Today my breakfast will be a heaping slice of chocolate chip pound cake topped with buttercream frosting. I might even wash it down with a tall glass of 2% milk.
At lunch I'll run over to Target and purchase a tiara. As I wait in line to pay, I'll pull it free from the packaging and perch it atop my head. The cashier will think I'm crazy but I'll just smile and hand off the trash for her to discard.
After work I'll melt into a massaging pedicure chair. I'll sip iced-tea as I catch up on my pile of magazines, flipping between Town and Country and The New Yorker. And when the fire engine red polish has dried, I'll slip back into my peep toe pumps and sass my way out to my car.
This evening I'll meet up with some close friends and celebrate my thirty-fifth birthday. Eight of us will gather around a table and feast on platefuls of Italian fare. We'll tell stories, share memories and laugh like life is grand. Because you know what - it is.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Scientific Theory (And Other Ways I Excuse My Behavior)
Back before the introduction of affordable home alarm systems, before motion detectors, blaring horns and lawn signs warning thieves to take their crowbars elsewhere, there were nails. It was a trick my dad had learned from his father. Shortly after moving into our house, he worked his way through the first floor, drilling holes into the left and right corners of the windows where the top overlapped with the bottom. Then he went back through and tapped thin stems of steel into place, protecting us from unwanted intruders.
The few times we needed to open a downstairs window, like when the exterior trim was getting a touch up or the broiler smoked the kitchen, my dad would ask me to retrieve one of two magnets from the cupboard in the breakfast room. Both were brassy metal discs that resembled hockey pucks, their strength easily releasing the nails from their cocoons. Sometimes I’d pull the magnets out just for the sake of playing with them. As my mom seared meat and boiled potatoes, I placed one down on the weathered oak table and then hovered the other above. My intention was to either suction them together or push them apart. I learned a simple two part lesson from this idle entertainment: opposites attract and like charges repel. With age I came to apply this conclusion to more than magnets.
“That dinner was awesome, Paigie,” Ex swooned as he leaned against the sofa back and rested his open palm on his stomach.
“Thanks. How about since I slaved in the kitchen you do the dishes?” I suggested as I dropped down next to him, pulling his arm around my back and curling against his chest.
“I don’t like doing the dishes,” he explained with a crinkled nose while combing his fingers through my hair.
“Then next time you make dinner and I’ll do the dishes,” I bartered.
“You know I don’t like to cook. Plus, I thought you liked taking care of me.”
And there it was – my magnet theory in action.
Yes, I’m a giver. My mother blames it on my dad. That tending to a sick father is the reason I so readily step up as the caretaker in my relationships with men. She also blames his health for my unmarried status so I’m not sure how accurate her belief is what with all this damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Anyway, I’ve preferred to bypass analyzing why I act the way I do and instead simply embrace it. I’d rather be accused of giving too much than taking too much any day of the week.
“You know, eventually we’re going to have to have a date somewhere other than Princeton,” Trader noted on our second outting.
“I know,” I admitted, my neck tensing as the conversation continued.
“I would have been happy to drive to Philadelphia for this one.”
“Yeah, well, that would have left me feeling guilty. I’m not so good at letting others do for me,” I readily confessed.
“I struggle with the same thing. Which is why I was so uncomfortable that our first date was in New York. You made all of the effort.”
“That’s not true,” I argued.
“It took me twenty minutes to get home and it took you two hours.”
“Sure but I was already in the city to a see a friend. No offense but you were scheduled around other plans.”
“Didn’t matter.”
“Huh,” I muttered as we stood at the corner of Naussa and Witherspoon, waiting for the light to change.
Four hours later and we were finally winding down our date. One museum tour and various culinary samplings later, we were draining the last sips of Cabernet. With a slight buzz leaving me with a fuzzy and uncensored tongue, I leaned forward and shared my magnet hypothesis. I rested my left hand on his right knee and edged closer to shorten the gap between us. I reached up to my face and tucked my bangs behind my ear. Then I presented my theory that two givers can’t end up together because like charges repel.
“I’m on to something with this, right? Just look at how the two of us jocky to be the giver,” I said as I leaned back against the barstool, convinced my presentation was perfect.
“Actually,” he started before lifting the goblet to his mouth, tilting his head back and letting the last bit of wine slide down his throat. “I really find it refreshing. Sure, it’s definitely different but I’m enjoying it a lot.”
I had nothing, absolutely nothing. When he refused my offer to dutch the bill, I admittedly felt awkward, slinking into a shyness to hide my concern that he hadn’t gotten all he had paid for. When he walked me back to my car, lingering in the garage to make sure my car started without a hitch, I tensed at the sentiment that he went three blocks out of his way for no good reason. All of his simple doting, the kind that I envy in other couples and truly want for myself, was in reality troubling. It felt like an itch I couldn’t scratch. One that I tried to ignore but instead fixated on to the point it became unbearably magnified.
I’ve played that date over in my head a few times and I always interrupt it with silent images of me pushing the magnets across the breakfast room table. There is either a popping sound as the metal collides or a dull scratch as the one on the wood edges away. So I know my theory of opposites attracting works with magnets. I just wonder if I’ve embraced it so deeply that I’ve made it come true, regardless of it being scientifically accurate.
The few times we needed to open a downstairs window, like when the exterior trim was getting a touch up or the broiler smoked the kitchen, my dad would ask me to retrieve one of two magnets from the cupboard in the breakfast room. Both were brassy metal discs that resembled hockey pucks, their strength easily releasing the nails from their cocoons. Sometimes I’d pull the magnets out just for the sake of playing with them. As my mom seared meat and boiled potatoes, I placed one down on the weathered oak table and then hovered the other above. My intention was to either suction them together or push them apart. I learned a simple two part lesson from this idle entertainment: opposites attract and like charges repel. With age I came to apply this conclusion to more than magnets.
“That dinner was awesome, Paigie,” Ex swooned as he leaned against the sofa back and rested his open palm on his stomach.
“Thanks. How about since I slaved in the kitchen you do the dishes?” I suggested as I dropped down next to him, pulling his arm around my back and curling against his chest.
“I don’t like doing the dishes,” he explained with a crinkled nose while combing his fingers through my hair.
“Then next time you make dinner and I’ll do the dishes,” I bartered.
“You know I don’t like to cook. Plus, I thought you liked taking care of me.”
And there it was – my magnet theory in action.
Yes, I’m a giver. My mother blames it on my dad. That tending to a sick father is the reason I so readily step up as the caretaker in my relationships with men. She also blames his health for my unmarried status so I’m not sure how accurate her belief is what with all this damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Anyway, I’ve preferred to bypass analyzing why I act the way I do and instead simply embrace it. I’d rather be accused of giving too much than taking too much any day of the week.
“You know, eventually we’re going to have to have a date somewhere other than Princeton,” Trader noted on our second outting.
“I know,” I admitted, my neck tensing as the conversation continued.
“I would have been happy to drive to Philadelphia for this one.”
“Yeah, well, that would have left me feeling guilty. I’m not so good at letting others do for me,” I readily confessed.
“I struggle with the same thing. Which is why I was so uncomfortable that our first date was in New York. You made all of the effort.”
“That’s not true,” I argued.
“It took me twenty minutes to get home and it took you two hours.”
“Sure but I was already in the city to a see a friend. No offense but you were scheduled around other plans.”
“Didn’t matter.”
“Huh,” I muttered as we stood at the corner of Naussa and Witherspoon, waiting for the light to change.
Four hours later and we were finally winding down our date. One museum tour and various culinary samplings later, we were draining the last sips of Cabernet. With a slight buzz leaving me with a fuzzy and uncensored tongue, I leaned forward and shared my magnet hypothesis. I rested my left hand on his right knee and edged closer to shorten the gap between us. I reached up to my face and tucked my bangs behind my ear. Then I presented my theory that two givers can’t end up together because like charges repel.
“I’m on to something with this, right? Just look at how the two of us jocky to be the giver,” I said as I leaned back against the barstool, convinced my presentation was perfect.
“Actually,” he started before lifting the goblet to his mouth, tilting his head back and letting the last bit of wine slide down his throat. “I really find it refreshing. Sure, it’s definitely different but I’m enjoying it a lot.”
I had nothing, absolutely nothing. When he refused my offer to dutch the bill, I admittedly felt awkward, slinking into a shyness to hide my concern that he hadn’t gotten all he had paid for. When he walked me back to my car, lingering in the garage to make sure my car started without a hitch, I tensed at the sentiment that he went three blocks out of his way for no good reason. All of his simple doting, the kind that I envy in other couples and truly want for myself, was in reality troubling. It felt like an itch I couldn’t scratch. One that I tried to ignore but instead fixated on to the point it became unbearably magnified.
I’ve played that date over in my head a few times and I always interrupt it with silent images of me pushing the magnets across the breakfast room table. There is either a popping sound as the metal collides or a dull scratch as the one on the wood edges away. So I know my theory of opposites attracting works with magnets. I just wonder if I’ve embraced it so deeply that I’ve made it come true, regardless of it being scientifically accurate.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
A Day In The Life
6:00AM: Roll over wide awake, glance at the clock and ponder working out.
6:12AM: Exhausted from the mere thought of doing weighted squats and peck flies, curl into a ball and fall back asleep.
7:59AM: Awake ahead of alarm by one minute and curse the world for robbing me of that extra sixty seconds. Outburst of anger includes a double fisted shake toward the heavens.
8:01AM: Realize I just had a totally fucked up dream where I’m a manicurist who in my free time trains elephants. And the elephants talk. Each elephant has the voice of an ex and one proposed to me. I can’t remember which ex it was or whether I formally accepted the proposal so I spend the next twenty-two minutes trying to recall the dream, certain my future is buried in the details.
8:23AM: Get out of bed and into shower where I brush my teeth, lather my hair and soap my skin. Shave left leg twice and right leg never.
8:31AM: Naked and in a towel turban, q-tip ears but somehow miss the gallon of yellow conditioner clinging to the upper folds. Do one quick glance at upside of nose to make sure it is booger free before retreating to the bedroom.
8:40AM: Put on intimates, deodorant and lotion before relocating to the living room where I turn on my laptop and check any website that might contain grad school status and realize that nothing has changed in the last seven hours except that a bunch of people got into Sarah Lawrence for poetry, a full-time program I didn’t consider and a genre I will never master. And yet I am jealous.
8:52AM: Get dressed, toss wet hair into a $30 barrette I never should have bought, grab coat, banana and handbag and mosey to the car.
8:57AM: Apply make-up at the one and only traffic light I pass through en route to the office.
9:03AM: Sit down at desk, turn on computer, turn off voicemail and proceed to check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed in the last twenty-three minutes except one person who got into Montana will be forfeiting his slot because he didn’t get funding and can’t afford the program.
9:21AM – 1:37PM: Work in ten minute intervals with quick breaks to check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed or least not in my favor.
1:45PM – 2:30PM: Go to lunch with two coworkers and in between bites of pizza collectively mock the twit. Almost snarf Diet Coke and completely forget about graduate school for around thirty minutes.
2:35PM: Drive home, double park and sprint through lobby so fast I almost knock over the eighty year old oxygen tank toting doorman. Check mailbox. Toss entire lot of junk in the trash bin before shuffling my depressed ass back to my car.
2:47PM: Settle back in at desk and check cell phone and work voicemail to confirm no calls were missed.
2:53PM: Call cell phone from work phone, holding one handset to each ear, to confirm cell phone is in fact working.
3:00PM: Order two dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies to take to the Ronald McDonald House for evening volunteer shift.
3:02PM: Fiddle with ponytail and find crusty conditioner in the upper curl of right ear.
3:03PM – 4:40PM: Work in ten minute intervals with quick breaks to check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed or least not in my favor.
4:41PM: Check spam folder to make sure a grad school email didn’t get snagged.
4:42PM: Answer work phone and learn that the person on the other end is a professor from University of Alaska in Anchorage personally welcoming me to the program. I mumble out three sentences, none of which contain a verb, thank her for the good news and then hang up.
4:45PM: Call my mom to tell her I got another acceptance, albeit to a program (a) I consider my ultimate safety and (b) I wasn’t loving because it takes three instead of two years to complete.
4:47PM: Talk my mom down from the fit she’s having about me ever stepping foot again in the state of Alaska. Her rant includes two threats: (1) to disown me if I accept the invitation to enroll and (2) to castrate that boy from up in them there parts if he somehow comes into consideration with regard to my decision making.
4:53PM: Call Leslie and tell her I got into UAA. The Doodlebops loudly play behind her and I find myself bouncing to the music.
5:12PM: Pick up cookies.
5:27PM: Sneak a warm and gooey chocolaty mess out of the box and eat it while sitting in rainy traffic.
6:11PM: Retrieve cousin who volunteers with me.
6:17PM – 9:00PM: Volunteer, checking phone regularly for absolutely no reason other than to accommodate nervous fidgeting.
9:27PM – 10:23PM: Collapse in a booth at the Continental and have dinner with cousin. Regret not ordering an overpriced cosmo or four.
11:10PM: Stumble through door, turn on laptop and practically pee myself because of computer detour. I grab my crotch like a five year old, dart for the toilet and vow next time to turn on the computer after I pee.
11:17PM – 1:45AM: Check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed or least not in my favor. Though I do learn of a few people who have received no acceptances and I start to feel grateful I am not in that position.
1:47AM: Get into bed, send a prayer up to a God I am not sure I believe in just in case I am wrong, and fall asleep to the hum of the wind rustling the pines.
6:12AM: Exhausted from the mere thought of doing weighted squats and peck flies, curl into a ball and fall back asleep.
7:59AM: Awake ahead of alarm by one minute and curse the world for robbing me of that extra sixty seconds. Outburst of anger includes a double fisted shake toward the heavens.
8:01AM: Realize I just had a totally fucked up dream where I’m a manicurist who in my free time trains elephants. And the elephants talk. Each elephant has the voice of an ex and one proposed to me. I can’t remember which ex it was or whether I formally accepted the proposal so I spend the next twenty-two minutes trying to recall the dream, certain my future is buried in the details.
8:23AM: Get out of bed and into shower where I brush my teeth, lather my hair and soap my skin. Shave left leg twice and right leg never.
8:31AM: Naked and in a towel turban, q-tip ears but somehow miss the gallon of yellow conditioner clinging to the upper folds. Do one quick glance at upside of nose to make sure it is booger free before retreating to the bedroom.
8:40AM: Put on intimates, deodorant and lotion before relocating to the living room where I turn on my laptop and check any website that might contain grad school status and realize that nothing has changed in the last seven hours except that a bunch of people got into Sarah Lawrence for poetry, a full-time program I didn’t consider and a genre I will never master. And yet I am jealous.
8:52AM: Get dressed, toss wet hair into a $30 barrette I never should have bought, grab coat, banana and handbag and mosey to the car.
8:57AM: Apply make-up at the one and only traffic light I pass through en route to the office.
9:03AM: Sit down at desk, turn on computer, turn off voicemail and proceed to check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed in the last twenty-three minutes except one person who got into Montana will be forfeiting his slot because he didn’t get funding and can’t afford the program.
9:21AM – 1:37PM: Work in ten minute intervals with quick breaks to check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed or least not in my favor.
1:45PM – 2:30PM: Go to lunch with two coworkers and in between bites of pizza collectively mock the twit. Almost snarf Diet Coke and completely forget about graduate school for around thirty minutes.
2:35PM: Drive home, double park and sprint through lobby so fast I almost knock over the eighty year old oxygen tank toting doorman. Check mailbox. Toss entire lot of junk in the trash bin before shuffling my depressed ass back to my car.
2:47PM: Settle back in at desk and check cell phone and work voicemail to confirm no calls were missed.
2:53PM: Call cell phone from work phone, holding one handset to each ear, to confirm cell phone is in fact working.
3:00PM: Order two dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies to take to the Ronald McDonald House for evening volunteer shift.
3:02PM: Fiddle with ponytail and find crusty conditioner in the upper curl of right ear.
3:03PM – 4:40PM: Work in ten minute intervals with quick breaks to check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed or least not in my favor.
4:41PM: Check spam folder to make sure a grad school email didn’t get snagged.
4:42PM: Answer work phone and learn that the person on the other end is a professor from University of Alaska in Anchorage personally welcoming me to the program. I mumble out three sentences, none of which contain a verb, thank her for the good news and then hang up.
4:45PM: Call my mom to tell her I got another acceptance, albeit to a program (a) I consider my ultimate safety and (b) I wasn’t loving because it takes three instead of two years to complete.
4:47PM: Talk my mom down from the fit she’s having about me ever stepping foot again in the state of Alaska. Her rant includes two threats: (1) to disown me if I accept the invitation to enroll and (2) to castrate that boy from up in them there parts if he somehow comes into consideration with regard to my decision making.
4:53PM: Call Leslie and tell her I got into UAA. The Doodlebops loudly play behind her and I find myself bouncing to the music.
5:12PM: Pick up cookies.
5:27PM: Sneak a warm and gooey chocolaty mess out of the box and eat it while sitting in rainy traffic.
6:11PM: Retrieve cousin who volunteers with me.
6:17PM – 9:00PM: Volunteer, checking phone regularly for absolutely no reason other than to accommodate nervous fidgeting.
9:27PM – 10:23PM: Collapse in a booth at the Continental and have dinner with cousin. Regret not ordering an overpriced cosmo or four.
11:10PM: Stumble through door, turn on laptop and practically pee myself because of computer detour. I grab my crotch like a five year old, dart for the toilet and vow next time to turn on the computer after I pee.
11:17PM – 1:45AM: Check every website that might contain grad school status and realize nothing has changed or least not in my favor. Though I do learn of a few people who have received no acceptances and I start to feel grateful I am not in that position.
1:47AM: Get into bed, send a prayer up to a God I am not sure I believe in just in case I am wrong, and fall asleep to the hum of the wind rustling the pines.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Pour Me Another: Three Reasons I'm Hitting The Bottle And Hard
Hooked On Phonics Builds a New Wing At UNO
Ever since I got into Spalding and the University of New Orleans, I have been bombarded with emails. From reading lists and flight arrangements to financial aid and tuition structures, they both have a lot of news to share. But I’m still waiting on decisions from other schools. And by waiting I mean refreshing websites at five second intervals and converting the mailroom of my condo complex into my new master suite. Anyway, in light of my indecision, I usually just scan the mailings and then file them away for future reference. On Saturday, however, one email in particular caught my eye.
According to the subject heading, the Liberal Arts Dean at UNO wanted to offer her congratulationds. Uh huh, congratulationds. Listen, I know we’re all human. I know the last two letters of her newfangled spelling are neighbors on the keyboard and can easily be tapped in tandem. And I know that spell check doesn’t include the subject line. But a typo from a Dean sent to perspective students to a writing program?
When Southern Politeness Becomes A Blatant Act of Stupidity
On Monday I got a letter from Murray State. For ten minutes the slim envelope teetered in the palm of my sweaty hand. When I stopped hyperventilating and my knees settled into a more controlled spasm, I tore open the seal, pulled free the letter and read the note:
Your application for admission to the Creative Writing Program was forwarded to the department for evaluation. They have notified us that you are not eligible for admissions to their program. Other questions concerning this decision should be directed to the department.
Last I checked, ‘not eligible’ meant failing to meet the requirements for review. Never have I understood ‘not eligible’ to be a synonym for rejected. And it turns out this wasn’t the first linguistic curiosity put forth from this school. I had a run in with them regarding the definition of an official transcript. Anyway, with my fate certainly uncertain, I called the admissions office and asked for clarification.
“Hi Kitty, my name is Paige and I received a letter from you earlier today.”
“Yes ma’am,” she answered in her syrupy southern drawl.
“I just wanted to confirm that ‘not eligible’ doesn’t mean my file was incomplete and therefore void. You see, there had been a misunderstanding about transcripts and perhaps that was part of the issue.”
“It means you are not eligible,” she stated, her voice exaggerating the last two words as if speaking them more distinctly would magically attach meaning.
“Right, but does ‘not eligible’ mean rejected as in you reviewed my completed file and have decided to not offer me a slot in the incoming class or does it mean you were unable to review my file due to missing data. Because if it’s the second one, I’d like to rectify the situation.”
“Well, we were trying to be polite but I guess it backfired. You were rejected,” she said with a country club cackle, the kind that pairs well with tennis whites and a scotch on the rocks.
Three Feet Below Rock Bottom
I’m checking my mail so often that I’ve worn a path in the marble flooring leading to my box. On Saturday I visited the mailroom twice, you know, just in case my 11am stop was too early. Oh, and yesterday I reached my arm all the way through the box to the other side to make sure it was totally empty. So yes, I have clearly become obsessed with hearing from the remaining nine schools
Today, on my way to fetch lunch, I detoured to my residence. I double parked out front and sprinted through the lobby to the mailboxes. The contents included a new issue of Town & Country, a solicitation from a credit card company and my IRS refund check, a check for around $2000. And my response to the collection of clutter clutched in my hands? What. The Fuck. No school responses????
Ever since I got into Spalding and the University of New Orleans, I have been bombarded with emails. From reading lists and flight arrangements to financial aid and tuition structures, they both have a lot of news to share. But I’m still waiting on decisions from other schools. And by waiting I mean refreshing websites at five second intervals and converting the mailroom of my condo complex into my new master suite. Anyway, in light of my indecision, I usually just scan the mailings and then file them away for future reference. On Saturday, however, one email in particular caught my eye.
According to the subject heading, the Liberal Arts Dean at UNO wanted to offer her congratulationds. Uh huh, congratulationds. Listen, I know we’re all human. I know the last two letters of her newfangled spelling are neighbors on the keyboard and can easily be tapped in tandem. And I know that spell check doesn’t include the subject line. But a typo from a Dean sent to perspective students to a writing program?
When Southern Politeness Becomes A Blatant Act of Stupidity
On Monday I got a letter from Murray State. For ten minutes the slim envelope teetered in the palm of my sweaty hand. When I stopped hyperventilating and my knees settled into a more controlled spasm, I tore open the seal, pulled free the letter and read the note:
Your application for admission to the Creative Writing Program was forwarded to the department for evaluation. They have notified us that you are not eligible for admissions to their program. Other questions concerning this decision should be directed to the department.
Last I checked, ‘not eligible’ meant failing to meet the requirements for review. Never have I understood ‘not eligible’ to be a synonym for rejected. And it turns out this wasn’t the first linguistic curiosity put forth from this school. I had a run in with them regarding the definition of an official transcript. Anyway, with my fate certainly uncertain, I called the admissions office and asked for clarification.
“Hi Kitty, my name is Paige and I received a letter from you earlier today.”
“Yes ma’am,” she answered in her syrupy southern drawl.
“I just wanted to confirm that ‘not eligible’ doesn’t mean my file was incomplete and therefore void. You see, there had been a misunderstanding about transcripts and perhaps that was part of the issue.”
“It means you are not eligible,” she stated, her voice exaggerating the last two words as if speaking them more distinctly would magically attach meaning.
“Right, but does ‘not eligible’ mean rejected as in you reviewed my completed file and have decided to not offer me a slot in the incoming class or does it mean you were unable to review my file due to missing data. Because if it’s the second one, I’d like to rectify the situation.”
“Well, we were trying to be polite but I guess it backfired. You were rejected,” she said with a country club cackle, the kind that pairs well with tennis whites and a scotch on the rocks.
Three Feet Below Rock Bottom
I’m checking my mail so often that I’ve worn a path in the marble flooring leading to my box. On Saturday I visited the mailroom twice, you know, just in case my 11am stop was too early. Oh, and yesterday I reached my arm all the way through the box to the other side to make sure it was totally empty. So yes, I have clearly become obsessed with hearing from the remaining nine schools
Today, on my way to fetch lunch, I detoured to my residence. I double parked out front and sprinted through the lobby to the mailboxes. The contents included a new issue of Town & Country, a solicitation from a credit card company and my IRS refund check, a check for around $2000. And my response to the collection of clutter clutched in my hands? What. The Fuck. No school responses????
Monday, March 17, 2008
Mix Master P
A month into fourth grade, my class wandered down to the music room for our lesson and after gathering in a circle on the floor, Mrs. Davidson distributed recorders. After showing us a few things, she stood up and retreated to her harpsichord. While she plucked at the keys, we practiced notes. It was quite possibly the worst sound ever to be produced by human beings.
Twice a week for the duration of the year, I was expected to play the recorder. To be honest, I never really took to the instrument. The sound it produced was forever unpleasant and though the notes were easy to follow, I rarely hit them right. More often than not I blew too hard and screeched out nothing more than a piercing wail that could summon dogs.
One day I decided to clean my recorder. I pulled the plastic pieces apart, piped a rag through the insides and then put it back together. Except I somehow jammed the mouthpiece to the bottom at a weird angle. And no matter what I did to correct the placement, the sections wouldn’t budge. My mom refused to buy me a new one, not that I blame her, so I finished out fourth grade playing the instrument on a slant. In case you were wondering, the sound I produced was no worse with the recorder contorted.
“PJ, pick an instrument to learn,” my mom instructed my first day of fifth grade.
“Piano!” I excitedly exclaimed.
“No, no. I’m not buying a piano. Clashes with the country French decor of the house. Pick something else.”
“Harp!”
“No, it won’t fit in my car. Try again. Perhaps something you can carry on your own.”
“Violin?”
“Flute it is.”
The following day, we went to a local music store and rented a flute and a week later I had my first lesson. Sitting in Mrs. Lenape’s dank basement, I learned how to put it together, how to clean out the gook that accumulates inside and how to make a sound. With additional lessons came growth, though the pace remained slow as I really had no interest in learning the flute. Translation: I never practiced.
“How are your lessons going?” my mom asked one random night while I helped her make dinner.
“I’m learning how to play Joy to the World,” I answered, as I dropped a green bean stem into the accumulating pile and released the edible part into a colander by the sink.
No Jewish mother, not even one who was raised Catholic and converted to unify her burgeoning family, wants to hear that her daughter is mastering a Christmas Carol. I was given permission to quit the flute the next day.
As much as I disliked the wind instruments I was exposed to in my youth, I’ve always enjoyed music. One of my first purchases was the soundtrack to The Muppet Movie. My collection grew when I won the Purim carnival costume contest dressed as a cherry hamantashen. My prize was a Shaun Cassidy album. I must have kissed the cover fifty times during my walk home. A few months later I came into possession of an Andy Gibb album. Clearly I was well on my way to becoming a music aficionado.
When cassettes were introduced, I became obsessed with making mix tapes. Finally I had a chance to condense my favorite tunes into one spot. Sometimes I recorded music off the radio and other times I lifted songs off of the family record collection. And yes, on more than one occasion, I presented a crush with a personalized tape. It felt like a good idea at the time.
It appears old habits die hard because to this day I make mixes. At the start of every month, I create a new playlist in iTunes. From Just January to Merry March, Absolutely August to So-So September, around sixteen songs are selected to be in the designated collection. Some tunes reappear and others never make the cut. No matter what, the playlist is created, the songs arranged and the music burned.
In the driver’s side door of my car sits the vehicle registration, coupons for Bed Bath & Beyond, and around twelve homemade discs of music. As I worked my way home from dinner the other night, droplets of rain splattering against my windshield, I sampled my collection. It was funny how each disc had a different feel, offering insight into the progression of my mood over time.
When a song is placed properly in a film or play, commercial or television show, the story gains additional dimension and depth. Sure the plot worked fine as it was. But it’s unquestionably stronger when overlapped with the throaty serenade of Nina Simone or the haunting echo of Imogen Heap. Even a tune played during the closing credits of a film can set the mood as names and titles scroll up the screen.
This may sound silly but I like thinking there is a soundtrack to my life. I don’t have a song for everything but I have a lot of it already mapped out. I hear So Much Mine every time I cross the Tappan Zee Bridge. When I curl into a ball of aching heart sadness, Be Be Your Love plays in the background. As I pull myself together, dusting off the dirt and remnants of the past, Ain’t No Mountain High Enough sets my pace. And once I am back to my old sassy self, I’m strutting every which way to the rhythm of To Be Real.
Sure, go ahead and laugh. In fact, I give you permission to point as well. Because if you don’t have a personal soundtrack, if you don’t have certain songs that describe you and define you as the days unfold, you’re living a life I would never want.
Twice a week for the duration of the year, I was expected to play the recorder. To be honest, I never really took to the instrument. The sound it produced was forever unpleasant and though the notes were easy to follow, I rarely hit them right. More often than not I blew too hard and screeched out nothing more than a piercing wail that could summon dogs.
One day I decided to clean my recorder. I pulled the plastic pieces apart, piped a rag through the insides and then put it back together. Except I somehow jammed the mouthpiece to the bottom at a weird angle. And no matter what I did to correct the placement, the sections wouldn’t budge. My mom refused to buy me a new one, not that I blame her, so I finished out fourth grade playing the instrument on a slant. In case you were wondering, the sound I produced was no worse with the recorder contorted.
“PJ, pick an instrument to learn,” my mom instructed my first day of fifth grade.
“Piano!” I excitedly exclaimed.
“No, no. I’m not buying a piano. Clashes with the country French decor of the house. Pick something else.”
“Harp!”
“No, it won’t fit in my car. Try again. Perhaps something you can carry on your own.”
“Violin?”
“Flute it is.”
The following day, we went to a local music store and rented a flute and a week later I had my first lesson. Sitting in Mrs. Lenape’s dank basement, I learned how to put it together, how to clean out the gook that accumulates inside and how to make a sound. With additional lessons came growth, though the pace remained slow as I really had no interest in learning the flute. Translation: I never practiced.
“How are your lessons going?” my mom asked one random night while I helped her make dinner.
“I’m learning how to play Joy to the World,” I answered, as I dropped a green bean stem into the accumulating pile and released the edible part into a colander by the sink.
No Jewish mother, not even one who was raised Catholic and converted to unify her burgeoning family, wants to hear that her daughter is mastering a Christmas Carol. I was given permission to quit the flute the next day.
As much as I disliked the wind instruments I was exposed to in my youth, I’ve always enjoyed music. One of my first purchases was the soundtrack to The Muppet Movie. My collection grew when I won the Purim carnival costume contest dressed as a cherry hamantashen. My prize was a Shaun Cassidy album. I must have kissed the cover fifty times during my walk home. A few months later I came into possession of an Andy Gibb album. Clearly I was well on my way to becoming a music aficionado.
When cassettes were introduced, I became obsessed with making mix tapes. Finally I had a chance to condense my favorite tunes into one spot. Sometimes I recorded music off the radio and other times I lifted songs off of the family record collection. And yes, on more than one occasion, I presented a crush with a personalized tape. It felt like a good idea at the time.
It appears old habits die hard because to this day I make mixes. At the start of every month, I create a new playlist in iTunes. From Just January to Merry March, Absolutely August to So-So September, around sixteen songs are selected to be in the designated collection. Some tunes reappear and others never make the cut. No matter what, the playlist is created, the songs arranged and the music burned.
In the driver’s side door of my car sits the vehicle registration, coupons for Bed Bath & Beyond, and around twelve homemade discs of music. As I worked my way home from dinner the other night, droplets of rain splattering against my windshield, I sampled my collection. It was funny how each disc had a different feel, offering insight into the progression of my mood over time.
When a song is placed properly in a film or play, commercial or television show, the story gains additional dimension and depth. Sure the plot worked fine as it was. But it’s unquestionably stronger when overlapped with the throaty serenade of Nina Simone or the haunting echo of Imogen Heap. Even a tune played during the closing credits of a film can set the mood as names and titles scroll up the screen.
This may sound silly but I like thinking there is a soundtrack to my life. I don’t have a song for everything but I have a lot of it already mapped out. I hear So Much Mine every time I cross the Tappan Zee Bridge. When I curl into a ball of aching heart sadness, Be Be Your Love plays in the background. As I pull myself together, dusting off the dirt and remnants of the past, Ain’t No Mountain High Enough sets my pace. And once I am back to my old sassy self, I’m strutting every which way to the rhythm of To Be Real.
Sure, go ahead and laugh. In fact, I give you permission to point as well. Because if you don’t have a personal soundtrack, if you don’t have certain songs that describe you and define you as the days unfold, you’re living a life I would never want.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Three Bananas Walk Into a Bar
My mom always kept bananas in the house when I was growing up. None of us were particularly fond of the fruit but it was her go-to answer whenever someone asked for a sweet treat after dinner.
“Have a banana,” she’d suggest.
“I don’t want a banana,” I’d grumble.
“Then go do your homework.”
Every few months, the bananas would lose their battle. Sitting under the morning sun in an antique scale by the window, we would all bypass the offering. As the golden skin transitioned to muddy brown, I got excited. You see, you need exactly three overripe bananas to make banana bread, the culinary conversion of healthy fruit to sinful indulgence.
Amongst the clutter of my mom’s cookbooks sat a publication from a local Jewish organization. A group of congregants pooled their favorite recipes and then hocked it for cash. God I love my people. Anyway the best banana bread recipe was tucked in that book. Every time I made a loaf, people gobbled it up before it had time to cool.
But the last time I made banana bread, things got a little messed up. Okay fine, it was a complete catastrophe. I pulled the cookbook from the shelf, mixed everything together and then slipped it into the oven. One hour later, I went to poke a toothpick in the center and found the contents of the loaf pan to be in the original soupy state. I closed the oven door and checked back later. After four hours of trying to set the bread, I realized I had forgotten to fold in the dry ingredients. Meaning I had been boiling the wet ones for the better part of the afternoon. That was 1989 and it was the last time I made banana bread.
“I’m craving a banana,” I said to my coworker Tuesday morning.
“Darn, I picked one up at WaWa on my drive in but I already ate it,” she said with a sigh. “I have three at home but they’re way overripe. Like they’re starting to smell,” she said with a squinch of her nose.
“Oooh, banana bread,” I swooned, my mouth watering at the mere thought of the delicacy.
The next morning I got into work and found three overripe bananas on my desk.
I didn’t leave the office until around seven o’clock that night. Before turning off the lights and setting the alarm, I packed up everything I needed to take home including the bananas. I stopped around the corner to drop an UPS overnight envelope. I detoured to Barnes & Noble to purchase a few books. And then I went to Wholefoods to splurge for dinner.
An hour after leaving the office, I was in my kitchen. I plugged my laptop into an outlet and set it atop my microwave. A quick search led me to a recipe and I got down to business. Kanye and Mandy, Sarah and KT serenaded me as I multi-tasked the oven. I mixed ingredients while searing my steak. I sipped wine while alternating my focus between sauteing chopped zucchini and folding chips and walnuts into the batter. And as I harmonized with Eric, I staggered half buzzed to the oven and slid the loaf pan onto the middle shelf. With an hour until the bread was to be done, I dumped everything in the sink, dimmed the kitchen lights and retired to the sofa with my dinner and third glass of wine.
If someone asked me today to note my biggest fears, I’d list obvious things like not making it as a writer or not sharing my life with someone who sets my belly aflutter. Or maybe I’d say seeing my dad succumb to his illness or receiving a phone call that Leslie is gone. All of those things would devastate me. But I’d be remiss if I failed to note my fear of cooking banana bread. My last effort left me shamed and the more time that passed, the more I became convinced the flour mishap wasn’t the rare occurrence but instead the norm. For a foodie, this is a hard truth to accept.
If you couldn’t tell from the last few posts, I’ve been in a little bit of a gray state. I’m happy but I’m anxious. Every evening that I come home, I rush to my mailbox and fling the door open with the hopes of finding an acceptance letter. Every morning that I awake, I feel unsettled and tired, my puffy eyes and tense neck evidence of my desire to have the future all sorted out. But as I sat on my sofa scanning the pages of a book, I melted as the aroma of buttery banana bread filled my apartment. And when I got up to remove the loaf pan from the oven, I lowered my nose closer, took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the sweet smell of happiness. That’s when the gray lifted. That’s when I knew that no matter what comes down the pike, everything will be just fine.
“Have a banana,” she’d suggest.
“I don’t want a banana,” I’d grumble.
“Then go do your homework.”
Every few months, the bananas would lose their battle. Sitting under the morning sun in an antique scale by the window, we would all bypass the offering. As the golden skin transitioned to muddy brown, I got excited. You see, you need exactly three overripe bananas to make banana bread, the culinary conversion of healthy fruit to sinful indulgence.
Amongst the clutter of my mom’s cookbooks sat a publication from a local Jewish organization. A group of congregants pooled their favorite recipes and then hocked it for cash. God I love my people. Anyway the best banana bread recipe was tucked in that book. Every time I made a loaf, people gobbled it up before it had time to cool.
But the last time I made banana bread, things got a little messed up. Okay fine, it was a complete catastrophe. I pulled the cookbook from the shelf, mixed everything together and then slipped it into the oven. One hour later, I went to poke a toothpick in the center and found the contents of the loaf pan to be in the original soupy state. I closed the oven door and checked back later. After four hours of trying to set the bread, I realized I had forgotten to fold in the dry ingredients. Meaning I had been boiling the wet ones for the better part of the afternoon. That was 1989 and it was the last time I made banana bread.
“I’m craving a banana,” I said to my coworker Tuesday morning.
“Darn, I picked one up at WaWa on my drive in but I already ate it,” she said with a sigh. “I have three at home but they’re way overripe. Like they’re starting to smell,” she said with a squinch of her nose.
“Oooh, banana bread,” I swooned, my mouth watering at the mere thought of the delicacy.
The next morning I got into work and found three overripe bananas on my desk.
I didn’t leave the office until around seven o’clock that night. Before turning off the lights and setting the alarm, I packed up everything I needed to take home including the bananas. I stopped around the corner to drop an UPS overnight envelope. I detoured to Barnes & Noble to purchase a few books. And then I went to Wholefoods to splurge for dinner.
An hour after leaving the office, I was in my kitchen. I plugged my laptop into an outlet and set it atop my microwave. A quick search led me to a recipe and I got down to business. Kanye and Mandy, Sarah and KT serenaded me as I multi-tasked the oven. I mixed ingredients while searing my steak. I sipped wine while alternating my focus between sauteing chopped zucchini and folding chips and walnuts into the batter. And as I harmonized with Eric, I staggered half buzzed to the oven and slid the loaf pan onto the middle shelf. With an hour until the bread was to be done, I dumped everything in the sink, dimmed the kitchen lights and retired to the sofa with my dinner and third glass of wine.
If someone asked me today to note my biggest fears, I’d list obvious things like not making it as a writer or not sharing my life with someone who sets my belly aflutter. Or maybe I’d say seeing my dad succumb to his illness or receiving a phone call that Leslie is gone. All of those things would devastate me. But I’d be remiss if I failed to note my fear of cooking banana bread. My last effort left me shamed and the more time that passed, the more I became convinced the flour mishap wasn’t the rare occurrence but instead the norm. For a foodie, this is a hard truth to accept.
If you couldn’t tell from the last few posts, I’ve been in a little bit of a gray state. I’m happy but I’m anxious. Every evening that I come home, I rush to my mailbox and fling the door open with the hopes of finding an acceptance letter. Every morning that I awake, I feel unsettled and tired, my puffy eyes and tense neck evidence of my desire to have the future all sorted out. But as I sat on my sofa scanning the pages of a book, I melted as the aroma of buttery banana bread filled my apartment. And when I got up to remove the loaf pan from the oven, I lowered my nose closer, took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the sweet smell of happiness. That’s when the gray lifted. That’s when I knew that no matter what comes down the pike, everything will be just fine.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Throw Me A Bone
For more than twenty years, my family packed up and relocated to Nantucket for the month of August. It was the wind down to summer before the start up of fall. For the most part, we vacationed with another family that had two daughters similar in age to me and Leslie. If it was overcast, the kids walked into town and poked into Mitchell’s and Vis-a-Vis, stopping at The Juice Bar for a sweet treat before heading home. And if it was sunny, we packed up our totes and relocated to Jetties beach, playing in the sand and every so often renting windsurf boards to help pass the time.
“Liz you’re doing great!” Marla the other mom praised from the shore.
I pulled at the rope hand over hand, lifted the sail to an upright position and windsurfed across the waves. Liz meanwhile was still trying to raise the sail out of the water. When I got too close to a buoyed boat, I partially dropped the sail, swung it around and zipped back the other way. Liz was still tugging at the rope and her mom was still cheering. My mom was too busy knitting a sweater to notice my accomplishments.
In late August, we packed up our belongings and said farewell to the island. After stepping off the ferry and hugging goodbye, Leslie and I crawled into the rear of our car and Liz and her sister Darlene crawled into the backseat of their’s. As soon as the doors were closed and the locks were clicked, Leslie and I exploded.
“Liz, that was the best fart ever!” I sang from the backseat.
“Darlene, that was the prettiest poop!” Leslie chimed in.
“Girls,” my mom warned from the front seat.
We giggled and continued our banter in hushed whispers, mocking a family that regardless of the scenario acknowledged their accomplishments. More often than not, this entertained us the entire six hour drive home.
In high school, my mother paid four tutors to prep me for the SAT. As soon as my scores were certain, she hired a local woman to assist with the applications. A ton of paper was used as I hand wrote essays and made color coded graphs to track the progress. In total, I applied to something like ten colleges - a few reaches, a few safeties and a few in the middle.
“Mom, I got into Muhlenberg,” I exclaimed as I broke through the doorway of her classroom at a local elementary school, the crinkled acceptance letter clutched in my outstretched hand.
“You were supposed to get in there,” she said with a flutter of her chalk tainted fingers, her dismissive tone silencing my excitement.
True, Muhlenberg was a safety. It was a school that was expected to accept me. But it was also the very first letter I received. There was something magical and comforting about being wanted even if the feeling wasn’t reciprocal.
When I got my acceptance letter for Spalding’s MFA program two weeks ago, I immediately rang Leslie.
“Guess what?” I asked.
“You got laid.”
“Um, no. But thanks for reminding me that I need to.”
“What then?”
“I got into a grad school!”
“That’s awesome, Paige,” Leslie squealed. “I knew you could do it. I read your stuff all the time and I love it.”
When our call was done, I rang my mom.
“PJ, that’s great. Paige got into a school!” she screamed to my dad, her voice bouncing off the travertine tiles and out to the lanai.
I let out a childlike giggle while my mom continued.
“I’m really proud of you. But PJ, listen, is it really worth going there? If you don’t get into Bennington, maybe you should reconsider this proposition. Take some time off to improve your skills and then reapply.”
It was right about then that I stopped paying attention. Cradling the handset to my ear, I quietly opened the New York Times online and started reading the latest headlines, my mom’s voice nothing more than a low hum in my ear. By the time I finally hung up the phone, I was a little numb.
When I set out to apply to graduate programs, my one and only goal was to be able to start come the summer. I narrowed down my choices, selecting a collection of eleven prospective programs. I put in a lot of effort trying to figure this all out, mostly so that if I received only one acceptance letter, I would still be thrilled. Sure, attending Bennington or Warren Wilson would set me floating on cloud nine. But Spalding would in no way be settling. I guess my point is I had this all figured out at the start.
As I teeter on the brink of turning thirty-five, anxiously checking my mailbox as though a winning lottery ticket might be inside, I find myself fragile and uncertain and eager for anything but criticism. Without question, my mom’s pings no longer ding me like did in the past. But I still can’t help but be a little jealous of that old family friend Liz. Maybe it wasn’t true that she was the best at everything she did. I might go so far as to say she barely cleared the mediocre bar half of the time. But her mom always beamed with pride as she cheered from the sidelines. And sometimes, not often but still sometimes, I wish I knew what that felt like.
“Liz you’re doing great!” Marla the other mom praised from the shore.
I pulled at the rope hand over hand, lifted the sail to an upright position and windsurfed across the waves. Liz meanwhile was still trying to raise the sail out of the water. When I got too close to a buoyed boat, I partially dropped the sail, swung it around and zipped back the other way. Liz was still tugging at the rope and her mom was still cheering. My mom was too busy knitting a sweater to notice my accomplishments.
In late August, we packed up our belongings and said farewell to the island. After stepping off the ferry and hugging goodbye, Leslie and I crawled into the rear of our car and Liz and her sister Darlene crawled into the backseat of their’s. As soon as the doors were closed and the locks were clicked, Leslie and I exploded.
“Liz, that was the best fart ever!” I sang from the backseat.
“Darlene, that was the prettiest poop!” Leslie chimed in.
“Girls,” my mom warned from the front seat.
We giggled and continued our banter in hushed whispers, mocking a family that regardless of the scenario acknowledged their accomplishments. More often than not, this entertained us the entire six hour drive home.
In high school, my mother paid four tutors to prep me for the SAT. As soon as my scores were certain, she hired a local woman to assist with the applications. A ton of paper was used as I hand wrote essays and made color coded graphs to track the progress. In total, I applied to something like ten colleges - a few reaches, a few safeties and a few in the middle.
“Mom, I got into Muhlenberg,” I exclaimed as I broke through the doorway of her classroom at a local elementary school, the crinkled acceptance letter clutched in my outstretched hand.
“You were supposed to get in there,” she said with a flutter of her chalk tainted fingers, her dismissive tone silencing my excitement.
True, Muhlenberg was a safety. It was a school that was expected to accept me. But it was also the very first letter I received. There was something magical and comforting about being wanted even if the feeling wasn’t reciprocal.
When I got my acceptance letter for Spalding’s MFA program two weeks ago, I immediately rang Leslie.
“Guess what?” I asked.
“You got laid.”
“Um, no. But thanks for reminding me that I need to.”
“What then?”
“I got into a grad school!”
“That’s awesome, Paige,” Leslie squealed. “I knew you could do it. I read your stuff all the time and I love it.”
When our call was done, I rang my mom.
“PJ, that’s great. Paige got into a school!” she screamed to my dad, her voice bouncing off the travertine tiles and out to the lanai.
I let out a childlike giggle while my mom continued.
“I’m really proud of you. But PJ, listen, is it really worth going there? If you don’t get into Bennington, maybe you should reconsider this proposition. Take some time off to improve your skills and then reapply.”
It was right about then that I stopped paying attention. Cradling the handset to my ear, I quietly opened the New York Times online and started reading the latest headlines, my mom’s voice nothing more than a low hum in my ear. By the time I finally hung up the phone, I was a little numb.
When I set out to apply to graduate programs, my one and only goal was to be able to start come the summer. I narrowed down my choices, selecting a collection of eleven prospective programs. I put in a lot of effort trying to figure this all out, mostly so that if I received only one acceptance letter, I would still be thrilled. Sure, attending Bennington or Warren Wilson would set me floating on cloud nine. But Spalding would in no way be settling. I guess my point is I had this all figured out at the start.
As I teeter on the brink of turning thirty-five, anxiously checking my mailbox as though a winning lottery ticket might be inside, I find myself fragile and uncertain and eager for anything but criticism. Without question, my mom’s pings no longer ding me like did in the past. But I still can’t help but be a little jealous of that old family friend Liz. Maybe it wasn’t true that she was the best at everything she did. I might go so far as to say she barely cleared the mediocre bar half of the time. But her mom always beamed with pride as she cheered from the sidelines. And sometimes, not often but still sometimes, I wish I knew what that felt like.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Real Life
This post is dedicated to Stephanie Green over at Dishalicious. She is a witty woman who at thirty-two has sassed the shit out of breast cancer. Every so often, when I read one of her posts, I do a double snap and exclaim an excited ‘you go girl’. As she goes through the process of conquering cancer, she is documenting everything with the hopes of publishing her story. Sometimes what she shares is downright funny and other times it leaves me speechless. No matter what, her story is one that should be heard. If you are a reader or a writer, an agent or a publisher, please visit her site. You are sure to be inspired.
Every time I go to the dentist he asks if I floss. With his hand crammed in my mouth, he calmly inquires about my routine. And because he’s already in there witnessing the condition of my teeth and gums, I know he already knows the answer. I know he’s only asking so I have to whimper a mumbled confession of guilt. That while I own multiple spools of floss, the last time I used any was when I needed to rig the undercarriage of my car back to the bumper. Don’t ask.
Every time I go to the gynecologist, she asks if I do a self breast exam. With my legs in the stirrups and a metal clamp in my down there, the conversation about pending vacations and favorite restaurants gets back to business. I usually drop my head to the side, the protective paper crinkling beneath the weight of my cheek. I let out a breath as I exhale my answer, a simple no. That my breasts always feel different, sometimes mushy other times less so and for the most part I just forget to do it. This is when she peers around my elevated leg and shoots a motherly look of disappointment. But as much I lean on the excuse of ignorance, the real reason is fear. Because when I was twenty-five, I did do a self breast exam and the twelve hours that immediately followed were the hardest of my life.
“Can I come in to see Dr. Weiss?” I quietly spoke into the phone.
“What’s wrong?” the cranky nurse probed.
“I think I have a lump in my right breast,” I said, the words sounding foreign and itchy.
“Get here as soon as you can.”
My doctor was one of my dad’s childhood playmates, a tall man with a deep voice and casual demeanor. The few times I saw him beyond the confines of his office, he was always toting a man purse, an accessory I usually found unappealing but one he managed to work like nobody’s business. His confident ability to accessorize somehow offered a sense of comfort as I reclined on the table, my hospital robe thrown open and his gentle hands kneading my breasts.
“I need to make a call but I’m sending you across the street for a few scans,” he said as he stepped over to a chart and scribbled some notes. “You are not, I repeat, you are not allowed to leave there until I know what’s going on. And listen, if it’s bad, you’re going to Lankenau Hospital. I’ll call in a favor and you’ll have a biopsy done this afternoon.”
The words passed through me as if I were a ghost, pinging off the wall until falling to the floor. I repeated ‘Lankenau’ in my head over and over until the word lost all meaning, the beginning and the end melting together to make a single loop of letters.
“Paige?” the doctor asked.
“Huh?”
“Hop to it.”
I drove the half mile over to the scan facility, took a seat in the back corner of the waiting room and superficially flipped through magazines until someone brought me back. I had a mammogram and then I was shown to another space where a tech slopped my boobs with jelly and ran a machine over them. She started with concentric circles and then moved to lines leading away from my nipple. I clenched my jaw and bit my lip, trying anything and everything to calm my nerves. I eventually settled on the idea that my breast was a flower, the nipple the center and her lines representing the petals. My spine was still tense but at least my mind was momentarily distracted.
When it was all done, when the goop was wiped away and my clothes were put back on, I returned to my original seat in the waiting room. I kept my eyes cast down, blinking back the tears teetering at the corners. I curled my fingers around the front of the seat and rocked myself back and forth the way a devout Jew sways during prayer. I wanted to be able to reach out and feel my mom or my sister, someone to shelter me within a grasp and confirm that everything would be alright.
“Paige, Dr. Weiss wants to talk to you,” the receptionist noted as she held the receiver in the air.
I took the slowest possible steps, scuffing the soles of my shoes against the industrial carpeting.
“Yeah?” I asked, my voice quiet and uncertain.
“It’s all clear. Just make sure you do an exam and keep an eye on things.”
After paying my fee, I escaped to my car. And there in the safety of a parking garage I cried. I let my insides tumble out until everything was expelled. Sometimes I think back to that day, those hours, and I can immediately sense a tensing of my fists and an ache in my jaw. It’s the tremble I feel whenever I get a call that my dad has fallen. Or sometimes when I read a certain passage at Dishalicious. As the words are digested, as the reality that we are all mortal settles in, I cry. Salty streams stain my cheeks as I struggle to accept the fact that some aspects of my life are completely out of my control.
Every time I go to the dentist he asks if I floss. With his hand crammed in my mouth, he calmly inquires about my routine. And because he’s already in there witnessing the condition of my teeth and gums, I know he already knows the answer. I know he’s only asking so I have to whimper a mumbled confession of guilt. That while I own multiple spools of floss, the last time I used any was when I needed to rig the undercarriage of my car back to the bumper. Don’t ask.
Every time I go to the gynecologist, she asks if I do a self breast exam. With my legs in the stirrups and a metal clamp in my down there, the conversation about pending vacations and favorite restaurants gets back to business. I usually drop my head to the side, the protective paper crinkling beneath the weight of my cheek. I let out a breath as I exhale my answer, a simple no. That my breasts always feel different, sometimes mushy other times less so and for the most part I just forget to do it. This is when she peers around my elevated leg and shoots a motherly look of disappointment. But as much I lean on the excuse of ignorance, the real reason is fear. Because when I was twenty-five, I did do a self breast exam and the twelve hours that immediately followed were the hardest of my life.
“Can I come in to see Dr. Weiss?” I quietly spoke into the phone.
“What’s wrong?” the cranky nurse probed.
“I think I have a lump in my right breast,” I said, the words sounding foreign and itchy.
“Get here as soon as you can.”
My doctor was one of my dad’s childhood playmates, a tall man with a deep voice and casual demeanor. The few times I saw him beyond the confines of his office, he was always toting a man purse, an accessory I usually found unappealing but one he managed to work like nobody’s business. His confident ability to accessorize somehow offered a sense of comfort as I reclined on the table, my hospital robe thrown open and his gentle hands kneading my breasts.
“I need to make a call but I’m sending you across the street for a few scans,” he said as he stepped over to a chart and scribbled some notes. “You are not, I repeat, you are not allowed to leave there until I know what’s going on. And listen, if it’s bad, you’re going to Lankenau Hospital. I’ll call in a favor and you’ll have a biopsy done this afternoon.”
The words passed through me as if I were a ghost, pinging off the wall until falling to the floor. I repeated ‘Lankenau’ in my head over and over until the word lost all meaning, the beginning and the end melting together to make a single loop of letters.
“Paige?” the doctor asked.
“Huh?”
“Hop to it.”
I drove the half mile over to the scan facility, took a seat in the back corner of the waiting room and superficially flipped through magazines until someone brought me back. I had a mammogram and then I was shown to another space where a tech slopped my boobs with jelly and ran a machine over them. She started with concentric circles and then moved to lines leading away from my nipple. I clenched my jaw and bit my lip, trying anything and everything to calm my nerves. I eventually settled on the idea that my breast was a flower, the nipple the center and her lines representing the petals. My spine was still tense but at least my mind was momentarily distracted.
When it was all done, when the goop was wiped away and my clothes were put back on, I returned to my original seat in the waiting room. I kept my eyes cast down, blinking back the tears teetering at the corners. I curled my fingers around the front of the seat and rocked myself back and forth the way a devout Jew sways during prayer. I wanted to be able to reach out and feel my mom or my sister, someone to shelter me within a grasp and confirm that everything would be alright.
“Paige, Dr. Weiss wants to talk to you,” the receptionist noted as she held the receiver in the air.
I took the slowest possible steps, scuffing the soles of my shoes against the industrial carpeting.
“Yeah?” I asked, my voice quiet and uncertain.
“It’s all clear. Just make sure you do an exam and keep an eye on things.”
After paying my fee, I escaped to my car. And there in the safety of a parking garage I cried. I let my insides tumble out until everything was expelled. Sometimes I think back to that day, those hours, and I can immediately sense a tensing of my fists and an ache in my jaw. It’s the tremble I feel whenever I get a call that my dad has fallen. Or sometimes when I read a certain passage at Dishalicious. As the words are digested, as the reality that we are all mortal settles in, I cry. Salty streams stain my cheeks as I struggle to accept the fact that some aspects of my life are completely out of my control.
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