with my family. I want to sprawl out on a blanket with Leslie at Surfside, my feet dangling over the edge so my toes can playfully reshape piles of sand. I want to stroll the aisles of Bartlett’s Farm with my mom and fill our handbaskets with sweet yellow corn, red ripe tomatos, a bouquet of wild flowers and a just baked triple berry pie. I want to settle in next to my dad at the plastic table on the second floor balcony, look out at the ocean and peacefully watch the planes dip closer to the horizon as they near the airport. Because there I know a sense of calm found no place else.

Sometimes I want to be four thousand miles to the east all by myself. I want to step out into the bustling street and find myself enveloped in a city that waltzes to Edith Piaf. I want to spend hours sitting at a cafe with a book in one hand, a Perrier in the other and a Croque Monsiuer front and center. I want to stand in front of masterful works of art, peer over the edge of Le Pont Neuf and stroll the pebble pathways of the Tuilleries. Because there I know a sense of urban adventure found no place else.

It isn’t that I dislike my version of here. I love the charm that comes with a small borough nestled against a bustling city. I adore walking up the street to snag some gourmet lemon soap or a red velvet cupcake or a pile of dry cleaning and having each and every merchant warmly greet me by name. I enjoy exploring this ever evolving city with friends just as much as I savor solo moments strolling the peaceful trails that edge the Wissahickon. So yeah, I like being here plenty. But sometimes, sometimes I really wish I were there.

Aye Aye Captain

I’m not exactly sure when it happened but at a certain point in my life, I adopted the crass linguistic skills of a sailor. It isn’t that I use profanity in each and every conversation but I tend to let curse words randomly slip in. Okay, fine. I am totally full of shit. I use profanity rather frequently. In fact, it’s so commonplace that half the time I don’t even realize I’ve cursed.

A few months into my relationship with Ex, my swearing was brought to my attention. He properly argued it wasn’t ladylike, leaving me no choice but to seek out alternative expressions. I settled on fark, the closest I could come to, well, you know. I still had the ability to push my teeth down into my lower lip as I hissed the F and and I still could land a hard thud against the K finish. Phonetically speaking, fark felt just as delicious to deliver as the curse word it replaced. Surprisingly this un-curse stuck. Or it at least stuck until the end of that relationship. Right around the time Ex told me I was fat I told him he was a fucking superficial shit-prick. Ladies and gentlemen, the bitch is back.

I realize there is absolutely no allure or appeal to someone who uses profanity. Especially when said someone is a classy (cough) woman. Nonetheless, here I am, Ms. Fuckity-Fuck herself.

Well, the other night, I went out for pizza and beer at a hot spot I had never visited. With my belly full and my beer glass almost empty, I melted back into the booth. I was in the middle of a food coma when the server stopped by to see how things were going. It was at this point I inquired about buying a t-shirt emblazoned with the restaurant’s logo.

“Do I ask you or do I get it up at the front?” I politely inquired, my right hand resting on my bloated belly.

“I can get it for you - which one do you want?” he asked with a gentle smile.

“Shit, I totally wasn’t paying attention when I passed the display on my way in,” I said.

“What?” he genuinely asked.

And since it wasn’t bad enough I’d already cursed unnecessarily once while seated in a sea of families and children, I went and repeated my previous statement word for word. I knew what I was doing, I cringed at the sound of my voice enunciating the curse word and yet it easily flowed from my mouth.

“Go look ‘em over and let me know which one you want,” he calmly said before scooting off to tend to another patron.

I slid out from behind the table and as I walked toward the front of the restaurant, I pondered continuing on my forward path and heading right out the door. I was utterly mortified. I couldn’t believe how easily the curse had fallen from my lips. It was unnecessary, it didn’t enhance my statement one bit and it totally made me sound like trash.

As I worked my way back through the restaurant, I saw the server and informed him of my choice. A few minutes later, the t-shirt and the check were delivered to the table. Listen, I’m a good tipper. Even if you spill my drink and spit in my food, you’ll get twenty percent. Well, this waiter was attentive and polite and quick to please. He also had tolerated my wretched mouth. I tipped thirty percent. And as I signed on the dotted line, I began pondering how to kick my swearing habit once and for all.

Growing up, Leslie got into a terrible routine of incorporating the word like no less than three times in each and every sentence. It drove my father bonkers. So, one night at the dinner table while I chased some chicken around my plate, Leslie told a story about something that had happened at school. And like she was like so shocked that the teacher would like do such a thing. Every time she uttered the word like, my father raised his hand. I just sat there giggling while she got flustered.

In the end, my dad’s efforts worked flawlessly. She immediately dropped like from her vocabulary. Maybe I need to hire someone to shadow me and visibly raise their hand whenever I slip up. Or maybe I need to pretend everyone I’m speaking with is a potential client. Or maybe I just need to really make a good faith effort to think before I speak, thereby providing ample time to swap out words and avoid the f-bomb. Or maybe – oh for the love of God, fark it.