For me, there has never been a question that I’m straight. Even by the age of five it was clear, my moistened lips smooching the cover of Andy Gibb’s latest vinyl offering. Okay, it seems my fondness for gay men also surfaced early on as well. Anyway, no matter how obvious my sexual orientation, I’ve been known to attract women.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked my college roommate as I pulled a purple tulip out of my mailbox.
“Somebody loves you,” Jenny sang with a nervous giggle.
This would have made me happy save for the fact I was enrolled in a school that had no male students. The closest penis was forty-five minutes and two bus rides away at Amherst. Meaning the flower perched in my box was from a gal. I dumped it in the trash and prayed the tulip was a fluke. Like it was really meant for the hairy, Birkenstock clad girl two mailboxes over.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” I grumbled as I pulled a chocolate Easter egg from my mailbox. “No pun intended.”
“Is there a note?” Jenny asked, her face mimicking my expression of unease.
“No. And clearly this girl knows nothing about me seeing, um, I’m Jewish. That’s it,” I announced as I walked over to the service window, slammed the confection down on the counter and demanded to know the identity of the admirer.
“I’m sorry but that’s not available.”
“Well clearly the egg I received today and the tulip I received last week didn’t just walk across the quad and settle into my mailbox without some assistance.”
“I’m not at liberty to share that information. It’s private.”
“If these unsolicited gifts were from a man, you’d tell me his name. So maybe I’ll just go to a dean to complain about being stalked?”
Yeah, I know that was way beyond where I needed to go with my threat but it worked. I never received anything else.
I got hit on by a bunch of women a few years later. But that was expected. I went to a local gay bar with a lesbian coworker. Ironically she met no one but I couldn’t keep them off of me. The moral of the story for all my painfully single lesbian readers is this - femme it up ladies. Sure, I have a nice rack but hands down, I was popular that night because I looked like no one else in the joint. I looked girly with painted lips and pointy toed pumps. Take notes.
Anyway, yesterday I was bombarded with a welcome packet from my graduate program. The cover letter summarized what to expect and what to prepare in anticipation of the July session. It also noted which accomplished authors I was slated to workshop with. I immediately Googled names and studied bios, recognizing certain publications and drooling over their collective literary talent. And then I dropped my head into my hands and collapsed in my chair. Because one of my mentors writes with a strong lesbian slant. In fact, she has received extensive praise for her children’s book about a little girl with two mommies. I probably had to read it during my college tenure in a town fondly dubbed Lesbianville, USA.
Listen, I know this woman’s an extremely talented writer. In fact, I read one of her stories back at Smith for a (wait for it) Women’s Studies class. And I have no issue with a gay lifestyle. Personally, I am a tad envious of the doubled wardrobe. But after having lesbianism repeatedly shoved down my empathetic throat for four years straight, I really was ready to be done with it. And maybe my fear is baseless. Maybe I am just having flashbacks to the antics I was subjected to at Smith and nothing more. I suppose stepping around chalked sidewalks reading 'I am a vagitarian' and 'Got Pussy?' left more of a mark than I thought.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Walk With Me
For the most part, I try to get permission before tangling someone up in my words. It’s usually a casual inquiry woven into other activities. I asked Trader as we strolled through Princeton’s campus. I asked Bess as I soaked some sushi in soy sauce. I don’t write to expose or exploit but to tell a story. People who read my blog know this, learning quickly that I am the main character and everything else is secondary. Interestingly, no one has ever turned me down.
I don’t take someone granting permission lightly. You may find this hard to believe but there are plenty of things I keep tucked out of view. I shelter certain people and experiences not because they fail to inspire me but because they don’t deserve to be public. It’s a balancing act of right and wrong, an evaluation of need and want.
Late in the afternoon on Wednesday, something happened at work. It has to do with my dad and his health. I withered from an adult to a child, repeatedly dialing my mom for help and getting teary eyed and flustered when each and every call went unanswered. My body went through the motions of tending to my father while my head clouded and my heart crumbled. Without question, I could squeeze at least three posts out of that tortuous hour. It’d be raw and honest, genuine and blunt. But the details of that situation don’t belong here. They never will. Even if my dad granted permission.
“Hey, can I write about you?” I asked my blogger friend Sean after we finally met face to face.
“Sure,” he casually answered.
“Really? Because you can say no,” I pushed.
“Of course I’m sure. It’s your story, not mine.”
That last part, those few simple words clustered into a sentence, they took my breath away. In fact, they still do.
I never fully appreciated how two people can interpret the same scenario differently, so differently that they might even fail to overlap altogether. Perhaps I’m too conditioned by television edits and quick film cuts, the strumming music and tinted lights forcing a specific view. Everyone is told to see the same thing, stripping the audience of intimate interpretation. Rocky is the underdog hero and Jaws is the menacing shark. No matter where you sit in the theatre, the story is exactly the same.
When I finished my post inspired by my time with Sean, I let him know the piece had been published. Then I nervously awaited his response. Because knowing now that the emotions I felt and the details I noted might greatly differ from his, I was anxious to learn if my story worked for him too. It was like passing off a wrapped gift and waiting for the immediate reaction. Would his lips curl from excitement or dip from disappointment? Would he hold the piece close or regret accepting it at all? Though Sean refrained from commenting publicly, he sent a personal note that eased any and all uncertainty.
Whenever Sean’s words cross my mind, I’m brought back to a writing exercise I did where I was to describe a room from different perspectives. Five minutes - describe the room through the eyes of a thief. Five minutes - describe the room through the eyes of a child. Five minutes - describe the room through the eyes of someone dying. The lighting changed from cheerful to haunting. The noises adjusted from soothing to eerie. It was always the same space but never the same sight.
Stepping back from this blog, retreating from the narrow focus of what I see and how I experience it, I indulge in the words of other writers. I disappear in the descriptions, smelling the aromas and tasting the flavors. And while it’s someone else’s story at the core, I make it mine in the end. Perhaps that’s why I keep blogging. Not just to tell my tale but to invite you to make it yours.
I don’t take someone granting permission lightly. You may find this hard to believe but there are plenty of things I keep tucked out of view. I shelter certain people and experiences not because they fail to inspire me but because they don’t deserve to be public. It’s a balancing act of right and wrong, an evaluation of need and want.
Late in the afternoon on Wednesday, something happened at work. It has to do with my dad and his health. I withered from an adult to a child, repeatedly dialing my mom for help and getting teary eyed and flustered when each and every call went unanswered. My body went through the motions of tending to my father while my head clouded and my heart crumbled. Without question, I could squeeze at least three posts out of that tortuous hour. It’d be raw and honest, genuine and blunt. But the details of that situation don’t belong here. They never will. Even if my dad granted permission.
“Hey, can I write about you?” I asked my blogger friend Sean after we finally met face to face.
“Sure,” he casually answered.
“Really? Because you can say no,” I pushed.
“Of course I’m sure. It’s your story, not mine.”
That last part, those few simple words clustered into a sentence, they took my breath away. In fact, they still do.
I never fully appreciated how two people can interpret the same scenario differently, so differently that they might even fail to overlap altogether. Perhaps I’m too conditioned by television edits and quick film cuts, the strumming music and tinted lights forcing a specific view. Everyone is told to see the same thing, stripping the audience of intimate interpretation. Rocky is the underdog hero and Jaws is the menacing shark. No matter where you sit in the theatre, the story is exactly the same.
When I finished my post inspired by my time with Sean, I let him know the piece had been published. Then I nervously awaited his response. Because knowing now that the emotions I felt and the details I noted might greatly differ from his, I was anxious to learn if my story worked for him too. It was like passing off a wrapped gift and waiting for the immediate reaction. Would his lips curl from excitement or dip from disappointment? Would he hold the piece close or regret accepting it at all? Though Sean refrained from commenting publicly, he sent a personal note that eased any and all uncertainty.
Whenever Sean’s words cross my mind, I’m brought back to a writing exercise I did where I was to describe a room from different perspectives. Five minutes - describe the room through the eyes of a thief. Five minutes - describe the room through the eyes of a child. Five minutes - describe the room through the eyes of someone dying. The lighting changed from cheerful to haunting. The noises adjusted from soothing to eerie. It was always the same space but never the same sight.
Stepping back from this blog, retreating from the narrow focus of what I see and how I experience it, I indulge in the words of other writers. I disappear in the descriptions, smelling the aromas and tasting the flavors. And while it’s someone else’s story at the core, I make it mine in the end. Perhaps that’s why I keep blogging. Not just to tell my tale but to invite you to make it yours.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
One of Those Times
Without question, there are some serious advantages to being single. Like when I got home Saturday night, tired from a long evening of matzo and prayer, I collapsed on my sofa and sprawled out the entire length. My head rested on one arm and my toes tapped against the other. I peeled myself off the couch only long enough to scrape the last viable remnants of ice cream from a container, lazily leaving the empty packaging on the counter. Much easier than actually throwing it out. And when I got into bed, I positioned myself smack dab in the middle of the mattress, my head propped atop two pillows and my legs playfully scissoring every which way.
Living alone means I can leave my dirty laundry on the floor instead of tidily disposing of it in my hamper. It means I can pee with the door open, poop without fear of discovery and fart without muttering a giggle infused excuse me. I can hog the remote control without ever having to stray from Bravo and I never ever have to check the sports scores on ESPN, not that even know what channel ESPN is. Simply put, there’s no need to be polite or accommodating. Living alone means it’s all about me.
Sunday morning I rolled around in bed a few extra minutes, my feet stretching to the far corners to play within the chilly pockets. I eventually got up and went to the bathroom. From there I scuffed to the living room, stepping around my treadmill to access the balcony. I curled my fingers around the door handle and gave one good tug. A gust of fresh air bellowed the curtains. The echo of chirping birds bounced off the brick walls. The scent of lilac blossom tickled my nose. As I breathed in the presence of spring, I scanned my outside space to determine what I needed to do to prep it for usage. And there by my feet, a mere six inches shy of my girly painted toes was a dead bird.
I stepped back a little before crouching down to confirm what was lying splat against my concrete floor. From the cluster of feathers to the tiny yellow beak, it was most certainly a bird. I slammed the door closed and tripped across my treadmill as I clamored for the phone.
“I have a dead bird on my balcony,” I announced before my mom finished saying hello.
“Who is this?”
“No time for small talk, there’s a good chance I’m four feet away from the avian flu.”
“Oh, PJ, good morning,” my mom sang in between sips of her coffee. “Thanks so much for all of your help last night. I never could have managed that without you.”
“Mom. Did you not hear what I just said? There is a dead animal on my balcony.”
“Well whatever you do, don’t touch it.”
“No shit. Any other bright ideas? Like perhaps offering to come remove it?”
“No, no, you’ll be fine without me. Good luck!”
I hung up the phone and quietly backed away from the sliding glass doors before disappearing down the hall. I got dressed and then fled, preferring the crammed aisles of Wholefoods and overflowing parking lot of Starbucks to my residence. As I stood on line to pay for my groceries, I started to toss around all of the evil things a dead bird could represent. Obviously my mortality came to mind. As did a few of the plagues identified during the previous evening’s seder. As I mouthed the Hebrew words - dahm, tsiffardayah, keeneem - I nervously tore into a candy bar I was waiting to purchase, ultimately presenting the cashier with nothing more than a tattered wrapper.
Monday morning, as soon as I settled into my desk at work, I rang the maintenance department at my complex and left a voicemail.
“Hi, yes, this is Paige in unit 201 and, um, I have a dead bird on my balcony. It’s small. But dead. And let’s be honest, I can’t even remove a dead fly without squealing. Anyway, I’m pretty sure this falls outside the realm of your duties but I was wondering if,” I said, my sentence halting when I heard a click.
“Hey Paige, it’s Steve.”
“Hi Steve. Listen, out on my balcony is,”
“A dead bird,” he finished. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab it. No charge.”
“Oh my God, I love you. You know, this is one of those times I wish I had a husband,” I confessed with an audible sigh.
Silence.
“Anyway, thanks!”
“Not a problem.”
Living alone means I can leave my dirty laundry on the floor instead of tidily disposing of it in my hamper. It means I can pee with the door open, poop without fear of discovery and fart without muttering a giggle infused excuse me. I can hog the remote control without ever having to stray from Bravo and I never ever have to check the sports scores on ESPN, not that even know what channel ESPN is. Simply put, there’s no need to be polite or accommodating. Living alone means it’s all about me.
Sunday morning I rolled around in bed a few extra minutes, my feet stretching to the far corners to play within the chilly pockets. I eventually got up and went to the bathroom. From there I scuffed to the living room, stepping around my treadmill to access the balcony. I curled my fingers around the door handle and gave one good tug. A gust of fresh air bellowed the curtains. The echo of chirping birds bounced off the brick walls. The scent of lilac blossom tickled my nose. As I breathed in the presence of spring, I scanned my outside space to determine what I needed to do to prep it for usage. And there by my feet, a mere six inches shy of my girly painted toes was a dead bird.
I stepped back a little before crouching down to confirm what was lying splat against my concrete floor. From the cluster of feathers to the tiny yellow beak, it was most certainly a bird. I slammed the door closed and tripped across my treadmill as I clamored for the phone.
“I have a dead bird on my balcony,” I announced before my mom finished saying hello.
“Who is this?”
“No time for small talk, there’s a good chance I’m four feet away from the avian flu.”
“Oh, PJ, good morning,” my mom sang in between sips of her coffee. “Thanks so much for all of your help last night. I never could have managed that without you.”
“Mom. Did you not hear what I just said? There is a dead animal on my balcony.”
“Well whatever you do, don’t touch it.”
“No shit. Any other bright ideas? Like perhaps offering to come remove it?”
“No, no, you’ll be fine without me. Good luck!”
I hung up the phone and quietly backed away from the sliding glass doors before disappearing down the hall. I got dressed and then fled, preferring the crammed aisles of Wholefoods and overflowing parking lot of Starbucks to my residence. As I stood on line to pay for my groceries, I started to toss around all of the evil things a dead bird could represent. Obviously my mortality came to mind. As did a few of the plagues identified during the previous evening’s seder. As I mouthed the Hebrew words - dahm, tsiffardayah, keeneem - I nervously tore into a candy bar I was waiting to purchase, ultimately presenting the cashier with nothing more than a tattered wrapper.
Monday morning, as soon as I settled into my desk at work, I rang the maintenance department at my complex and left a voicemail.
“Hi, yes, this is Paige in unit 201 and, um, I have a dead bird on my balcony. It’s small. But dead. And let’s be honest, I can’t even remove a dead fly without squealing. Anyway, I’m pretty sure this falls outside the realm of your duties but I was wondering if,” I said, my sentence halting when I heard a click.
“Hey Paige, it’s Steve.”
“Hi Steve. Listen, out on my balcony is,”
“A dead bird,” he finished. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab it. No charge.”
“Oh my God, I love you. You know, this is one of those times I wish I had a husband,” I confessed with an audible sigh.
Silence.
“Anyway, thanks!”
“Not a problem.”
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
One of Those Times When Sleeping Upright In A German Sedan Sounds Appealing
This past Saturday, my mom and I set out on our annual springtime road trip back to Philadelphia. It was half past twelve when I merged the Benz into the northbound traffic of I-75. I clicked the sunroof open, flipped the radio to an agreeable station and put the pedal to the metal as I steered the car away from Sarasota.
We stopped just past Savannah to eat some fried food, refuel the car and retrieve piles of chocolate. At a little past ten, twenty miles beyond the blinking neon of Pedro’s South of The Border, we finally called it quits. I idled outside the lobby while my mom checked us in. With a key pack in hand, we parked the car and climbed the stairs leading to our room at a hotel just off the highway. After I dropped our bags on a bench next to the television stand, my mom peered into the bathroom and I wandered off to adjust the a/c unit.
“There’s already trash in the can,” my mom announced as she reentered the bedroom.
“Yes, well, there’s hair on the vent,” I added, my finger pointing in the direction of the offensive findings.
“I’m calling the front desk.”
A few minutes later, a tall woman who looked husky like a Russian but spoke stupid like a redneck came in and with her bare hands removed the trash from the can. My mother’s jaw hit the floor as she watched on in disgust. After the hotel employee left, I covertly craned my neck out the door and watched her disappear down the corridor, her trash filled hand swinging casually as if she were toting a purse.
I quietly closed the door before eloquently sharing my thoughts.
“I think I’m going to barf. But as much as I’m completely skeeved out, I’ll explode if I don’t pee.”
Thirty minutes after we first plopped down in our temporary home, I was curled up in bed with my laptop resting on the nightstand. Only the sheet lay atop me and my flip-flops remained nearby so I could avoid making direct contact with the carpeting. My mom was on her bed, propped up against three pillows and flipping through the television channels. When she decided she had enough, she got up to brush her teeth. But before she could even turn the sink on, she stomped out, picked up the phone and called the front desk.
“I need to talk to a manager,” she announced to the poor sap on the other line. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
I looked up from my monitor to witness the pending outburst.
“Yes, this room is filthy. Fill-thee! There’s hair all over the vent and when I tried to blow it off, it just clung to the plastic. I had to push it away with the dirty curtain. And there was trash in the bathroom when we got here. Someone came up and got it, but still. And I just went to the bathroom and there’s a used washcloth on the sink. Used,” my mom repeated to drive home her point. She went silent for a moment before resuming her complaint. “Oh. No, really, that’s excessive. I was only calling to relay my dissatisfaction. Okay, well thank you.”
I lifted my eyebrows and waited for my mom to share the news.
“They comped the room,” she said before sitting down on the edge of the bed and replacing the handset to the cradle.
“All of it? Cool. And hey, that washcloth? It’s from when I went to the bathroom. After I washed my hands.”
“Oh, really?” my mom shyly inquired, her cheeks blushing ever so slightly.
“Yup. But listen, you were working it so well I couldn’t interrupt.”
“And anyway, the hair and the trash were pretty gross,” my mom pointed out.
“Yeah, I know. Don’t fret. Really. This place is a fucking dump. I can only imagine how much cum is on that coverlet you’re sitting on.”
“Ugh, PJ, did you really have to go there?” she asked as she scurried to her feet and threw the duvet back.
“You betcha. Maybe next time you’ll let me pick the hotel.”
“Hold on a sec, there’s an Outback here! You eat at Outback!” my mom argued.
“You do make a good point.”
“See!”
“No, I was totally kidding. Goodnight!”
We stopped just past Savannah to eat some fried food, refuel the car and retrieve piles of chocolate. At a little past ten, twenty miles beyond the blinking neon of Pedro’s South of The Border, we finally called it quits. I idled outside the lobby while my mom checked us in. With a key pack in hand, we parked the car and climbed the stairs leading to our room at a hotel just off the highway. After I dropped our bags on a bench next to the television stand, my mom peered into the bathroom and I wandered off to adjust the a/c unit.
“There’s already trash in the can,” my mom announced as she reentered the bedroom.
“Yes, well, there’s hair on the vent,” I added, my finger pointing in the direction of the offensive findings.
“I’m calling the front desk.”
A few minutes later, a tall woman who looked husky like a Russian but spoke stupid like a redneck came in and with her bare hands removed the trash from the can. My mother’s jaw hit the floor as she watched on in disgust. After the hotel employee left, I covertly craned my neck out the door and watched her disappear down the corridor, her trash filled hand swinging casually as if she were toting a purse.
I quietly closed the door before eloquently sharing my thoughts.
“I think I’m going to barf. But as much as I’m completely skeeved out, I’ll explode if I don’t pee.”
Thirty minutes after we first plopped down in our temporary home, I was curled up in bed with my laptop resting on the nightstand. Only the sheet lay atop me and my flip-flops remained nearby so I could avoid making direct contact with the carpeting. My mom was on her bed, propped up against three pillows and flipping through the television channels. When she decided she had enough, she got up to brush her teeth. But before she could even turn the sink on, she stomped out, picked up the phone and called the front desk.
“I need to talk to a manager,” she announced to the poor sap on the other line. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
I looked up from my monitor to witness the pending outburst.
“Yes, this room is filthy. Fill-thee! There’s hair all over the vent and when I tried to blow it off, it just clung to the plastic. I had to push it away with the dirty curtain. And there was trash in the bathroom when we got here. Someone came up and got it, but still. And I just went to the bathroom and there’s a used washcloth on the sink. Used,” my mom repeated to drive home her point. She went silent for a moment before resuming her complaint. “Oh. No, really, that’s excessive. I was only calling to relay my dissatisfaction. Okay, well thank you.”
I lifted my eyebrows and waited for my mom to share the news.
“They comped the room,” she said before sitting down on the edge of the bed and replacing the handset to the cradle.
“All of it? Cool. And hey, that washcloth? It’s from when I went to the bathroom. After I washed my hands.”
“Oh, really?” my mom shyly inquired, her cheeks blushing ever so slightly.
“Yup. But listen, you were working it so well I couldn’t interrupt.”
“And anyway, the hair and the trash were pretty gross,” my mom pointed out.
“Yeah, I know. Don’t fret. Really. This place is a fucking dump. I can only imagine how much cum is on that coverlet you’re sitting on.”
“Ugh, PJ, did you really have to go there?” she asked as she scurried to her feet and threw the duvet back.
“You betcha. Maybe next time you’ll let me pick the hotel.”
“Hold on a sec, there’s an Outback here! You eat at Outback!” my mom argued.
“You do make a good point.”
“See!”
“No, I was totally kidding. Goodnight!”
Monday, April 14, 2008
Meme #2: A Path Through Posts
Through the brilliant Ishmael at KoKon, I met Theresa, an awesome blogger and exceptionally talented writer who happens to be enrolled in Pacific University’s MFA in Creative Writing program. Whenever I asked her for application help or picked her brain about the program, she gleefully obliged. Clearly this woman is a saint for patiently tolerating my neuroses. Anyway, a few weeks ago, Theresa tagged me for a meme and the time has come that I sit down and tackle it.
The Rules:
* Go through your archives and link to five of your favorite posts that pertain to the following categories.
* Pass Meme along to five other bloggers, two of them should be people you know but could stand to learn something about, and the others can be new friends.
Link one must be a post about family.
Link two must be a post about friends.
Link three must be a post about yourself.
Link four must be a post about something you love.
Link five can be a post about anything you choose.
I was going to explain why I picked each link but decided instead to just let them stand on their own. Oh, and Theresa, thanks for forcing me to go back through my collection. It took a while but it was absolutely worth the effort.
I’m tagging, um, no one. Or perhaps all of you? If you have a blog, I strongly urge you to partake in this meme. Not for the lurkers who read your ramblings but for you. Trust me when I say you will enjoy the journey.
The Rules:
* Go through your archives and link to five of your favorite posts that pertain to the following categories.
* Pass Meme along to five other bloggers, two of them should be people you know but could stand to learn something about, and the others can be new friends.
Link one must be a post about family.
Link two must be a post about friends.
Link three must be a post about yourself.
Link four must be a post about something you love.
Link five can be a post about anything you choose.
I was going to explain why I picked each link but decided instead to just let them stand on their own. Oh, and Theresa, thanks for forcing me to go back through my collection. It took a while but it was absolutely worth the effort.
I’m tagging, um, no one. Or perhaps all of you? If you have a blog, I strongly urge you to partake in this meme. Not for the lurkers who read your ramblings but for you. Trust me when I say you will enjoy the journey.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Better Than Butterflies
Last spring, Kris Likey sent an email to ask if I was attending BlogHer because (a) she thought I would enjoy it and (b) she wanted to finally meet me. That second part ranks up there with being invited to the prom by the captain of the football team. Or so I’d suppose. What do I know - my Quaker prep didn’t have a football team and I went to my prom with a gay guy. Anyway, a few days after receiving Likey’s email, I excitedly relayed my intentions to Alaska.
“And this awesome DC blogger who wants to meet me thinks I should go!” I bragged.
“But in the end, what will you get out of it?” he inquired, common sense and logic thickly dripping off of his question. “As a writer,” he elaborated.
I went quiet. My posture curled and my lip quivered as I tried to formulate an answer. Ten minutes later, I had nothing to counter his argument. So I admitted defeat and officially shelved all plans to attend the conference. I still thought about going but not in a way that would amount to any follow through.
A month later, Alaska called to break up with me. And two days after that, I posted a message on BlogHer’s website to see if anyone needed a roommate for the upcoming conference.
I didn’t attend BlogHer as a fuck-you to Alaska. I got on a plane and mingled with 800 strangers in Chicago to be true to myself. Because maybe I sometimes waver when I claim I’m a writer but at the core, deep down inside, I know I am. Going to BlogHer was about standing up and believing in myself while simultaneously regaining that slice of confidence Alaska had stolen from me.
In mid-January, I met Trader in Princeton for a second date. We strolled the streets before ducking into an Italian eatery, sliding onto two barstools and settling in for some pizza and wine.
“Did you mention Stuyvesant?” a woman standing to my right asked in the direction of Trader.
“Yes, I went there,” he answered.
“I used to live on Long Island with my husband. That’s a great school.”
“It is,” he concurred.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said as she backed out of our space.
“Don’t be silly,” I offered. “What do you do?”
“Publishing. I bounce between Philly and New York. Hence, Princeton. What do you two do?” she asked before taking a sip of her wine.
“Finance,” Trader said.
“Insurance broker and writer,” I answered.
“No,” Trader interrupted. “She’s just a writer.”
And the same way Alaska’s doubt drained me dry, Trader’s confidence filled me up.
I’ve thought about that conversation quite a bit. His words, easily offered without hesitation, were comfortable and casual. He didn’t make the correction to inflate my ego or impress the stranger to my right. He corrected me the way one might correct a friend about a detail in a story. No, no, she was wearing a black dress not red. No, no, she’s a writer, not an insurance broker and writer.
I haven’t seen Trader since that date. Grad school applications left me mentally and emotionally crippled. And as pathetic as it might sound, I was still dabbling in my past. But I never let go of certain things Trader said, including that correction in Princeton. In simple terms, many pieces of our interaction left a mark. Sure, I never felt the excited flutter of butterflies, but I always felt a sense of genuine presence. He was there because he wanted to be and for all of the right reasons.
So last week I sat down and emailed Trader to ask if he’d be interested in a third date. I reciprocated his candor, mirroring his honesty and sincerity as I elaborated on the basis of my request. I made myself vulnerable though never truly felt that way. If he declined, I fully respected his decision. But if he accepted, well, that was all I could hope for.
We’re working on making a plan.
“And this awesome DC blogger who wants to meet me thinks I should go!” I bragged.
“But in the end, what will you get out of it?” he inquired, common sense and logic thickly dripping off of his question. “As a writer,” he elaborated.
I went quiet. My posture curled and my lip quivered as I tried to formulate an answer. Ten minutes later, I had nothing to counter his argument. So I admitted defeat and officially shelved all plans to attend the conference. I still thought about going but not in a way that would amount to any follow through.
A month later, Alaska called to break up with me. And two days after that, I posted a message on BlogHer’s website to see if anyone needed a roommate for the upcoming conference.
I didn’t attend BlogHer as a fuck-you to Alaska. I got on a plane and mingled with 800 strangers in Chicago to be true to myself. Because maybe I sometimes waver when I claim I’m a writer but at the core, deep down inside, I know I am. Going to BlogHer was about standing up and believing in myself while simultaneously regaining that slice of confidence Alaska had stolen from me.
In mid-January, I met Trader in Princeton for a second date. We strolled the streets before ducking into an Italian eatery, sliding onto two barstools and settling in for some pizza and wine.
“Did you mention Stuyvesant?” a woman standing to my right asked in the direction of Trader.
“Yes, I went there,” he answered.
“I used to live on Long Island with my husband. That’s a great school.”
“It is,” he concurred.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said as she backed out of our space.
“Don’t be silly,” I offered. “What do you do?”
“Publishing. I bounce between Philly and New York. Hence, Princeton. What do you two do?” she asked before taking a sip of her wine.
“Finance,” Trader said.
“Insurance broker and writer,” I answered.
“No,” Trader interrupted. “She’s just a writer.”
And the same way Alaska’s doubt drained me dry, Trader’s confidence filled me up.
I’ve thought about that conversation quite a bit. His words, easily offered without hesitation, were comfortable and casual. He didn’t make the correction to inflate my ego or impress the stranger to my right. He corrected me the way one might correct a friend about a detail in a story. No, no, she was wearing a black dress not red. No, no, she’s a writer, not an insurance broker and writer.
I haven’t seen Trader since that date. Grad school applications left me mentally and emotionally crippled. And as pathetic as it might sound, I was still dabbling in my past. But I never let go of certain things Trader said, including that correction in Princeton. In simple terms, many pieces of our interaction left a mark. Sure, I never felt the excited flutter of butterflies, but I always felt a sense of genuine presence. He was there because he wanted to be and for all of the right reasons.
So last week I sat down and emailed Trader to ask if he’d be interested in a third date. I reciprocated his candor, mirroring his honesty and sincerity as I elaborated on the basis of my request. I made myself vulnerable though never truly felt that way. If he declined, I fully respected his decision. But if he accepted, well, that was all I could hope for.
We’re working on making a plan.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Out With The Old, In With The New
No matter what’s going on in my life, I have favorites. Although the actual identity of the item changes over time. Like I always have a favorite pair of jeans, the denim hugging and draping oh so perfectly. But when the trend switches from skinny to flared, dark to light, I’m forced to update my style. I have a favorite lipstick, the color tinting my pout without staining my flesh. But as day fades to evening, my make-up needs adjust from basic to playful. I have a favorite perfume, the scent lifting off my neck and inviting potential suitors to lean closer. But as snowy winter melts into blossoming spring, the heavy musk of Chanel is replaced by the delicate softness of Stella.
The downside to having a favorite of anything is that sometimes it overstays its welcome. In seventh grade I owned a pair of paper bag waist, acid washed, plaid patched, multiple belt looped, cuffed shorts. I see how ridiculous they were now but back in the day I loved them. In fact, I adored them so much that I wore them the following summer too. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew acid wash was out before it was even in. I knew the high waist and patches were so yesterday. But I proudly donned those shorts, convinced in my own little world that they still looked great.
That’s the problem with being in it; you get so deeply invested that you fail to see beyond what you know. I justified those shorts by explaining how well they hid my ass. I argued how versatile they were because the cuff could be unfolded to display a longer length. Or I pointed out how the rainbow of colors captured in the plaid patches meant I could pair any tinted t-shirt to make a perfect outfit. Simply put, I can talk circles around anyone challenging my favorite thing du jour.
“Remember when you shaved your hair up in the back?” my mom asked the other day.
“Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” I defended, knowing now that the feathered bowl cut was by far my biggest from-the-neck-up mistake. Wearing two different earrings, a dangling fuchsia heart in one ear and a big CZ stud in the other, ranks a close second.
Over the weekend I decided to clean out my closet. I tried on some slacks and slipped into some tops and after three hours and two glasses of wine, I had a Hefty full of clothing to donate. It included previous favorites like black DKNY wool dress pants and a patchwork plaid Lily Pulitzer sheath. None of the pieces were in bad condition. In fact, many were pristine. They just were no longer my favorites. Every so often, as I neatly folded an item and placed it in the bag, I couldn’t help but question how I was ever so in love with something so hideous.
I dragged the Hefty down the hall and leaned it against the front door as a reminder to take it with me the next time I went out. I placed the empty wine glass in the sink, grabbed a cheese stick from the fridge and then tackled one more task of discarding past favorites. I went and tossed every last remnant of Alaska. I rifled through my bookcase and fetched the saved Scrabble score sheet, blindly crumpling it into a tight ball and dropping it in the trash. I tossed the unused food he’d sent as a gift, designer olive oil and gourmet balsamic vinegar, and then threw out the unopened bottles of Orangina I had purchased last June in preparation of his visit, the one that never happened. Next I purged every last file containing his contact information. I deleted his existence once and for all. Because like my old acid washed shorts, Alaska had officially become outdated. And more importantly, I finally saw it that way. Plus, it seems there are some potential new favorites vying for my attention.
The downside to having a favorite of anything is that sometimes it overstays its welcome. In seventh grade I owned a pair of paper bag waist, acid washed, plaid patched, multiple belt looped, cuffed shorts. I see how ridiculous they were now but back in the day I loved them. In fact, I adored them so much that I wore them the following summer too. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew acid wash was out before it was even in. I knew the high waist and patches were so yesterday. But I proudly donned those shorts, convinced in my own little world that they still looked great.
That’s the problem with being in it; you get so deeply invested that you fail to see beyond what you know. I justified those shorts by explaining how well they hid my ass. I argued how versatile they were because the cuff could be unfolded to display a longer length. Or I pointed out how the rainbow of colors captured in the plaid patches meant I could pair any tinted t-shirt to make a perfect outfit. Simply put, I can talk circles around anyone challenging my favorite thing du jour.
“Remember when you shaved your hair up in the back?” my mom asked the other day.
“Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” I defended, knowing now that the feathered bowl cut was by far my biggest from-the-neck-up mistake. Wearing two different earrings, a dangling fuchsia heart in one ear and a big CZ stud in the other, ranks a close second.
Over the weekend I decided to clean out my closet. I tried on some slacks and slipped into some tops and after three hours and two glasses of wine, I had a Hefty full of clothing to donate. It included previous favorites like black DKNY wool dress pants and a patchwork plaid Lily Pulitzer sheath. None of the pieces were in bad condition. In fact, many were pristine. They just were no longer my favorites. Every so often, as I neatly folded an item and placed it in the bag, I couldn’t help but question how I was ever so in love with something so hideous.
I dragged the Hefty down the hall and leaned it against the front door as a reminder to take it with me the next time I went out. I placed the empty wine glass in the sink, grabbed a cheese stick from the fridge and then tackled one more task of discarding past favorites. I went and tossed every last remnant of Alaska. I rifled through my bookcase and fetched the saved Scrabble score sheet, blindly crumpling it into a tight ball and dropping it in the trash. I tossed the unused food he’d sent as a gift, designer olive oil and gourmet balsamic vinegar, and then threw out the unopened bottles of Orangina I had purchased last June in preparation of his visit, the one that never happened. Next I purged every last file containing his contact information. I deleted his existence once and for all. Because like my old acid washed shorts, Alaska had officially become outdated. And more importantly, I finally saw it that way. Plus, it seems there are some potential new favorites vying for my attention.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
The Best Part of It All (With Cake Coming In A Close Second)
I always found it odd that Ex didn’t have any friends. Okay fine, there was one guy he knew from high school. But this kid never returned phone calls and the one and only time he extended himself, he made it abundantly clear he felt put out. Like dude, I crossed a bridge and paid a toll to get here. We met up for vegetarian Indian to accommodate the friend’s dietary limitations. And as curry induced beads of sweat collected on my brow, the only thing I could think was how much of a douche this guy was. All he did was shovel food in his mouth and complain about the stress of living in West Chester. Hands down, this guy was dead weight.
Alaska didn’t really have friends either. I mean, there were people he qualified as friends but it all felt superficial, like he kept them at arms length. He float fished with one guy and skied with another. Hey, am I the only person who finds these two activities about as interactive as solitary confinement? Anyway, there also was a friend back on the east coast, someone he talked with often. But as tight as they may have been, I visited Alaska more in the one year of our entanglement than this friend did in the previous five years. I understand limitations, family this and job that, but at a certain point you have to acknowledge the imbalance and either resolve it or cut it loose.
“PJ, what’re you doing to celebrate?” my mom asked after she finished singing Happy Birthday.
“Going to dinner with some friends.”
“Where?”
“Maggiano’s. It’s cheap and convenient and we’re allowed to loudly linger until the cows come home.”
“Okay, well have fun.”
“How can I not? Um, hello, I’m wearing a tiara!?!?!”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
A little after seven o’clock on Friday, with my toes freshly painted and my princess accessory in place, I swung through the Art Museum area to fetch Joe and Barry. They shuffled a sizeable box containing my gift into the trunk and from there we relocated to the restaurant. Joe made sure my Kir never ran low. Barry admired my tiara to the point of jealousy. Bess showed up toting the perfect cake, something Hope insisted on in light of her unfortunate absence. Kristen scurried through traffic to make sure she didn’t miss anything. And Melinda made me laugh until my sides hurt.
Unbeknownst to me, Leslie had called ahead to order one of every dessert for the table. I guess she figured it was the perfect occasion to feed my sugar addiction. From tiramisu to pistachio mousse, strawberry topped cheesecake to decadent profiteroles, there was enough to feed an army. As the clock ticked toward midnight, picked over sweets littering the table, the waiter arrived with a complimentary round of Sambuca. It was the perfect finish to an indulgent feast.
At half past midnight, awkwardly dragging the box out of my trunk and up two flights of stairs, I stumbled through my apartment door. I tore at the wrapping paper to reveal a glass faced, under-the-counter wine cellar. I opened the collection of cards I had amassed through the course of the day and there in the middle of my living room floor I read each and every one. I scanned the emails cluttering my inbox and all of the warm blog wishes that had piled up in my absence. It was almost two when I finally crawled between my pressed sheets and drifted off to sleep.
Turning thirty-five was everything I expected and more. But it had nothing to do with the overflowing plates of food that dotted the dinner table or the thoughtful gifts and personalized cards. It had nothing to do with my pink and silver tiara or pre-dinner spa pedicure. Nope. It had to do with my friends. The people who make my life richer regardless of the time of year. The people who listen when I need to blab, make me smile when I’m blue and remind me I’m not alone even though sometimes it might feel that way. Without them I’d be lost. Without them I might survive but it’d unquestionably be a lackluster life. So while I adore the wine cellar and can’t wait to cash in my pedicure gift certificate, I’d trade it all in for a guarantee that my friends will always be part of my life. That the people who made turning thirty-five more fun than turning twenty-one stick around for the long haul. And if I have to pop a cork on one of my chilled bottles of wine, well, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
Alaska didn’t really have friends either. I mean, there were people he qualified as friends but it all felt superficial, like he kept them at arms length. He float fished with one guy and skied with another. Hey, am I the only person who finds these two activities about as interactive as solitary confinement? Anyway, there also was a friend back on the east coast, someone he talked with often. But as tight as they may have been, I visited Alaska more in the one year of our entanglement than this friend did in the previous five years. I understand limitations, family this and job that, but at a certain point you have to acknowledge the imbalance and either resolve it or cut it loose.
“PJ, what’re you doing to celebrate?” my mom asked after she finished singing Happy Birthday.
“Going to dinner with some friends.”
“Where?”
“Maggiano’s. It’s cheap and convenient and we’re allowed to loudly linger until the cows come home.”
“Okay, well have fun.”
“How can I not? Um, hello, I’m wearing a tiara!?!?!”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
A little after seven o’clock on Friday, with my toes freshly painted and my princess accessory in place, I swung through the Art Museum area to fetch Joe and Barry. They shuffled a sizeable box containing my gift into the trunk and from there we relocated to the restaurant. Joe made sure my Kir never ran low. Barry admired my tiara to the point of jealousy. Bess showed up toting the perfect cake, something Hope insisted on in light of her unfortunate absence. Kristen scurried through traffic to make sure she didn’t miss anything. And Melinda made me laugh until my sides hurt.
Unbeknownst to me, Leslie had called ahead to order one of every dessert for the table. I guess she figured it was the perfect occasion to feed my sugar addiction. From tiramisu to pistachio mousse, strawberry topped cheesecake to decadent profiteroles, there was enough to feed an army. As the clock ticked toward midnight, picked over sweets littering the table, the waiter arrived with a complimentary round of Sambuca. It was the perfect finish to an indulgent feast.
At half past midnight, awkwardly dragging the box out of my trunk and up two flights of stairs, I stumbled through my apartment door. I tore at the wrapping paper to reveal a glass faced, under-the-counter wine cellar. I opened the collection of cards I had amassed through the course of the day and there in the middle of my living room floor I read each and every one. I scanned the emails cluttering my inbox and all of the warm blog wishes that had piled up in my absence. It was almost two when I finally crawled between my pressed sheets and drifted off to sleep.
Turning thirty-five was everything I expected and more. But it had nothing to do with the overflowing plates of food that dotted the dinner table or the thoughtful gifts and personalized cards. It had nothing to do with my pink and silver tiara or pre-dinner spa pedicure. Nope. It had to do with my friends. The people who make my life richer regardless of the time of year. The people who listen when I need to blab, make me smile when I’m blue and remind me I’m not alone even though sometimes it might feel that way. Without them I’d be lost. Without them I might survive but it’d unquestionably be a lackluster life. So while I adore the wine cellar and can’t wait to cash in my pedicure gift certificate, I’d trade it all in for a guarantee that my friends will always be part of my life. That the people who made turning thirty-five more fun than turning twenty-one stick around for the long haul. And if I have to pop a cork on one of my chilled bottles of wine, well, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
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