Joy to the World

In fourth grade, my mom decided I was old enough to start playing an instrument. Or at least an instrument that sounded more appealing than the plastic recorder I screeched music from, the mouthpiece stuck at an awkward angle because I jammed it too hard, too fast.

“So, PJ, what do you want to play?”

“The harp!” I excitedly exclaimed.

“No way, pick again.”

“Piano!” I sang as I drifted off on dreams of banging the keys like Billy Joel.

“Uh-uh. Doesn’t go with the décor of the house.”

I let out a sigh. “Violin?”

“How about the flute! Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“Not really.”

The flute teacher lived two towns over and taught students in her basement, a damp room with green carpeting that resembled Oscar the Grouch. First she showed me how to put my rented flute together. Then how to clean it, jamming a cloth covered poker down through the tubes. Next came the hard part: teaching me how to read music. Hebrew School officially fell to second place in my ranking of most torturous after-school activities.

“Can I quit?” I asked my mom as I crawled into the backseat of her station wagon idling on the curb, my flute case tossed across the seat.

“No.”

Every week I asked and every week she refused. In protestation, I stopped practicing. Curiously, my teacher never caught on. Or perhaps she didn’t much care, my mom’s fifty dollar checks buying her silence. Together we honored the code. She pretended to teach and I pretended to learn.

Three months into lessons, I ventured down to the kitchen where my mom was shredding potatoes to make latkes. The menorah was already on the counter. Behind it sat a box of colorful candles waiting to be used.

“Hey Mom, wanna hear me play?” I asked as I twirled my flute like a baton.

“Sure!”

She grabbed her mug of tea and took a seat at the breakfast room table.

I lifted the cold metal to my lips, set my fingers across the flute, and began playing Joy to the World. After fourteen notes, my mom raised her hand in the air like a crossing guard stopping traffic.

“Now you can quit,” she said as she stood to her feet and retreated to the kitchen.

Standing there alone in the breakfast room, the smell of sizzling latkes filling the house, I couldn’t help but believe in Christmas miracles.

Merry Christmas, everyone (yes, everyone)!

The Modern Woman’s Guide to Pre-Storm Preparations

My weekend was supposed to involve a delicious dinner in a neighborhood adorned with holly berry and fir wreaths. I was to stroll cobblestone streets until I reached a friend’s house where I’d sip homemade eggnog and dance to tunes played by a quartet crammed into the corner. I was to partake in holiday chatter and bursts of hysterical laughter, surrounded by friends and strangers. But as the weather forecast worsened, leaping from a prediction of five inches to twenty, I canceled my plans.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world, I reasoned. I had manuscripts to read and critiques to write. There was a paper to fine-tune and some submissions to review. And when I tired of that, I could always work on one of my five knitting projects. Or start a new one with the skeins of yarn pouring from the baskets tucked on my bookshelves. Yes, I thought, this would be a wonderful weekend after all.

“You should go to the grocery store,” my mom urged as she unloaded the dishwasher in Florida, plates clanging and silverware tinging.

“Why?” I asked as I steered my car north on the Blue Route, landing smack-dab in the middle of Friday evening traffic.

“For eggs.”

“What is it with this egg paranoia? Same with milk. I don’t drink milk any other time of the year. Suddenly I’m in dire need of milk?”

“What if you get hungry when you’re snowed in?”

“Oh, and milk and eggs sounds like such a treat. Mom, I’ll be fine. I have enough Trader Joe’s frozen dinners to last me a week.”

“Okay, but I still think you should buy some eggs.”

Ten minutes shy of home, cutting through a mall parking lot, I stopped at Target. I wandered the aisles, plucking wants and needs from the metal shelves. My red basket sat by my feet as I studied shampoo options. With the cap flipped back, I gave a gentle squeeze and inhaled the aroma as if sampling perfumes. And when I’d had enough, when my basket was filled to capacity, I lined up at a register.

“You can go ahead of me,” I said to the man standing behind me, the man clutching exactly one carton of eggs.

“Thanks! For some reason I thought I should buy these. You know, in case I want them for breakfast,” he explained with a shrug as he placed the eggs on the belt.

“Good idea,” I said as I neatly set my items a few inches from his.

“I see you’re buying the essentials as well,” he noted with a chuckle.

“Of course.”

Without looking up, I placed a toilet brush atop a pile of Annie’s Bunny Mac & Cheese, confetti colored sponges, two bags of broccoli, Pillsbury cut-and-bake cinnamon rolls, Tazo tea and an economy sized bottle of pink shampoo that smelled like Pina Colada.

He continued. “I mean, everyone needs some Bunny Mac & Cheese when it’s snowing outside.”

“Exactly! But I’m sure you’ll enjoy your eggs.”

He looked down at the gray carton, eyed the bland texture of the cardboard. Then he glanced over at my colorful collection of items. I set my basket in the pile and looked up to meet his gaze.

“I think you’re going to enjoy the storm more than I will,” he said with a sigh.

“No offense, but I totally agree.”

I'll Take Iowa for $600, Alex

“I have a date tonight,” I grumble into the phone, curled on my side, tucked beneath a fleece throw.

“Good for you,” Leslie cheers as she rinses a dish. In the background, over the trickling water, I hear Olivia and Anders giggling.

“He’s from Iowa.”

“Paige, can’t you find someone local for once?”

“No, he lives in Philadelphia. He grew up in Iowa.”

“Ooh, even better. Those corn-fed boys tend to be a nice group.”

I throw back the blanket and push myself to an upright position. My eyes adjust to the forty-five degree shift, my stomach gurgles. Standing in front of the full-length mirror propped against the back wall of my closet, I assess the situation. My hair needs a brush. It also needed some color, stepping closer to confirm the presence of a stray gray hair.

I dress in jeans and boots, a long sweater cinched with a wide belt. A multi-strand chain loops my neck. As I grab a scarf from the shelf, I catch a glimpse of the finished product. Considering the level of enthusiasm (nil) and time within which I dressed (five minutes), I look surprisingly cute. The kind of cute that leads me to walk with a little more sass in my step.

“Steve?” I ask as I enter the restaurant.

“You must be Paige,” he answers, a broad smile consuming the bottom half of his face.

We grab two seats at the bar, each ordering a Blue Moon as we settle onto our stools. After an hour, I order chili with a side of sweet-potato fries. He goes with meat loaf. Football flashes from the televisions above the bar. Sometimes kitchen staff pops out to check the score, watch a play. And when the clock strikes nine, I let out a sigh and mention an early morning.

“Well?” Leslie excitedly asks the next day as she idles in the carpool line.

“Iowa is number one in corn production.”

“Huh.”

“And number one in soy. But it’s only number two in cattle, behind Texas.”

“Um, are you okay?”

“It’s also number two in wind energy. It has to do with the way the air comes off the Rockies and swoops across the Plains. Do you want to take a guess at who’s number one?”

“Wow, that bad?”

“An hour in I realized I was asking all of the questions, so I stopped. He said nothing. Nada! Zilch! And to be honest, if the Eagles weren’t on mute, I probably would’ve enjoyed it. But after ten minutes of total silence, I cracked and went back to interviewing him.”

“Oy. That’s bad.” Leslie admitted.

“He asked me exactly two questions. Both close ended. Oh wait, I’m sorry, three questions. As I fled for my car, he wanted to know if I was interested in going out again.”

“Well obviously he likes you! Maybe he’s shy. Or nervous?” Leslie reasoned.

“Sure. And that’s totally fine. Really, it is. It just isn’t fine for me.”

Over and Out

Applying to colleges, Leslie and I were given exactly one rule. Unless we got into Stanford, we weren’t allowed to go west of the Mississippi. Leslie headed south for Emory and there she stayed, planting roots and settling in Atlanta. I headed to New England for Smith. Post-graduation I had two offers in Boston but I turned both down because returning to Philadelphia made the most sense, fiscally that is. I could live at home while going to law school, thereby saving a chunk of change. And to reward my thrifty thinking, my parents offered to cover the cost of my car.

In my late twenties, I interviewed for a buyer position at Urban Outfitters. Instead, the person pleaded with me to head their benefits department. With a resume boasting four years as an insurance broker specializing in employee benefits, I understood why she was pitching me the position. But I declined the offer, arguing I had it way too good where I was to jump ship for the same pay in the same sector. Having to start at the bottom with new people, earning respect and backtracking to two-weeks vacation, had no appeal.

A few years later, when I decided to buy a place, I searched the city high and low for a residence. From the Loft District to Old City, the Art Museum to the Gayborhood, if it was in my price range, I did a walk-through. But ultimately I settled on a suburban building down the street from my then-rental. The taxes were cheaper, I didn’t have to pay to garage my car, and it was a steal. Plus it was close to work and my parent’s house, making it easier to help with my dad regardless of the time of day.

“Hey, tomorrow, can you drive me around Atlanta to scope out some neighborhoods?” I asked Leslie as we rinsed the Thanksgiving dishes.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I mean, I need to leave Philadelphia. I’ve hit my wall with that place. I’ll have my MFA in July and I might as well use it as an excuse to start fresh.”

Leslie squealed as she passed me a dripping plate to dry.

With the kids put to bed, we crowded around her laptop and started perusing the real estate listings. We sipped some wine, ate some pumpkin pie, and gawked at the deals.

“You can’t even buy a parking space in Philadelphia for that price,” I noted, pressing my finger to the five-figure number on the screen. “I want to buy it just to say I got such a crazy deal.”

Leslie leaned back in her chair. “Are you sure you want to move here? Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have you nearby. But you can go anywhere.”

That’s when we expanded our search, pricing out lofts in Chicago and studios in San Francisco. We salivated over the idea of a flat in London or Paris. I even pondered storing my essential possessions and just assuming the life of a nomad, hopping from place to place, living hand to mouth, as I experienced different corners of the world. My friend James set out from England in 1995 and has been going ever since. There’s something romantic and enticing about the life he leads.

It was a little after nine when I got home Sunday night, tumbling through my apartment door. I dropped my bags on the floor and collapsed on my sofa. In the distance the horn of a train whistled. An elderly neighbor ambled down the hall, the wheels of his walker squealing as he passed my door. I glanced up at the stacks of books on my shelves. Some of the spines were pressed flat, others creased and crinkled. Then I eyed my treadmill off to the side, the pink yarn and bamboo needles on the end table, the basket of magazines and catalogs on the floor, the watercolors from Ecuador and Nantucket hanging on my walls.

I got up, walked to the kitchen, poured myself some water. I leaned against the counter and took a sip, the cold liquid gliding down my throat. Reaching for a piece of chocolate, I let the sweetness melt across my tongue. Then I grabbed a shopping bag from under the sink, went back out to my living room and started filling it with books to be donated.

I may not know where I am going, or what I will do when I get there, but at the very least I know I can’t stay here.