Within a one week span in the fall of 1993, two life changing events occurred: I lost my virginity and I purchased my first vibrator. Some people went to college to study Proust or become fluent in French. I went to grow up. To be honest, I think I ended up better off than most of those academically driven girls. Suck it, you mensa bitches.
My first toy was bought on a late night road trip to a seedy suburb of Hartford. Yes, I crossed state lines to buy a vibrator. I went with three girls and one of them found the shop advertised in a local newspaper. The store was a small and narrow space with a glass case counter at one end and display shelves lining the sides. The saleswoman donned a boa and suggested I consider buying a crotchless fishnet onsie. Having been deflowered a mere five days prior, I was unquestionably in over my head. So I left all decision making up to my galpals. On the way back to campus we stopped to purchase the requisite C batteries and as soon as we returned to our dorm we dispersed the way roaches do when the lights are flipped on. What? Like you never had the urge to immediately debut a new purchase?
I loved that toy. Not because of the shape or the styling. Please, the shaft looked like Barbara Bush bedecked in a pearl choker and the clitoral stimulator was either an aardvark or an anteater. Either way, it was the polar opposite of sexy. A long red wire connected the energy pack to the actual mechanism and more often than not I got all tangled up in the chord. It took four large batteries to turn the thing on and if I was lucky it provided a whopping thirty minutes of use. I’m sure the Store 24 down on King Street was suspicious about what I planned on doing with all those C batteries typically reserved for flashlights. Whatever the flaws, that toy singlehandedly converted me from a virginal prude fearful of intimacy to a sexually liberated woman.
Around two years after buying my first toy, it fell apart. The wire started to disconnect from the shaft, causing it to randomly cut out. And if I used it while on the phone with a beau, cradling the handset with my shoulder, a shock repeatedly pinged my ear. Fearful I’d electrocute myself and be found naked, spread eagle clutching a toy, I ditched the vibrator for a newer model and resumed my usual schedule.
As I evolved orgasmicly speaking, my collection expanded. The first addition came when I dated J in New York.
“I got you something,” he said with a smirky glimmer in his eyes.
“Uh huh,” I curiously answered with a nod.
“It’s been written up everywhere. Something about unique contours designed by a woman for a woman,” he explained as he presented the gift.
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered as I pulled the item out of the box and examined the toy.
Later that night, back in Philadelphia and alone in my bed, I tried the new contraption. It was like rubbing up against a telephone handset. It was always cold, inhumanly hard and barely climax inducing. Whatever woman designed this thing clearly had a phone fetish and never properly experienced an orgasm. Trust me, anyone with a functioning clitoris would have killed this design at the first prototype. Feeling guilty, however, I kept it around, using it only when in dire straits.
A few years later I bought a silver bullet. Because of the shape, the only way to keep it in place was to hold it. And because of the design, you were left holding a jackhammering nub. Though more successful than the plastic piece of crap from J, it always left my hand numb. You know how when you live on a boat for a few days and then step on land and can still feel the ocean swells? Yeah, it was like that.
This past fall, I ducked into a shop in New York to replace my current favorite toy, the fifth reincarnation of my original. I perused the options, I tested the speeds and I eventually exchanged $100 for a similar design made by a different company. I liked the pretty aqua color. I thought the controls looked more advanced. I was admittedly lured by the packaging. When I got home, I plugged in some batteries and took the puppy out for a test drive. Maybe the motor was defective but I swear it sounded and moved like a sputtering and coughing car engine about to stall. Similar to the Gucci loafers I bought but never wear because they pinch my Achilles tendon, I tucked the new toy deep in my closet and let it sit.
In the meantime, I continued to use the one on its last leg. The prongs that connect the batteries are all loose and oftentimes need to be rigged. The power source that now acts as the handle is currently attached by one little stretch of glue, thinner than a rubber band. And with each passing day, the toy more frequently dies mid use. While there are unquestionably a lot worse things to experience in life, being on the brink of an orgasm only to have all stimulation unexpectedly halt is pretty fucking crummy.
So I guess the moral of the story is if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And if it is broke, fix it with the same damn thing. Talk about a hard way to learn an important lesson. Now excuse me while I go hunt down some duct tape to McGuyver the shit out of my toy.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Pick Your Battles Wisely
I tucked the borrowed hair blower next to my duffel and worked my way to my feet. After licking my fingertips I ran my hands over my black slacks to remove lint from the ivory carpeting. Then I moseyed out to the hall and down to Olivia’s room where Leslie was attempting to clothe the tyke. The rocking chair in the corner had two sweaters draped over each arm and a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt and brown shoes sat on the cushioned seat.
“Go blow your hair dry,” I said to Leslie with a wave of the hand. “I’ll get her dressed. You excited for your birthday party?” I asked a naked Olivia.
“Cinderella’s coming!” she excitedly yelped with a leap.
Leslie slipped out the door and retreated to her bedroom.
“Here. Put your underwear on,” I said as I extended a tiny pair of white cotton briefs dotted with Tinkerbell.
“Those are panties,” Olivia corrected as she fetched them from my hand.
I reached for the white t-shirt and approached her, my hands curling the body up to the neck for ease of assembly. But Olivia proceeded to back away from me.
“I don’t want that,” she explained with a pout and furled brow.
“You have to. The sweater is itchy, see,” I noted as I took the orange woolen sleeve and rubbed it against my cheek, accidentally wiping clean the entire layer of Laura Mercier powder and Nars bronzer I had applied moments before.
“No,” she responded with crossed arms and a head nod reminiscent of I Dream of Jeannie.
“Okay, what do you want to wear?”
Olivia disappeared in her closet and came out with a pair of brown and pink striped tights.
“Fine,” I said as we collected on the floor and pulled them up over her ankles. Then I left her to tug while I turned to grab the jeans.
“No.”
“But you need a bottom,” I insisted.
“No.”
“Olivia, these are socks. Very big socks. You need a skirt or pants also,” I reasoned.
“No,” she grumbled while tugging her legs free from the tights. “I wanna wear this,” she said as she held up the orange sweater, a knitted cardigan that hung just past the tush but had all of three buttons by the neck to keep it closed.
“Right but see how there are only a few buttons at the top? Your belly will show and you’ll be cold. Plus it will be itchy. You need to wear pants.”
“No.”
My mom came through the door just as I was about to slam my head against the bookshelf.
“How’s it going?”
“Your granddaughter wants to wear those tights with that sweater and nothing else. She’ll look like a three year old version of a drunken stripper.
“Olivia,” my mom started as she bent down to grab the tights off the floor. “This is a hat. You can’t wear just a hat,” she argued as she pulled the waistband of the tights over her head, knotting the legs under her chin like a bonnet.
Olivia giggled.
I laughed before stepping back to watch my mom do her thing, a thing that usually works but this time failed. So I left. If my mother couldn’t get this kid dressed, there was no way in heck I was going to be successful. I returned to the guest bedroom to finish putting on my jewelry and to reapply my make up. Ten minutes later, I strolled out to the hallway and passed Olivia’s room. She was on the floor sliding her legs into a pair of bedazzled jeans.
I descended the stairs and stepped into the great room where my mom was clearing off the island for the party.
“Look at you Ms. Miracle Worker,” I said to my mom with a jab.
“What’re you talking about?”
“She’s putting her jeans on. Nice job.”
“Really? I gave up and walked out leaving her there half naked,” she confessed before crunching down on a baby carrot.
Just then Olivia appeared on the landing sporting blue jeans, an orange sweater with her belly fully exposed and sparkly pink Mary Janes.
“I’ll go find a safety pin,” my mom said with a sigh.
“Go blow your hair dry,” I said to Leslie with a wave of the hand. “I’ll get her dressed. You excited for your birthday party?” I asked a naked Olivia.
“Cinderella’s coming!” she excitedly yelped with a leap.
Leslie slipped out the door and retreated to her bedroom.
“Here. Put your underwear on,” I said as I extended a tiny pair of white cotton briefs dotted with Tinkerbell.
“Those are panties,” Olivia corrected as she fetched them from my hand.
I reached for the white t-shirt and approached her, my hands curling the body up to the neck for ease of assembly. But Olivia proceeded to back away from me.
“I don’t want that,” she explained with a pout and furled brow.
“You have to. The sweater is itchy, see,” I noted as I took the orange woolen sleeve and rubbed it against my cheek, accidentally wiping clean the entire layer of Laura Mercier powder and Nars bronzer I had applied moments before.
“No,” she responded with crossed arms and a head nod reminiscent of I Dream of Jeannie.
“Okay, what do you want to wear?”
Olivia disappeared in her closet and came out with a pair of brown and pink striped tights.
“Fine,” I said as we collected on the floor and pulled them up over her ankles. Then I left her to tug while I turned to grab the jeans.
“No.”
“But you need a bottom,” I insisted.
“No.”
“Olivia, these are socks. Very big socks. You need a skirt or pants also,” I reasoned.
“No,” she grumbled while tugging her legs free from the tights. “I wanna wear this,” she said as she held up the orange sweater, a knitted cardigan that hung just past the tush but had all of three buttons by the neck to keep it closed.
“Right but see how there are only a few buttons at the top? Your belly will show and you’ll be cold. Plus it will be itchy. You need to wear pants.”
“No.”
My mom came through the door just as I was about to slam my head against the bookshelf.
“How’s it going?”
“Your granddaughter wants to wear those tights with that sweater and nothing else. She’ll look like a three year old version of a drunken stripper.
“Olivia,” my mom started as she bent down to grab the tights off the floor. “This is a hat. You can’t wear just a hat,” she argued as she pulled the waistband of the tights over her head, knotting the legs under her chin like a bonnet.
Olivia giggled.
I laughed before stepping back to watch my mom do her thing, a thing that usually works but this time failed. So I left. If my mother couldn’t get this kid dressed, there was no way in heck I was going to be successful. I returned to the guest bedroom to finish putting on my jewelry and to reapply my make up. Ten minutes later, I strolled out to the hallway and passed Olivia’s room. She was on the floor sliding her legs into a pair of bedazzled jeans.
I descended the stairs and stepped into the great room where my mom was clearing off the island for the party.
“Look at you Ms. Miracle Worker,” I said to my mom with a jab.
“What’re you talking about?”
“She’s putting her jeans on. Nice job.”
“Really? I gave up and walked out leaving her there half naked,” she confessed before crunching down on a baby carrot.
Just then Olivia appeared on the landing sporting blue jeans, an orange sweater with her belly fully exposed and sparkly pink Mary Janes.
“I’ll go find a safety pin,” my mom said with a sigh.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I Don't, Or Do I?
I hate weddings. The falsely virginal dress dotted with beads and lace. A gaggle of bridesmaids lined up in matching polyester gowns that flatter nary a one. The row of groomsmen bedecked in tacky rented tuxedos enhanced with matching satin vests. I can’t understand spending $10,000 on flowers that’ll be dead in two days or $20,000 on music that will play for three hours. For me, weddings are as appealing as Hello Kitty handbags and platefuls of scrapple. Thanks, but no thanks.
So if this is the case, why the fuck did I cry watching Lauri marry George last night on The Real Housewives of Orange County? The way the flowers adorned with crystals dripped off the trees. The way he longingly looked at her as she glided down the aisle. By the time the show entered into a montage of still shots, I was a full blown blithering mess. Curled under my nappy fleece blanket, my body encased in lycra and damp from my workout, I dabbed at my eyes and beamed happiness at the television.
Maybe my cynical approach to nuptials has finally turned a corner. I’ll admit I had fun at Leslie’s wedding. I was the only bridesmaid so I was told to go to Neiman Marcus and find a black gown. Oh, and I was instructed to take my mother’s credit card so I wouldn’t have to pay for it. This is the polar opposite of twisting my arm. She said ‘I do’ in front of sixty people at Le Bec Fin and then afterwards the group feasted on rack of lamb and seared scallops. The wine flowed generously, the dessert cart was never ending nirvana and in the end, it was a lovely affair.
“You guys ever getting married?” I asked Joe and Barry as I took another sip from my New Year’s Eve cocktail.
Barry shyly cast his eyes down, keeping his wishes to himself while Joe freely spoke.
“Hell to the no. Just ‘cause you breeders need a piece of paper to commit doesn’t mean we do.”
“Really?”
Barry let out a sigh. I continued.
“You two would look so handsome at an altar in tuxedos,” I argued.
“Wait,” Joe interrupted. “You hate weddings!”
“Yes, but I love cake. I’m always up for a heaping slice of cake.”
It’s true. If I could build a house of cupcakes and live the rest of my days tucked within the walls of butter cream frosting, I would. In fact, I’d probably never leave my house. But that’s another post for another time.
At the end of the day, perhaps the weepiness I felt while watching crappy reality television had nothing to do with weddings and everything to do with love. A genuine and unwavering love that I haven’t witnessed in a while. The kind of love I’m holding out for. When it works just as well in silence as it does when words are exchanged. The kind of love that is rarer than a pink diamond and worth more than all of the money in the world. Maybe it’s all about love. And the cake. I’m still holding out for the fucking cake.
So if this is the case, why the fuck did I cry watching Lauri marry George last night on The Real Housewives of Orange County? The way the flowers adorned with crystals dripped off the trees. The way he longingly looked at her as she glided down the aisle. By the time the show entered into a montage of still shots, I was a full blown blithering mess. Curled under my nappy fleece blanket, my body encased in lycra and damp from my workout, I dabbed at my eyes and beamed happiness at the television.
Maybe my cynical approach to nuptials has finally turned a corner. I’ll admit I had fun at Leslie’s wedding. I was the only bridesmaid so I was told to go to Neiman Marcus and find a black gown. Oh, and I was instructed to take my mother’s credit card so I wouldn’t have to pay for it. This is the polar opposite of twisting my arm. She said ‘I do’ in front of sixty people at Le Bec Fin and then afterwards the group feasted on rack of lamb and seared scallops. The wine flowed generously, the dessert cart was never ending nirvana and in the end, it was a lovely affair.
“You guys ever getting married?” I asked Joe and Barry as I took another sip from my New Year’s Eve cocktail.
Barry shyly cast his eyes down, keeping his wishes to himself while Joe freely spoke.
“Hell to the no. Just ‘cause you breeders need a piece of paper to commit doesn’t mean we do.”
“Really?”
Barry let out a sigh. I continued.
“You two would look so handsome at an altar in tuxedos,” I argued.
“Wait,” Joe interrupted. “You hate weddings!”
“Yes, but I love cake. I’m always up for a heaping slice of cake.”
It’s true. If I could build a house of cupcakes and live the rest of my days tucked within the walls of butter cream frosting, I would. In fact, I’d probably never leave my house. But that’s another post for another time.
At the end of the day, perhaps the weepiness I felt while watching crappy reality television had nothing to do with weddings and everything to do with love. A genuine and unwavering love that I haven’t witnessed in a while. The kind of love I’m holding out for. When it works just as well in silence as it does when words are exchanged. The kind of love that is rarer than a pink diamond and worth more than all of the money in the world. Maybe it’s all about love. And the cake. I’m still holding out for the fucking cake.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Inherit the Wool
It was half past five on Friday when my dad intercommed me at my desk.
“Ready to go?”
“Be right down,” I offered.
I grabbed my things and met him at the back door.
“Here,” I said while holding out his scarf, the nub I had knitted in December.
“What are those strings hanging all over the place?”
“Character. Have mom sew them in. I don’t have a needle.”
“Okay,” he accepted.
We crawled into his car, leaving mine in the lot, and worked our way to my parent’s house. There we retrieved my mother and drove over to New Jersey for dinner with some relatives. Six of us sat down to platefuls of ribs and cornbread and cole slaw. We laughed about this and grew silent over that. When the bill was paid and the table was a mere sea of barbecue stained napkins, everyone said goodbye and headed home. Just after crossing back into Pennsylvania, I asked my mom a favor.
“Hey, can I borrow a needle to finish dad’s scarf?”
“Sure. Come in and get whatever you want. Then I’ll drive you back to your car.”
While my dad did his delayed relocation from car to home, my mom and I dumped all of her knitting paraphernalia out on the bed.
“What’s this?” I curiously asked while holding up a suspicious piece of plastic.
“Um, I’m not sure,” my mom said as she cocked her head.
“This is adorable!” I exclaimed when I happened upon the body of a burgundy sweater for a little tot. “Let me guess, Olivia?”
“Uh huh. But I got bored. Plus, the way those kids grow, this would have fit her for a week,” my mom said as she pulled out the needle and started unraveling the yarn.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I gathered up all of the needles.
“Reusing the yarn. Wait what are you doing?” my mom asked back as she watched me pilfer her entire collection of gear.
“You aren’t using them.”
“I might.”
“Fine, here,” I offered as I handed her one size 8 needle.
“What on earth am I going to do with one needle?”
“Beats me but you have a total of three and I clearly only need two,” I explained as I organized my newfound collection.
“Here’s a size 5,” my mom said as she extended two needles.
“They’re bent. Did you jimmy a lock with those?”
“They knit fine.”
“I’m sure they do. So you keep them and knit on those silly looking things. If I need size 5, I’ll just buy a pair.”
My mom sat down on the bed and grew momentarily quiet, her focus floating off elsewhere before she spoke her thought.
“Gosh, where on earth could that other size 8 be?” she questioned before sinking back into a pensive pause.
“The ferry that shuttles between Hyannis and Nantucket,” I surmised, my mind flipping to summertime memories of windsurfing the waves while my mom remained on the beach knitting through skeins of yarn.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said as she gathered everything up and dropped it back into the crumpled Neiman Marcus bag it had originally been stored in. “Here.”
“Aren’t you keeping anything?” I asked.
“Nah, consider it a passing of the torch.”
“Thanks mom. And if you ever want to borrow anything, including that piece of plastic that neither of us know what to do with, just let me know.”
“Ready to go?”
“Be right down,” I offered.
I grabbed my things and met him at the back door.
“Here,” I said while holding out his scarf, the nub I had knitted in December.
“What are those strings hanging all over the place?”
“Character. Have mom sew them in. I don’t have a needle.”
“Okay,” he accepted.
We crawled into his car, leaving mine in the lot, and worked our way to my parent’s house. There we retrieved my mother and drove over to New Jersey for dinner with some relatives. Six of us sat down to platefuls of ribs and cornbread and cole slaw. We laughed about this and grew silent over that. When the bill was paid and the table was a mere sea of barbecue stained napkins, everyone said goodbye and headed home. Just after crossing back into Pennsylvania, I asked my mom a favor.
“Hey, can I borrow a needle to finish dad’s scarf?”
“Sure. Come in and get whatever you want. Then I’ll drive you back to your car.”
While my dad did his delayed relocation from car to home, my mom and I dumped all of her knitting paraphernalia out on the bed.
“What’s this?” I curiously asked while holding up a suspicious piece of plastic.
“Um, I’m not sure,” my mom said as she cocked her head.
“This is adorable!” I exclaimed when I happened upon the body of a burgundy sweater for a little tot. “Let me guess, Olivia?”
“Uh huh. But I got bored. Plus, the way those kids grow, this would have fit her for a week,” my mom said as she pulled out the needle and started unraveling the yarn.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I gathered up all of the needles.
“Reusing the yarn. Wait what are you doing?” my mom asked back as she watched me pilfer her entire collection of gear.
“You aren’t using them.”
“I might.”
“Fine, here,” I offered as I handed her one size 8 needle.
“What on earth am I going to do with one needle?”
“Beats me but you have a total of three and I clearly only need two,” I explained as I organized my newfound collection.
“Here’s a size 5,” my mom said as she extended two needles.
“They’re bent. Did you jimmy a lock with those?”
“They knit fine.”
“I’m sure they do. So you keep them and knit on those silly looking things. If I need size 5, I’ll just buy a pair.”
My mom sat down on the bed and grew momentarily quiet, her focus floating off elsewhere before she spoke her thought.
“Gosh, where on earth could that other size 8 be?” she questioned before sinking back into a pensive pause.
“The ferry that shuttles between Hyannis and Nantucket,” I surmised, my mind flipping to summertime memories of windsurfing the waves while my mom remained on the beach knitting through skeins of yarn.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said as she gathered everything up and dropped it back into the crumpled Neiman Marcus bag it had originally been stored in. “Here.”
“Aren’t you keeping anything?” I asked.
“Nah, consider it a passing of the torch.”
“Thanks mom. And if you ever want to borrow anything, including that piece of plastic that neither of us know what to do with, just let me know.”
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Good Enough
My mom has a friend B who paints. Every summer, B flees Philadelphia for an artist’s retreat. Sometimes she hops across the pond to Avignon or Tuscany. Other times she meanders north toward Vermont or Maine. For those few months, she settles in with her easel and brushes and dedicates herself to her craft. When my sister got married, B gave one of her paintings as a wedding gift. When I bought my condo, my mom presented me with one of her pieces as a house warming gift. And when my parents closed on their place in Florida, my mom and I drove over to B’s studio in Chestnut Hill to select something for the Sarasota breakfast room.
“This is beautiful,” I swooned as I tilted my head and soaked in the colors of Provence.
“I’m not sure I like it,” B moaned as she stepped between me and the painting before picking it up and shuffling it out of view.
“How much for this one?” my mom asked while pointing to a larger piece resting against a whitewashed Victorian dresser. The composition was similar to a Matisse from his time in Nice; fabric draped across a table, lush flowers collected in a vase and the golden glow of the sun passing through French doors.
“It isn’t done,” B explained with a huff.
“Hold on - this has been here since Leslie got married and, uh, that was almost ten years ago,” my mom countered.
“Yeah, well, it isn’t done. How about this piece?” B offered shifting our attention to a smaller and tamer still life, a piece that looked the least done of anything in the studio.
“Or how about this,” my mom started as she stepped us all back over to the piece she wanted. “I buy the so called unfinished piece and you have unlimited visiting rights. Whenever you want, just stop over with your brushes and finish it up.”
B squeaked out a groan, one part ache and two parts agony.
“Think about it,” my mom finished as she buttoned up her coat and collected her things, the international cue for end scene.
A few months later, B agreed to sell the unfinished painting. I know it pained her to part with something that in her eyes still needed work. I know it upset her it as she released her grasp of something she spent ten years creating but never properly finished. None of it bothered my mom who quickly shipped the piece south and hung in the kitchen next to the dining table.
Back in the spring of 2006, I wrote a short story for a writing class down at Penn. I received really good feedback from the critique - reconsider the narrator's voice, elaborate on the secondary characters, etc. But I felt too close to the piece at the time to start making edits. A few months passed, life picked up and I officially moved on, failing to make any edits whatsoever. It’s this short story I’m using as my writing sample for my graduate school submission. But now that it has had two years to age, the piece feels all wrong. The details are too limited. The arc of the story is too flat. I want more dialog to enhance the characters. The first time I sat down to edit the piece, I went crazy. So I closed it up and let it sit. A week later, I printed it out and gave it another go. Tired and confused and on the verge of collapse, I dropped my head into my hands and cried. I have since learned that I can only edit this story while ingesting copious amounts of red wine.
No matter what program I’m considering, the writing sample accounts for 80% of the application. Yeah, 80%. Which pretty much means it’ll make or break my acceptance. With so much riding on twenty pages of double spaced, 12pt font, one inch margined literature, I want nothing more than to make it absolutely perfect. I want the admissions committee to expel a collective wow when they get to the end. I want the decision makers to unanimously agree I’m worthy of a slot in their program. But the more I try to fix what I see as broken, the more broken it feels. Sitting on my floor with pages of the story spread out before me, I feel like B when she dismissed her beautiful art as a work in progress. Maybe this is what all creative people go through; the double edged sword that as we evolve, so does our craft. If I’m a different writer today than I was yesterday, it is an easy leap to conclude yesterday’s work product needs to be updated. Sitting on my floor trying to rework something that no matter what will always be unfinished makes my stomach churn. It makes me head ache and my confidence wilt. It also makes me fully certain that anything I submit will never be good enough.
Afterword: This essay was originally penned at four o’clock in the afternoon. A few hours later, after stopping at Barnes & Noble to fetch a few books and then detouring to Wholefoods to retrieve some dinnertime sustenance, I found myself in the elevator of my building willing the ancient box to ascend to the second floor. Then, out of nowhere, I saw it. I saw the dialog I so desperately wanted to hear. I saw a new beginning attached to an altered middle and the original end. I saw it all. I pushed through my door, tossed my pints of fro-yo into the freezer, my container of shredded Reggiano into the fridge and shimied out of my coat before settling onto my sofa with my laptop. Five hours and two glasses of red wine later, I have a masterpiece. Well, a masterpiece as of right now. I’m rather confident tomorrow I’ll think it’s shit. Now excuse me while I do a celebratory dance around my apartment to Eric Hutchinson’s Okay, It’s Alright With Me
“This is beautiful,” I swooned as I tilted my head and soaked in the colors of Provence.
“I’m not sure I like it,” B moaned as she stepped between me and the painting before picking it up and shuffling it out of view.
“How much for this one?” my mom asked while pointing to a larger piece resting against a whitewashed Victorian dresser. The composition was similar to a Matisse from his time in Nice; fabric draped across a table, lush flowers collected in a vase and the golden glow of the sun passing through French doors.
“It isn’t done,” B explained with a huff.
“Hold on - this has been here since Leslie got married and, uh, that was almost ten years ago,” my mom countered.
“Yeah, well, it isn’t done. How about this piece?” B offered shifting our attention to a smaller and tamer still life, a piece that looked the least done of anything in the studio.
“Or how about this,” my mom started as she stepped us all back over to the piece she wanted. “I buy the so called unfinished piece and you have unlimited visiting rights. Whenever you want, just stop over with your brushes and finish it up.”
B squeaked out a groan, one part ache and two parts agony.
“Think about it,” my mom finished as she buttoned up her coat and collected her things, the international cue for end scene.
A few months later, B agreed to sell the unfinished painting. I know it pained her to part with something that in her eyes still needed work. I know it upset her it as she released her grasp of something she spent ten years creating but never properly finished. None of it bothered my mom who quickly shipped the piece south and hung in the kitchen next to the dining table.
Back in the spring of 2006, I wrote a short story for a writing class down at Penn. I received really good feedback from the critique - reconsider the narrator's voice, elaborate on the secondary characters, etc. But I felt too close to the piece at the time to start making edits. A few months passed, life picked up and I officially moved on, failing to make any edits whatsoever. It’s this short story I’m using as my writing sample for my graduate school submission. But now that it has had two years to age, the piece feels all wrong. The details are too limited. The arc of the story is too flat. I want more dialog to enhance the characters. The first time I sat down to edit the piece, I went crazy. So I closed it up and let it sit. A week later, I printed it out and gave it another go. Tired and confused and on the verge of collapse, I dropped my head into my hands and cried. I have since learned that I can only edit this story while ingesting copious amounts of red wine.
No matter what program I’m considering, the writing sample accounts for 80% of the application. Yeah, 80%. Which pretty much means it’ll make or break my acceptance. With so much riding on twenty pages of double spaced, 12pt font, one inch margined literature, I want nothing more than to make it absolutely perfect. I want the admissions committee to expel a collective wow when they get to the end. I want the decision makers to unanimously agree I’m worthy of a slot in their program. But the more I try to fix what I see as broken, the more broken it feels. Sitting on my floor with pages of the story spread out before me, I feel like B when she dismissed her beautiful art as a work in progress. Maybe this is what all creative people go through; the double edged sword that as we evolve, so does our craft. If I’m a different writer today than I was yesterday, it is an easy leap to conclude yesterday’s work product needs to be updated. Sitting on my floor trying to rework something that no matter what will always be unfinished makes my stomach churn. It makes me head ache and my confidence wilt. It also makes me fully certain that anything I submit will never be good enough.
Afterword: This essay was originally penned at four o’clock in the afternoon. A few hours later, after stopping at Barnes & Noble to fetch a few books and then detouring to Wholefoods to retrieve some dinnertime sustenance, I found myself in the elevator of my building willing the ancient box to ascend to the second floor. Then, out of nowhere, I saw it. I saw the dialog I so desperately wanted to hear. I saw a new beginning attached to an altered middle and the original end. I saw it all. I pushed through my door, tossed my pints of fro-yo into the freezer, my container of shredded Reggiano into the fridge and shimied out of my coat before settling onto my sofa with my laptop. Five hours and two glasses of red wine later, I have a masterpiece. Well, a masterpiece as of right now. I’m rather confident tomorrow I’ll think it’s shit. Now excuse me while I do a celebratory dance around my apartment to Eric Hutchinson’s Okay, It’s Alright With Me
Monday, January 14, 2008
Don't Tell A Soul
I'm a horrible secret keeper. Horr-ih-bull. I think it’s genetic. At least that’s where I’m hanging my hat. Although I’m the only one in my family who has a tough time keeping mum. Amendment: it’s genetic and I’m adopted.
I remember sitting in the backseat of my dad’s Audi with Leslie next to me, her ten year old face pressed up against the glass so she could glance out at the world passing by. My dad was in the driver’s seat and my mom was to his right, probably fanning through the latest issue of Architectural Digest or Bon Appetit.
“Dad, wanna know what we got you for your birthday?” I excitedly asked from the rear.
“Don’t you dare!” Leslie threatened, her head whipping around so her eyes could burn a hole through me.
“PJ,” my mom muttered before letting out a sensual moan about something in the magazine - either a chocolate raspberry tort or enviable landscaping.
“No, it’ll be a surprise,” my dad offered.
“Okay,” I said with an audible sigh, the kind of sigh only those under ten can get away with.
My dad fidgeted with the radio, Leslie got back to the window and I gave it one more go.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” my dad confirmed with a slight chuckle.
“Okay, tennis shorts,” I blurted out before smacking an open palm across my mouth as if to force the words back in.
“Mo-o-o-o-o-o-om!” Leslie whined with that tattletale tone that wafts between siblings, the 'o' lifting in a high pitched arc.
“PJ!” my mom yelped to appease Leslie.
It was the last time I was in on a secret. Probably because everyone knows better than to tell me. But that was then and this is now. Meaning earlier this month, a secret fell into my lap. Big or small, I'm not sure. But it's a secret. And I'm going to buck the Paige Jennifer norm and keep it mum. Although, so far keeping it to myself hasn't been a struggle. I don't have the urge to tap a stranger on the shoulder and share what I know. And when I hang up the phone with Leslie or Allison or Hope or Bess, I never have the desire to blurt out 'one more thing' and spill the beans. Perhaps this is maturity. Or perhaps this is me trying on someone else's shoes. And maybe tomorrow or the day after tomorrow I'll tap out a confession and post it public for all the world to read. But I just don't see that happening. Because for the first time ever in my life, keeping a secret to myself has made it that much richer.
I remember sitting in the backseat of my dad’s Audi with Leslie next to me, her ten year old face pressed up against the glass so she could glance out at the world passing by. My dad was in the driver’s seat and my mom was to his right, probably fanning through the latest issue of Architectural Digest or Bon Appetit.
“Dad, wanna know what we got you for your birthday?” I excitedly asked from the rear.
“Don’t you dare!” Leslie threatened, her head whipping around so her eyes could burn a hole through me.
“PJ,” my mom muttered before letting out a sensual moan about something in the magazine - either a chocolate raspberry tort or enviable landscaping.
“No, it’ll be a surprise,” my dad offered.
“Okay,” I said with an audible sigh, the kind of sigh only those under ten can get away with.
My dad fidgeted with the radio, Leslie got back to the window and I gave it one more go.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” my dad confirmed with a slight chuckle.
“Okay, tennis shorts,” I blurted out before smacking an open palm across my mouth as if to force the words back in.
“Mo-o-o-o-o-o-om!” Leslie whined with that tattletale tone that wafts between siblings, the 'o' lifting in a high pitched arc.
“PJ!” my mom yelped to appease Leslie.
It was the last time I was in on a secret. Probably because everyone knows better than to tell me. But that was then and this is now. Meaning earlier this month, a secret fell into my lap. Big or small, I'm not sure. But it's a secret. And I'm going to buck the Paige Jennifer norm and keep it mum. Although, so far keeping it to myself hasn't been a struggle. I don't have the urge to tap a stranger on the shoulder and share what I know. And when I hang up the phone with Leslie or Allison or Hope or Bess, I never have the desire to blurt out 'one more thing' and spill the beans. Perhaps this is maturity. Or perhaps this is me trying on someone else's shoes. And maybe tomorrow or the day after tomorrow I'll tap out a confession and post it public for all the world to read. But I just don't see that happening. Because for the first time ever in my life, keeping a secret to myself has made it that much richer.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Knotted Up In Character
In early December, I decided I wanted to knit again. Sure it might be a turn off to men. Sure it's the gateway drug to owning ten cats and becoming a whiskery old hag. It was a risk I was willing to take. Because a few years ago I knitted myself a scarf, a woolen streamer that has garnered me unsolicited praise and ridiculous awe when I say I made it. And nothing quite tops the way it feels flaunting my needle skills.
“PJ, I think you should knock out a few rows before we leave,” my mom suggested as I headed for the door of the yarn shop in Sarasota.
I grumbled.
“Here,” the saleswoman offered before taking back my recently purchased knitting paraphernalia and guiding me over to the communal table.
I hesitantly followed, my mom resting her hand on my back to push me in a forward motion. The three of us pulled up chairs on a corner directly opposite a ten year old boy who was needling an afghan. I peered over the edge at his exquisite creation and I started to feel a little more amateur than I wanted.
“Cast on,” the saleswoman ordered as she relinquished the needles.
I began my loops. Wrap, twist, drop. Wrap, twist, drop.
She gasped. She gasped the way I do when I witness a near collision on a bustling highway or when I realize I accidentally sent an incriminating email to a client. Then she snatched the needles out of my hands.
“That is not casting on,” she scolded.
I turned my squinted eyes toward my mom, the woman responsible for teaching me to knit. She shrugged and then looked away feigning interest in a pattern book resting in the middle of the table.
“How big do you want the scarf?” the woman asked as she halted her casting on.
I shrugged.
“Fifty-two stitches? Forty-two stitches?”
I curled my lower lip over my bottom teeth and bit down to stop it from quivering. How the heck did I know how many stitches I needed to make a scarf? And more importantly why the fuck did the number of stitches have to end with two? I felt like I'd showed up to play tennis, donning all white and waving a racket, only to learn I was expected to swim. I turned to my mom who, anticipating my puppy dog plea for help, was engrossed in a sweater pattern. One she'd never make and most definitely never wear in public.
“Right, okay. I’m making all decisions for you from here on out,” the woman offered as she finished her complicated version of casting on. “Forty-two stitches. You’ll do this pattern. It’s easy enough to follow and different enough to look good.”
The little boy looked up, his hands still scissoring the needles and swooping the yarn, and I swear I heard him snicker a little in my direction. Fucker. Laugh all you want because you little man, you with your granny knitting needles and nubby skeins of yarn, you are way more fucked than I. I'd rather be an old maid children mock than a sissy boy kids beat up.
“PJ?” my mom interrupted, her head nodding toward the needles extended before me. The saleswoman had completed the first three rows and was suggesting I take over. So I did. Knit one, purl one. Repeat six times and then move marker. Knit four, purl four. Repeat and repeat and repeat until I collide with the second marker. Knit one, purl one. Repeat six times. Then hold up the stub of knitted material to admire my efforts.
As I set out on the fifth row, cautiously confident I knew what I was doing, I lost count. Shit, was it four or six stitches a piece in the middle part? I glanced at the 1/10 of an inch I'd completed and saw nothing more than knotted yarn. It lacked definition and there was no way to tell what stitches belonged where. So I turned to my mom and asked her if she remembered, keeping my voice quiet out of fear of reprimand from the saleswoman.
“Four,” my mom whispered in my direction.
“Fuck. I did six this row. You sure it isn't six?”
“It's four. Just pull it out,” my mom suggested on the sly. “Or leave it in. That's what I used to do. Adds character.”
I'm all about character. So I left it in. I grabbed the skeins of yarn, smirked at the little boy, thanked the saleswoman and shuffled my mom out to the car. Over the next few weeks, I dabbled in knitting my scarf. Because of the pattern, it involved focus and concentration. Which meant I couldn't watch television while knitting. Fine, I couldn't even carry on a conversation. In fact, I know for a fact I stopped breathing on more than one occasion. I'd be sitting on the sofa swooping the yarn and suddenly gasp for air the way I used to back at camp when we'd see who could swim the furthest without surfacing.
I was back in Florida when my two skeins were knitted fully. I binded off and then I walked through the house debuting my creation.
“It's pretty,” my mom fibbed without even trying to make her compliment believable.
“It looks retarded knotted like that. Sorta like a huge bow-tie made of yarn,” Leslie offered with a giggle.
“I hate it,” I confessed as I meandered into the den where my dad was working on the computer.
I didn't say anything. I merely stood on the periphery and waited for him to notice his younger daughter sporting shorts, a t-shirt and a silly looking woolen scarf.
“Where'd you get that?” he asked while nodding in the direction of my neck.
“I made it,” I answered with a sigh.
“Well if you don't want it, I'll take it. Would go perfectly with my beige coat.”
“Really?” I asked with disbelief, certain his compliment was meant only to save me further grief.
“Of course. Just finish it up and leave it at the house in Philly when you get back.”
I wandered out to the lanai where Leslie was playing with the kids and sipping some coffee. I tugged at the knot, removed the scarf and with a silly grin shared my recent chat. To be honest, I'm not sure if my dad truly wants the scarf. He's sometimes a hard read with regard to questioning his genuineness. As in, he always comes across as genuine. But man oh man, I felt like a million bucks knowing someone in this world wanted my scarf, character and all.
“PJ, I think you should knock out a few rows before we leave,” my mom suggested as I headed for the door of the yarn shop in Sarasota.
I grumbled.
“Here,” the saleswoman offered before taking back my recently purchased knitting paraphernalia and guiding me over to the communal table.
I hesitantly followed, my mom resting her hand on my back to push me in a forward motion. The three of us pulled up chairs on a corner directly opposite a ten year old boy who was needling an afghan. I peered over the edge at his exquisite creation and I started to feel a little more amateur than I wanted.
“Cast on,” the saleswoman ordered as she relinquished the needles.
I began my loops. Wrap, twist, drop. Wrap, twist, drop.
She gasped. She gasped the way I do when I witness a near collision on a bustling highway or when I realize I accidentally sent an incriminating email to a client. Then she snatched the needles out of my hands.
“That is not casting on,” she scolded.
I turned my squinted eyes toward my mom, the woman responsible for teaching me to knit. She shrugged and then looked away feigning interest in a pattern book resting in the middle of the table.
“How big do you want the scarf?” the woman asked as she halted her casting on.
I shrugged.
“Fifty-two stitches? Forty-two stitches?”
I curled my lower lip over my bottom teeth and bit down to stop it from quivering. How the heck did I know how many stitches I needed to make a scarf? And more importantly why the fuck did the number of stitches have to end with two? I felt like I'd showed up to play tennis, donning all white and waving a racket, only to learn I was expected to swim. I turned to my mom who, anticipating my puppy dog plea for help, was engrossed in a sweater pattern. One she'd never make and most definitely never wear in public.
“Right, okay. I’m making all decisions for you from here on out,” the woman offered as she finished her complicated version of casting on. “Forty-two stitches. You’ll do this pattern. It’s easy enough to follow and different enough to look good.”
The little boy looked up, his hands still scissoring the needles and swooping the yarn, and I swear I heard him snicker a little in my direction. Fucker. Laugh all you want because you little man, you with your granny knitting needles and nubby skeins of yarn, you are way more fucked than I. I'd rather be an old maid children mock than a sissy boy kids beat up.
“PJ?” my mom interrupted, her head nodding toward the needles extended before me. The saleswoman had completed the first three rows and was suggesting I take over. So I did. Knit one, purl one. Repeat six times and then move marker. Knit four, purl four. Repeat and repeat and repeat until I collide with the second marker. Knit one, purl one. Repeat six times. Then hold up the stub of knitted material to admire my efforts.
As I set out on the fifth row, cautiously confident I knew what I was doing, I lost count. Shit, was it four or six stitches a piece in the middle part? I glanced at the 1/10 of an inch I'd completed and saw nothing more than knotted yarn. It lacked definition and there was no way to tell what stitches belonged where. So I turned to my mom and asked her if she remembered, keeping my voice quiet out of fear of reprimand from the saleswoman.
“Four,” my mom whispered in my direction.
“Fuck. I did six this row. You sure it isn't six?”
“It's four. Just pull it out,” my mom suggested on the sly. “Or leave it in. That's what I used to do. Adds character.”
I'm all about character. So I left it in. I grabbed the skeins of yarn, smirked at the little boy, thanked the saleswoman and shuffled my mom out to the car. Over the next few weeks, I dabbled in knitting my scarf. Because of the pattern, it involved focus and concentration. Which meant I couldn't watch television while knitting. Fine, I couldn't even carry on a conversation. In fact, I know for a fact I stopped breathing on more than one occasion. I'd be sitting on the sofa swooping the yarn and suddenly gasp for air the way I used to back at camp when we'd see who could swim the furthest without surfacing.
I was back in Florida when my two skeins were knitted fully. I binded off and then I walked through the house debuting my creation.
“It's pretty,” my mom fibbed without even trying to make her compliment believable.
“It looks retarded knotted like that. Sorta like a huge bow-tie made of yarn,” Leslie offered with a giggle.
“I hate it,” I confessed as I meandered into the den where my dad was working on the computer.
I didn't say anything. I merely stood on the periphery and waited for him to notice his younger daughter sporting shorts, a t-shirt and a silly looking woolen scarf.
“Where'd you get that?” he asked while nodding in the direction of my neck.
“I made it,” I answered with a sigh.
“Well if you don't want it, I'll take it. Would go perfectly with my beige coat.”
“Really?” I asked with disbelief, certain his compliment was meant only to save me further grief.
“Of course. Just finish it up and leave it at the house in Philly when you get back.”
I wandered out to the lanai where Leslie was playing with the kids and sipping some coffee. I tugged at the knot, removed the scarf and with a silly grin shared my recent chat. To be honest, I'm not sure if my dad truly wants the scarf. He's sometimes a hard read with regard to questioning his genuineness. As in, he always comes across as genuine. But man oh man, I felt like a million bucks knowing someone in this world wanted my scarf, character and all.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
A Little Sumptin' On The Side
Because I don't have enough on my plate what with two jobs, this blog, grad school applications and a dishwasher I just keep running instead of emptying - I'm creating an additional space. A space to grow my vocabulary and simultaneously provide ample fodder for those who like to point and laugh. I have been tossing this idea around for a few months now and have finally decided to make it three dimensional.
This additional space is a communal vocab lesson. A safe place (insert vomit noises here) for those of us who speak good but want to speak gooder. A space for you super striver smarties who are simply looking for the answer to two down of the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. Simply put, there should be a little bit of something for everyone.
Allow me to introduce - The Answer For Two Down
This additional space is a communal vocab lesson. A safe place (insert vomit noises here) for those of us who speak good but want to speak gooder. A space for you super striver smarties who are simply looking for the answer to two down of the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. Simply put, there should be a little bit of something for everyone.
Allow me to introduce - The Answer For Two Down
One, Two, Three
I step forward because I don’t want to stand still. I straighten my posture, I raise my chin and I slide my right foot forward leading with my toe. A slow breath fills my lungs and expands my chest. I open my mouth and pull my lower lip in and glide my tongue back and forth, back and forth. My flesh is moist as I exhale and await the next move.
I step forward again, this time leading with my left instead of my right. A backwards waltz or frontwards foxtrot. One, two, three. One, two, three. I rise onto the ball of my foot before lowering back down, hovering my heel just above the steady earth. I pause and listen to the music, relying on the rhythm to carry me again.
I close my eyes and cautiously slide to the right. I start with my feet together, heel to toe, before pushing myself along the same plain. No longer forward, though still ahead of before. I tighten my stomach and clench my jaw. I curl my hands into fists, knuckles whitening and nails pressing sharply against bare flesh. One, two, three. One, two, three.
And then I stop. The music still plays, the room still sways and I halt. I let it all swirl around me, this choreographed life rustling the air about. I stop, still hearing the movement. One, two, three. One, two, three. I stop and I keep my eyes closed, too scared to lift my lids and see how far if at all I’ve come. Forward is forward though when you twirl it ends up backward. So I halt my steps and wait for the movement to settle, to calm. I pause, I stop and I wait.
I step forward again, this time leading with my left instead of my right. A backwards waltz or frontwards foxtrot. One, two, three. One, two, three. I rise onto the ball of my foot before lowering back down, hovering my heel just above the steady earth. I pause and listen to the music, relying on the rhythm to carry me again.
I close my eyes and cautiously slide to the right. I start with my feet together, heel to toe, before pushing myself along the same plain. No longer forward, though still ahead of before. I tighten my stomach and clench my jaw. I curl my hands into fists, knuckles whitening and nails pressing sharply against bare flesh. One, two, three. One, two, three.
And then I stop. The music still plays, the room still sways and I halt. I let it all swirl around me, this choreographed life rustling the air about. I stop, still hearing the movement. One, two, three. One, two, three. I stop and I keep my eyes closed, too scared to lift my lids and see how far if at all I’ve come. Forward is forward though when you twirl it ends up backward. So I halt my steps and wait for the movement to settle, to calm. I pause, I stop and I wait.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
The Sweet Life
My dad’s been sick since I can remember. If you asked me to mimic his pre-illness gate, the stride to his step before he started leaning on a cane, I couldn’t. If you asked me to recall the way his voice sang along to the Bee Gees as we harmonized together on road trips to Ogunquit and Nantucket, I couldn’t. I’ll be thirty-five in March and of all the years I’ve been on this earth, my dad has been sick for most of them. Twenty-six to be exact. The only non-sick recollection I have involves two skis, two poles and a whole lot of snow. For some reason, the mountain is the only memory of my dad healthy. Bedecked in his chocolate stretch pants and Norwegian wool seater, I can perfectly remember his skiboot swagger as I trailed behind him en route to the counter to fetch some hot chocolate or as I followed him back out to the slopes to squeeze in a few more runs. I love those memories. I love closing my eyes and thinking back, momentarily reliving those days.
As much as my dad’s been sick, and as much as I wish he were healthy, his illness truly doesn’t stand out. The way you take a breath is the way I approach his condition. I don’t think about it. Just like you don’t question if the next breath will be shorter or deeper than the last. You don’t pause to will yourself to inhale or exhale. You simply draw air in and expel it out.
Around two years ago, a client learned his wife had ALS. It took twelve months and visits to specialists in Ohio and New York and a bunch of other states before they had a name for what was causing her one and only symptom of deteriorating speech. My dad thought it was MS. Someone else thought it was psychosomatic. It wasn’t until ALS was noted that everyone stopped playing name-that-disease and started feeling lucky it wasn’t them. Since the diagnosis, she’s deteriorated significantly.
I’ve had very little contact with the wife though my dad has until recently kept up with her via email. I have however communicated with the husband, helping him navigate the healthcare system and fight for additional benefits when the carrier otherwise claimed the allotted amount had been exhausted. And while I’ve been doing this job for almost a decade, this task has only furthered my theory that trying to get an insurance company to do the right thing is harder than picking up a piece of mercury with nothing more than your fingertips.
Earlier this morning, my dad forwarded me an update on the wife. It was a quick email from someone else and while I would never cut and paste the exact wording in this space, I want to note just a few tidbits. Like the fact that she can now only move her head. Though this ability is waning as her neck muscles weaken further. And the fact that even in light of the challenges that face them, the husband took her out on New Year’s Eve for a movie and some celebrating. Yes, you read that last word right - celebrating. Because as hard as it gets, sometimes not thinking about it, existing as if an abnormal life is actually normal, is what gets you through the day.
The thing is, my dad’s health has always had a question mark as the punch line. Today and tomorrow are never the same. But somehow they’ve always ended up being more similar than different. He relied on a cane for probably ten years, maybe even more, before determining a walker would be better suited for his balance needs. Ten years. This woman has been sick or at least managing symptoms for less than three. She went from having a hard time annunciating to relying on her eyes and a keyboard to communicate. Today and tomorrow are never the same and maybe that’s the moral of the story.
All I know is, when I hear about her deterioration, I desperately want to quit my job, sell my condo and live my life gallivanting around the globe. Because if I died tomorrow, if I had one week to live, I’d be utterly distraught by all I never got to do. That I never sat in an open top Jeep and peered out at the giraffes and lions and elephants roaming around Kenya. And that I never stood amongst the structures the compose Angkor Wat. And when I listen to her husband plead with me to help him help her, I desperately want to fall in love with a man who will do the same for me. To wake up every morning, glance over at the person lying next to me and feel safe and comforted and insanely luck that he is there with me, for me. Because being there for someone when things are good is the easy part. It’s being there when the chips are down that’s tough.
I don’t feel sorry for myself. Please, I’m more than aware of all the good fortune that has come my way. Like when I snagged two pairs of Prada sandals at 70% off, I knew full well I was a lucky girl. Or when Anders looked up from his breakfast plate dotted with pumpkin muffin crumbs and out of the blue told me he loved me, I was completely aware of how grand my life can be. Even still, sometimes seeing how other people live, the way they gracefully manage landmines I have unexpectedly sidestepped, sometimes that helps make my sweet life that much sweeter.
As much as my dad’s been sick, and as much as I wish he were healthy, his illness truly doesn’t stand out. The way you take a breath is the way I approach his condition. I don’t think about it. Just like you don’t question if the next breath will be shorter or deeper than the last. You don’t pause to will yourself to inhale or exhale. You simply draw air in and expel it out.
Around two years ago, a client learned his wife had ALS. It took twelve months and visits to specialists in Ohio and New York and a bunch of other states before they had a name for what was causing her one and only symptom of deteriorating speech. My dad thought it was MS. Someone else thought it was psychosomatic. It wasn’t until ALS was noted that everyone stopped playing name-that-disease and started feeling lucky it wasn’t them. Since the diagnosis, she’s deteriorated significantly.
I’ve had very little contact with the wife though my dad has until recently kept up with her via email. I have however communicated with the husband, helping him navigate the healthcare system and fight for additional benefits when the carrier otherwise claimed the allotted amount had been exhausted. And while I’ve been doing this job for almost a decade, this task has only furthered my theory that trying to get an insurance company to do the right thing is harder than picking up a piece of mercury with nothing more than your fingertips.
Earlier this morning, my dad forwarded me an update on the wife. It was a quick email from someone else and while I would never cut and paste the exact wording in this space, I want to note just a few tidbits. Like the fact that she can now only move her head. Though this ability is waning as her neck muscles weaken further. And the fact that even in light of the challenges that face them, the husband took her out on New Year’s Eve for a movie and some celebrating. Yes, you read that last word right - celebrating. Because as hard as it gets, sometimes not thinking about it, existing as if an abnormal life is actually normal, is what gets you through the day.
The thing is, my dad’s health has always had a question mark as the punch line. Today and tomorrow are never the same. But somehow they’ve always ended up being more similar than different. He relied on a cane for probably ten years, maybe even more, before determining a walker would be better suited for his balance needs. Ten years. This woman has been sick or at least managing symptoms for less than three. She went from having a hard time annunciating to relying on her eyes and a keyboard to communicate. Today and tomorrow are never the same and maybe that’s the moral of the story.
All I know is, when I hear about her deterioration, I desperately want to quit my job, sell my condo and live my life gallivanting around the globe. Because if I died tomorrow, if I had one week to live, I’d be utterly distraught by all I never got to do. That I never sat in an open top Jeep and peered out at the giraffes and lions and elephants roaming around Kenya. And that I never stood amongst the structures the compose Angkor Wat. And when I listen to her husband plead with me to help him help her, I desperately want to fall in love with a man who will do the same for me. To wake up every morning, glance over at the person lying next to me and feel safe and comforted and insanely luck that he is there with me, for me. Because being there for someone when things are good is the easy part. It’s being there when the chips are down that’s tough.
I don’t feel sorry for myself. Please, I’m more than aware of all the good fortune that has come my way. Like when I snagged two pairs of Prada sandals at 70% off, I knew full well I was a lucky girl. Or when Anders looked up from his breakfast plate dotted with pumpkin muffin crumbs and out of the blue told me he loved me, I was completely aware of how grand my life can be. Even still, sometimes seeing how other people live, the way they gracefully manage landmines I have unexpectedly sidestepped, sometimes that helps make my sweet life that much sweeter.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
I'm A Big Girl Now
(And no, I'm not talking about the size of my ass, thank you very much.)
Remember how I said I was taking my code down? That I was totally over having my writing style or topic matter motivated by how many clicks ran up the ticker, adjusting what I wrote or what I posted according to potential likability? Or that having it embedded made my crazy head run crazier as I attempted to decipher the meaning behind a twenty-three minute visit from someone at the NSA? Yeah, well, I also said I was going to lose ten pounds before the end of the year. Lose, gain – it’s all semantics in the end.
When I relocated to Florida for the holiday, I re-embedded code. Just Sitemeter. My inner cheap Jew made me do it when I got an email that Sitemeter had gone and drafted the $9 monthly fee from my checking account. It felt wrong having spent the money for no good reason. The same way it feels wrong to see a buy-one-get-one-free sign and plunk only one in your cart. Wrong, right? Wronger than wrong. Anyway, I went to Sitemeter, copied the code, popped it into a hidden window of my main page and let it run wild. I didn’t check it with the same regularity as before but I checked it nonetheless. Listen, you try spending eight days at a 55+ plus community in Florida and tell me how well you hold up without Sitemeter as a distraction.
Anyway, my parents use Broadstar down that way. It has to do with the builder and bunch of old people who have yet to get the memo on other providers. Every so often, with my laptop teetering on my knees as I basked in the sun on the lanai, I loaded my page and read it just as you see it. And every so often, when I checked Sitemeter, I saw a visit from Sarasota. A Broadstar user who happened to troll the web via Firefox. Two plus two equals four.
This past Sunday, my vacation came to an end and I caught a late flight home. I stumbled through the door a little before midnight, leaving a trail of clothing and shoes and miscellaneous whatnot in my wake as I relocated to my bedroom. I slid between my crisp sheets, curled up against my fluffy down pillow and drifted off to a blissful sleep. In the morning, I awoke, showered, dressed and went to work. Sitting at my desk, I alternated my time between catching up on piles and catching up on internet searches for really important things like a new L.L. Bean boat tote and MFA programs. When the clock struck four, I went home to get a start on the festivities for the evening.
As I lingered horizontally on my sofa procrastinating away the remaining hours of the afternoon, I loaded my webpage. I scanned some of my older posts, I read some of the newer comments and I wandered to sites I link to in the sidebar. When I realized it was almost half past five, I changed into lycra and got on my treadmill. An hour later, sweaty and tired, I grabbed some water and returned to my sofa, you know, to rest up for the arduous task of showering. This time I loaded Sitemeter.
As I read the details of a recent visitor my stomach curled into a knot so tight I had to bend at the waist. My mouth became pasty, my throat began to close and the beat of my heart punched harder against my chest wall. Because as my eyes scanned the data for a visitor in Sarasota who uses Broadstar, all I could think was that my parents had found my blog. Yes, they know about it but they've never asked for a link. And while I have tried to keep identifying details to a minimum, I’ve admittedly provided ample data to be found by someone capable of doing a general probe. Like pop ‘Paige’ and ‘Philadelphia’ and ‘blog’ into a Google search and I’m about five spots down from the top. And more often than not, people land on my site by accident, searching for Zabar's and somehow ending up with me. I can totally see my mom Googling Ina Garten and landing on my blog. That? That would be my life in a nutshell.
On more than one occasion, I’ve been asked if my mom reads my writing. And I’ve always stated that our relationship is tenuous at best. There are a lot of details that you don’t know or don’t care to know but let’s just say I’ve walked away from my relationship with her before, cutting her off for three months until relenting for the sake of not tearing the entire family apart. She has betrayed me and criticized me and knocked me down when I needed nothing more than to be lifted up. If she were an acquaintance instead of my mother, I would've abandoned the relationship a long time ago. I guess I somehow twisted those deep and very permanent scars into justifying the way I write about her. But as I sat there on my sofa trying to figure out how to best handle the situation, I started to think my reasoning was rather flawed. That even though she hurt me before and every so often hurts me now, it doesn't warrant possibly hurting her. For the first time ever, I found myself evaluating the exchange rate of words as they pertain to relationships.
In the end, the glitch wasn’t me being outted. My mom rang the next morning to wish me a happy new year and nothing was mentioned. And when I went back and looked more closely at the data, I could see Firefox was the search engine. My parents not only have never heard of Firefox but don’t have it loaded on their computer. Shit, if it weren't for me and my brother in-law, my parents would have neither wi-fi nor a printer. So it appears my modem must have somehow retained the Sarasota IP data and that was what Sitemeter captured even though I was leisurely sprawled out in my Philadelphia apartment. Crisis averted. Or was it?
Maybe there never was a crisis to begin with. Maybe I let my imagination get the best of me as I contorted fact into fiction. I mean, neither of my parents have expressed an interest in snooping to read my banter in the two plus years I have been blogging. The likelihood they'd start now as I set out for greener pastures of an MFA is highly unlikely. But as we all know, the past may be an indicator for the future but it is never a guarantee. So as I melted into the sofa, my heart resetting to a more casual pace, I started to seriously consider taking this puppy private. I’d happily only privatize certain posts but, um, Blogger sucks the big one and doesn’t offer such a complicated option. Though Wordpress does. So maybe I need to bounce over there. Sometime last year I reserved this name on that site, perhaps having the foresight to know I'd one day have to abandon Blogger. Though the idea of starting from scratch makes my tummy ache a little. Or maybe I need to just close up shop altogether. As I stretch myself forward as a writer, leaving this blog behind has sometimes felt like the logical next step. Although whenever I tap my toe in the direction of that path, I think of all those published writers who still make the time to blog. Scanning their wise words and funny banter, I have no choice but to be inspired to keep posting.
Man, life would be so much easier if I just didn’t have to be mature. Watching Olivia splash around in the pool in her red babysoup with white polka dots and a big cut out at the belly to represent the center of a yellow sunflower, I was a little envious. And when she hopped out of the pool, grabbed her crotch with both hands and announced to everyone within earshot that she needed to tee-tee, I was downright jealous. Those antics on a three year old are precious. Makes you want to scoop them up and gobble them down. But on me? Yeah, being mature sucks.
Remember how I said I was taking my code down? That I was totally over having my writing style or topic matter motivated by how many clicks ran up the ticker, adjusting what I wrote or what I posted according to potential likability? Or that having it embedded made my crazy head run crazier as I attempted to decipher the meaning behind a twenty-three minute visit from someone at the NSA? Yeah, well, I also said I was going to lose ten pounds before the end of the year. Lose, gain – it’s all semantics in the end.
When I relocated to Florida for the holiday, I re-embedded code. Just Sitemeter. My inner cheap Jew made me do it when I got an email that Sitemeter had gone and drafted the $9 monthly fee from my checking account. It felt wrong having spent the money for no good reason. The same way it feels wrong to see a buy-one-get-one-free sign and plunk only one in your cart. Wrong, right? Wronger than wrong. Anyway, I went to Sitemeter, copied the code, popped it into a hidden window of my main page and let it run wild. I didn’t check it with the same regularity as before but I checked it nonetheless. Listen, you try spending eight days at a 55+ plus community in Florida and tell me how well you hold up without Sitemeter as a distraction.
Anyway, my parents use Broadstar down that way. It has to do with the builder and bunch of old people who have yet to get the memo on other providers. Every so often, with my laptop teetering on my knees as I basked in the sun on the lanai, I loaded my page and read it just as you see it. And every so often, when I checked Sitemeter, I saw a visit from Sarasota. A Broadstar user who happened to troll the web via Firefox. Two plus two equals four.
This past Sunday, my vacation came to an end and I caught a late flight home. I stumbled through the door a little before midnight, leaving a trail of clothing and shoes and miscellaneous whatnot in my wake as I relocated to my bedroom. I slid between my crisp sheets, curled up against my fluffy down pillow and drifted off to a blissful sleep. In the morning, I awoke, showered, dressed and went to work. Sitting at my desk, I alternated my time between catching up on piles and catching up on internet searches for really important things like a new L.L. Bean boat tote and MFA programs. When the clock struck four, I went home to get a start on the festivities for the evening.
As I lingered horizontally on my sofa procrastinating away the remaining hours of the afternoon, I loaded my webpage. I scanned some of my older posts, I read some of the newer comments and I wandered to sites I link to in the sidebar. When I realized it was almost half past five, I changed into lycra and got on my treadmill. An hour later, sweaty and tired, I grabbed some water and returned to my sofa, you know, to rest up for the arduous task of showering. This time I loaded Sitemeter.
As I read the details of a recent visitor my stomach curled into a knot so tight I had to bend at the waist. My mouth became pasty, my throat began to close and the beat of my heart punched harder against my chest wall. Because as my eyes scanned the data for a visitor in Sarasota who uses Broadstar, all I could think was that my parents had found my blog. Yes, they know about it but they've never asked for a link. And while I have tried to keep identifying details to a minimum, I’ve admittedly provided ample data to be found by someone capable of doing a general probe. Like pop ‘Paige’ and ‘Philadelphia’ and ‘blog’ into a Google search and I’m about five spots down from the top. And more often than not, people land on my site by accident, searching for Zabar's and somehow ending up with me. I can totally see my mom Googling Ina Garten and landing on my blog. That? That would be my life in a nutshell.
On more than one occasion, I’ve been asked if my mom reads my writing. And I’ve always stated that our relationship is tenuous at best. There are a lot of details that you don’t know or don’t care to know but let’s just say I’ve walked away from my relationship with her before, cutting her off for three months until relenting for the sake of not tearing the entire family apart. She has betrayed me and criticized me and knocked me down when I needed nothing more than to be lifted up. If she were an acquaintance instead of my mother, I would've abandoned the relationship a long time ago. I guess I somehow twisted those deep and very permanent scars into justifying the way I write about her. But as I sat there on my sofa trying to figure out how to best handle the situation, I started to think my reasoning was rather flawed. That even though she hurt me before and every so often hurts me now, it doesn't warrant possibly hurting her. For the first time ever, I found myself evaluating the exchange rate of words as they pertain to relationships.
In the end, the glitch wasn’t me being outted. My mom rang the next morning to wish me a happy new year and nothing was mentioned. And when I went back and looked more closely at the data, I could see Firefox was the search engine. My parents not only have never heard of Firefox but don’t have it loaded on their computer. Shit, if it weren't for me and my brother in-law, my parents would have neither wi-fi nor a printer. So it appears my modem must have somehow retained the Sarasota IP data and that was what Sitemeter captured even though I was leisurely sprawled out in my Philadelphia apartment. Crisis averted. Or was it?
Maybe there never was a crisis to begin with. Maybe I let my imagination get the best of me as I contorted fact into fiction. I mean, neither of my parents have expressed an interest in snooping to read my banter in the two plus years I have been blogging. The likelihood they'd start now as I set out for greener pastures of an MFA is highly unlikely. But as we all know, the past may be an indicator for the future but it is never a guarantee. So as I melted into the sofa, my heart resetting to a more casual pace, I started to seriously consider taking this puppy private. I’d happily only privatize certain posts but, um, Blogger sucks the big one and doesn’t offer such a complicated option. Though Wordpress does. So maybe I need to bounce over there. Sometime last year I reserved this name on that site, perhaps having the foresight to know I'd one day have to abandon Blogger. Though the idea of starting from scratch makes my tummy ache a little. Or maybe I need to just close up shop altogether. As I stretch myself forward as a writer, leaving this blog behind has sometimes felt like the logical next step. Although whenever I tap my toe in the direction of that path, I think of all those published writers who still make the time to blog. Scanning their wise words and funny banter, I have no choice but to be inspired to keep posting.
Man, life would be so much easier if I just didn’t have to be mature. Watching Olivia splash around in the pool in her red babysoup with white polka dots and a big cut out at the belly to represent the center of a yellow sunflower, I was a little envious. And when she hopped out of the pool, grabbed her crotch with both hands and announced to everyone within earshot that she needed to tee-tee, I was downright jealous. Those antics on a three year old are precious. Makes you want to scoop them up and gobble them down. But on me? Yeah, being mature sucks.
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