On the smart spectrum, I’d confidently claim to be closer to the top than the bottom. Um, you done laughing? Good, now hear me out. In second grade I was reading at a third grade level but the teacher claimed it was too much bother to do a lesson for just one student. Her answer was to reteach me second grade reading. Furious with the school district, my parents enrolled me at a prep in the burbs. The next year, my mother decided I’d academically excel elsewhere. During my initial visit to what would become my final resting spot, the teacher gave the class a math test. Even though I never sat through any of the lessons, I aced that sucker. Of course, once I settled into the program, my gold star became rather rusty and tarnished. By my junior year of high school, I had four SAT tutors and a coach to help with my college applications. Even still, Wellesley didn’t want me (cough, whores). Meanwhile, many of my classmates never broke the spine of an SAT study guide and still easily landed at schools like Yale and Princeton and Harvard. So while I’m smart, there are clearly much smarter people out there.
I lurv intelligence. Can lap it up like a drippy ice cream sundae. Not the geeky pocket protector smartness but a raw brilliance. A gentle if not shy mastery of complicated topics most people dismiss as confusing or ambiguous. I might even go so far as to brazenly admit I’m turned on by smarties. Crawling into Alaska’s front seat and shifting an issue of Discover out of the way made my heart skip a beat. Listening to Ex explain the implications of the bond market made my knees weak. Yup, that was some of the best foreplay this woman’s ever experienced. An etched vase filled with fragrant flowers? Whatever. Having a man bury his head between my legs for hours? Feh. Listening to a guy talk about combustible fissions in matter*? Yeah, my down there tingles.
A few days ago, a coworker sent a link to a conundrum of sorts. It was kinda like a math problem with cartoon characters. Most of the instructions were in Japanese but there was a small sidebar with an English translation of the rules. The goal was to transport eight people from one side of a river to the other. But there were guidelines. Like who could be in someone else’s company and how many people could fit on the raft. I love this kind of shit. Eat. It. Up. I’m the one who religiously fetches the most recent offering from Games Magazine and I’m also the one who thought the LSAT problem solving section was more fun than a night of drunken dancing at a neighborhood bar. Gimme a puzzle and I’m a happy camper.
I opened the game and set out on my adventure.
Click – load mom on raft. Click – load daughter on raft. Click – send boat to other side. Loud explosion boomed from my speakers, the noise indicating I had broken a rule.
I muttered a quick woops within the trappings of a nervous giggle. Then I resumed the game.
Click – load dad on raft. Click – load prisoner on raft. Click – send boat to other side. Loud explosion again boomed from my speakers.
I looked away from the game to reread the rules. This time my lips mouthed the words as my eyes passed over them. It was textbook remedial. Then I noticed something I had missed the first read through - a claim that Japanese IT employers use this game as an IQ test. On average, it is completed within fifteen minutes. I glanced at the clock in the lower corner of my monitor to note the time and hastily got back to the game.
Click – load prisoner on raft. Click – load policeman on raft. Click – send boat to other side. No explosion. I exhaled and then quickly checked how much time I had left.
An hour later I had managed to get four of the eight people across. Yeah, an hour. In my defense, I alternated the game with work, fixing a spreadsheet one second and moving a cartoon character the next. As I stared at the monitor, I started to feel really stupid. Like the kind of stupid one associates with kids who ride the short bus. I nervously chewed on the end of my pen. My armpits became moist with perspiration. My fingers cautiously hovered over the keyboard as I wavered about my next move.
“What’re you doing?” another coworker asked when she passed my desk, pausing long enough to fetch a Twizzler from the candy dish.
“Realizing I’m unemployable in Japan,” I said, my confession followed by a loud boom from the speakers.
“Huh?” she asked.
“Never mind.”
I let out a flustered sigh and closed the game altogether. Humbled and drained, I took a sip of water and returned all attention to the piles on my desk. I had a presentation to finish and some quotes to run before calling it a day. Plus, my ego couldn’t handle any more anime bashing.
After work, I stopped at Wholefoods and then went home. I unpacked my purchases, slipped into some lycra and got on my treadmill. An hour later, dripping and panting, I opened my laptop, eyed the email with the game and decided to give it one more go. Ten minutes and a ridiculous number of loud explosions later, I had everyone on the other side. I yelped with excitement. I threw my arms up in the air like a champion boxer after knocking out his opponent. I did the chicken dance across my living room while singing Mr. Roboto. I finally had my smarts back.
And tomorrow I’m posting my resume on Jobs in Japan.
* Yeah, I have no idea if that even makes sense. But I’m figuring you, like me, will be impressed and ignorant enough to let it slide.
** Oh, and here is the game. Instructions are on the bottom. If I learned but one thing from years of conducting meetings with handouts, it is to wait until the end to distribute the distraction. Enjoy, kiddies!
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Blank Canvas
Wednesday was a really long day. Fuck it, so was Tuesday and Monday. I had meetings pulling me in different directions. I had presentations to tidy up and finalize. By the time I made it Wednesday, I was cooked. My suits were all dirty and in a crumpled pile in the corner of my bedroom, my desk was a mess with random papers tossed every which way and my head was spinning faster than a tilt-a-whirl at a carnival.
It was a little past ten when I finally stumbled through my doorway. I’d spent the evening volunteering. The house was a shuffle of activity and the volunteer desk was scarce with help. Simply put, it was a mad dash to quitting time. Tired and hungry, I dropped my keys on the floor next to my purse, kicked off my boots and fetched a fresh bottle of water from the pantry. Then I collapsed on my sofa. I pressed the balls of my feet against the edge of my coffee table and flexed my toes to stretch my arches. I curled up on my side and tapped a button on my tv remote and a button on my laptop, bringing both items to life. Sometimes I changed the channels, sometimes I clicked to another favorite blog and sometimes I crunched down on bits of salty pretzel covered with dark chocolate and sprinkles.
At around midnight, I lazily relocated to my bedroom to begin the arduous process of packing for four days in Atlanta. I stood in my closet and ran my fingertips across the tops of the hangers the same way one drags a hand over piano keys. Supple cashmere followed textured summer linen before ending on pristine wool crepe. I sat down on the floor and pulled shoes from their storage boxes, randomly slipping my bare feet in to try them on. Every so often I stood up to pose in front of my full length mirror. I purred at the snakeskin pumps trimmed with gray ribbon and scowled at the practical Tod suede loafers.
As the clock ticked toward two, I tucked the final must haves in my stuffed duffel and zipped the bag closed. I padded down the hall toward my entryway and reached up to the deadbolt to turn it down. I tapped the light switch to darken the room. And before retiring to my bed for a quick preflight snooze, I checked my cell phone. One missed text message. Before knowing who the sender might be, my eyes casually scanned the words:
Happy Thanksgiving! I hope it’s a great one!
My belly fluttered. I’m allowed to admit that, right? Even if it erroneously fluttered for the wrong reason or more accurately the wrong person? Listen, I would have loved to assume the message was from one of the new boys I like but, well, said boys have yet to ask for my number. Deductive reasoning led my head and heart to scurry in different and dangerous directions. Just before dropping off the what-if cliff, my eyes traced the digits from which the well wishes were sent. It didn’t take long before I realized it was a local number and one I couldn’t place. With my belly suddenly hollow and my heart thumping listlessly, I tapped at the keys to send an uncertain reply:
Thanks and same to you (which would be who - #’s unfamiliar – sorry)
I leaned against my front door and pressed my shoulder blades into the firm wood. I curled my fingers around the phone and waited for it to signal. In the distance I could hear the wind rustling branches. Just beyond the doorway, I could hear muffled voices of neighbors gabbing in the corridor. As I focused on the wee morning noises cluttering my space, I felt my phone vibrate.
I looked down at the screen and read three letters noting a name. It wasn’t Alaska. It wasn’t Ex. It was a man I’d met last summer for an evening of salty oysters, indulgent foie gras and savory glasses of red wine. I can perfectly recall the black tiered skirt I donned as I slipped onto the barstool, the strappy heels I dangled as I crossed my legs and the way he rested his open palm on my car as he leaned in to kiss me goodnight. For various reasons, things halted there. His grandmother’s health deteriorated. My job kicked into crazy mode. A second date didn’t make the calendar until this past January.
It was an unseasonably warm winter night when we reunited. We slinked into a table, sampling butter soaked escargot and perfectly seared duck while sipping wine he had brought back from a recent trip to Italy. Though the restaurant emptied, we casually lingered in place. We talked about his garden. We talked about my writing. We talked and talked until the evening disappeared altogether. He walked me back to my car, offered a goodnight kiss and then went on his way. A few weeks later, with my heart and mind occupied by someone else, I let him know I was pursuing another relationship. He politely wished me well and that was that.
Pondering the funny way the past can revisit the present, I looked up from my phone and glanced out at my apartment. Hangers draped with dry cleaning clung to the arm of my treadmill. Books of interest sat scattered across my living room floor. On the other side of the glass sliding door, perched in a weathered planter, sat a flowery explosion of pinks and purples I’d bought to warm the space in time for Alaska’s July visit. The visit that never happened. I turned my head to the right before casting my eyes upon the blank wall next to me. The one and only stretch of space in my entire residence that lacks art. I pushed my weight off the door and inched into the room until I was standing right in front of the linen white wall. And in the dark of night, I soaked in the presence of a blank canvas. From top to bottom, left to right, the space could be whatever I wanted. It glared not as a void but an opportunity. I glanced back down at my phone, unlocked the keys and sent a response:
(smiling)
Because I was.
It was a little past ten when I finally stumbled through my doorway. I’d spent the evening volunteering. The house was a shuffle of activity and the volunteer desk was scarce with help. Simply put, it was a mad dash to quitting time. Tired and hungry, I dropped my keys on the floor next to my purse, kicked off my boots and fetched a fresh bottle of water from the pantry. Then I collapsed on my sofa. I pressed the balls of my feet against the edge of my coffee table and flexed my toes to stretch my arches. I curled up on my side and tapped a button on my tv remote and a button on my laptop, bringing both items to life. Sometimes I changed the channels, sometimes I clicked to another favorite blog and sometimes I crunched down on bits of salty pretzel covered with dark chocolate and sprinkles.
At around midnight, I lazily relocated to my bedroom to begin the arduous process of packing for four days in Atlanta. I stood in my closet and ran my fingertips across the tops of the hangers the same way one drags a hand over piano keys. Supple cashmere followed textured summer linen before ending on pristine wool crepe. I sat down on the floor and pulled shoes from their storage boxes, randomly slipping my bare feet in to try them on. Every so often I stood up to pose in front of my full length mirror. I purred at the snakeskin pumps trimmed with gray ribbon and scowled at the practical Tod suede loafers.
As the clock ticked toward two, I tucked the final must haves in my stuffed duffel and zipped the bag closed. I padded down the hall toward my entryway and reached up to the deadbolt to turn it down. I tapped the light switch to darken the room. And before retiring to my bed for a quick preflight snooze, I checked my cell phone. One missed text message. Before knowing who the sender might be, my eyes casually scanned the words:
Happy Thanksgiving! I hope it’s a great one!
My belly fluttered. I’m allowed to admit that, right? Even if it erroneously fluttered for the wrong reason or more accurately the wrong person? Listen, I would have loved to assume the message was from one of the new boys I like but, well, said boys have yet to ask for my number. Deductive reasoning led my head and heart to scurry in different and dangerous directions. Just before dropping off the what-if cliff, my eyes traced the digits from which the well wishes were sent. It didn’t take long before I realized it was a local number and one I couldn’t place. With my belly suddenly hollow and my heart thumping listlessly, I tapped at the keys to send an uncertain reply:
Thanks and same to you (which would be who - #’s unfamiliar – sorry)
I leaned against my front door and pressed my shoulder blades into the firm wood. I curled my fingers around the phone and waited for it to signal. In the distance I could hear the wind rustling branches. Just beyond the doorway, I could hear muffled voices of neighbors gabbing in the corridor. As I focused on the wee morning noises cluttering my space, I felt my phone vibrate.
I looked down at the screen and read three letters noting a name. It wasn’t Alaska. It wasn’t Ex. It was a man I’d met last summer for an evening of salty oysters, indulgent foie gras and savory glasses of red wine. I can perfectly recall the black tiered skirt I donned as I slipped onto the barstool, the strappy heels I dangled as I crossed my legs and the way he rested his open palm on my car as he leaned in to kiss me goodnight. For various reasons, things halted there. His grandmother’s health deteriorated. My job kicked into crazy mode. A second date didn’t make the calendar until this past January.
It was an unseasonably warm winter night when we reunited. We slinked into a table, sampling butter soaked escargot and perfectly seared duck while sipping wine he had brought back from a recent trip to Italy. Though the restaurant emptied, we casually lingered in place. We talked about his garden. We talked about my writing. We talked and talked until the evening disappeared altogether. He walked me back to my car, offered a goodnight kiss and then went on his way. A few weeks later, with my heart and mind occupied by someone else, I let him know I was pursuing another relationship. He politely wished me well and that was that.
Pondering the funny way the past can revisit the present, I looked up from my phone and glanced out at my apartment. Hangers draped with dry cleaning clung to the arm of my treadmill. Books of interest sat scattered across my living room floor. On the other side of the glass sliding door, perched in a weathered planter, sat a flowery explosion of pinks and purples I’d bought to warm the space in time for Alaska’s July visit. The visit that never happened. I turned my head to the right before casting my eyes upon the blank wall next to me. The one and only stretch of space in my entire residence that lacks art. I pushed my weight off the door and inched into the room until I was standing right in front of the linen white wall. And in the dark of night, I soaked in the presence of a blank canvas. From top to bottom, left to right, the space could be whatever I wanted. It glared not as a void but an opportunity. I glanced back down at my phone, unlocked the keys and sent a response:
(smiling)
Because I was.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Giving Thanks
A few years ago, only a month or so into my relationship with Ex, I gave him one of my short stories for Valentine’s Day. It seemed fitting since neither of us placed much value on the holiday and he had been bugging me to show him some of my work. I remember passing it off and then nervously sitting on his bed while he read through the story. Twice. Then he turned to me, genuine awe blanketing his face, and insisted I pick up a pen and immediately get back to writing.
“You should start a blog,” he excitedly suggested.
“A what?” I asked.
“A website where you can post things you write,” he elaborated.
I did some research, perusing other sites for inspiration and guidance. With it all sorta kinda figured out, I started writing. I still have a long way to go but looking back I know I’ve already come pretty far. And as I glance over my shoulder at the path I’ve taken, I can’t help but acknowledge how I got here. For the writer I am today and the writer I hope to be tomorrow, I’m forever thankful that Ex gave me that much needed push to set out on a literary journey.
Earlier this year, I stumbled through a courtship with a man who made my heart ache and my belly flutter. He made me laugh until my sides throbbed. He made me think until my brain curled. And no matter what, he always left me longing for more. I can recall slices of interaction so vividly it feels real even today. Playfully leaning across the dinner table and sneaking a kiss between sips of wine. Resting the weight of my body against his chest while glancing out at the mystical beauty of a moaning glacier. Whispering ‘I love you’ in his ear, rendering me naked and vulnerable, and then feeling his arms pull me tighter against his body. Don’t get me wrong, there were not so good times too. Plenty. But in the end, nothing could shadow the warmth and comfort that came from having him in my life. And while things eventually tapered back to nothing for reasons you don’t need to know, I’m forever thankful for the time I shared with Alaska because without him I would have forgotten to never settle for anything less than butterflies.
Over the course of the summer, I struggled with an unwavering sadness I hadn’t known in many years. I refrained from answering the phone. I delayed responding to emails. And for the most part, I kept to myself. Or I at least kept to myself as much as some people allowed. Leslie regularly called in the morning to make sure I had survived that hollow feeling that more readily surfaces in the dark quiet of night. Bess sent emails in between drafting briefs and rang as she bounced to evening commitments, always making me feel like I was somehow on her mind. Joe randomly texted to remind me how perfect I was and how flawed Alaska must have been to give me up. Hope and Caralyn and Elyssa always let me know they were there to listen if I wanted to talk, patiently leaving me space and time to sort it all through. I know I can get through anything but this summer I realized I don’t have to do it alone. I’m forever thankful for the people in my life who look out for me when I sometimes forget to.
Every morning that I go to work, I plop down at my desk and dive into my to-do list. Sometime after ten, I usually hear my dad sluggishly come in through the back entrance. I can tell it’s him because his pace leaves a longer pause between the clicks that mark the opening and closing of the door. I also can hear him fidgeting to get his walker straightened out and moving in the right direction. Sometimes I yelp a ‘morning sparky’ from afar and other times I halt what I am doing, get up and lazily escort him to the office, nonchalantly plucking his bag to lighten his load or unzipping his jacket so his stiffened fingers don’t have to. Inevitably, within an hour of my dad settling in, my mother calls. With retirement comes a chatty mid-morning habit. She wants to know what I did the night before. She wants to know if I spoke to Leslie. She wants to know if I’d be interested in perusing the shoes at Sak’s over the weekend. Sometimes I linger and gab like I’m on the phone with a best friend, yapping about this and giggling about that. Other times I hurry off to avoid interruption. My point to all of this is that while I struggle with my dad’s health and my mom’s critical eye, I know they’re there for me. When I collapsed in a heap of tears in my dad’s office, grasping my knees to press against the pain in my heart, I knew how much he loved me. When I told my mom that my blog had amassed a following of sorts, she ecstatically cheered my accomplishment and smiled genuine pride. So while the situation with my parents can sometimes make life challenging, I’m forever thankful for their steadfast support and unconditional love.
This time of year always leads me to step back and reflect on things. It’s a unique chance to see where I have come from, where I plan on heading and how so many people contribute to all of it. I’m thankful for those who have made me who I am and I only hope I’ve touched their lives similarly.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
May your holiday be a time to gather with people who both inspire your dreams and cheer you on as you set out to make them all come true.
“You should start a blog,” he excitedly suggested.
“A what?” I asked.
“A website where you can post things you write,” he elaborated.
I did some research, perusing other sites for inspiration and guidance. With it all sorta kinda figured out, I started writing. I still have a long way to go but looking back I know I’ve already come pretty far. And as I glance over my shoulder at the path I’ve taken, I can’t help but acknowledge how I got here. For the writer I am today and the writer I hope to be tomorrow, I’m forever thankful that Ex gave me that much needed push to set out on a literary journey.
Earlier this year, I stumbled through a courtship with a man who made my heart ache and my belly flutter. He made me laugh until my sides throbbed. He made me think until my brain curled. And no matter what, he always left me longing for more. I can recall slices of interaction so vividly it feels real even today. Playfully leaning across the dinner table and sneaking a kiss between sips of wine. Resting the weight of my body against his chest while glancing out at the mystical beauty of a moaning glacier. Whispering ‘I love you’ in his ear, rendering me naked and vulnerable, and then feeling his arms pull me tighter against his body. Don’t get me wrong, there were not so good times too. Plenty. But in the end, nothing could shadow the warmth and comfort that came from having him in my life. And while things eventually tapered back to nothing for reasons you don’t need to know, I’m forever thankful for the time I shared with Alaska because without him I would have forgotten to never settle for anything less than butterflies.
Over the course of the summer, I struggled with an unwavering sadness I hadn’t known in many years. I refrained from answering the phone. I delayed responding to emails. And for the most part, I kept to myself. Or I at least kept to myself as much as some people allowed. Leslie regularly called in the morning to make sure I had survived that hollow feeling that more readily surfaces in the dark quiet of night. Bess sent emails in between drafting briefs and rang as she bounced to evening commitments, always making me feel like I was somehow on her mind. Joe randomly texted to remind me how perfect I was and how flawed Alaska must have been to give me up. Hope and Caralyn and Elyssa always let me know they were there to listen if I wanted to talk, patiently leaving me space and time to sort it all through. I know I can get through anything but this summer I realized I don’t have to do it alone. I’m forever thankful for the people in my life who look out for me when I sometimes forget to.
Every morning that I go to work, I plop down at my desk and dive into my to-do list. Sometime after ten, I usually hear my dad sluggishly come in through the back entrance. I can tell it’s him because his pace leaves a longer pause between the clicks that mark the opening and closing of the door. I also can hear him fidgeting to get his walker straightened out and moving in the right direction. Sometimes I yelp a ‘morning sparky’ from afar and other times I halt what I am doing, get up and lazily escort him to the office, nonchalantly plucking his bag to lighten his load or unzipping his jacket so his stiffened fingers don’t have to. Inevitably, within an hour of my dad settling in, my mother calls. With retirement comes a chatty mid-morning habit. She wants to know what I did the night before. She wants to know if I spoke to Leslie. She wants to know if I’d be interested in perusing the shoes at Sak’s over the weekend. Sometimes I linger and gab like I’m on the phone with a best friend, yapping about this and giggling about that. Other times I hurry off to avoid interruption. My point to all of this is that while I struggle with my dad’s health and my mom’s critical eye, I know they’re there for me. When I collapsed in a heap of tears in my dad’s office, grasping my knees to press against the pain in my heart, I knew how much he loved me. When I told my mom that my blog had amassed a following of sorts, she ecstatically cheered my accomplishment and smiled genuine pride. So while the situation with my parents can sometimes make life challenging, I’m forever thankful for their steadfast support and unconditional love.
This time of year always leads me to step back and reflect on things. It’s a unique chance to see where I have come from, where I plan on heading and how so many people contribute to all of it. I’m thankful for those who have made me who I am and I only hope I’ve touched their lives similarly.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
May your holiday be a time to gather with people who both inspire your dreams and cheer you on as you set out to make them all come true.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Company of Strangers
Though I grew up in the suburbs, my prep was in the heart of Philly. Every morning I dragged myself onto a short bus that transported me into the gritty city. It was an added expense for my parents but there wasn’t really any other option. Well fine, public transportation existed but it would have involved transfers - two buses, one trolley and a layover at an unsavory depot in a part of town known for crack dens and drive-by shootings. Jewish white girls from the suburbs didn’t do public transportation let alone public transportation that required a transfer. My parents paid the fee for the private bus and that was that.
When I landed at Smith, I relied on the PVTA bus to get between the area towns. It was free and consistent and after midnight, if you drunkenly flirted with the driver, he inevitably went the extra quarter mile past the last stop to let you off at the Quad. Technically PVTA stood for Pioneer Valley Transit Authority but area students renamed it Pushing Virgins Toward Amherst. As a Smith Alum who started her academic career a virgin and ended it as, well, not, I can vouch for the accuracy of the second interpretation. Anyway, if I wanted to play beer pong with UMass boys, I grabbed the bus. If I wanted to see a movie at the mall, I grabbed the bus. If I wanted to attend a lecture at Amherst, I grabbed the bus. It was never as quick as hitching a ride with a car owning pal but it was more than adequate when looking to travel between two places.
After college, I enrolled in law school and for the first two summers of the program I clerked for a city judge. Her chambers were at the Criminal Justice Center and while I owned a car and there was a well priced parking lot two blocks from the office, I preferred the train. It was a twenty minute journey each way and it afforded me just enough time to disappear with a book. I’d scoot in next to the wall, curl tight against the scratched window and melt into the story I was reading. I savored those twenty minute rides more than any other part of the day.
When law school came to an end, so did my use of the Philadelphia public transportation system. If I had to be in the city, I drove. Prices rose, quality of the ride dropped and in the end it was more efficient to rely on my car. Sure, if I was in a pinch and needed to get to Amtrak or the airport, I hopped a train. Otherwise, I dropped into the front seat of my car and coasted the roadways in my auto-cocoon, shielded from the tight squeeze of strangers on rush hour trains.
So here’s the thing – whenever I’m idling at a light in the suburbs and I see a woman waiting for the bus, I want to offer a ride. At least a ride as far as I’m going. I glance over at my empty passenger seat, my Prada tote on the floor leaning against the console. I peer in the rear view mirror and scan a backseat housing nothing more than a pile of Business Weeks and collection of baseball caps from places like Nantucket and the US Open and Cap Juluca. The cavernous space of my car taunts me, highlighting the indulgences I usually overlook. Then I shyly glimpse at the person patiently waiting for the bus. The bus that I know is nowhere nearby because I just came from that direction. As I wait for the light to turn, digesting all that surrounds me, I toss around a temptation to roll down the window and offer a ride. Am I the only person who struggles with this idea?
A few years ago, I acted on my impulse. I was a mile into my city bound journey and stopped at a light a few blocks shy of my parent’s house. The sky was a somber gray and large droplets of rain pummeled the earth. There on the corner, tucked against a stone wall to avoid being sprayed by puddles, was an older Haitian woman I recognized as the nanny for a local family. I’d seen her before a few months earlier as I paused in front of my parent’s house to let her and a child pass by the driveway. She was casually pushing a stroller with one hand and loosely guiding a tiny tot clumsily walking beside her with the other. Through the crack in my window passed a soft breeze and the sound of her voice as she scooted the child along. I observed the calm expression cast across her weathered face, the wrinkles somehow conveying a motherly warmth. When I glanced through my rain splattered window, the dull hum of my idling engine matching the hum of thoughts in my head, I recognized the nanny as the woman waiting for the bus. And so I pressed down on the button and leaned across the passenger seat.
“Can I give you a ride?” I yelled out through the downpour, my neck craning and my eyes squinting against the droplets coming into the car.
The nanny lifted her gaze in my direction.
“You work near my parent’s house,” I offered, the statement an attempt to soften the fear between strangers. “I’m heading into town anyway. Get in.”
She hesitantly peeled herself off the wall, released the door handle and slid into the empty seat.
“You work near my parent’s house,” I repeated as I pulled up on the button and closed her window. “I recognize you from the neighborhood.”
I reached for the radio knob and lowered the volume, leaving a hint of noise but nothing decipherable. The light turned green and I shifted my foot off the brake and onto the accelerator. My passenger clipped her seatbelt and pressed the wrinkles out of her damp skirt. She cautiously dabbed at the rain that had gotten in with her. She crinkled the corner of her sleeve, cinching it between pinched fingers and gliding the cloth over the door frame.
“Don’t worry about that,” I shooed with a gentle giggle.
She kept dabbing until she was content her presence hadn’t left a mark. And then she finally said something, her throaty voice and thick accent curving the words that fell from her mouth.
“The rain sure is coming down hard. Thanks for the ride.”
We drove together for a few miles. I asked superficial questions to fill the quiet spanning between us. Where she worked. Where she lived. How long she had been in the area. As we neared a bus depot, she let me know I had taken her far enough. I pulled over to the curb, released the locks and wished her safe travels home. She still had two more buses to catch. She offered a soft thank you and then slipped out onto the rain soaked sidewalk. I watched her disappear in the crowd of umbrellas before pulling back into traffic, weaving between cars and carelessly splashing through puddles.
I never saw that nanny again. Maybe she stopped caring for those kids. Maybe she found a better gig on the other side of town. Or perhaps she still works near my parents but she and I have never managed to again end up at that corner together. But no matter what, every time I pull up to a light and see a woman waiting for the bus, I think about her. I think about that one time I acted on my impulse and it worked. No one got hurt. Nothing got destroyed. If anything, my faith in humanity was strengthened. Perhaps hers as well. So whenever I linger at a red light, I am always tempted to lower the window and offer a ride. Always. But I never do. And for whatever reason, it saddens me.
When I landed at Smith, I relied on the PVTA bus to get between the area towns. It was free and consistent and after midnight, if you drunkenly flirted with the driver, he inevitably went the extra quarter mile past the last stop to let you off at the Quad. Technically PVTA stood for Pioneer Valley Transit Authority but area students renamed it Pushing Virgins Toward Amherst. As a Smith Alum who started her academic career a virgin and ended it as, well, not, I can vouch for the accuracy of the second interpretation. Anyway, if I wanted to play beer pong with UMass boys, I grabbed the bus. If I wanted to see a movie at the mall, I grabbed the bus. If I wanted to attend a lecture at Amherst, I grabbed the bus. It was never as quick as hitching a ride with a car owning pal but it was more than adequate when looking to travel between two places.
After college, I enrolled in law school and for the first two summers of the program I clerked for a city judge. Her chambers were at the Criminal Justice Center and while I owned a car and there was a well priced parking lot two blocks from the office, I preferred the train. It was a twenty minute journey each way and it afforded me just enough time to disappear with a book. I’d scoot in next to the wall, curl tight against the scratched window and melt into the story I was reading. I savored those twenty minute rides more than any other part of the day.
When law school came to an end, so did my use of the Philadelphia public transportation system. If I had to be in the city, I drove. Prices rose, quality of the ride dropped and in the end it was more efficient to rely on my car. Sure, if I was in a pinch and needed to get to Amtrak or the airport, I hopped a train. Otherwise, I dropped into the front seat of my car and coasted the roadways in my auto-cocoon, shielded from the tight squeeze of strangers on rush hour trains.
So here’s the thing – whenever I’m idling at a light in the suburbs and I see a woman waiting for the bus, I want to offer a ride. At least a ride as far as I’m going. I glance over at my empty passenger seat, my Prada tote on the floor leaning against the console. I peer in the rear view mirror and scan a backseat housing nothing more than a pile of Business Weeks and collection of baseball caps from places like Nantucket and the US Open and Cap Juluca. The cavernous space of my car taunts me, highlighting the indulgences I usually overlook. Then I shyly glimpse at the person patiently waiting for the bus. The bus that I know is nowhere nearby because I just came from that direction. As I wait for the light to turn, digesting all that surrounds me, I toss around a temptation to roll down the window and offer a ride. Am I the only person who struggles with this idea?
A few years ago, I acted on my impulse. I was a mile into my city bound journey and stopped at a light a few blocks shy of my parent’s house. The sky was a somber gray and large droplets of rain pummeled the earth. There on the corner, tucked against a stone wall to avoid being sprayed by puddles, was an older Haitian woman I recognized as the nanny for a local family. I’d seen her before a few months earlier as I paused in front of my parent’s house to let her and a child pass by the driveway. She was casually pushing a stroller with one hand and loosely guiding a tiny tot clumsily walking beside her with the other. Through the crack in my window passed a soft breeze and the sound of her voice as she scooted the child along. I observed the calm expression cast across her weathered face, the wrinkles somehow conveying a motherly warmth. When I glanced through my rain splattered window, the dull hum of my idling engine matching the hum of thoughts in my head, I recognized the nanny as the woman waiting for the bus. And so I pressed down on the button and leaned across the passenger seat.
“Can I give you a ride?” I yelled out through the downpour, my neck craning and my eyes squinting against the droplets coming into the car.
The nanny lifted her gaze in my direction.
“You work near my parent’s house,” I offered, the statement an attempt to soften the fear between strangers. “I’m heading into town anyway. Get in.”
She hesitantly peeled herself off the wall, released the door handle and slid into the empty seat.
“You work near my parent’s house,” I repeated as I pulled up on the button and closed her window. “I recognize you from the neighborhood.”
I reached for the radio knob and lowered the volume, leaving a hint of noise but nothing decipherable. The light turned green and I shifted my foot off the brake and onto the accelerator. My passenger clipped her seatbelt and pressed the wrinkles out of her damp skirt. She cautiously dabbed at the rain that had gotten in with her. She crinkled the corner of her sleeve, cinching it between pinched fingers and gliding the cloth over the door frame.
“Don’t worry about that,” I shooed with a gentle giggle.
She kept dabbing until she was content her presence hadn’t left a mark. And then she finally said something, her throaty voice and thick accent curving the words that fell from her mouth.
“The rain sure is coming down hard. Thanks for the ride.”
We drove together for a few miles. I asked superficial questions to fill the quiet spanning between us. Where she worked. Where she lived. How long she had been in the area. As we neared a bus depot, she let me know I had taken her far enough. I pulled over to the curb, released the locks and wished her safe travels home. She still had two more buses to catch. She offered a soft thank you and then slipped out onto the rain soaked sidewalk. I watched her disappear in the crowd of umbrellas before pulling back into traffic, weaving between cars and carelessly splashing through puddles.
I never saw that nanny again. Maybe she stopped caring for those kids. Maybe she found a better gig on the other side of town. Or perhaps she still works near my parents but she and I have never managed to again end up at that corner together. But no matter what, every time I pull up to a light and see a woman waiting for the bus, I think about her. I think about that one time I acted on my impulse and it worked. No one got hurt. Nothing got destroyed. If anything, my faith in humanity was strengthened. Perhaps hers as well. So whenever I linger at a red light, I am always tempted to lower the window and offer a ride. Always. But I never do. And for whatever reason, it saddens me.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
My Life In Three Parts Set to Cult Film Favorites of the ’80s
Every fall, work gets insanely busy. And while I always manage it, I don’t manage it very gracefully. My only goal is to make it to January without falling apart. Sure, I tapped my toes at an Annie Lennox concert on Saturday and come hell or high water I will be laughing my ass off at Lewis Black later tonight but beyond these quick escapes I’m pretty much swimming in a sea of spreadsheets. I’m not complaining. In fact, I’ve been openly ecstatic this year because while my load is no lighter, it seems to be more manageable. Nonetheless, my brain is fried. So instead of struggling to pen something brilliantly witty or fantastically inspiring, you’re getting a three part snapshot of my current chaos set to cult film favorites of the ’80s.
National Lampoon’s Vacation (1983)
Cousin Eddie: I don’t know why they call this stuff hamburger helper. It does just fine by itself, huh? I like it better than tuna helper myself, don’t you, Clark?
Clark: You’re the gourmet around here, Eddie.
Sunday night I decided to cook something for dinner. It had been a while since I turned on my oven and I was eager to dust off my apron. In my knife wielding glory, I cubed zucchini, diced onions, chunked peppers and chopped mushrooms. I sautéed the vegetables and browned some meat before putting it all together in some Paul Newman’s sauce to simmer. Then I got on the treadmill. When I finally finished my workout, I shuffled into my kitchen to finish the rest of my meal. I still had water to boil, pasta to cook and Parmesan to grate. Two minutes into the second half of preparation, before the salted water even had a hint of heat, I surrendered. I turned off the pilot, ladled some sauce into a bowl, sprinkled some Parmesan over top, grabbed a spoon and dropped onto my sofa. Yup, my dinner was a heaping bowl of spaghetti sauce. And oddly enough, it was one of the best meals I had had in weeks.
Sixteen Candles (1984)
Randy: Last night at the dance, my little brother paid a buck to see your underwear.
Samantha: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH.
Monday I sauntered into the gourmet pizza shop up the street from work to fetch a late lunch. I ordered two slices, paid for my purchase and while I waited for the box to be handed over, I filled my cup with Diet Coke. A few seconds later, with lunch in hand, I headed for the door.
“Do you ever leave here?” I joked to one of the employees constructing boxes at a table.
“Nope. And I hope I’m not being rude but your tag is sticking out of your skirt,” he shyly noted as he tilted his head in the direction of my ass.
I reached around back and sure enough I felt a slim slice of fabric dangling over the waist.
“It’s going to be one of those weeks,” I said as I pushed the tag back in place and leaned against the door to exit.
The thing is, the tag wouldn’t stay in. No matter how I crinkled it or jammed it against my flesh, the sucker popped out. So when I got in my car which has slightly tinted windows but is in no way private, I pulled up my skirt and confirmed what I feared – my underwear was on inside out. Hence why the tag wouldn’t cooperate. When I got back to work, I collapsed in my desk chair, ate my pizza, sipped my soda and crunched some numbers. With oregano in my teeth and crumbs on my plate, I wiped my greasy hands on a napkin and then proceeded to right-side-in my panties. Standing at my desk. Which is the receptionist area in an open office. Oh and in my haste, I failed to notice that I had caught a heel on the leg opening of my underwear. Which resulted in me crashing stork-like into my desk, knocking over folders and praying I got my panties up and my skirt down before any coworkers appeared.
Working Girl (1988)
Cyn: Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn’t make me Madonna. Never will.
On Tuesday, I stayed late at work to finish up preparations for a Wednesday pitch. I slipped into Wholefoods ten minutes before closing and fetched the most random combination for dinner – a cup of carrot ginger soup, shrimp Thai spring rolls and one serving of reduced-fat vegan chocolate mousse. When I got home I alternated bites of food with iTunes and a half hour later, empty plastic containers dotting my coffee table and songs installed, I disappeared in a blissful state of Carly Simon. I kicked off my three inch black pumps, untucked my French blue dress shirt and started dancing and singing right there in the middle of my living room. I closed my eyes and drifted to the notes, all the while pretending I was Carly prancing across a wood plank stage fronting the Martha’s Vineyard coast. I could smell the salt air as I bitterly belted You’re So Vain. I could hear the waves lapping against the dock as I swooned a velvety Nobody Does It Better. And in that brief moment, right before I burped up some carrot ginger soup and stubbed my toe on my treadmill, everything was absolutely perfect.
National Lampoon’s Vacation (1983)
Cousin Eddie: I don’t know why they call this stuff hamburger helper. It does just fine by itself, huh? I like it better than tuna helper myself, don’t you, Clark?
Clark: You’re the gourmet around here, Eddie.
Sunday night I decided to cook something for dinner. It had been a while since I turned on my oven and I was eager to dust off my apron. In my knife wielding glory, I cubed zucchini, diced onions, chunked peppers and chopped mushrooms. I sautéed the vegetables and browned some meat before putting it all together in some Paul Newman’s sauce to simmer. Then I got on the treadmill. When I finally finished my workout, I shuffled into my kitchen to finish the rest of my meal. I still had water to boil, pasta to cook and Parmesan to grate. Two minutes into the second half of preparation, before the salted water even had a hint of heat, I surrendered. I turned off the pilot, ladled some sauce into a bowl, sprinkled some Parmesan over top, grabbed a spoon and dropped onto my sofa. Yup, my dinner was a heaping bowl of spaghetti sauce. And oddly enough, it was one of the best meals I had had in weeks.
Sixteen Candles (1984)
Randy: Last night at the dance, my little brother paid a buck to see your underwear.
Samantha: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH.
Monday I sauntered into the gourmet pizza shop up the street from work to fetch a late lunch. I ordered two slices, paid for my purchase and while I waited for the box to be handed over, I filled my cup with Diet Coke. A few seconds later, with lunch in hand, I headed for the door.
“Do you ever leave here?” I joked to one of the employees constructing boxes at a table.
“Nope. And I hope I’m not being rude but your tag is sticking out of your skirt,” he shyly noted as he tilted his head in the direction of my ass.
I reached around back and sure enough I felt a slim slice of fabric dangling over the waist.
“It’s going to be one of those weeks,” I said as I pushed the tag back in place and leaned against the door to exit.
The thing is, the tag wouldn’t stay in. No matter how I crinkled it or jammed it against my flesh, the sucker popped out. So when I got in my car which has slightly tinted windows but is in no way private, I pulled up my skirt and confirmed what I feared – my underwear was on inside out. Hence why the tag wouldn’t cooperate. When I got back to work, I collapsed in my desk chair, ate my pizza, sipped my soda and crunched some numbers. With oregano in my teeth and crumbs on my plate, I wiped my greasy hands on a napkin and then proceeded to right-side-in my panties. Standing at my desk. Which is the receptionist area in an open office. Oh and in my haste, I failed to notice that I had caught a heel on the leg opening of my underwear. Which resulted in me crashing stork-like into my desk, knocking over folders and praying I got my panties up and my skirt down before any coworkers appeared.
Working Girl (1988)
Cyn: Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn’t make me Madonna. Never will.
On Tuesday, I stayed late at work to finish up preparations for a Wednesday pitch. I slipped into Wholefoods ten minutes before closing and fetched the most random combination for dinner – a cup of carrot ginger soup, shrimp Thai spring rolls and one serving of reduced-fat vegan chocolate mousse. When I got home I alternated bites of food with iTunes and a half hour later, empty plastic containers dotting my coffee table and songs installed, I disappeared in a blissful state of Carly Simon. I kicked off my three inch black pumps, untucked my French blue dress shirt and started dancing and singing right there in the middle of my living room. I closed my eyes and drifted to the notes, all the while pretending I was Carly prancing across a wood plank stage fronting the Martha’s Vineyard coast. I could smell the salt air as I bitterly belted You’re So Vain. I could hear the waves lapping against the dock as I swooned a velvety Nobody Does It Better. And in that brief moment, right before I burped up some carrot ginger soup and stubbed my toe on my treadmill, everything was absolutely perfect.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Word Up
In sixth grade, I begged and pleaded for a Swatch. And on the first night of Hanukah*, my wish was granted. I received a black one with green chain link detailing on the face and red and yellow hands. It fucking rocked in like, you know, an I-can’t-read-this-thing-but-I’m-cooler -than-cool-for-wearing-it-now-excuse-me-while- I-go-taper-roll-my-jeans-and-kiss-that- picture-of-Ricky-Schroeder-I-tore-out-of-Tiger-Beat kind of way. Within two seconds of unwrapping the box, I had that puppy strapped around my wrist. I was in a Swatch induced fog, admiring my new timepiece, when my mom spoke up.
“One more,” she sang as she extended a rectangular object covered in tacky blue paper dotted with silver Jewish stars.
“Gee, it’s heavy. What is it?” I asked as I suspiciously wrapped both hands around the gift and placed it on my lap.
“Open it!” my mom excitedly urged.
“But you already gave me a Swatch,” I noted as I hesitantly tugged at the scotch tape holding the seams together.
With scraps of paper collected at my feet and the gift in full view, I curiously looked up at my mother who was waiting for my reaction.
“I didn’t ask for this!” I yelped as I held up a dictionary.
“No. No, you didn’t. But you should have,” my mom pointed out.
“This is almost as bad as that crappy book about Greek mythology you gave me two years ago. Gee, and I hadn’t asked for that either,” I noted as I fanned the pages and hunted for a receipt.
“Don’t even think of returning it. I already wrote your name in the cover.”
Over the next couple of months, I begrudgingly put that dictionary to use. Mostly because I’d ask my mom what a word meant and she’d silently point in the direction of my room, her extended finger communicating her insistence that I look the word up. Well, I showed her - I stopped asking. Instead of trudging up the back stairs and actually researching the definition, I started plugging in my own interpretation. Nine out of ten times I was wrong but whatever. At least I wasn’t giving her any satisfaction.
A few years later, as I prepped for the SAT, my mom made one last push on the vocab front. She presented me with a box of words, five hundred words to be exact, and suggested I carry twenty at a time. That as I rode the bus for lacrosse games or lingered between classes, I should study vocab. Not willing to partake in such studious behavior but also not wanting to disobey my mother entirely, I followed her instruction of parceling the collection out into small sets. Then I tossed the rubber banded packets in various hiding places - behind a stack of books on a shelf, under a pile of paper in my desk drawer, in the bottom of old boots I never wore. I am sure when my parents finally sell their house, a few more packets of well hidden words will surface. Anyway, one random Sunday night, as 60 Minutes cut to commercial, my mom excitedly offered to quiz me. Boy did she flip when I handed over the box and she saw there were all of fifteen vocab cards inside. And the best part? I didn’t know the definition for any of them.
The thing is, now that I’ve evolved into a writer, I’ve started to regret my hate of vocabulary. Not resorting to the dictionary and tossing the flashcards made sense at the time but now as I skim the poetic language in Snow or the mystifying brilliance in any issue of The New Yorker I feel discouraged by my childhood choices. And so I signed up for word of the day. It seemed like a great idea. I’d start every morning not with Page Six but with a new word. I pictured me sipping tea and spurting out sentences dotted with multisyllabic words. I pictured pride and accomplishment as my peers gawked at my burgeoning vocabulary. My my, that Paige sure is someone to admire.
When I set out on this vocab quest, I set up a file in Outlook titled Words. It was to become my vocab holding bin, a layover so to speak for words I still needed to master. Yeah, the holding bin is officially overflowing. Some words I’ve never heard of. Some words I can’t figure out how to pronounce. And some? Some I recognize though every single time I look at one of those and scan the definition noted, I shake my head in wonderment. Wow, so that’s what it means? Note to self – stop using that word.
So with regard to developing a vocabulary that would make Mr. Webster himself blush, I’m officially giving up. Or, maybe I’m not giving up altogether but I am most definitely tapering back my grandiose goals. Listen, it isn’t like my limited knowledge of words is holding me back as a writer. At the risk of placing the blame elsewhere, you guys keep coming back to read my simplistic prose drafted with basic language. Does it really matter if I pass on incorporating words like gallimaufry and confabulation? Wait, I know that last word! Based on the Latin root fabula, it has something to do with being fabulous. Right? Never mind.
* I’ve been Jewish for thirty-four years. I’ve been Bat Mitzvahed. I’ve sat through torturous holiday services and painful sermons. I still can’t figure out how the fuck to spell this goddamn holiday.
“One more,” she sang as she extended a rectangular object covered in tacky blue paper dotted with silver Jewish stars.
“Gee, it’s heavy. What is it?” I asked as I suspiciously wrapped both hands around the gift and placed it on my lap.
“Open it!” my mom excitedly urged.
“But you already gave me a Swatch,” I noted as I hesitantly tugged at the scotch tape holding the seams together.
With scraps of paper collected at my feet and the gift in full view, I curiously looked up at my mother who was waiting for my reaction.
“I didn’t ask for this!” I yelped as I held up a dictionary.
“No. No, you didn’t. But you should have,” my mom pointed out.
“This is almost as bad as that crappy book about Greek mythology you gave me two years ago. Gee, and I hadn’t asked for that either,” I noted as I fanned the pages and hunted for a receipt.
“Don’t even think of returning it. I already wrote your name in the cover.”
Over the next couple of months, I begrudgingly put that dictionary to use. Mostly because I’d ask my mom what a word meant and she’d silently point in the direction of my room, her extended finger communicating her insistence that I look the word up. Well, I showed her - I stopped asking. Instead of trudging up the back stairs and actually researching the definition, I started plugging in my own interpretation. Nine out of ten times I was wrong but whatever. At least I wasn’t giving her any satisfaction.
A few years later, as I prepped for the SAT, my mom made one last push on the vocab front. She presented me with a box of words, five hundred words to be exact, and suggested I carry twenty at a time. That as I rode the bus for lacrosse games or lingered between classes, I should study vocab. Not willing to partake in such studious behavior but also not wanting to disobey my mother entirely, I followed her instruction of parceling the collection out into small sets. Then I tossed the rubber banded packets in various hiding places - behind a stack of books on a shelf, under a pile of paper in my desk drawer, in the bottom of old boots I never wore. I am sure when my parents finally sell their house, a few more packets of well hidden words will surface. Anyway, one random Sunday night, as 60 Minutes cut to commercial, my mom excitedly offered to quiz me. Boy did she flip when I handed over the box and she saw there were all of fifteen vocab cards inside. And the best part? I didn’t know the definition for any of them.
The thing is, now that I’ve evolved into a writer, I’ve started to regret my hate of vocabulary. Not resorting to the dictionary and tossing the flashcards made sense at the time but now as I skim the poetic language in Snow or the mystifying brilliance in any issue of The New Yorker I feel discouraged by my childhood choices. And so I signed up for word of the day. It seemed like a great idea. I’d start every morning not with Page Six but with a new word. I pictured me sipping tea and spurting out sentences dotted with multisyllabic words. I pictured pride and accomplishment as my peers gawked at my burgeoning vocabulary. My my, that Paige sure is someone to admire.
When I set out on this vocab quest, I set up a file in Outlook titled Words. It was to become my vocab holding bin, a layover so to speak for words I still needed to master. Yeah, the holding bin is officially overflowing. Some words I’ve never heard of. Some words I can’t figure out how to pronounce. And some? Some I recognize though every single time I look at one of those and scan the definition noted, I shake my head in wonderment. Wow, so that’s what it means? Note to self – stop using that word.
So with regard to developing a vocabulary that would make Mr. Webster himself blush, I’m officially giving up. Or, maybe I’m not giving up altogether but I am most definitely tapering back my grandiose goals. Listen, it isn’t like my limited knowledge of words is holding me back as a writer. At the risk of placing the blame elsewhere, you guys keep coming back to read my simplistic prose drafted with basic language. Does it really matter if I pass on incorporating words like gallimaufry and confabulation? Wait, I know that last word! Based on the Latin root fabula, it has something to do with being fabulous. Right? Never mind.
* I’ve been Jewish for thirty-four years. I’ve been Bat Mitzvahed. I’ve sat through torturous holiday services and painful sermons. I still can’t figure out how the fuck to spell this goddamn holiday.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
What If...
What if I worked my way through half of my closet and all of my shoes in search of the perfect evening outfit? Something that was one part professional and two parts sexy. Something that highlighted my confidence without overpowering my presence. A pairing of classic elegance with youthful sophistication that properly indicated a je ne sais quoi. And in the end, I slipped back into exactly what I had worn all day long. Well, except I switched up the accessories a little, adding a necklace and upgrading the purse.
What if I edged onto a rustic wooden stool at the bar and failed to flirt? That I crossed my leg and dipped my stiletto clad heel but in the other direction and out of his view. That I leaned my weight on my elbows and casually pulled my hair off my neck but I still steadfastly faced forward. That as he slowly inched in my direction, I kept myself positioned as if I were communicating with the bartender instead of the gentleman to my left. Though as disinterested as I may have appeared, I did playfully rest my hand on his arm when he said something amusing.
What if I spent more of our dinnertime chat prying and questioning him instead of flaunting me? As I slipped out of my blazer and draped it across my chair, I asked how he’ll manage when his son heads to boarding school in the fall. As I placed some cheese atop a thin slice of green apple, I inquired about his plans to disappear in Asia for a solo adventure spanning many months. As the waiter presented fresh glasses of wine, I noted he repeatedly dates women who are a little odd and a lot imbalanced. Though in the midst of my inquisition, he turned the tables and questioned my dating flaws. What habits I repeat and can’t seem to shake. So as much as I tugged at the truth, he had a way of involving me in the confession.
What if I stepped into the hotel elevator alongside him without questioning where I was going and whether I belonged there? That I followed him into his room, kicked off my shoes, grabbed a New Yorker from his pile of reading material and skimmed the articles. That after going to the bathroom, he cleared things out of the way so I could sit more comfortably on the chair. That just after he clicked the knob of the table lamp to cast some light in my direction but before collapsing on the bed, he delivered a freshly poured glass of white wine and delicately ran his fingers through my hair.
What if as time ticked onward, the lights dimmed to darkness and the span of space between us narrowed to nothing? As I tucked my glasses in my bag, he asked me to turn off the lamp near the television. As I crawled onto the bed and curled against his body, my head resting comfortably on his chest and his arm pulling me tighter against him, I felt the warmth of his hand as it dipped under my shirt. His fingertips tracing my spine and passing across the curves of my frame. My hand slightly slipped between the placket of his button down to reciprocate the gesture.
What if I was there participating in the moment instead of drifting off in search of what came before? That as my fingertips slipped a button through a stitched hole, his hand slid under the lacy strap pressed against my shoulder. That as I nuzzled against the nape of his neck and ran my hand over his thigh, he reached between my legs and dragged upward until landing on my belt and releasing the clasp. That the softness of his lips as they connected with my bare skin caused my lower back to tighten and my breath to halt.
I’m just asking – what if...
What if I edged onto a rustic wooden stool at the bar and failed to flirt? That I crossed my leg and dipped my stiletto clad heel but in the other direction and out of his view. That I leaned my weight on my elbows and casually pulled my hair off my neck but I still steadfastly faced forward. That as he slowly inched in my direction, I kept myself positioned as if I were communicating with the bartender instead of the gentleman to my left. Though as disinterested as I may have appeared, I did playfully rest my hand on his arm when he said something amusing.
What if I spent more of our dinnertime chat prying and questioning him instead of flaunting me? As I slipped out of my blazer and draped it across my chair, I asked how he’ll manage when his son heads to boarding school in the fall. As I placed some cheese atop a thin slice of green apple, I inquired about his plans to disappear in Asia for a solo adventure spanning many months. As the waiter presented fresh glasses of wine, I noted he repeatedly dates women who are a little odd and a lot imbalanced. Though in the midst of my inquisition, he turned the tables and questioned my dating flaws. What habits I repeat and can’t seem to shake. So as much as I tugged at the truth, he had a way of involving me in the confession.
What if I stepped into the hotel elevator alongside him without questioning where I was going and whether I belonged there? That I followed him into his room, kicked off my shoes, grabbed a New Yorker from his pile of reading material and skimmed the articles. That after going to the bathroom, he cleared things out of the way so I could sit more comfortably on the chair. That just after he clicked the knob of the table lamp to cast some light in my direction but before collapsing on the bed, he delivered a freshly poured glass of white wine and delicately ran his fingers through my hair.
What if as time ticked onward, the lights dimmed to darkness and the span of space between us narrowed to nothing? As I tucked my glasses in my bag, he asked me to turn off the lamp near the television. As I crawled onto the bed and curled against his body, my head resting comfortably on his chest and his arm pulling me tighter against him, I felt the warmth of his hand as it dipped under my shirt. His fingertips tracing my spine and passing across the curves of my frame. My hand slightly slipped between the placket of his button down to reciprocate the gesture.
What if I was there participating in the moment instead of drifting off in search of what came before? That as my fingertips slipped a button through a stitched hole, his hand slid under the lacy strap pressed against my shoulder. That as I nuzzled against the nape of his neck and ran my hand over his thigh, he reached between my legs and dragged upward until landing on my belt and releasing the clasp. That the softness of his lips as they connected with my bare skin caused my lower back to tighten and my breath to halt.
I’m just asking – what if...
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
As My Boyfriend From Law School Consoled When We Broke Up Because He Had Cheated On Me With His Previous Girlfriend - It All Works Out For The Best
Listen, I’m not going to lie. I’m not going to filter truths to protect myself from you. I’m a big enough girl to handle your reaction. Plus, it isn’t like anything you’d say isn’t something I’ve already thought on my own. If you’ve learned but one thing about me from reading my blog, it should be this - I will always be more critical of myself than anyone else. Always.
With that said, I slipped. I initiated communication. It started with a two-word text message and within a few hours ballooned to something more. And by more, I mean me offering to stand on 1st Avenue and cheer Alaska on from afar. Yeah, I know how it sounds. Trust me, when I sat at dinner with Bess Sunday night revealing my guilt, I heard the words. I heard the way it painted me as pathetic. I heard the way my suggested efforts lacked legitimate basis. I heard it all.
So yeah, I may have slipped. I may have tinkered with the past while living in the present. I may have dabbled with feelings that honestly are so distant I can’t even properly recall. But as I started to rethink my proposed actions, as I started to reevaluate and see the error in my offer, things unraveled. I stepped forward and he stepped back. Again. And so, he ran the race in New York and I played kickball in Philadelphia.
Following the game, the team went for drinks. And following drinks, Bess and I went for sushi. We settled in at a table and perused the menu, alternating suggestions and evaluating options. I swirled pieces of seaweed salad around my chopsticks as I confessed. She popped pieces of sushi in her mouth as she talked about upcoming commitments. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the table next to us.
It started innocently. The waitress was placing a bowl in the center. I observed the arch of her wrist as she leaned forward before releasing her grip and walking away. I noticed the way the woman facing me reached her chopsticks into the pile of scallops and noodles, her face crinkling ever so slightly as she focused on the task at hand. I glanced at her companion, curious to observe his expression. And then I quickly turned back to Bess.
“I know him,” I said between clenched teeth, a slight nod of my head indicating which him I was referring to.
“Really?” she asked.
“Okay, remember how like ten minutes ago I was telling you about my college friend’s wedding. The one where I wore a Vera Wang dress that had one boob dart facing north and the other one facing south? That’s her cousin. From Virginia. I went out with him on a date something like five years ago.”
Bess cocked her head a little and awaited additional details.
“I had a great time but I ultimately I freaked out. Because I was in my twenties and he was in his forties and had an eight year old son. I felt completely out of my leauge. He was too adult for me. But this April, my friend and I ended up visiting with him. She was trying to track down her sister and, well, it’s a really long story.”
“Wait, I remember that. That’s him?”
“Uh huh. And the last night we were there, my friend went up to bed and he and I lingered downstairs with some wine and music and,” I stopped mid-sentence as I watched him get up and go to the bathroom. “Nothing happened but there was room for it. What if he’s on a date? I don’t want to make him uncomfortable by saying hello in front of her.”
“So go to the bathroom and say hi there,” Bess quietly suggested.
I waited a few seconds before sliding out of my seat. I folded my napkin and placed it on the edge of the table. I pressed against the wrinkles in my jeans, tucked my hair behind my ears and headed for the stairway leading to the bathroom. I lingered in the hallway and fiddled with my watch. I tapped my foot gently against the wood flooring. And as he neared, I smiled and said his name.
“Well?” Bess asked when I got back to the table.
“He’s up for a medical conference. She’s a peer. And we’re going out tomorrow night.”
“Awesome,” Bess exclaimed.
“And to think I could have been in New York right now chasing my past. I guess what they say is true - it all works out for the best.”
With that said, I slipped. I initiated communication. It started with a two-word text message and within a few hours ballooned to something more. And by more, I mean me offering to stand on 1st Avenue and cheer Alaska on from afar. Yeah, I know how it sounds. Trust me, when I sat at dinner with Bess Sunday night revealing my guilt, I heard the words. I heard the way it painted me as pathetic. I heard the way my suggested efforts lacked legitimate basis. I heard it all.
So yeah, I may have slipped. I may have tinkered with the past while living in the present. I may have dabbled with feelings that honestly are so distant I can’t even properly recall. But as I started to rethink my proposed actions, as I started to reevaluate and see the error in my offer, things unraveled. I stepped forward and he stepped back. Again. And so, he ran the race in New York and I played kickball in Philadelphia.
Following the game, the team went for drinks. And following drinks, Bess and I went for sushi. We settled in at a table and perused the menu, alternating suggestions and evaluating options. I swirled pieces of seaweed salad around my chopsticks as I confessed. She popped pieces of sushi in her mouth as she talked about upcoming commitments. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the table next to us.
It started innocently. The waitress was placing a bowl in the center. I observed the arch of her wrist as she leaned forward before releasing her grip and walking away. I noticed the way the woman facing me reached her chopsticks into the pile of scallops and noodles, her face crinkling ever so slightly as she focused on the task at hand. I glanced at her companion, curious to observe his expression. And then I quickly turned back to Bess.
“I know him,” I said between clenched teeth, a slight nod of my head indicating which him I was referring to.
“Really?” she asked.
“Okay, remember how like ten minutes ago I was telling you about my college friend’s wedding. The one where I wore a Vera Wang dress that had one boob dart facing north and the other one facing south? That’s her cousin. From Virginia. I went out with him on a date something like five years ago.”
Bess cocked her head a little and awaited additional details.
“I had a great time but I ultimately I freaked out. Because I was in my twenties and he was in his forties and had an eight year old son. I felt completely out of my leauge. He was too adult for me. But this April, my friend and I ended up visiting with him. She was trying to track down her sister and, well, it’s a really long story.”
“Wait, I remember that. That’s him?”
“Uh huh. And the last night we were there, my friend went up to bed and he and I lingered downstairs with some wine and music and,” I stopped mid-sentence as I watched him get up and go to the bathroom. “Nothing happened but there was room for it. What if he’s on a date? I don’t want to make him uncomfortable by saying hello in front of her.”
“So go to the bathroom and say hi there,” Bess quietly suggested.
I waited a few seconds before sliding out of my seat. I folded my napkin and placed it on the edge of the table. I pressed against the wrinkles in my jeans, tucked my hair behind my ears and headed for the stairway leading to the bathroom. I lingered in the hallway and fiddled with my watch. I tapped my foot gently against the wood flooring. And as he neared, I smiled and said his name.
“Well?” Bess asked when I got back to the table.
“He’s up for a medical conference. She’s a peer. And we’re going out tomorrow night.”
“Awesome,” Bess exclaimed.
“And to think I could have been in New York right now chasing my past. I guess what they say is true - it all works out for the best.”
Friday, November 02, 2007
Making Plans, Delete
I like to keep my schedule organized. Not in a micromanage kind of way. There isn’t a need for me to have every detail figured out in advance and every activity plotted down to the second. No, I’ve never been accused of that. But I have been repeatedly accused of being a planner.
“I have an idea,” I said to Alaska as I collapsed on the frilly hotel linens covering the bed.
“I bet you do,” he offered as he kicked off his shoes, placed the room key on the nesting table neighboring the armchair and joined me in a horizontal position.
“You want to nap and I want to work out. And dinner is around half an hour away at eight.”
“Right,” he said.
“So my thought was I’ll just give you head. Because if we go at it, I’ll want to crash. And I really want to work out.”
He nodded but it was more of side to side motion instead of up and down in agreement.
“What?” I asked with a slight defensive tone.
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Fine, and I’d like to get this all started in the next fifteen minutes because my goal is to hit the gym by four,” I elaborated, a slight giggle eating up the last few words. “Yes, I like to plan. But you’re getting a blow job! I really don’t see how any of this is a problem.”
“I’m not complaining. Just laughing. At you. And I don’t even want to know how long ago you figured that all out.”
Listen, I am fully aware that things can come together fine when they aren’t planned in advance. I know the world doesn’t hit a screeching halt if I don’t note something in my Palm or make arrangements a few days or, um, weeks ahead. Fine - months. Sometimes I book things months in advance. Like my attendance at a live taping of The Daily Show this past Tuesday. I booked those tickets back in February. Whatever. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.
Anyway, earlier this morning I opened my calendar and updated some information. I had to add a few client meetings scheduled for next week. I had to delete a haircut appointment that conflicts with work commitments. And as I scrolled through the next few days, I saw ‘NYC Marathon’ noted on Sunday. I’d put it in months ago. Ages ago. When Alaska was still part of my schedule. Because he’s running it.
For the first time ever, I cursed my planner ways. I cursed my willingness to so openly embrace future activities that might not make it to the present. I cursed the emotions welling up inside me, the ones I spent the last few months figuring out and putting to rest. I cursed the fact that two meaningless words could so easily trigger warm memories I had worked so hard to erase. I cursed the fact that even though he failed me in more ways than one, I still sometimes craved the sound of his voice on the other end of the phone. I cursed Joe and Barry for being somewhere in the Mediterranean, out of reach and out of contact, as I willed myself to land on the other end of the weekend still moving in my forward motion of new boys in the future and Alaska in the past. I cursed it all. And then I deleted it.
“I have an idea,” I said to Alaska as I collapsed on the frilly hotel linens covering the bed.
“I bet you do,” he offered as he kicked off his shoes, placed the room key on the nesting table neighboring the armchair and joined me in a horizontal position.
“You want to nap and I want to work out. And dinner is around half an hour away at eight.”
“Right,” he said.
“So my thought was I’ll just give you head. Because if we go at it, I’ll want to crash. And I really want to work out.”
He nodded but it was more of side to side motion instead of up and down in agreement.
“What?” I asked with a slight defensive tone.
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Fine, and I’d like to get this all started in the next fifteen minutes because my goal is to hit the gym by four,” I elaborated, a slight giggle eating up the last few words. “Yes, I like to plan. But you’re getting a blow job! I really don’t see how any of this is a problem.”
“I’m not complaining. Just laughing. At you. And I don’t even want to know how long ago you figured that all out.”
Listen, I am fully aware that things can come together fine when they aren’t planned in advance. I know the world doesn’t hit a screeching halt if I don’t note something in my Palm or make arrangements a few days or, um, weeks ahead. Fine - months. Sometimes I book things months in advance. Like my attendance at a live taping of The Daily Show this past Tuesday. I booked those tickets back in February. Whatever. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.
Anyway, earlier this morning I opened my calendar and updated some information. I had to add a few client meetings scheduled for next week. I had to delete a haircut appointment that conflicts with work commitments. And as I scrolled through the next few days, I saw ‘NYC Marathon’ noted on Sunday. I’d put it in months ago. Ages ago. When Alaska was still part of my schedule. Because he’s running it.
For the first time ever, I cursed my planner ways. I cursed my willingness to so openly embrace future activities that might not make it to the present. I cursed the emotions welling up inside me, the ones I spent the last few months figuring out and putting to rest. I cursed the fact that two meaningless words could so easily trigger warm memories I had worked so hard to erase. I cursed the fact that even though he failed me in more ways than one, I still sometimes craved the sound of his voice on the other end of the phone. I cursed Joe and Barry for being somewhere in the Mediterranean, out of reach and out of contact, as I willed myself to land on the other end of the weekend still moving in my forward motion of new boys in the future and Alaska in the past. I cursed it all. And then I deleted it.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
I Am What I Am
“Paige is a reader,” Ex commented as I curled closer to the light.
“So,” I responded, as I lowered my book and waited for an explanation. Being only six months into the relationship, I was unsure if his statement was sincere or sarcastic.
“People always praise readers. I’ll never be a reader,” he said with a disappointed sigh as he lifted his laptop off the bed and balanced it on his knees.
“You liked that book I gave you,” I countered.
“I am still on chapter two. I fall asleep every time I open the darn thing.”
“Jesus – are you simply rereading the same five hundred words? Wait, don’t answer that,” I insisted.
“Paige is a reader,” he repeated, this time speaking the words with a pinch of envy.
The thing is, I knew exactly what he was getting at. It’s different for each person but everyone has a few qualities they look fondly upon, things they don’t identify with but admire in others.
Case in point, just the other day I collapsed on my sofa and started rifling through my pile of mail. I tucked bills off to the side and started perusing the catalogs. I flipped through LL Bean. I scanned Mark Shale. Finally down to the last one, I stretched my legs a little and refocused. The shadow of my treadmill cast across the glossy pages of the Title Nine catalog. A sporty girl-power company, they use real women to model their products and they always note her personal information in the corner of her in-the-act photo. Before long, I was paying more attention to the models than the merchandise they were sporting.
Cindy
32
Seattle, WA
Software Developer
Kayaking Class V Rapids
Whore. Look at her toned legs, muscular and lean. And that skort. I want that skort. It’s cute and fits her tiny ass perfectly. My quads never look that good. Twenty bucks says her thighs don’t touch. Of course they don’t touch. Not even when her feet are together. Oh and I bet she doesn’t sweat. Fucking bitch. I want to kayak. I want to appear that refreshed after a day of riding the rapids. I want to look like Cindy, all perky while loading a kayak on top of a Subaru Outback while an adorable black lab named Charlie chases the cord dangling off the roof. I hope he drops a turd and she steps in it.
I turned the page.
Beth
37
Aspen, CO
Graphic Designer
Snow Running
What the fuck? People run in the snow? By choice? Without being chased by a bear? And sure enough, there on the page was leggy Beth decked out in fleece gear while prancing down a pine tree lined and snow covered trail. Hell, the bitch even looked like she was enjoying herself, crisp whiteness blanketing the landscape as her leg extended to hurdle a mound. Fucking masochist. I hope she hits an ice patch and falls. And hey, while you’re down there on the ground sweetie, can you please explain to me how a graphic designer can afford to reside in Aspen? Because I recently priced out a wintry visit and for the same amount of money that weekend’ll cost me I could feed a Peruvian family of ten for an entire year.
My eyes did a head to toe scan, the kind a caddy girl does at a bar when something blond and busty starts edging onto her turf. I started with Beth’s ponytail, perfectly straight and shiny, and let my eyes descend until they landed on her sneaker clad feet. Salomons. Trail runners. Gore-tex trail runners with the ripcord closure. I smiled. I smiled so big my mouth hurt. Because I own those. I bought them in the spring. Meaning I had them well before this catalog and Beth touted them as athletic gear. And while you won’t ever catch me running in them let alone running in them on a snowy path, you most definitely will see me donning them as I prance down Germantown Avenue popping into shops and boutiques. Looks like I’m an athlete after all.
Fine, I’m my version of an athlete. I happily whack balls off of tees even though every so often I fail to make contact and simply hit a whiffer. I enjoy pedaling ten or so miles over the relatively flat towpath in Valley Green even though by the end I am an unsightly mess, panting and sweating and eager to collapse. I live for winter months when I can strap skis to my feet and swoosh down the non-mogul slopes of nearby mountains even though with age I have become more cautious so as to avoid slabs of ice and tumbling first timers.
Looking at those Salomon sneakers on someone or perhaps more accurately something I am not but so desperately want to be, I somehow started to see it a little differently. I stepped back. I adjusted my lens. I stopped focusing on what I’m not and started to embrace what I am - an athlete on my own terms. It’s a minor tweak. Not to the word but to my personal definition. Cindy might kayak rapids and Beth might run through fields of snow - it doesn’t make them any more or me any less of an athlete.
Oh yeah, plus I’m still a reader. Eat that, bitches.
“So,” I responded, as I lowered my book and waited for an explanation. Being only six months into the relationship, I was unsure if his statement was sincere or sarcastic.
“People always praise readers. I’ll never be a reader,” he said with a disappointed sigh as he lifted his laptop off the bed and balanced it on his knees.
“You liked that book I gave you,” I countered.
“I am still on chapter two. I fall asleep every time I open the darn thing.”
“Jesus – are you simply rereading the same five hundred words? Wait, don’t answer that,” I insisted.
“Paige is a reader,” he repeated, this time speaking the words with a pinch of envy.
The thing is, I knew exactly what he was getting at. It’s different for each person but everyone has a few qualities they look fondly upon, things they don’t identify with but admire in others.
Case in point, just the other day I collapsed on my sofa and started rifling through my pile of mail. I tucked bills off to the side and started perusing the catalogs. I flipped through LL Bean. I scanned Mark Shale. Finally down to the last one, I stretched my legs a little and refocused. The shadow of my treadmill cast across the glossy pages of the Title Nine catalog. A sporty girl-power company, they use real women to model their products and they always note her personal information in the corner of her in-the-act photo. Before long, I was paying more attention to the models than the merchandise they were sporting.
Cindy
32
Seattle, WA
Software Developer
Kayaking Class V Rapids
Whore. Look at her toned legs, muscular and lean. And that skort. I want that skort. It’s cute and fits her tiny ass perfectly. My quads never look that good. Twenty bucks says her thighs don’t touch. Of course they don’t touch. Not even when her feet are together. Oh and I bet she doesn’t sweat. Fucking bitch. I want to kayak. I want to appear that refreshed after a day of riding the rapids. I want to look like Cindy, all perky while loading a kayak on top of a Subaru Outback while an adorable black lab named Charlie chases the cord dangling off the roof. I hope he drops a turd and she steps in it.
I turned the page.
Beth
37
Aspen, CO
Graphic Designer
Snow Running
What the fuck? People run in the snow? By choice? Without being chased by a bear? And sure enough, there on the page was leggy Beth decked out in fleece gear while prancing down a pine tree lined and snow covered trail. Hell, the bitch even looked like she was enjoying herself, crisp whiteness blanketing the landscape as her leg extended to hurdle a mound. Fucking masochist. I hope she hits an ice patch and falls. And hey, while you’re down there on the ground sweetie, can you please explain to me how a graphic designer can afford to reside in Aspen? Because I recently priced out a wintry visit and for the same amount of money that weekend’ll cost me I could feed a Peruvian family of ten for an entire year.
My eyes did a head to toe scan, the kind a caddy girl does at a bar when something blond and busty starts edging onto her turf. I started with Beth’s ponytail, perfectly straight and shiny, and let my eyes descend until they landed on her sneaker clad feet. Salomons. Trail runners. Gore-tex trail runners with the ripcord closure. I smiled. I smiled so big my mouth hurt. Because I own those. I bought them in the spring. Meaning I had them well before this catalog and Beth touted them as athletic gear. And while you won’t ever catch me running in them let alone running in them on a snowy path, you most definitely will see me donning them as I prance down Germantown Avenue popping into shops and boutiques. Looks like I’m an athlete after all.
Fine, I’m my version of an athlete. I happily whack balls off of tees even though every so often I fail to make contact and simply hit a whiffer. I enjoy pedaling ten or so miles over the relatively flat towpath in Valley Green even though by the end I am an unsightly mess, panting and sweating and eager to collapse. I live for winter months when I can strap skis to my feet and swoosh down the non-mogul slopes of nearby mountains even though with age I have become more cautious so as to avoid slabs of ice and tumbling first timers.
Looking at those Salomon sneakers on someone or perhaps more accurately something I am not but so desperately want to be, I somehow started to see it a little differently. I stepped back. I adjusted my lens. I stopped focusing on what I’m not and started to embrace what I am - an athlete on my own terms. It’s a minor tweak. Not to the word but to my personal definition. Cindy might kayak rapids and Beth might run through fields of snow - it doesn’t make them any more or me any less of an athlete.
Oh yeah, plus I’m still a reader. Eat that, bitches.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
