Hiccup

My mom leaned back against the seat, her blond locks pressing into the headrest. The music pushed through the speakers and echoed through the car. When the truck in front of me hit the brakes, I eased off the gas, my foot receding from the pedal but hovering close enough to resume the previous position.

“How’s dad doing at the office?” my mom asked, her head turning enough to rest her chin on her shoulder.

“Fine,” I answered without taking my eyes off the stretch of road that lay ahead.

“I asked him if he thought he’d make enough to cover things,” my mom continued, her eyes penetrating my flesh as if to read my quiet thoughts.

“Mom, he just closed a $10,000 deal and has another $15,000 in the pipeline. That’s on top of the regular monthly stuff.”

“PJ, his answer was ‘I hope so’.”

My answer was silence.

Without question, my dad has slowed up. And I’m not just talking about the turtle like movements of his stiff legs as he navigates from his office to the bathroom. Or the way he curls his wrist when he steadies a pen in his hand and signs his name across the bottom of forms. I’m talking about the amount of business he produces.

When I was younger, I rarely saw my dad during the week. If he wasn’t playing tennis, he was visiting with clients. There were deals to seal and relationships to make. There was an income to create and bills to pay. When my mom told him she was putting me in private school, I saw him even less. And a year later, when she told him Leslie was being enrolled as well, I saw him never.

Okay, maybe that’s a lie. He showed up at the field for lacrosse games. He sat on the sidelines for basketball games. And with my mom, he attended the requisite art shows and theatre performances. But to be honest, it wasn’t until I started working for my father that I actually got to know him as a person. Up until my mid-twenties, my dad was merely a shadow on the periphery.

“Hey, can we talk?” I asked as I walked into his office, closed the door and sat down in the chair opposite his desk.

“Sure,” he answered as he slowly swiveled himself from his monitor to face me.

“Mom said something the other day. And we both know that she usually interprets things inaccurately. But I wanted to check in with you.”

“Okay.”

“Earlier this year, I came to you about going back to school. I mentioned a two year time-line and needing to take days to go to the residency.”

“Sure.”

“And yesterday you said something about having a good hit and that I’m getting a cut of the commission.”

“Without you I couldn’t have closed that deal.”

“I know, but here’s the thing: I don’t want you to take a loss for me. I make plenty on the commission split I currently get. And I’d never be able to do what I’m doing any place else. You don’t need to give me any more than you already do.”

“PJ,” he started before I cut him off.

“Listen, working with you has been a great experience. I really enjoy it. And I can’t thank you enough for giving me the room to pursue an MFA. It’s something I desperately want and very few employers would be so accommodating. But if you need to walk away, if you start dreading this place, promise me you’ll stop. I can take out loans or turn tricks down on Broad Street.”

“If you didn’t work here, I would have had to stop a long time ago. I can’t imagine not coming into this place. I love it here. But thanks for saying something.”

“Yeah, well, I mean it.”

“I know you do. By the way, don’t forget to overnight that application to Edelman.”

“Really? Not just regular mail?”

“It’s worth $15,000. Overnight it,” he said as he gripped the edges of his desk with both hands and maneuvered himself back in front of his computer.

“Well in that case, I’m calling the Benz dealership. Did you know they have a new SUV debuting in early 2009? I would look so cute at the wheel of that puppy.”

He froze in his place.

“Kidding! I’m just kidding. Like, for now,” I said with a giggle as I got up, opened the door and got back to doing what I always do.

Strong Enough

I know I’m ready to move forward. When I stroll down Walnut Street, Alma de Cuba to my left and Joan Shepp to my right, I notice the devilish grin on the Converse clad man walking in my direction. When I’m sweetening my tea in Starbucks, stirring a Splenda and swirling the ice, I admire the strong hands on the man to my right, the way his fingers grip the stirrer and how his wrist paces in circles. Simply put, I’m noticing the opposite sex in a way I haven’t for a while.

I also know I’m ready to move on because last week, Alaska sent an email suggesting we get together. That he might be in DC for work in early September and how about we hang out. I haven’t responded. Correction: neither my hand nor my heart has responded. When I read his email, my body felt nothing, neither butterflies in my belly nor an ache in my heart. And my head was just as still. My week in Maine, those days committed to one thing and only one thing, they forced me to step outside of my routine. And when I got home, I no longer wanted to return to where I had been before.

Don’t get me wrong. I was still mildly flattered that Alaska hinted at seeing me. But that he wanted to see me according to something more important? That part I’m not longer willing to overlook. I don’t want to be someone’s bonus prize. I don’t want to be part of the efficiency of killing two birds with one stone. To him, I’m a scratch on a lens or a pebble in a laced up shoe. I’m there enough to be noticed but not enough to resolve one way or another. For the first time ever, I’ve realized that I deserve better than what he’s given. I’ve known this all along but I shyly hid in the corner, hoping the shadows would shield me from the embarrassing admission that I lingered for someone who repeatedly filed me under less important.

As I’ve adjusted my perspective and come to embrace reality, I’ve started to finally move forward. I’ve shut down to him and opened up to others. I’m communicating with men and pondering dates. I’m standing a little taller and sashaying my hips with a little more sass. When I say something to a cute guy, I make eye contact and flip my hair off my neck. I lean in closer and violate the boundaries of personal space. As I deliver the punch line, I rest my hand on his knee. Or as I reach across the condiment bar for a napkin, I brush my bare forearm against his.

“I’m sorry,” I fib as I look up to read his response.

“Not at all,” he responds with a half smile.

So yes, I’m in a good place. My head and my heart are finally on the same page. I see a future that I’m ready to create. One that includes sharing the Sunday New York Times and cooking dinner for two. A future that involves a steady date for Saturday night and someone who will kill spiders if I squeal such a request. An entanglement that permits me to lie in bed and read my jumbled prose aloud before falling silent to listen to suggestions about strengthening the arc or softening the voice. But as much as I want this, as much as I’m back on my feet, my knees still wobble and my voice tremors. As much as I’ve pieced my heart back together, I’m still fragile. And I hate saying that, even to you.

I know I can handle falling in love, writing private notes to confess my affection and setting aside dates on the calendar to plan adventures. But I’m just as fearful I won’t be able to manage crumbling again. The wounds are too fresh, the scars too obvious. I’m stronger but I’m not strong, my fingers curling into a fist and my nails burying into my palms. I’m ready for the good but I’m equally certain I’m still not ready to survive the bad.

Pieces of the Puzzle

Last Wednesday after lunch, I rang the Westin in San Francisco and canceled my room reservation. When that was done, I called USAir and canceled my flight, the one scheduled to lift off in exactly twenty-four hours. Then I Googled “BlogHer 2008 pass” in search of someone eager to snap mine up. By eight o’clock, sprawled out on my sofa with The New Yorker and a glass of wine, my entire BlogHer adventure had officially been deleted.

I saw this coming. As I scurried from commitment to commitment in Maine, barely finding time to call home or respond to emails, I sensed a dwindling desire to participate in BlogHer. The idea of coming home for three days only to rush off to the left coast made me anxious. The concept of spending a weekend dictated by a dense itinerary made my stomach churn. And while I knew it would be fun to distribute my new blog business card and I was foaming at the mouth to sample Boulevard’s cuisine, I just couldn’t muster the energy to follow through. So, I didn’t.

The result was a lazy weekend at home. I filled my time with knitting projects and reading assignments, working out and unpacking. I laundered mountains of dirty clothes, neatly folding each item before returning it to its rightful home. I dusted the tops of my dressers and the corners of my baseboard. And, when I needed to escape, I ventured out for various activities like dinner and shopping. Though, in light of the heat, I tried to keep my outside time to a minimum.

It was hot. It was heavy air, burning sun, wavy vision hot. The tarred macadam was sticky, as were the backs of my knees and the creases by my elbows. No matter how high I cranked the air and no matter how low I set the temp, my car never quite cooled off. So when I finally stumbled into my condo Sunday afternoon, beads of sweat on my brow and a trickle of moisture streaming down my spine and into the ribbon band of my panties, I decided I was only leaving again if the building was on fire.

The next few hours was a tapestry of activity. I immersed myself in school work, diligently studying passages of Earthly Possessions. When my brain started to ache, I melted into my sofa and focused all attention on the fine art of arcing raspberries and blueberries through the air and into my awaiting mouth. And when I got bored of doing nothing, I picked up my knitting. With the needles scissoring through strands of yarn, I worked a scarf while listening to podcasts of The Moth and This American Life, two shows that ooze brilliance.

Before going to bed, I turned on my laptop and took some time to catch up on all of the blog posts I had been ignoring. I perused the updates from Ish and the commentary from Freckled K. I gawked at the photos offered by Dyln and laughed at poor Dish and her mindless misfortunes. Every so often, I came across a post about BlogHer. There was a report here and a review there. And while I liked what people had to say, I never once regretted my decision to take a pass.

Before I went to Maine, I was an insurance broker who blogged and was pursuing a MFA in Creative Writing. When I was in Maine, I was a frazzled, stressed out mess of a woman, repeatedly peeing on my hand because I lacked the mental capacity to recognize I wasn’t done. And when I got back from Maine, my brain was a mushy mess, tuckered and tired from all of the thinking it had squeezed into nine days. I also came home with a change in perspective. The things that define me, the adjectives that make me three dimensional, they had shuffled around during my time away. In one short week, I had evolved into a writer who pays the bills by selling insurance. And that part about being a blogger? Yeah, I’m no longer so sure about where it fits.

And One More Thing

Back when I turned eighteen, I registered to vote. And because I was a child of the Reagan era, I registered as a Republican. Both of my parents, ardent Democrats, gasped in horror. The real reason I registered to the right was because primaries in Pennsylvania are closed. Meaning you can only vote according to your party. Personally, I thought it was more important to contribute to the outcome of the Republican nominee.

During my Smith tenure, I started to identify more as a Republican. Giving a campus tour to prospective students and their parents and having to creatively explain what the chalking "I am a vaginatarian" means can do that to you. I'm fine with people living their lives but I just don't care to have their choices shoved down my throat in such a blatant matter. Sweetie, if you want to munch twat, by all means do it. But please maintain some sense of decorum. After all, I don't wear a t-shirt boasting how much I like to suck a big cock. Although, maybe that would help me in the dating department.

Anyway, I'm not going to list who I voted for when. Not because I fear what you have to say but because I really don't recall. I know I voted for Clinton and I also voted for Gore. But Kerry? I can't remember. His obnoxious wife, his pretty boy lifestyle, all of it rubbed me the wrong way. So maybe I contributed to the current state of political affairs. If so, I apologize.

In light of my failure to fully recall my voting history, it should come as no surprise that I've spent little time participating in general political matters. I read Business Week and the New York Times and I watch Meet the Press and The Colbert Report, but I've never gone to a rally or knocked on doors to solicit votes. Heck, I won't even wear a pin to support a candidate or a cause. It just isn't me.

Then, as last summer inched toward fall, I filled out a piece of paper and changed my registration. For the first time ever, my vote in the primary mattered. Or, more specifically, my vote in the Democratic primary mattered. Say what you want but for multiple reasons, I was throwing my weight and some of my income behind Hillary Clinton.

Well we all know how that ended up. I don't have regrets and I haven't yet adjusted my party registration back to Republican. But I'm starting to dislike all things politics. Because earlier today, as I checked some blog stats, I saw a referring link that brought me back to a BlogHer forum that included this post. THIS FUCKING POST.

Listen, maybe Ms. Obama did write that piece. Maybe she sat down one night, penned a lovely post about who she is, and then without getting it approved by her husband's handlers, made it public. But we all know that isn't the case. Elizabeth Edwards was the closing speaker at BlogHer 2007 and she outright admitted that neither her husband nor his handlers edit her blogging efforts. She has a mind of her own and they respect that. Perhaps that's why he isn't a nominee.

Anyway, I would have had this same rant if Cindy McCain had done this, posting a rambling of words that amounts to nothing more than political puffery. I'd call bullshit regardless of the spouse. Especially when the About part of the profile reads like a carefully crafted press release.

I know that the internet is fair game. I also know BlogHer and blogging is fair game. But people, if you're going to exploit it, might I suggest you make it less obvious. I'm not as dumb as I look.

This Is SO Me

On Thursday evening, as the clock neared eight, I decided to hit the road and make my way into New England. My goal? Get past the Tappan Zee. It was totally realistic and truly necessary. I just didn’t have it in me to deal with obscene holiday traffic as I mentally prepared for the official start of graduate school. By half past midnight, four hours and three This American Life episodes later, I was pulling into a hotel just past Hartford. I exchanged a credit card for a room key and immediately crashed.

I awoke around nine, my eyes puffy and my body mapped by the imprint of sheet creases. That’s when my phone rang.

“Did you make it?” my mom asked.

I broke into a rendition of Happy Birthday to properly recognize the occasion.

“Thanks, PJ. That was sweet. But did you make it?”

“I got as far as the Vince Lombardi pull-off on the Jersey Turnpike,” I fibbed in a groggy morning voice. “Ooh, the BK is open now. What time do they stop serving breakfast?”

“Please tell me that isn’t true,” she said with a slight hint of uncertainty.

“It’s as true as you keeping the ring.”

“I told you,” she began before I cut her off from a rambling montage of apologies and excuses.

“I’m just past Hartford.”

“Well, drive safe and have fun in Kennebunkport!”

It took a little while for me to motivate. Not to motivate out of bed or out of the hotel but to get my ass on the road. It just so happened the place where I stayed was nestled amongst a collection of shops. And with the overcast weather dictating my mood, I didn’t feel like hustling.

At half past three, with two new pairs of shoes stowed in my backseat, I pulled into the valet lot at Barnacle Billy’s.

“Welcome,” the young kid said as he reached for my door.

“Has it been nice like this all day?” I asked as I propped my sunglasses up on the top of my head and squinted against the glare.

“Sure has. Though everyone coming from the south has said it’s horrible.”

“Yup, it is,” I confirmed as I stepped out onto the macadam. The sky, an azure blue, was illuminated by an afternoon glow and a warm gentle breeze complimented the heat lifting off the pavement. Just beyond the parking lot was a cluster of rocks and just beyond the rocks were rhythmic waves crashing forward. A salty scent tainted the air and filled my lungs.

One lobster roll later, I got back into my car and headed to my hotel. It was there, on a chair overlooking the water, that I scanned books and stories I had been assigned for school. These were the last few reading remnants and as I leisurely worked my way through them, a sense of calm replaced the previously dominant angst.

At around eight, I gathered my things and headed to Kennubunkport for dinner. Nothing special. I just wanted a light bite to avoid morning hunger pangs. The meal was perfect, the wine was delightful and as I worked my way back down Route 9, a two lane road flanked by tall pines and willowy reeds, to my left I could see fireworks. Bursts of red and blue, silver and gold, splashed across the evening sky. I pulled off by a marsh, slipped out of my flip-flops and crunched my toes in the sand as I looked on at the glittery display.

The next morning I set out for Bowdoin, the spot that would be my home while attending my first workshop. I made my way onto the campus, parked my car in front of the designated dorm and went inside to check in.

“Paige Jennifer,” I said to the curiously young gal working the table.

She flipped through a collection of folders.

“J-E-N-N-I-F-E-R,” I elaborated.

“Um, hold on,” she nervously sputtered as she flipped to the start of the J’s and went through them one by one. Then she referred to a list. And then another list. “Huh, well, you definitely paid because you’re noted here,” she said as she pointed to a random collection of names.

“Yes,” I responded, the last letter of that simple word hissing between my clenched teeth.

“But it seems we never assigned you a room.”

Go Big Or Go Home

Sprawled out on a chaise, the sun’s heat lifting off the ground, I stretched my arm up over my head. A puddle of sweat collected on my neck and beads of moisture dotted my brow. The humid air, thick and heavy, made my lungs ache. I lifted my head just a little and with my left thumb, arced my bikini bottom away from my flesh. I wanted to see if I’d tanned any in the ten minutes I’d been sunning. Content with my progress, I dabbed my brow with my towel and then reclined back down. That’s when my phone started to vibrate.

“Yeah?” I answered with an exhausted pant.

“What’re you doing? Working out?” my mom asked.

“Well, at the moment I’m sweating my ass off at the pool.”

“Go in the water.”

“It’s a sea of old people and noodles. I’d rather sweat.”

“Want to go to the Tangled Web? I’ll buy you some yarn,” she bribed.

“I’ll be over in an hour.”

After collecting my things, I moseyed back to my condo, showered, dressed and headed to my parent’s house. From there, my mom and I relocated to Chestnut Hill. Before diving head first into mountains of silken skeins and woolen hanks, we had some lunch.

I opted for buffalo chicken tenders, hold the flour, and my mom had chicken quesadillas. Sheltered by a large umbrella, we nibbled our food as we watched passersby on the other side of the patio. We talked yarn, sipped iced teas and exchanged pattern ideas. When our bellies were full, my mom motioned for the bill. And as soon as the waitress provided the tab, I snatched it out of view.

“Give that to me!” my mom yelped.

“Suck it,” I answered as I held the receipt away from her and fumbled through my bag.

“PJ, I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

“Give it!” she said as she wrapped her fingers around my forearm and squeezed with all of her might.

“Jesus, that hurt!” I muttered between clenched teeth as I yanked my arm free. “Why are you being such a freak?”

“It makes me uncomfortable. You have grad school expenses.”

“And?”

“And I just, well, I don’t like being indulged.”

“It’s $17 dollars. How is that an indulgence?” I asked as I rubbed my throbbing arm. “It isn’t like I was trying to pick up the tab for Barclay Prime. Yeah, no, dad’ll be grabbing that check on Wednesday night. Which is good, because I’d really prefer not to arm wrestle you at your birthday dinner.”

“Fine, you can pay,” my mom said with a sullen pout.

“No, forget it. You took all the fun out of treating. Here,” I said as I dropped the bill on the table and tucked my wallet back in my purse.

That was Saturday. In an hour, I’m driving over to Neiman Marcus to purchase a ring for my mom. It’s a collection of golden yellow cables with one pave diamond band adorning the cluster. It’s from me, Leslie, Olivia, Anders and my dad; something special to help my mom celebrate turning sixty-five. And after we finish our $40 steaks and homemade creamed spinach, the table dotted with half-filled champagne flutes and plates displaying overlooked crumbs of dessert, my dad and I will present my mom with the gift.

I’m thinking I should change out of my three inch pumps and wear sneakers to dinner. Listen, if she’s uncomfortable about me buying her an order of chicken quesadillas, there’s a good chance she’ll blow a gasket over this ring. I figure the sneakers will make it easier for me to sprint for the door, clearing the room well before she has a chance to pounce. Of course, that’ll leave my poor handicapped father to get pummeled. Whatever, every man for himself!