The Pocket Review

Summer Blues

2010-05-19T14:09:00.000-07:00

The time has come for me to write out my current struggle a bit, because that always helps. I don't want to be self-indulgent, but it IS my blog.

I should say from the outset that I am reading a sparkling novel called Nightingale Wood, (a very witty, very art deco story by Stella Gibbons, all about people falling in real love, despite their classes) which doesn't help. I have spent the last year or so obsessed with being in a relationship, and all that entails. A bit more than my normal more-than-generous allotment of relationship energy has been required, due to the fact that me and my fella have vastly different levels of relationship experience.

Having finally come to believe that I am worth it, and having spent years educating myself on how to do it, I am currently more than capable of stating ad nauseum what I want and need. However, this took me so long to learn, that I sometimes (very often, actually) fall into the trap of mistaking me articulating what I need as my partner delivering what I need.

My needs aren't crazy, or anything. I just expect the basics from someone that I am in love with, who is also in love with me: when we are apart, call to say good morning, and call to say good night (I have had to face the fact about myself that I will NEVER think this is an unreasonable request, and I need to be with someone who can do this consistently). Let me know that you are thinking of me. If you have some news, share it. Include me in your life. Want to see me, and do so (one to two dates and two quiet nights at home per week is ideal). Keep your word. Be honest. Be faithful. Communicate. Make me feel that I am special to you by being respectful and considerate. Tell me you love me. In short, treat me the way that I treat you.

I am romantic enough to believe that one and one's partner should get something from each other (besides merely sex) that they cannot get from anyone else. I think love is a bit rare, actually, in spite of the fact that I have been "in love" many times - two engagements, one rejected proposal, and one common law marriage's worth. I have no regrets about not marrying, and that has a lot to do with the fact that (as I have come to realize in the last month) I am terrified of being taken for granted. I have NO IDEA how to stay fully engaged with another person for years on end. NONE, but I am assuming communicating is a big part of it. No one wants catatonic boredom to be a fixture of their everyday lives, and I am no exception. I mean, what comes between mad, passionate love, and wanting to kill them in their sleep? And is whatever that is worth all the other?

A further difficulty for me, is that the healthiest marriage I know is between two women who were close friends (from ages 13 and 16, respectively, when they met at summer camp) until their late 30's, when they finally realized that they were in love with each other. Thirty years later, they are still in love. I say this is a difficulty, because I have realized 1) that they are my ideal relationship example, and 2) it is unfair to compare my relationship with theirs.

1. They (the happily married ladies, or THML) have known each other for almost their entire lives, which in the post-high-school-sweetheart era, is rare.
1a. I have known my beau for just under three years.

2. THML have almost all of the same friends.
2a. Thanks to my nomadic tendencies, and my travel work, my friends are all over the world. Thanks to my beau having grown up in Manhattan, nearly all of his "boys" are right here in New York, and he has an almost mob-like devotion to them. We rarely cross-pollinate.

3. THML are both women, and therefore, have a better-than-average chance of communicating in a similar fashion.
3a. My beau is a man, and therefore, extremely unlikely to communicate at all, let alone in a similar fashion as me.

4. THML travel all over the world together.
4a. My beau is forever taking trips/weekends/vacations with his "boys" on which I am not included (not that couples should do everything together, but I have had to face a second fact about myself: I believe that couples should do most things together). I have finally responded in kind, by taking my own trips, and it feels good. Still, there is a niggling unease in the back of my brain that says, if I am always going to take separate vacations (something said beau's father is notorious for), why not just be alone? One trip a year - a boy's weekend, or a girl's weekend, sure. But so far, the way we do it is we go somewhere together once a year, and take multiple trips on our own (though many of mine are for work).

5. THML have always said that from the moment they fell in love, there was no doubt in either of their minds that they would be doing their relationship.
5a. I would say that I question whether or not I am with the right person on a monthly, if not weekly, basis. This annoying habit is 50% by-product of my abused early life (don't repeat your patterns, Brooke!), and 50% my beau's lack of relationship experience.

6. THML believe and (remind me often) that when one is with the right person, it is mostly easy. I think they mean this in reference to the fact that when someone wants to be with you as much as you want to be with them, everything else gets sorted out.
6a. I think it fair to say that I have spent around half of my current relationship asking to be seen, considered, and called more. I mean, we are a year and half in, and he still can't call me twice a day or see me more than 2-3 times per week. I would definitely not classify it as "easy," and I am willing to wager that neither would he.

7. THML were both already settled and thriving in their careers when they fell in love, leaving them free to focus as much as possible on each other.
7a. My beau is just beginning his career of choice, and is completely focused on "proving himself" and "making it," whereas I, at this very late-feeling date, no longer have any idea what I want to be when I grow up.

So, is this not easy because of these very different circumstances, or is this not easy because we aren't right for each other?

I used to sort of live by this beloved Ani Difranco lyric:
"Everything I do is judged, and they mostly get it wrong,
But, oh well.
The bathroom mirror has not budged.
The woman who lives there can tell
The truth from the stuff that they say
She looks me in the eye
Says, 'Would you prefer the easy way? Well, OK, then, don't cry.' "

I'm starting to suspect that maybe I would prefer the easy way, it's just that I have only known the hard one.

I greatly admire the fact that my guy doesn't talk about what he needs, he just gets it. In fact, he does whatever he wants at all times without burden of guilt (despite being Jewish), or over-thinking. And why shouldn't he? He is young, and has never really had to consider anyone else. He is a decent human being, who usually does the right thing, so what's to worry about? I admire his confidence in his decisions, and his dedication to his art. (As committed as I was to being a good actor, I have yet to be dedicated to anything to such a degree that a relationship couldn't distract me from it, and this is something I truly dislike about myself.) Also, he almost never plans anything, preferring to just be in the moment. This ain't my first rodeo, and I recognize that I am attracted to these characteristics because they are so different than my own. However, the end result is that maybe my pattern (of being attracted only to people who aren't willing to participate as much as I am in a relationship) is being repeated. I think he has a healthy sense of selfishness - the kind I have taken a decade to learn and implement; however, it sometimes feels like he is just plain selfish, and that the whole relationship happens at his convenience. To be more specific, I often feel that I am just a component of his life - no more or less important than the other components (music, studio, job, boys, family, etc.) and if that is true, that isn't enough for me.

This review of this relationship and my place in it has come upon me for a few reasons. The first is that aforementioned boyfriend recently demoted himself in his very successful career as a supervisor at Trader Joe's in order to pursue his real love: producing hip hop. More supportive of this, I could not be. I am an absolute poster child for pursuing your dreams. However, I was hopeful (and he assured me) that him working four 8 hour days vs. five 10 hour ones would create a little more time for us. It has only been a few weeks, but that has not proven to be the case. He has much more time for music, more time for his friends, and a bit more time for his family, but our time remains un-increased. In fact, he has less time to talk to me than before, and when our schedules do allow us to talk on those three or four days a week when we won't be seeing each other, he always sounds as if he is in a hurry to disconnect.

The second reason is that for six months now, we have been discussing moving in together. Unfortunately, as the time drew near to actually find an apartment and make the move, we both had (and continue to have) our own individual freak outs. Because he (very impressively) paid off his very own recording studio, and now wishes to actually make music in it, I have been asked to leave my beloved Brooklyn and relocate to Astoria, Queens, (where said studio is located) in order to live with him.

This is a reasonable request based on the fact that he has always commuted to Brooklyn to see me throughout the relationship, and wanting to be close to the studio is a legitimate concern. I mean, he's not asking me to move to Alaska, or anything, for God's sake. However, I just don't care for Queens. And more than that, I have ALWAYS done the moving/bending/accommodating in every relationship. And not only that, but none of those relationships lasted.

I find myself questioning my own judgement and having no clue as to whether or not I am being fair to him, me, or the feelings that we share. The only thing I DO know, is that my instinct to protect myself and my independence is too strong to ignore. Now is definitely not the time to cohabitate - nearly every time we discuss the subject we end up arguing, so it has been backburned until further notice. And, if you believe in planetary aspects and their potential impact on our lives (which I do), the summer is unlikely to be the time to cohabitate, as well.

So, what to do? Everyone I know is absolutely fed up with one, if not many, aspects of their lives at the moment, and the months ahead have the potential to be challenging for damn near everybody. I am simply not in the habit of doing things (or not doing them) based on fear and uncertainty, and I have to say that being unclear about the big things in my life is decidedly UNsexy.

Pocket Review of Feminine Woe, II

2010-04-20T14:20:00.000-07:00

Below is an oft-postponed update that I began composing one month ago, and then abandoned while on a brief computer hiatus.

So, yet another off day found me in the stirrups at Ol' Doc Greening's place. And, it literally pains me to say so, but the growth on my right ovary is perCYSTent. I have spent four of my last five free days being pelvically examined in one way or another, and I have to say, the novelty has worn off.

Dr. Kelly Greening, being Irish and all, wasn't available to see me on St. Paddy's Day (my last off day), giving my devil cyst a full extra week to cease and decyst (I know-I can't stop myself), but it did not. However, being constitutionally unable to spend an off day without getting up early only to then recline in a supreme state of discomfort, I ended up at an overdue dental appointment on the 17th. Foolishly, I thought this appointment was for my regular cleaning; but instead, it was for the installation of a small filling (to replace the tooth enamel I have literally brushed away in my vigorous pursuit of oral hygeine).

As Dr. David Zipkowitz, D.D.S., came at me with what appeared to be a 10" long stainless steel syringe of novocaine, I hurriedly explained that I hadn't been planning on any anesthetic, and wanted to be able to enjoy the dinner of herb and dijon encrusted salmon, roasted asparagus, red peppers, jasmine rice, and sauv blanc from Bordeaux that I was preparing for my love and myself in two short hours. As I writhed in the dental chair from the pain of the injection, he assured me the numbing sensation would wear off by then, as he was giving me a "light dose."

He lied.

Soooo, instead of leaving the office of Dr. Z with an Orbit clean mouth, and a newly confident smile, I left looking like Blair's mentally challenged cousin, Jeri, from The Facts of Life, complete with drooping mouth and a little bit of spittle. Charlie said dinner was good, though. The wine definitely was.

I dutifully arrived at the gynecologist's office on Wednesday, March 24th, but though I am still having a lot of incystent (I know, they keep getting worse) pain and extreme fatigue, the purpose of this visit was to gather more information in order to diagnose my "irregular" cervix. This didn't stop me from re-addressing the cyst issue while I had Ol' Doc Greening captive, though. "Whaddaya say we yank that thing out?" I asked, leaning to my right and balancing on my elbows while peering around my gown-draped legs.

She said that the "yanking" would be more like a "surgery", as it was pretty involved, and she wanted to wait still longer in the hope that the cyst would ease on down the road on its own recognizance. This was not the answer I wanted to hear, but it seemed pointless to argue. Plus, I am concerned that my insurance will cover only a tiny portion of such a procedure. However, having been reminded that the cyst was there, Dr. G decided (after administering yet another pap smear and a couple of biopsies) to wheel in my old nemesis, Twat Wand. I shuddered a little at the sound of the metallic jingling as TW was wheeled across the unevenly tiled floor to the foot of the examination table. It stood there impassively, a hulking, expressionless, stainless steel rectangle, while Dr. Greening subjected me to yet another wanding. Surprise, surprise - she found the cyst to still be in residence. Her recommendation for how to proceed did not change, however.

As a result, I have taken the matter into my own hands and have begun engaging in meditation every morning. As part of this process, I envision a white lightning bolt of healing sent from the angels themselves directly to my girly parts. I think it's working. In any event, the pain has subsided somewhat. My current level of pain is more Happy Meal than super-sized-Big-Mac-combo-with-two apple-pies-for-a-dollar-sized.

In addition to healing through meditation, I have been taking a supplement called "Natokinase" recommended by my friend, Niambi, who knows all remedies naturale. This is supposed to dissolve fibroid cysts/tumors, so hopefully it is working its magic on my little bundle (though said bundle was never diagnosed as fibroid).

Though I have believed all along that I am cancer-free, I was not heartened to hear Doc G say she had never seen whatever was up with my cervix in her 20 years of practicing gynecology. That made me focus even more intently on taking care of myself. I have done a good job, if I do say, but continue to struggle with abnormal fatigue. I am hopeful that I am now tired because of the debilitating allergy season that happens in NYC twice a year. Not being able to breathe properly really does affect one's rest cycle.

Happily, after many mornings of hurling mental lightning bolts at my vagine, I got the good word that all is normal in pap smear-land. WOOT! Now, on to more focused cyst-reduction.

Thanks so much to everyone for your care and concern and friendship.
I am very lucky, indeed.

Pocket Review of Two of the Multitude of Feminine Woes

2010-03-06T13:08:00.000-08:00

WOE I- All Things Gynecological:

For the last month or so, I have been feeling unlike myself. Symptoms include, EXTREME fatigue, nausea (especially when I first get out of bed), occasional vomiting and other tummy troubles, intermittent sharp pain in my lower abdomen on my right side, and this weird sensation that my eyes are shrinking in their sockets accompanied by a scalp-spreading heat. In addition (and most upsetting) I have gained 10 pounds (in my stomach, only) in less than two months. It's an odd ten pounds, too - that doesn't respond when I work out or suck in my gut. I mean, it is normal for me to carry weight in my midsection, but I have yet to make a single recipe from my new Julia Child cookbook; and I normally have just the one stomach instead of three. Very strange.

Also, there's this (Let's see, should I put this the delicate, Southern way, or go for the jokes? Maybe a little from Column A and a little from Column B): Last week, I visited my "female" doctor for the annual exam of "my parts," and while she was waving what I can only describe as a "twat wand" (some kind of camera/ultra sound deal that is LONG and, well... wandy) around my uterus, she placed her other hand firmly on my abdomen (for traction, no doubt), and I said, "Ow! Right there, where your hand is, is SO tender."

She replied, "That's because you have a cyst on your right ovary, and it's pretty large, too." "Hmmmm," I thought, focusing on relaxing myself while she poked and prodded me like I was a pinata at a toddler's birthday party (I don't know about you, but having foreign objects inside me causes thoughtus interruptus) before finally processing what she had said and blurting, "A what?"

She went on to explain that the cyst could be functional or non-functional, but she didn't have enough information to accurately diagnose me. Apparently, the twat wand is the JCPenney version of that kind of device, so she referred me to the hospital to be examined by the Bergdorf Goodman version. That test is scheduled for next week (since I work every day until Wednesday), but in the meantime, my pap smear showed some "atypical" cells ("Which don't automatically mean cancer," she assured me) in an unusual part of my cervix. Also, if my "relations" aren't of the gentle variety, there is a chance that the cyst can flip around ("What? Like a tether ball?" my beau asked), thus twisting my fallopian tube, which will require surgery to rectify. Color me pleased.

Following the Bergdorfogram, I have to return to my doctor (whom I love, thankfully) for another round of scraping and examinations. The good news is, I have no STD's, no thyroid problems, no anemia, and normal blood counts. I really don't believe I have cancer, but obviously, something is amiss (or amass, as the case may be).

More than anything, it is just an inconvenience. I don't like being poked and prodded (not in a doctor's office, anyway), and I have to give up three of my precious off days for all these tests. I truly loathe going to the doctor, but would really like to know what's wrong. Mostly, I would like the fatigue to abate. It is very difficult to get through my six day, 60 hour week this tired. The pain is no bueno, either.

Ovarian cysts are pretty common (especially in African American women, as my friend, Niambi, informed me. She said something along the lines of: "We black girls get those all the time. See, I KNEW you were one of us! You need to research your kinfolk and see where you REALLY come from.") as are "atypical" or "abnormal" pap smears, but they aren't common for me,
and the symptoms make me feel so distracted and crappy.

My dear, psychic friend, to whom I jokingly refer as "Madame Eli," did a Tarot reading for me recently, and the question I asked while shuffling the cards was simply, "Hey, Guardian Angels, why am I so bloody TIRED all the time?" The answer was that I am "burning off karma from a pregnancy in a past life." I looked at Eli, and said, "So... what? I'm carrying a ghost baby?" She shrugged, and we laughed, though in truth, I had started to worry that I might really be pregnant. That's the problem with my particular set of symptoms. When I researched them, I discovered they could indicate any one of the following: pregnancy, ovarian or cervical cancer, a ruptured functional cyst, too much copper in my diet, or none of the above. Sadly, ghost babies were not mentioned. However, as my friend, Josh, pointed out, delivering a ghost baby is BOUND to be easier than a real baby.

Other than recovering my normal level of energy and zippity doo dah, I want to divest myself of these ten pounds, STAT. So, at this point, I'm kind of hoping that this cyst is not a baby, but is baby-sized, and that its removal will result in the immediate loss of one to two stone. Admittedly, looking to potentially-cancerous- tumor-removal is going a bit far, even for me, who has tried every fad diet in the American oeuvre.

WOE II-All Things Weight-Loss Related:

Sidebar: My mother made sure to start whittling away at my self-esteem before I even hit puberty, and she was very successful. Example: At the age of 14, while shopping in the "Still-N-Style," a second-hand shop in my hometown, I tried on a seersucker dress. As I emerged from the dressing room, and gave a little twirl, the salesgirl complimented my figure. My mother (who is not the slimmest reed in the pond) bellowed across the store, "ACTUALLY, SHE'S THE BIGGEST SHE'S EVER BEEN!" Thus began my life-long quest to lose ten pounds.

Regularly scheduled essay: In college, I did the Cabbage Soup Diet, followed by several years of low-fat eating, while keeping up a steady regimen of quad-walking and Cindy Crawford "Shape Your Body" workouts (still my fave, if you do it correctly, i.e. more slowly than she).

While living in L.A. with a beautiful roommate who is still rocking her birth weight (though she is well into her 30's) hiking and yoga were my workouts of choice (and I still LOVE them when there is time). Spurred on by my mother's voice in my head, Birthweight's tiny clothing, and my desire to work in TV, dieting became my hobby.

I started with "Eat Right For Your Type," (eating based on one's blood type, which actually has merit), stopped in at "The Zone" (pretty sensible, really, if you're the kind of girl who likes to count one ounce of cheese and a half a glass of wine as a meal, which I, am not), lived a little "Body For Life" (works better for men than women), tried the "Abs Diet" (again, better for men), went to Weight Watchers meetings (felt like an A-hole when they would announce, "Brooke has lost five pounds, only five more to go!" and the extremely obese women around me would clap bitterly, if such a thing is possible), did an infomercial for "Core Secrets" (actually a very respectable workout, I just popped my balance ball), and finally arrived at the "Atkins Diet."

Atkins was all the carbohydrate-deprived rage about seven years ago, and naturally, I fell right into line like a lemming. After I found a store specializing in sugar-free items, (only in L.A.) and realized I wouldn't have to give up chocolate, I thought I was all set. To my chagrin, I discovered very quickly that sugar-free products (especially the chocolate ones) give me what I can only describe as shooting diarrhea.

As if that little side effect weren't enough, I gave up caffeine when starting Atkins, because it is an appetite stimulant. So, not only was my body in shock from eating nothing but meat and cheese, it was in total withdrawal from not receiving the pot of coffee my boyfriend and I would customarily imbibe every day. I experienced severe leg cramps due to lack of nutrients (in spite of the millions of supplements I was taking), migraine headaches, and mood swings, occasionally all at the same time.

As when my boyfriend was leaving for an out-of-town gig (a regular occurrence), and when he came to tell me goodbye at three in the afternoon, he found me in our bed with all the lights out and a damp cloth over my eyes. One corner of the bed sheet twitched discreetly, as a result of the muscle cramps in my left leg, and when he leaned over to kiss me, I burst into tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked.
No answer.
Then, trying again, he said, "I'm just going to Vegas."

I said, "I know, but I don't want you to leave, and my head hurts, and, and, and... (voice breaks) I want a doughnuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!"(long, Lucy-like wail) He left me sobbing into the pillow, and backed out of the room.

The next day, alone in our house, I was standing at the bathroom counter when I started to feel very odd indeed. The wave of weird started in my toes, and worked it's way up, culminating in a rushing roar in my ears. The next thing I remember is coming to on the tile floor with a cat on either side of me, alternately meowing frantically, and licking my hands. I could just hear their internal monologues,:

Oscar: "Mom, mom, wake up!"
Felix: "Who's gonna FEED us?!"

Plus side: I lost 13 pounds in two weeks. Minus column: that remains the only time I have ever passed out in my life (and since I did so in a tile and granite bathroom, I could've cracked my skull). As a result, I decided to eschew not just Atkins, but diets in general, and love myself just as I am, sweet Jesus.

I have good days and bad with that task, and veritable instant weight-gain, doesn't help. However, after all these years of actively trying to change my perception of myself, I am startled at how quickly one little potential health difficulty has me responding with my same old neuroses. Physically, I don't feel much like me, but emotionally, I recognize me all too well. And, I am in no way motivated to have sex with that. Or that twat wand.

Pocket Review of "Julie & Julia"

2010-02-19T10:53:00.000-08:00

My beloved embarked on a new work schedule this week - 8PM to 6AM. As a result, I will not be seeing him (other than passing in the occasional night) until mid-March, when his schedule returns to Trader Joe's' definition of normal. At that point, we are going to take stock of our circumstances and make a decision regarding whether or not we want to move forward with our plan to cohabitate (necessitating me leaving my beloved Brooklyn for Astoria, Queens). Therefore, I reinstated my Netflix account in case I have time to kill in the coming weeks (I am also excited that it is now possible to view Netflix on demand on macs).

My first selection was "Julie&Julia," starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams.
I chose this film for several reasons: 1) The trailer I had seen in the theatre many months ago made it look like my kind of film. 2) I ADORE Meryl Streep, as she is the finest American actress, well, ever (she is at the very least in the top five, and to my knowledge, she has never made a misstep/given a bad performance.) 3) I like Amy Adams (when I can release my jealousy and resentment regarding the fact that she was discovered doing dinner theatre in Assknuckle, Montana, or some damned where.) 4) I love food.

Being of the Southern persuasion, I grew up with food as the centerpiece, and Jesus and football as the matched candlesticks on the table of my childhood. Food - the gathering, preparation, serving and consuming of it - is an enormous part of life in the South. In fact, I would say that outside of the SEC, storytelling, and judging others, eating is the official sport of the Bible Belt (just harken back to any news report you have ever seen detailing tornadic destruction.)

My mother was always working (sometimes two jobs to compensate for my wastrel stepmonster), and therefore, did not have much time to spend in the kitchen. However, she dutifully cooked on the weekends. Most often, she would haul out her old chrome waffle iron and whip up a batch of Aunt Jemima's. She did this even when we would weekend in our tent at a certain camping spot at Smith Lake that had somehow wired the trees with electricity.

Besides being a waffle person vs. a pancake person, a bacon person vs. a sausage person, and a scrambled person vs. a fried person, my mother's recipe arsenal consisted predominantly of: chili in the crock pot, vegetable soup in the pressure cooker, and Italian (emphasis on the "I," pronounced, "Eyetalian") spaghetti in the wintertime; and fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, and strawberry shortcake in the summertime. She learned these basic recipes from my granny, and almost all of them were served with an accompaniment of cornbread.

Real Southern cornbread is made from scratch, is not sweet (as Jiffy bread is), and is baked in a pre-heated iron skillet that is sizzling with bacon grease. Both my mother and my grandmother had ceramic jars crowned with little pigs resting on their stovetops for the express purpose of straining and storing bacon grease. Both also added a tablespoon of mayo to their cornbread batter to ensure moistness.

One of the nicest things my mother ever did for me was request recipes of a variety of friends and relatives whose cooking I enjoyed, by sending them index cards and self-addressed, stamped envelopes. She collected these in a book for me and presented it as one of my Christmas gifts when I was in college, after I had expressed an interest in learning to cook.

Gradually, I mastered the skill of following a recipe,
and eventually, I mastered the recipes themselves. However, due to a lack of detail on my rainbow-colored index cards, this was often challenging. Prior to this time, my only cooking experience (barring the occasional curiosity at Mother's or Granny's knees), was a 6th Grade Home Ec class with a VERY intimidating instructor. If memory serves, her name was Ms. Roscoe, and she was an absolute Nazi about exact measurements (I remember being sternly reprimanded for failing to level off a teaspoon of baking soda when making an inaugural batch of snickerdoodles).

All of the cooks I admired most were naturals, and as a result, they cooked intuitively. So it was that when trying to replicate my Great Aunt Faye's Salmon Croquettes, I would come across instructions such as, "Mix the de-boned salmon with 'some' breadcrumbs, a 'little' egg, and a 'dab' of hot sauce." Or, "These are delicious, especially when served with a 'glob' of 'white sauce'." I remember asking my mother's friend, Mary Lou, who remains one of the best cooks I have ever known, how much onion I should add to fried squash, and her replying, "Until it looks right."

Throughout my youth, the aformentioned Mary Lou had a thriving vegetable garden. We took advantage of this as often as possible, relishing in her fresh cabbage (so sweet, we would sit around the table and eat it raw), turnip greens, green onions, and vine-ripened tomatoes. Mary Lou was born and bred in a very small Northern Alabama town the name of which I can't recall, as she always referred to it as merely, "the country." I ain't mad at it, though, because the country shore did learn her right. Thus was my love of food born and deeply ingrained.

All of these memories regarding cooking, food, and eating jenga-ed (You like that? Totally just made it up - but that's what happened, past experiences tumbled as if they were the wooden blocks when you remove the wrong piece in that game) through my head while watching "Julie&Julia," which is why I think it is a successful film. It is not a great film, certainly, (though had it been the story of Julia and Paul Child only, it could've been) but it does succeed.

Not surprisingly, as it is written and directed by Nora Ephron, "Julie&Julia" is a love story: The story of Julia's love of Paris, Julia's love for Paul, Julia's love for Julia, Paul's love for Julia, Julia's love of food, and America's love of Julia.

Meryl Streep IS Julia Child. I say this with utter conviction, though prior to seeing this film, Julia Child was little more than a joke to me - a Dan Akroyd sketch on Saturday Night Live, a funny voice, and an excellent recipe for fresh cranberry sauce that my friend, Joel, makes to perfection every Thanksgiving.

I now realize that Julia was a revolutionary. She changed the way we cook in America, and she was, by her own admission, absolutely fearless. She obsessively strove to master French cooking, and she worked tirelessly to make French cooking accessible to all. Hers was the first French cookbook ever to be written in English, and ever to be aimed at an American audience. She was never satisfied with things as they were, but was continually improving upon them. One example of Julia's committment to excellence in the film, is when she discovers that by slightly heating the bowl in which she is making mayonnaise, she can achieve "scientific workability." I know that NO ONE makes their own mayonnaise these days, but still. Also, hers was the first cooking show that was widely distributed, and this made her name synonymous with good food and cooking.

Meryl Streep made me fall in love with Julia Child - with her height, her earthiness, her zest, her auburn-haired frankness, her courage, her passion, her vulnerability, and her motto to "never apologize." Being 39 and still single, I can readily identify with the fact that she married slightly later in life, (especially for the time). I can relate to her belated realization of how very sheltered she had been prior to her marriage and her sojourn in Europe, and I can definitely relate to her excitement when shopping for kitchen gadgets. I strongly indentify with her voracious appetite not just for food, but for knowledge, skill, people, fun, and experiences. Above all, I can relate to Julia's search for purpose in her life - "For so long, I have wanted a CAREER!" she says, after finding that food is her passion. Her discovery of this purpose (and thus, herself), her utter joy of being, and her ability to transform my view of food and cooking (I now see them for the art that they are) has truly inspired me.

Stanley Tucci (another favorite actor) is superb as Paul Child, and while I have never seen film footage of the real "Monsieur Sheeld," and therefore cannot speak to how accurate his performance is, I can say that his connection with Meryl Streep is absolutely visceral. His performance is one of moments and nuances and simplicity. His inner monologues are stunningly clear, even with no words at all. He is just so... constant, and loving. Throughout the film, I found myself longing for a love like theirs. In fact, I found myself longing (for love, a trip to Paris, brie, wine, stuffed duck, you name it) and feeling throughout this entire movie.

The blog within the blog: In an half-assed effort to correct the lopsidedness of this review, let me spend a moment on Julie. For those of you who don't know, in August, 2002, a 29 year old woman had the admittedly brilliant idea to cook her way through the 536 recipes in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in 365 days, and blog about it. This woman, Julie Powell, parlayed this self-inflicted assignment into first a book contract, and then (obviously) a film deal. Now, naturally we are all jealous, though she did have an actual DEGREE in writing. Also, she herself admits that it was a fluke - she happened to be well-positioned at the beginning of America's knowledge of and interest in blogs, and she knows it. Still, having watched her being interviewed online, I have to admit that I find her harsh, dull, and utterly unlikeable.

This explains why I found Amy Adams, who portrays Julie, harsh, dull, and utterly unlikeable in this film. Granted, it is hard to be captivating when many of your scenes involve you sitting at a computer, typing. However, according to my "research" (scanning three articles and watching one interview online), Amy Adams never met Julie Powell, and since Julie Powell is not immediately recognizeable to the public, I doubt Adams' choices were a result of trying to be absolutely accurate in her portrayal. I think it is more that Nora Ephron got a very clear picture of Ms. Powell from her one meeting with her, and wrote her accordingly.

It is my opinion that Amy Adams is not comfortable playing bitchy characters, and her performance suffers as a result. However, there were still moments to which I could relate - (Julie's anxiety about moving from Brooklyn to Queens, for instance), and the desire to forge one's own artistic identity (this was meant to be a major parallel between Julie and Julia, but due to Julie's implied sense of entitlement, it didn't land).

Julia and Paul Child positively leap from the screen, and utterly ensnare the viewer, to the point that when the plot shifts from the Parisian 40's to the New York present (OK, recent past), it is jarring. Julie and her story line pale in comparison - a piece of limp Wonderbread to Julia's fresh, crusty, dripping-with-butter French baguette. Still utterly worth watching, in my opinion.

The (small) irony in this is that four friends and I attempted, and failed, to start a book club a few years ago. The book? My Life in France by Julia Child and Alex Prud'homme. At the time, we were all just too damned busy to read a book, let alone, the same book at the same time. Also, I had just stopped eating all meat but fish, and was turned off by the few pages I read, featuring "enthusiastic carnivore," Julia, describing such feats as plucking and gutting a chicken in 11 minutes flat, or a variety of ways to prepare veal (which I have NEVER eaten - just too cruel), or extract kidneys. Since seeing this film, however, I have resumed My Life in France, and am halfway through, as I am now completely obsessed with Julia Child and everything she stands for. To that end, I mentioned that I needed Mastering the Art of French Cooking, and danged if my beau didn't order it for me from the good people at Amazon. I can't wait to plan menus, make aspic-free meals, and expand my recipe repertoire. I have very few food rules, loving to eat as I do, but the ones I do possess are here:
1) No aspics (generally speaking, I don't like things that have been molded, let alone things that come from hooves).
2) Nothing that requires a key to open it (i.e. sardines, spam) I figure it's been locked away for a reason.
3) Nothing with a head and/or eyes still attached (sardines are a double whammy).
4) No veal (I have never been able to totally release the mental image of a baby calf in a dark cage, not allowed to even walk.)
5) No brains
6) No chitlins
7) No dogs
8) No monkeys (too close to us)

That still leaves me with about 500 recipes to explore courtesy of Julia. And, I can totally have sex with THAT notion - (especially since I won't be having it with my boyfriend this month).

No News is Good News

2010-01-30T14:58:00.000-08:00

I quit watching the news over a decade ago (because Los Angeles anchors categorize naked celebrity twat as news, whereas I, do not), and broke my long-standing addiction to NPR when I could no longer stand the sound of the president's voice. Several months ago, I took it a step further, and cancelled my exhorbitantly expensive cable subscription. Funnily enough, I only miss four shows, and two of them were no longer on the air, anyway. When the mood strikes, I watch them online, but am mostly just fine in my televisionless world.

I realize this choice is not for everyone, but for me, cold turkey news-withdrawal has lowered my stress levels considerably. I used to really believe in being informed (and I still do make sure I have the facts before I vote, I just don't get those facts from TV and radio), but I find that there is an intraversable amount of shit that I don't need to muck through in the average newsday. And not only do I not need to know it, it often makes me feel actively bad about myself.

These days, most of my news is filtered through Facebook stati and comments. Sad, I know, but it works for me. I am very fortunate, and have an extremely diverse group of friends. With many of said friends, the current hot news item seems to be the death of J.D. Salinger.

At the risk of sounding obsessive, I will admit here that I have read each of his published works five times or more. The Glass family, especially, is very real to me, and I am convinced (having read nothing about it, either way) that P.T. Anderson based the character of Stanley Spector in the film, "Magnolia" on Seymour Glass. On all the Glass boys, really. A brilliant, heartbreaking amalgam of pressure, genius, and uber-awareness.

Having never been burdened with the albatross of fame myself (only occasionally being recognized on the streets of Alabama or California from stage roles) , I have difficulty empathizing with Salinger's nearly career-long choice to utterly withdraw. For me, interaction with others, even if the interaction is comprised mainly of me observing them, is what inspires me to think and create. I can certainly understand the need for privacy, and I can also understand the urge to protect one's creative offspring. What I can't understand is devoting so much of one's energy to guarding one's existing works vs. creating new ones.

I know he reportedly wrote everyday of his life, and like everyone else, I am salivating at the possibility of seeing what the hell those Glasses have been up to. I just believe that it takes more energy to jealously guard than to generously share. I also feel that art is just the expression of the human condition, and those that are real good at expressin' should do so. It is the last vestige of my Baptist upbringing, I am sure, but I definitely believe in the "Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine" principle. Don't hide it under a bushel, no!

I have a little resentment for Jerome David Salinger - one for being so stingy with his marvelous gift, and two for making me feel guilty about the fact that I am a teensy bit glad he's dead (Don't read me like that, I mean, he did go painlessly in his sleep at a ripe old 91, and vigorously controlled almost his entire adult life to his own satisfaction), if this means I will get to learn more about my beloved Glasses.

It's too soon to call, but if J.D.'s death does lead to the release of some heretofore unseen material, I just hope it doesn't mirror my Cat Stevens experience. I love his music, and by the time I really got into him (in the 80's), he had already converted to Islam, changed his name to Yusuf, and eschewed his guitar. I am all for folks seeking answers (Salinger also dabbled in multiple faiths and "isms" according to one of his ex wives), until it affects ME. Thirty years later, ol' Yusuf decided that God was OK with him making music after all, and released an album, "Another Cup." It sucked. So, fingers crossed that J.D.'s light didn't dim sequestered as it was in his drafty (I have no evidence to support this, but I envision it as drafty) Cornish home.

Pocket Review of Going to the Cinema

2009-12-20T13:01:00.000-08:00

I love going to the movies - any time of year (especially in New York summers), day or night, alone or with company- getting lost in the stories of others is one of my favorite pastimes. I spent many of my high school summers attending screenings of classic movies at my favorite theatre in the world, The Alabama, A.K.A. "The Showplace of the South." Built in the 20's at the height of the silent film era (and just prior to the The Great Crash), The Alabama features red velvet curtains and seats, a huge proscenium stage, and The Mighty Wurlitzer, a truly amazing organ.

Every June, the Alabama kicks off it's summer season with a packed showing of Gone With the Wind, the Mighty Wurlitzer rising from a trap door in the stage. General Manager, Cecil Whitmire, plays "Tara" like his life depended on it, with the flailing-elbowed intensity of the Phantom of the Opera. While seated in the mezzanine for a showing of this epic film several years ago, my friend, Weird Dave, in the hushed silence immediately following the line, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," said in a loud stage whisper, "Wait a minute. I'VE seen this." This statement and the timing of it (3.9 hours into the 4-hour long movie) made me snort popcorn out of my nose.

One of the best things about the Alabama is that if one is seated on the mezzanine or balcony levels, and one excuses oneself to visit the fabulous art deco powder room, one can still hear the film clearly. This in spite of the fact that the theatre is high- ceilinged and sprawling, with faded splendor in every corner. Because of this, I always feel that I am in my own home somehow, and that the movie is playing on my personal elephanormous television. There is something very comforting about that.

That is not to say, however, that I encourage people to think of themselves as being at home when they are at the theatre. That's what the introduction of the VCR did in America - it made people feel comfortable verbalizing any thought they have while watching movies, as if they are ensconced in their own sofas. I myself do not take well to talkers at the movies.

Once in Burbank, California while watching a matinee of the dreaded "Miss Congeniality II" with my then roomie (Hey, it was Martin Luther King Day and I was off work and bored), I began to feel frustrated by a woman in the row behind me who was speaking ceaselessly to her small child. The child wasn't cooing cutely, but was screaming nonsensical observations at the top of its lungs, and its mother was encouraging this. After a half hour or so, I did a quiet "sshhh" over my left shoulder in their general direction. It's not a good film, but by God, I paid eight American dollars to see it, and I wanted to hear it as well.

In response, this woman stood up, leaned over the back of my seat and said hissingly, "Don't shush ME, bitch." I stood up, met her toe to toe in the aisle and said, "OK, let's go get an usher. You're ruining my movie experience." At this moment, she unfortunately chose to shove me, which prompted me to "rare back" as they say in the south, and slap her across the face (in the opposite direction from the child she was holding on her hip) hard. The smack of flesh against flesh was still echoing in the shocked silence that followed (no one was more shocked than me), when I heard someone from midway down the row of seats beside me say, "Let's go, Debbie. She's CRAZY." They rose and hot-footed it up the aisle, taking Debbie and her unfortunate spawn with them, and I returned to my seat, fully expecting to be drug away by the movie police at any moment. I never was, though.

I now work in the wonderful neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights, (where Patty Duke saw the sights) and over the summer, my beau and I discovered Cobble Hill Cinemas there. While it is no showplace, this small, older theatre has affordable cherry coke (something I must have at the movies) and popcorn; but most endearing is the fact that all day on Tuesdays and Thursdays a ticket costs a mere $6.50. At the height of "we need to be in central air conditioning" season, we saw "Whatever Works," which I thoroughly enjoyed (having a higher than average threshold for Woody Allen and Larry David), and then, "Bruno."

"Bruno" definitely had its moments, and many of them were filmed in Alabama (leaving me edgily anticipating that I would see someone that I personally know at any moment. My discomfort increased during the "swingers" segments. Not because I swing, but because I definitely do not want to see anyone I know putting their keys in the bowl ).

This was followed by a matinee of "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince."However, it is the grainy little "Away We Go" that has stuck with me, and has returned to haunt me this week. It is not that it is a great film, or anything, though it is well directed, well acted and charming. Instead, I think it is because the theme of the film, "Where is home," is one with which I identify so strongly, especially during the holidays.

In the uber-real tradition of modern small film-making, "Away We Go" is the story of thirty-something knocked-ups, Burt and Verona, who are trying to find a real home in which to raise their pending bundle. Throughout the film, Verona avoids returning to her childhood home on the bayou, because the memory of her now dead parents is too painful. She ultimately does go back, of course, and predictably, it turns out to be the perfect place for her and her new family. Verona is still trepidatious, but gracefully puts her fears aside in the hope of giving her baby an authentic home and a real childhood (a playing -on-the-river, Huck Finn-sans-racism childhood.)

It was touching, not least because Burt asks at one point, "ARE we fuck ups?" Which is something I wonder about myself a lot lately.

The thought of confronting a painful childhood and re-settling myself in the place where that pain was inflicted is a fascinating idea to me. Though, honestly, I can't really see it happening. I have definitely confronted my pain, but as for re-settling myself in the South, it seems less and less likely. There are dear, dear persons there that I miss horribly, but I would miss New York just as much. My beau is a native New Yorker, and his family is here, and as we get more serious, it is even more doubtful that I will return to my childhood home, much as I wish I could sometimes - around the holidays, for instance.

Every year during the holiday season, I watch "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and in recent years, "When Harry Met Sally" and "Love Actually." These films all have the ability to touch me repeatedly, and make me nostalgic, but not for Christmases past, exactly. Instead, I feel a longing for my child self - I miss her. I also feel a simultaneous longing for my future family. I think maybe this is the main reason people have children, to recapture the enthusiasm and hope they themselves used to feel. I wouldn't mind having one for that reason my own self, but somehow, in my circumstances, it seems unfair to the child.

In my experience, the holidays are all about awkwardness and loneliness, and I guess it will always feel odd to me to be without a cohesive family. I do have some kick-ass friends, however, and many of them have included me in their Christmas festivities over the years. I am so grateful for this and have always had a lovely time, but it feels a bit pathetic to always be the outsider.

Since my new fella is Jewish, I don't know what my future holiday traditions will include. This year, we attempted to have Chinese food and go to the movies (which is what good Jews traditionally do, I am told) on Christmas Eve, but he worked late, and so we ended up having a quickie chow mein and heading to my place, which is fully decorated with a 7.5 foot Christmas tree, door swags, candy cane candles, and snowman throw rugs. The important thing is that we were together, of course, though I wish we'd had time to go to the movies. I want to see the new Sherlock Holmes film, and I probably wouldn't have even struck anyone since it was Christmas Eve, and all.

Mostly, I am curious to see where I will be this time next year. I find myself wishing I could slit open the edges of the new year with a razor blade, take a peek inside, tape it back together and restore it to the shelf, the way I used to do with the Christmas gifts that my mother would hide in her closet every year. I just had to know what Santa was bringing. I was an absolute MacGyver when it came to gift snooping in my elementary school years. Later, in high school, I finally learned that the anticipation was the nucleus of the fun.

2009 has been the crappiest financial/career year on record for me and MILLIONS of others, and I am not that sorry to see it go. I am grateful to have discovered and enjoyed my wonderful relationship this year, though. I am aggressively pursuing my own happiness, which actually isn't a new course of action for me, but I have taken a few risks: I liberated myself from a job that was sucking my soul out, and I began dating someone who is visibly younger than I am. (Charles came to meet me for lunch at the W here today, and a bellman that I previously thought was cool said, "How old is your boyfriend, cradle-robber?" To which I replied, "None of your fuckin' business." I guess people will be commenting on our age difference for the length of our relationship. No wonder Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins split after 23 years of hearing that kind of crap). The good things is, that since there is really nowhere to go but up, I am feeling a slight tingling of excitement about the coming year. Not the night- before- Christmas- excited- tingling -of -the- young, and not the lights-just-went-down-in-the- theatre-the movie's-about-to-begin-tingling-of-the-slightly-older, but a tingling nonetheless. And tingling is good. You can make out with it, if not have actual sex with it.

Pocket Review of Life in the Bike Lane

2009-12-10T06:56:00.000-08:00

I got my first bike at age 5. My mother very shrewdly waited a few years after I cut my heel off in the spokes of her bike to present me with one of my own. It was mint green, equipped with training wheels, had a banana seat, and chrome fenders on both wheels. I remember the first time I climbed aboard it in my granny's front yard. I felt very grown up, as I wobbled down her sidewalk between the holly bushes, and took to it quickly. In no time at all, my Uncle Don was removing the training wheels and I was taking such risks as riding with no hands, and propping my feet up on the handlebars while I cruised down the cul de sac. Amazingly, I harbored no residual fear from the great heel-slicing of '73.

When I was 7 or so, I got a new bike that suited my increasingly long-legged frame better. It was electric blue, and its white vinyl banana seat was imprinted with blue and yellow flowers. While riding this bike down the gravel strewn alley behind the duplex we shared with my stepfather, the neighborhood bullies (two sisters whose father was a cop - obviously, he taught them well), emerged from behind the blackberry bushes and persimmon trees flanking the alleyway and ambushed me. I pedaled faster, but they had the element of surprise on their side, and rapidly caught up with me, grabbing the curved chrome handle that protruded from the seat of my bike, and shaking it hard until I fell to the asphalt, embedding small rocks in my palms and bare knees. The devil girls (who were aged 8 and 10) purloined my lovely bike, which led to my mother marching me to the front door of their home to retrieve it.

While Mother confronted the fully uniformed officer about his daughters' unacceptable behavior, gesturing periodically to my purpled and bleeding knees and hands, I stood behind her feeling confused and humiliated, and wondered why these people's house smelled so strongly of burnt onions. (I mean it wafted all the way out there on the porch. An embedded odor, you know?) I can only assume that my mother felt her case would be stronger if the evidence of my injuries was clearly visible. Nonetheless, I remember this man as swaggering and combative, obviously feeling that he and his children could do whatever they wished. While he made statements like, "We don't have your damn bike. Are you implying that I can't afford to buy my daughters bikes of their own?" the oldest daughter, whom I believe was named Dana, intervened with, "I just wanted to play. Let's color!" All I wanted was to get the hell out of there, which is exactly what we did when my bike magically appeared from their backyard. As we walked down the twilit sidewalk towards home, the wheels of my bike making a gentle clicking and whirring between us, I continued to feel embarrassed and pathetic, when my mom suddenly broke the silence by hissing, "What an asshole."

Despite these negative experiences, I was thrilled several months ago when a friend gifted me a used purple mountain bike with the words, "Ol' Rock Hopper" emblazoned on the side in yellow. I decided to be greener and save money by biking to work everyday. Never having ridden a bike in a city as traffic-heavy as Brooklyn, it took me a few days to get the hang of what is legal to do, and what is not. I am a responsible and excellent driver of cars, and vaguely remembered that bikes are required to obey the same laws as motor vehicles. However, having witnessed multiple delivery guys biking down the middle of the sidewalk, with their plastic bags of Chinese food dangling from the handlebars and glancing off the heads of every small child/vertically challenged person in their path, I became convinced that bikers enjoyed some leniency in the eyes of the law.

My first morning astride Ol' Rock Hopper found me whizzing down Flatbush Avenue and loving my new-found freedom. I had to be at work at seven AM, and at 6:15, the traffic was light, the sun was shining, and the ability to control when I reached work (vs. spending lots of negative time waiting for trains and buses everyday) was intoxicating. I zipped through a green light, then zipped through a red light (after ensuring there was no oncoming traffic). At the next light, which was also red, a biker was already waiting. Noting that he was actually obeying the law, I slowed to a stop beside him.

"Didn't want to risk it, huh?" he asked me.

"Excuse me?" I replied.

"I saw you run the light back there, but figured you didn't want to tempt the cop on this one."

I tore my gaze from his full on uniform of spandex biker shorts with padded rear, neon yellow, fully reflective, safety patrol vest, light-reflective ankle strap, and aero-dynamic helmet complete with tiny rearview dental mirror mounted on the side, to glance in the direction he was thrusting his chin. I saw two cops parked in a patrol car at the curb facing the other direction, and figured they had bigger doughnuts to fry.

"Oh. Yeah," I said.

The light turned green, and dental mirror cut in front of me while vigorously making a ferociously correct turn signal with his left arm. As we sped down the bike lane of my dream street, Bergen, (a quiet, beautiful lane that is all brick homes and brownstones, and old gorgeous trees), I reflected on the fact that if one has to obey the same laws as other vehicles while biking, then the same road etiquette should be observed as well. In other words, don't talk to me just because I am not surrounded by the metal body of a car. Cut to me breaking the chin strap on my thirty dollar bike helmet within the first week of owning it. Then, insert several frames of me with the wind whipping my hair, feeling smug and healthy due to greenly (if sweatily) conveying myself to work. And then cut to a few months ago.

After zipping down my favorite stretch of my daily commute (the aforementioned Bergen Street), I hung a right on Smith and encountered some road construction which necessitated me biking the wrong way on a one way street for a block or so. Though I tempt fate by riding helmet-less and dental mirror-less, I do not flagrantly disobey laws in this manner, though I see other cyclists do it constantly. I slowly proceeded up the slight incline of Dean Street, until I encountered a parked van in the bike lane. I stopped in front of it, and peered cautiously around it to assess if there was any oncoming traffic. Seeing none, I nosed out into the street, intending to quickly whip around the van back to the relative safety of the bike lane. No sooner had I eased into the street than a black sedan came racing around the corner, showing no intention of stopping. I heard a faint roar of panic in my ears as I jerked my handlebars to the right trying to get out of the path of the oncoming car. As I did so, the front wheel locked up and I went flying over the handlebars, landing with a thud on the pavement. I eased myself to a standing position, and picked up my bike, my primary concern still evacuating the street. As I did so, I saw a brown hand with brightly colored nails emerge from the driver side window of the black sedan which had stopped a few feet from me. The hand made an impatient and repetitive "come here" motion, while the driver honked her horn several times. I realized belatedly that she was telling me to get out of her way, and was extremely irritated at being held up.

I was shocked by this. A kind lady on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street stopped the stroller she was pushing to call to me, "Are you alright?" As I limped to the shoulder with my bike, I replied, "I think so. Is she for real?" Nice lady said, "She's crazy. Ignore her." Meanwhile, a native Brooklynite pulled up behind the black sedan and as fingernails continued to berate me, he yelled to her in his thick New York accent, "What the fuck is wrong with you? She fell off her bike. Give her a fuckin' break, already. Jesus. Shut the fuck up!" I finally succeeded in reaching the sidewalk with my bedraggled self, and as she finally drove past me, fingernails paused long enough to say, "Fuck you, white girl. Fuck, you white bitch," with venomous hatred.

I was stunned. Not that white folks don't have some racism comin' their way, but this woman acted as if I had deliberately fallen and hurt myself in order to hold her up. Furthermore, she was the one in the nice car with time for a manicure, while I was the one on a second-hand bike with ragged cuticles on my way to my fifty hour work week. Also, I know I am a klutz, but what does that have to do with me being caucasian? I truly don't see the connection.

I walked the rest of my route to work, a broken spoke on my front wheel sproinging in the breeze. I met up with a co-worker outside Starbucks, and he helped me ferry my bike the rest of the way. I felt very grateful for him and his kindness, as I was in pain, covered in chain grease and street dirt, and feeling genuinely baffled about fingernails.

By the time I reached work and clocked in, everyone had heard about my mishap. I was very sore, but went ahead and worked an 11 hour shift, anyway, then woke up the next morning unable to move. When I returned to work the following day, a co-worker who had already heard the story of my fall, asked me to repeat it, and I did, as we were alone in a back room of the store. Unbeknownst to me, my boss was sequestered in what is jokingly referred to as the "super secret office," which is a small, windowless room inside the room we were occupying. A few hours later, he took me aside, and informed me that he had overheard me talking to my co-worker, and that I was not to repeat the story, because I could get in trouble with HR if another employee heard me, as I would sound racist. I was gobsmacked. As far I was concerned, what happened was a fact, and since it happened to me, I could tell any damn body I chose. I felt unnecessarily censored, and very much like I felt standing on the cop's front porch all those years ago. To whit, "I am the victim, here, Goddammit!" It was at precisely that moment that I realized without a doubt that being a supervisor in a grocery store is not the right career for me.

A colleague at work generously fixed Ol' Rock Hopper, and I was back in business, though a bit more jaded now. For instance, I was riding home in the bike lane on Union Street when an older man in a huge white van decided I wasn't far enough over and honked at me repeatedly. I let the road rage that has been in my bloodline for generations bubble to the surface as I screamed, "I'M NOT IN YOUR LANE, YOU STUPID OLD BASTARD!" And it felt right.

About a week after being back in the bike lane, my beau and I were getting ready for bed when we heard an odd pop and hissing sound near the front of the apartment. Upon investigation, my beloved found my youngest kitty, Madeline, seated beside Ol' Rock Hopper with her eyes wide and her ears flat on her head. Apparently, the rear tire threatened her in the night, and she responded by viciously attacking it. Somehow, she managed to flatten the nubby, all-terrain tire.

I know I should fix it. It's just taking up valuable space in my foyer, since it is no longer my primary conveyance. But, I have started to consider the possibility that maybe God himself doesn't want me to have a bike. And believe me, in New York in the dead of winter, an unlimited Metro Card is definitely something to have sex with.

Pocket Review of an Off Day in the Life

2009-09-11T11:13:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday was my off day, my “Saturday” if you will, since I work Saturday through Wednesday every week. I got up at 8ish (having opened at work for 5 days in a row, and therefore awakened at 4AM everyday, this was sleeping in for me) and dressed quickly to head into the city to attend my friend, Giverny's, yoga class. She is a dear friend and a wonderful instructor, and most generously, she comped me the class, since she is aware of my current financial situation.

As my feet hit the sidewalk outside my building, I noted the tiny bluster in the air, and the slightly steely skies, and thought, “It’s coming on autumn here in NYC.” I am thrilled, as this is my very favorite season. It always brings me memories of the best parts of my childhood as well as memories of a childhood that I didn’t actually get to experience. (Not to mention the fact that I like to be able to stand still without actively sweating. I’m spoiled, I know.)

While maneuvering the busy staircase at the Lafayette stop of the B train (my yoga mat thumping my hip with every step), I noticed multiple posters for a new Courteney Cox show reading, “Cougar Town! Forty is the new 20!” And I was forced to wonder, “What then, does that make 20? The new fetus?” I am skidding towards 40 at a rate that I prefer not to think about, (and starting to contemplate creating a fetus of my own) and perhaps that is why this term, “cougar” is so very offensive to me.

At the beginning of my relationship with Charles, he tried to desensitize me to our age difference by jokingly referring to me as a cougar. It was only after I HEATEDLY explained (multiple times) my definition of a cougar (a skinny, overly tanned woman in her mid-late 50’s who chain smokes Capri cigarettes and wears lots of animal prints and gold jewelry, and is invariably named “Sharon” or “Mitzi”) that he respected my ban of this word from our relationship lexicon. I’m not forty yet, and I don’t look like I will be anytime soon, but still, cougar just isn’t a funny or complimentary term to me. I have enough problems (back rent, around-the-clock calls from creditors, and a job that is not a good fit for me) as it is without being classified as a past-her-prime predator who is so desperate for attention that she will pursue anything with a pee pee.

All of this and more cart-wheeled through my brain as I lay on my back holding two palmsful of my own ass in yoga class. “Breathe, Brooke. Concentrate. Pick a focal point,” I admonished myself, and then realized there was a mirrored disco ball hanging directly above me. I simultaneously noticed that I could see a kaleidoscopic version of myself winking down on me. In this sliver there is a tiny slice of my black tank, and over here a snippet of bright orange toenail peeking from beneath the charcoal hem of my yoga pants, and in several tiny triangles of reflectivity, my own eyes gazing and blinking and gazing and blinking at me. Seeing myself in pieces was very appropriate and interesting. It reminded me of the description of the dragon in Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wind in the Door: “…a sea of eyes (merry eyes, wise eyes, ferocious eyes, kitten eyes, dragon eyes, opening and closing) and wings (in constant motion)."

I most definitely feel fractured just now. I don’t seem to have any of my former anchors. For example, I am no longer pursuing an acting career, and performing in play after play was something I could rely on as a touchstone for years. The women who play the parts of my parents are so overwhelmed by their own lives and circumstances, that they no longer have time for me, nor any visible inclination to guide me. I am still unable to support myself financially (in spite of a second raise and promotion with Trader Joe’s), and no one in my immediate circle, including my beau, seems able to empathize with what I am going through. I am grateful for this, because I wouldn’t want anyone I care about to be facing these challenges (I am exhausted like I have never been in my life), but it is still a bit lonely.

To combat the loneliness, I am revisiting some of my favorite things. I took a micro-break from reading books on curing my debt and elevating my self-esteem, and read a biography on Nancy Drew and the women who created her (this book was given to me by a friend for my birthday last year, and I FINALLY made time to actually read it.) This made me want to re-read some of the Nancy Drew Mystery stories from my youth, as this was my favorite childhood pastime, so I grabbed a few at the library. I have also been reveling in re-watching my “Absolutely Fabulous” DVD’s, and reviewing some old Hitchcock films that I forgot I had copies of (he is still unrivaled in his film-making genius).

Charles is in Italy on vacation, and I am thrilled for him. However, I am also so jealous that he is strolling in Tuscany and Florence while I am here toiling at work for 11 and 12 hours a day that I could just vomit. That makes me feel a bit disgusted with myself, because, really, how petty can I be? And then, the whole cycle of crap self-esteem begins anew.

After yoga class, I joined Giverny for lunch at the Moonstruck Diner, and though I felt a bit guilty about spending ten bucks on myself for lunch instead of coming home and making a sandwich, it was lovely to see her. Having ample time for my friends, and for socializing in general, is a thing of the past with my current job.

I left Giv and returned to my beloved Brooklyn. I was strolling down 8th Avenue in lovely Park Slope (on my way to see the therapist who is helping me keep my breakdown at bay, and who is paid for courtesy of Trader Joe’s insurance), when I listened to a message from my friend, Bryan, that made me laugh out loud. His boyfriend, Raoul, teaches 8th grade in Los Angeles, and Bryan said, “Just had to share, my favorite names in Raoul’s new class are Adonis and Hustler. Yes, someone named their child Hustler.”

Charles wants a child at some point, and I have been actually giving the idea some thought because I care for him so deeply. However, I am not sure that I am ever going to want to be a parent, nor am I sure that if I do want to be one, I’ll be able to physically conceive. This has been on my mind a lot lately, because Charles brings up children often, I have many friends who are getting married this year, and I just had a physical for the first time in two years. My doctor (whom I love) said if I want to have a baby, I better get down on it, because only 10% of women over 40 are able to conceive the old-fashioned way. This was a disheartening statistic, but I am not too worried, as I don’t really hear anything ticking, I am just trying the idea on to see if it is at all a possibility for me in the next three or four years.

Post-therapy, I passed a woman with a stroller that held two children comfortably, and I tried to imagine myself calling Bryan and saying, “Sorry I missed you, but I was at the park with little Aphrodite and Playboy!” Or, “I’m sorry I couldn’t pick up, but you know how fussy Xerxes and Barely Legal get when they don’t have their snacks!” I couldn’t picture it, somehow. Instead, I felt the cool silvery weight of my cell phone in my pocket, and suddenly wished I could whip it out and use it like a laser from the future to freeze everyone on my block – the black men in dreadlocks who never seem to work, but merely hang out in the street all day smoking weed and playing dominoes. The island women tossing phrases back and forth at one another across the street in their deafeningly loud Jamaican drawls. The children on their skateboards. The men on the stoop who said, “Look at that booty. I like that. I’d bite that booty,” as I walked by. Or the Dominican delivery boy riding his bicycle on the sidewalk and saying, “Mmmmm, you’re sexy, Mami,” in my ear at the precise moment he rode past me. Just freeze them all and make them be quiet for a minute. A full minute of quiet. Another full minute of off day.

Pocket Review of Totally Freaking Out

2009-07-25T10:09:00.000-07:00

So, I read a great book this week called, "Fear and Other Uninvited Guests" by Harriet Lerner, a well-known, Brooklyn-born, Topeka-dwelling psychiatrist. She states that the three uninvited guests that have the most significant impact on the lives of us all are: fear (obviously), anxiety, and shame - a sort of crap triumvirate. I am forced to agree with her. Most of us do, I think, walk around with an ass-ton of anxiety because we live in fear that we will be revealed as talentless charlatans, and thus be shamed in front of all humanity.

Other than offering the comfort that we all feel these dark emotions on some level, Dr. Lerner posits that giving voice to them is extremely helpful; as the more you internalize your shame and anxiety, the greater the power those emotions have over you. Apparently, the only thing worse than feeling afraid, anxious and ashamed, is feeling afraid, anxious, ashamed and isolated. These words resonated with me (as did the whole book. Lerner has a refreshing and approachable style. Following is one of my favorite passages: "Thumbing through my sixth grade diary, the record of a thoroughly miserable year, I found this quote I had typed and pasted on the page. 'I used to cry because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.' Obviously, this gave me some comfort. But comparing our suffering to that of others offers temporary relief at best. Maybe it helped me on some days to think about footless people, but on other days, I'd think about the girls in my class who had all their body parts plus boyfriends, and I'd feel worse.") So, to that end, let me say that I am aware that there are others who are in the same or much worse boats than I. Still, I am going to over-share, blog-style, in an effort to stunt the tumorous growth of my own shame.

Here's the deal: I am 38 years old, and I have accrued an insane amount of debt in the last 12 years while "pursuing my dream," (which was acting, but is now writing, though I would LOVE to act again) particularly in the last 2 plus years of living in New York. I feel like an utter failure, because it is somewhat easy for me to give myself a break regarding finances if I am engaged in creative pursuits, but much less so if I am supervising a grocery store. I am two months behind on my rent, and when I walked into the lobby of my building three days ago, I noticed that 1A, on the ground floor, had a notice taped to the door from the Marshall's office, reading that the apartment was now in the legal possession of the landlord. This has become my biggest fear, that I will see one of those notices on my door, and that I will be unable to get to and feed my two kittens. Also, one of my credit cards was sent to collections this week. Representatives from the collections agency call literally around the clock (as they are located in India), so I leave my phone on silent most of the time these days. It is very difficult to feel that one is a worthwhile human being when one is constantly harassed by creditors.

Here's how I got into this mess:

I fell and broke my rib and injured my face at the end of November, which meant I was unable to work either my part time job at Trader Joe's, or my freelance, well-paying job as a corporate meeting facilitator for nearly the entire month of December. I had no savings, and while I qualified for compensation for all of my medical bills, I did not qualify to be paid for time missed from work. Did I mention I had no savings (something I am not great at, anyway, and something which is doubly difficult in New York City)? Therefore, I charged many of my living expenses for that month. As of January, it became immediately clear that due to the state of the economy, my freelance work was at an all time low, and that enough jobs would not be coming in to sustain me. I made the choice to pursue a management position with Trader Joe's (one of the few corporations that has not been disastrously affected by the recession), thinking that a regular pay check every two weeks was better than no pay check at all. In the intervening period of three months that it took to make the definitive choice about "going full time," make my desires known to my boss at the store, and then train and succeed in getting promoted, I was making roughly 1/4 of my former income, and I responded by accruing still more debt. The promotion certainly helped, but I am now making around half of what I did when I had my freelance career.

Also, I took two trips (one in December, and one in June) to Los Angeles. One was to meet the baby of two of my dearest friends, and one trip was to attend the wedding of another of my dearest friends. In both cases, I used miles to purchase the plane tickets. In both cases, I had free places to stay. In both cases, because I am so rich in friendship, I was required to spend almost nothing, as everyone wished to take me out to eat. However, attending the wedding in June did necessitate me missing a few days of work for which I was not paid, which contributed to me being behind on my bills.

Here are the actions I have taken thus far to get out of this mess:

I entered "hardship" programs with all of my credit cards, thus negotiating a lower interest rate (in one case, for the life of the loan, in the other cases for one year), and am paying a significantly lower monthly minimum. The catch is that if I miss one payment, I will be removed from the hardship programs, and be required to pay the original minimums plus insane interest, which is why my money has been going to creditors instead of to rent. The one exception to this is the credit card that has recently gone to collections, because they refused to work with me. There are assistance programs available, but only for those with no feet - i.e. no jobs at all. No one cares if you are merely unshod.

Let me be clear that I haven't purchased things on credit like champagne and hookers. What I did purchase were things like a mattress and box spring, a window unit air conditioner, and the services of a green moving company to bring all of my belongings from L.A. Certainly, there were things I bought that I didn't need. However, in my former career, the client I worked for the most, required me to pay for all of my hotel rooms and cabs up front, and be reimbursed later. Sometimes, the timing of the reimbursement was off, and I was unable to pay off my credit card balances. I have no regrets about my former career, as I loved every second of it. I saw the world, which is something I am itching to continue to do (every day, on my way to work, I ride past an old blue sign that has faded, running ink, and reads, "Lady Barrow's Tours to Europe", and I think how badly I want to be her) and most importantly, I forged friendships that I expect to have for life. However, it is amazing how quickly debt accumulates.

I changed my phone plan, and started to utilize the "friends and family" offer, so that it is half as expensive as it was. I cancelled cable (which truly bums me out, as I like to unwind after work by watching a few episodes of "Family Guy" or "Seinfeld").

I am eating cereal everyday for breakfast and PB and J everyday for lunch.

My dear friend, Niambi, was kind enough to give me a bike that had been abandoned at her house by a former tenant. I invested the $300 necessary to get the bike safe and rideable, as well as purchase a helmet and a New York City-strength lock. I am biking to work everyday, which means that I do not have to purchase an unlimited monthly Metro card (a one way ride is now $2.25 - an absurd increase, even in the few years that I've lived here).

I recognized that, much as I wanted to, I would be unable to attend my 20 year high school reunions (one for Gardendale High School, which I attended through my sophomore year, and one for my magnet school, Shades Valley RLC, from which I actually graduated.)

I have given serious thought to moving, and trying to find a roommate. However, I am in my current lease until May of 2010, and I love my ghetto adjacent apartment. I have no idea where I would come up with the first/last and security deposits required to move, let alone all the penalties I would incur for breaking my lease (subletting is not allowed, and as my building manager is a friend, and lives on the first floor, I would not be able to sublet on the sly). Also, according to what's available on Craig's List, I would be saving only around $300 a month, to go from renting a one bedroom apartment, to renting a room in someone else's apartment, which is something, to be sure, but not nearly enough. (I could move to a less safe neighborhood that is much further from work and save money on rent, but then biking would no longer be an option.)

I would save around the same amount, it turns out, by doing something drastic like moving back to Birmingham. This is because rent is not as cheap there as I believed (an apartment in a safe neighborhood is $600-$700 per month, according to The Birmingham News, and my surrogate relatives there), and the expense of purchasing a car, insurance, and gas, pretty much takes care of the $400 per month that I would be saving in rent. Also, I love New York, and want to stay here. I love my boyfriend, and want to stay in my relationship, as it is one of the best things in my life. Finally, living alone contributes directly to my mental health. Ask any native New Yorker, including my boyfriend, and they will label living alone "a luxury." Ask me, and I will label it a necessity. Here's why: I work in retail, serving thousands of customers and hundreds of employees per day. I work a ten-hour shift. I have a minimum of one hour in commute time. If everything goes well, my day is only 13 hours long. If things go wrong, it is 15 plus hours long.

The other action I am taking, now, finally, is putting the word out. I need help. I brainstormed with a friend two days ago, about ideas for making extra cash. As I work around 50 hours a week already, the thought of getting a job on my two off days makes me want to burst into tears, but I did ask a former "joeworker" and friend if she needed help in the bar/restaurant she recently purchased with her husband. I am meeting with them this week. I thought of making bracelets on the same line "as live strong Lance Armstrong" except with fabric, and selling them on Facebook. I thought of writing witty phrases (such as, "I saved Brooke from bankruptcy!") for Pieces of Flair on Facebook, as well, but don't know if there is a way to make them purchasable. I don't have anything that I can sell off, though I have racked my brain.

What do you think? A psychic friend recently told me that I am afraid of my own success, which was news to me, as I thought I was afraid of being evicted and going bankrupt. Does anyone out there have any idea what I would be successful at (other than ending sentences with prepositions)? Does anyone have any money-making ideas, or know of any job opportunities that I could totally have sex with? Is anyone else in this situation? I have never been sent to collections in my life, or until recently even been late on my rent, so I don't know what to do. I have had a few full-blown panic attacks in the last few months, which are also new for me. I am trying to calm down, think positively, and invite more productive guests into my life, so any information would be so greatly appreciated.

Thank you for listening.

Pocket Review of Dating Younger

2009-04-23T14:22:00.001-07:00

In August of 2007, after living in New York for the better part of a year, I found myself between travel jobs, bored out of my gourd, and in need of extra income. I was shopping in my favorite market, Trader Joe's, when, on a whim, I asked for an application. It included questions that required a working knowledge of multiplication, long division, and fractions in order to provide the correct answers. This is knowledge that I possess, though barely. I have always cusped on retardation where mathematics is concerned. In any case, within three days, I was screened, interviewed, and hired. When David, one of the supervisors, called to tell me when to report for duty, I said, "Great! What do I bring? Just myself and my remedial math skills?" he laughed and disconnected.

I had shopped at Trader Joe's for all of my tenure in Los Angeles, after being introduced to it by my friend, Niambi, and the employees there always seemed happy to be at work. Still, having spent years cobbling an income out of this or that acting, decorating, catering, floral design, or travel gig, I was nervous about taking anything resembling a real job. I mean, there's a time clock, for God's sake.

My third day on the job, I was lunching in the break room when a beautiful girl in dreadlocks and multiple tattoos sat down at my table. Her name tag identified her as "Kim C."

Me: "How's it going?"

Kim C.: "So, what's your deal? Are you into guys or girls, or what?"

Me: "Ummmmmm....."

Kim C.: "Both?"

Me: "Ummmmm...."

Kim C.: "It's cool, either way."

Me (thinking she was trying, albeit clumsily, to pick me up): "I skew towards straight."

Kim C.: "That's cool."

Me: "Yeah."

Kim C. :"I have to ask, I mean it's Trader Joe's."

Me: "Umkay."

This was my first indicator that the Joe is an incestuous sex pool. I decided in that moment that dating at work was a loser move. I also decided that, being a bit older than the average employee, the chances of me meeting someone there with whom I shared any interests were pretty slim. (I was wrong, though. Dead wrong. Two of my dearest friends in life are former Joeworkers.) I later learned that Kim also skews straight, and was undercover in an attempt to gather info about me for some of the male employees, (these days, though, she assures me she is no longer a double agent, but only works for me).

One such employee, Chuck, was kind of a mystery to me. He was really nice, and as he had been working there for over a year, seemed to know all the ins and outs of the Joe. He was always willing to share this knowledge, and always in a good mood. Still, I didn't quite know what to make of this big white kid in his giant pants, XXL T-shirts, and Yankees caps. His constant hip hop references also threw me. I mean, was this just the way native Manhattanites dressed and behaved, or what? I was forced to rely on "Urban Dictionary" and other similar websites in order to decipher phrases like, "Good lookin' out," and "What's good?" or, "Fall back a little."

I was further confused when, towards the end of my first week of work, I was ringing up a customer on register one, and Chuck walked up and grabbed my cheek saying, "Look at that face. If I weren't so broke, I'd take you out for a drink after work." I said something along the lines of, "I don't think so, Jr. In Arkansas, where they start in the tweens, I'm almost old enough to be your mother." He didn't give up easily though, and proceeded to tell me all about himself while we were stocking chips together a few nights later. Mostly, his stories were of his checkered youth, (his "youth" transpiring maybe two years prior to this conversation). As his diatribe continued, I also learned that he was adopted, had Jewish parents, and became obsessed with hip hop music and culture after discovering the Wu-tang Clan at the ripe old age of ten. The whole time, I kept thinking, "I am not attracted to this person." And, "Why is he telling me this? We have nothing in common."

Later in the week, I went out for a few drinks with some of my new co-workers, Chuck among them. He spent most of the evening trying unsuccessfully to convince me that he wasn't too young for me. I had purchased toilet tissue and a few other necessities before leaving work, and had these items with me in a paper shopping bag (this would mark the beginning of a long tradition of my never going out after work without being saddled like a burro with groceries I had purchased prior to closing). One drink led to another, and me being a lightweight, I ended up on the street outside a bar called Finnerty's, having been ushered out at closing time with my comrades. Though many of the details are fuzzy to me, I do remember seeing my six-pack of toilet tissue lying on the sidewalk like roadkill, and then slowly realizing that I was holding the handle - just the handle - to my paper shopping bag in my left hand. Somewhere in the midst of this, Chuck asked me for a good night kiss. I refused, slurringly telling him that I wasn't really interested in him, or in being the office skank. He suggested we walk around the corner, out of eyeshot of our colleagues, and apparently, I did kiss him, though I have no memory of it. That evening ended with me illegally packed into a yellow cab with six other people (Chuck not among them), sitting on the lap of a man named Dwayne (who had the actual black power pick with the clenched fist handle protruding from his hair), and racing uptown to 57th street, A.K.A. the opposite direction of where I live. (Note to self: Do NOT go out drinking with the crew from the Joe).

Chuck asked me out several more times, and I turned him down several more times. My reasons were varied: he asked me out via text message instead of calling, we had nothing in common, he was far too young for me, I didn't want to date someone from work, etc, etc. In the midst of this flirtation, Chuck got promoted to supervisor, which means he is not allowed to date anyone who works in the same store with him, and he stopped asking for dates. I chalked it up to all for the best, since I couldn't even decide if I was attracted to him or not.

Over a year went by, during which we would periodically text or chat for a few days here and there. Or, we would go on break together occasionally. I always found him easy to talk to, though I could also find him extremely irritating. More than once, I deleted him from my phone. All of this culminated in Chuck being the one to take me to the emergency room when I fell at work at Thanksgiving, and since then, I have looked at him in a new way. I realized I was attracted to him, and even worse, that I actually liked him. After more than a month of negotiations (with him about our relationship potential), I transferred to the Brooklyn store in January, and we started to date in earnest.

Though I would definitely not classify myself as a high school teacher from Florida, or anything, this is not the first time I have dated someone younger. My senior year of high school, I dated a sophomore, which at a magnet school full of nerds is not as socially suicidal as it sounds. Also, my long term beau, Ryan, was four years younger than me. I never gave our age difference much thought until we went to see Prince in concert at the Staples Center in Los Angeles. He was performing for five nights, and every night, he had a different opening act, which was not posted or announced prior to show time. As the usher directed us to our seats, I asked who that night's opening act was and was thrilled when he said, "Morris Day and the Time." I turned excitedly to Ryan and said, "Did you hear that, Buddy? Morris Day and the Time!!!" He replied, "Morris who and the what now?" Other than that incident, though, there were few times when our slight age difference occurred to either of us, and our relationship lasted for nearly eight years. Our common desire not to reproduce was a significant contributing factor to the longevity of our relationship.

However, with Chuck, (or Charles, as I prefer to call him) the child issue has reared its ugly, baby-powder-smelling little head again. Not once, but several times. Chuck would really like to have a child, and I have long thought that I really wouldn't. Though having seen baby pictures of Chuck, I am willing to at least consider it (he was EXCEPTIONALLY adorable). But, this is a deal-breaker issue after all, and to that end, I have initiated a few serious discussions about it. After the last time we talked about parenthood, I had the following dream:

I was in labor, but rather than taking a taxi or ambulance, I was making the entire journey to the hospital in a wheelchair. Chuck was pushing me, and as we finally crossed the threshold of the emergency room, a nurse at a huge circular desk said, "Oh. Hello there, Ms. Wood. We were expecting you. Can I get you anything?" I said, "Yes. I want this exact CD (and I held up and shook a copy of a mixed disc that Chuck made me in real life), and some PLAN B, Goddammit!" The nurse responded, "Oh, I'm afraid it's a little late for that. You see, you're already in labor." I replied, "You asked me what you could get me, and I told you. I WANT the morning after pill, NOW!!!" The nurse insisted in an infuriatingly cheerful, singsong voice that it simply wasn't an option, and furthermore, that they had no CD's. I said, "Well, I guess I just won't get ANYTHING I want today!" Chuck started to push me towards the operating theatre (A big one, surrounded by stadium seats, and huge plexiglass windows - reminiscent of the Junior Mint episode of "Seinfeld", or a hockey rink), but to get there, we were required to descend endless cases of M.C. Escheresque stairs. It was a bumpy and disconcerting ride. A white coat-clad doctor was waiting at the bottom of the last flight of steps, and after merely glancing at me, he told me that my appendix was going to burst, and that we would have to take the baby out immediately, even though my labor had not progressed to the point of birth naturally. In the same, irritable voice I had used with the nurse, I yelled, "My baby should get to come out when SHE wants to, and not when YOU say she should!" "She should only come out when SHE'S ready!!!" Then, I woke up.

I'm no psychologist, but it seems pretty clear that I have some deep and conflicted emotions about becoming a parent. I know that those emotions are rooted in my experiences with my own parents, and that makes sense to me. I also know that I don't believe it is necessary to become a parent to be truly fulfilled in life. Even though this is by no means a decision I have to make right now, I do feel that it is a decision I need to ponder as I am not inclined to invest a lot of time in something that is doomed to fail because we know at the outset that we want different things.

Chuck is a truly wonderful person, and I have an attachment to him that is always surprising to me. We are constantly told how cute we are together. I would like to believe that age doesn't matter, but it probably does. We are in radically different places in our lives. He is juggling two careers - supervising at Trader Joe's, and being a hip hop producer (he has his own studio). We spend very little time together, especially now that I am also a supervisor at Trader Joe's (our average shift is ten hours, and usually a bit longer, not including commutes). And very often, lately, I feel like the me in my dream: a petulant child having a tantrum because she can't control things that are already WAY beyond her control.

My mood is no doubt influenced by the fact that I never expected to be managing a grocery store for a living, especially at this point in my life. There is zero shame in this occupation - it is a wonderful company to work for, and filled with great folks. It's just a different destination than I had envisioned for myself. A few days ago, when a customer came up to me and asked where she could find the "vanilla abstract," it gave me pause. I am not gonna lie. I took a minute to reflect on exactly what I want my life to look like.

Here's what I came up with:

I want to own a home (preferably a brownstone).

I want to write for a living.

I want to have a long term relationship with someone whose core values are in line with mine. Marriage is OK, but not necessary, as long as this partner and I are committed to sharing our lives together. (I am over the long separation bullshit, and the no time for the things that really matter crap. I have done those themes to death.) And, a single child is up for discussion, though I am making no promises.

I always believe that things happen as they should, so I am certain that reconsidering what I truly want in life is a big part of why I am in this particular job at this particular time, and in this particular relationship at this particular time. However, more and more recently, it seems that Chuck and I do not want the same things, and that saddens me. I genuinely love this guy, but I wonder: how do you know when something is irresolvable? At what point do you call it? How does anyone do a good job of caring for themselves and also caring for a partner? Everything seems a bit indecipherable to me just now. It seems that everyone I know is at some sort of crossroads, and struggling mightily. My big wish is for it to get MUCH easier for us all. Easy is something I could definitely have sex with, right now. Definitely.

Pocket Review of the Hearing Impaired

2009-04-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

From the age of five until the age of 12, I lived in a part of Birmingham called East Lake. Now, it is a drug-infested ghetto, (I drove through with my half brother a few years ago, and it was all listing, fatigued houses with peeling turquoise trim; sofas sagging under the weight of stray dogs, and porches sagging under the weight of stray sofas) but then, it was a fun place to play; what with the actual lake (man-made) and a separate creek (naturally occurring) nearby.

Every Saturday during these years, my mother would wake me by blasting The Fifth Dimension ("Up, Up and Away" still sends chills down my spine) from our 8 track player. Not content to merely wake me, she would insist on serenading me (read: torturing me) by intermittently popping into my room on the choruses. From my larvae sac of bed linens, I would hear a click followed by a whoosh of air as my door was flung open, and the previously dulled voice of Marilyn McCoo sharpened and filled my chamber, my mother (mostly tunelessly) joining in: "...less egg to FRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY..." This cycle was repeated until a loud "KaTHUNK" signaled the end of the track, or I agreed to help her clean the townhouse we shared with my stepmonster. The reward for this enforced labor was a shopping trip to one of the many local malls (one of which is unfortunately called "Brookwood Village." I was mocked unmercifully all through school), which usually resulted in me receiving an ice cream cone from Baskin and Robbins, if nothing else.

When I was about six years old, mother and I made one of these Saturday excursions to a store called World Bazaar. A forerunner to Michael's or World Market, World Bazaar sold things like silk flowers, baskets of every description, and giant feathers on sticks. It was the type of place with papason chairs scattered throughout, and the scent of sandalwood leaking from every macrame'd plant holder. My craft-oriented mother (who was going through an "ethnic" phase at the time, and whose palette of choice was salmon, navy and chocolate) felt right at home there. It was the mid-seventies, after all, and nearly all of our home furnishings involved wicker.

On this particular trip, I was hanging out on the dried flower aisle, amusing myself by shaking a variety of pods to see which made the most satisfying rattle. Mother was elsewhere in the store, purchasing supplies for her ceramics class (She was notorious for leaving me on my own while shopping. More times than I can count, I turned to find I was asking a complete stranger if I should get Fruity Pebbles or Honeycomb, or worse, found myself totally alone on the aisle.) While conducting my own symphony in pod minor, I failed to hear an older gentleman with straggly white hair and graying Neil Young sideburns approach me. He had on a chambray work shirt and jeans, and was extending a small, yellow business card to me. I took it, and he smiled. I smiled back. Then suddenly, all of the warnings my young brain had been filled with kicked in, and I ran like hell until I found my mother, leaving the rustling "flowers" spinning on the sales floor in my wake.

When I caught up with mom, I looked at the card in my hand, and noticed that it featured a series of tiny drawings of hands in different positions. This was the American Sign Language alphabet, and there was a type-written message on the back that said, "Hello! I am deaf! Have a nice day!" with a little smiley face. My mom saw what I was looking at, and said, "Where'd you get that?" When I explained, she said, "He just wanted money."

In retrospect, I doubt that's true. I mean, nowadays, a six year old is likely to have at least a sawbuck on them, as well as a cell phone and ipod, but not so back in the day. The chances of me having had shoes on my person are slim, (being as it was hotter than the hinges of hell in Alabama in the summertime), let alone discretionary income. Also, he seemed very benevolent, this deaf man. [This is not true of the "deaf" that I encounter on the New York subway, by the by. Instead of cards, they have mimeographed (wait, does that still exist? Or is it just photo-copied? Is my brain just damaged from all the purple ink I inhaled in elementary school?) pieces of paper that they have copied until the ink is faded in every word. There is no alphabet, but merely a blatant request for money. If you fail to meet this request, the "card" is jerked away.] A few hours later, when I realized I had had an encounter with an actual deaf person, my first grade self felt thrilled, and just a teensy bit repulsed. Against my mother's wishes, I kept the card and learned the alphabet, practicing by signing the names of the actors in the credits of M*A*S*H and Barney Miller, which I watched every night after the evening news.

Several years later, as part of my seventh grade gifted program, we did a section on sign language, and my interest was renewed. I had kept up with the alphabet, and picked up a few other signs along the way ("turtle" and "shoes" being my favorites). In Mrs. Burch's class, we were introduced to the SEE method - "Signing Exact English." The signs I learned in this course have stayed with me, predominately the entire Pledge of Allegiance. In fact, while tipsy in a Los Angeles karaoke bar, I accidentally discovered that if I sign the pledge while someone else is singing, it looks as if I am signing the actual words to the song. (This and coaster flipping are my only real pub tricks.)

I would be a senior in high school before I had another encounter with a deaf person. At the beginning of that year, I dated someone who was two years younger than me. His sister, who was my age, was working in a factory on the weekends, but making good money which she was saving for a car. The factory was part of a company called Snow's, which was a local version of the Hallmark Store. In addition to the greeting cards and stuffed animals that they sold year-round from their storefront in Century Plaza mall, Snow's sold shoe bows (hideous plaid accessories that looked like they belonged on a gift, not a sneaker) and jingle bell pendants (giant brass bells hung on red or green satin cords) at Christmas time. These were handmade in a warehouse space in downtown Birmingham.

I was also in the market for a car, and applied at Snow's when I heard that they paid "incentive income" in addition to the hourly wage for every bow/bell that one made over the expected daily quota. I was hired, and after the initial Laverne and Shirleyness wore off, I hated nearly every second of it (We were actually called to and from breaks with a clanging bell. We were allowed to talk only on our half hour lunch breaks, or one of our two daily 15 minute breaks. All of our actions were rigorously monitored by a rigid, heavyset forewoman named Debbie.)

However, one day early on, I met an older, timid African American woman in the ladies' room of the factory. It was immediately clear that she was hearing impaired, so I timidly signed her a few questions. I learned that her name was Flora, the same as my maternal grandmother, and a friendship was born. On subsequent breaks, I sought Flora out in the restroom, and learned that she had attended a well-known school for the deaf and blind in the nearby town of Talladega, where she had met her husband, who was also deaf. She was kind and interesting, telling me all about her children (five - all hearing), and patiently correcting my clumsy signing. She was forever reminding me to speak as I signed, because she was also very proficient at reading lips. Typically, I was so intensely focused on my hands that I failed to do this, and this prompted a young, redneck, co-worker to take time out from applying lipstick in the mirror to loudly comment, "Who does she think she is, talkin' with her hands like that? Is she talkin' about us behind our backs in front of our faces with that colored woman?" I quit Snow's soon after, and lost touch with Flora.

About a year later, I was in the East Lake Krispy Kreme, purchasing doughnuts for my then boyfriend, who wasn't feeling well. This was our spot, and we spent many an hour there, sitting at the counter eating "hot now" original glazed globs of heaven, and speculating on why it is necessary for the employees to wear hard hats while working in the kitchen area. (I mean, what's in those doughnuts?) Still, though, I would totally have sex with a Krispy Kreme fresh off the conveyor belt, so take THAT, "America runs on Dunkin'." In any case, on this occasion, the woman ahead of me in line was deaf, and was having difficulty communicating her order to Eunice, who worked behind the counter. I intervened, forgetting as always to speak while I signed. In the middle of this exchange, the bell on the door tinkled, and a woman joined the queue behind me. Just as I was turning to Eunice to give her deaf woman's order, I felt a hand on my arm, and the new arrival leaned into my face and bellowed, "YOU ARE SO PURTY! IT'S A SHAME THAT YOU'RE DEAF!!!!" I wanted to explain to her that she was mistaken, but I was struck speechless. I mean, really, what do you say to that?

My final brush with deaf occurred in 1997, when I was hired along with several college friends to assist with an event at the new Mercedes plant in Tuscaloosa County. This two million dollar party was orchestrated in conjunction with the release of the film, The Lost World, and was intended to promote the new M Class vehicle. Originally, Whitney Houston was slated to be the entertainment, but at the last minute she was replaced with a local employee singing, "Mercedes Benz," and Heather Whitestone, the deaf Alabamian who had been awarded the title of Miss America a few years previously. This news surprised those of us on the crew, who had seen several rehearsals, and were expecting a broadway-esque live music show. When he heard the new roster, my friend, Jim, (whom, it must be said, REALLY wanted to see Whitney) said, "What is she gonna do? Say, 'This is the quietest car I have ever ridden in?' " It's beyond wrong, I know, but seeing Jim say this complete with with his own version of sign language was one of the funniest things I have ever seen, especially after an exhausting week of ten hour shifts in the September sun. In the end, Miss Whitestone's talent was a dream ballet, which was nice, but bland, and provoked at least one co-worker to ask, "How does she hear the music?"

I have forgotten many of the signs I learned over the years, though there were moments in the past when I considered becoming a certified interpreter. However, I occasionally still wonder what it is like to be deaf, like when I am on an exceedingly loud train platform, or when I am trying to sleep through the fifth car alarm of the night. Most often though, I ponder this when I find myself on crowded planes with screaming youngsters. Something about that particular situation turns me into Samuel L. Jackson, and my internal monologue becomes: "GET THESE MUTHAFUCKIN' KIDS OFF THIS MUTHAFUCKIN' PLANE!" Ultimately, I just plug in my ipod, which amounts to the same thing, and feel grateful that I have a choice about when to employ the insulation.

Pocket Review of Passover, or "A Gentile at the Table"

2009-04-11T08:56:00.000-07:00

Passover (Hebrew, Yiddish: פֶּסַח, Pesach (help·info), Tiberian: pɛsaħ, Israeli: Pesah,Pesakh, Yiddish: Peysekh, Paysokh) is a Jewish and Samaritan holy day and festival commemorating the Hebrews escape from enslavement in Egypt, and is the seven day Feast of the Unleavened Bread (it lasts eight days in the diaspora).^[1]

My young man is Jewish. Well, at least his adoptive parents are. Really, he's Jew...ISH. Before I ever met them, his parents invited me to the Passover dinner they host at their home every year. After some discussion, Charles (aforementioned young man) and I decided maybe it would be better if I met them in a more intimate setting, versus being overwhelmed with his entire extended family at one go. As a result, I first met his parents (and sister) several weeks ago, when I attended a Shabbos dinner (Shabbos being the seventh day of the Jewish week and a day of rest in Judaesim) at their Manhattan apartment.

I was nervous for several reasons; the predominant ones being that I haven't met a boyfriend's parents in over ten years, and (mostly) that I was unsure of how they would receive my gentile self. I told my guy that if they didn't dig me, he was welcome to tell them that I am merely his "goy toy." Happily, that was unnecessary, as we had a very nice time. His parents are fun, interesting, and well-traveled. His father, Michael, is a judge, (which prompted me to tell Charles that I would be addressing his dad as "Your honor," but in a Brooklyn accent throughout the meal, saying things like, "Yo, ya honuh, can I holla at that challah?"), and his mother, Jacqueline, is a research chemist turned lawyer who works for the office of the Attorney General. They are also (to my relief) quite liberal. Apparently, I got the Kosher for Passover seal of approval, because when I asked Charles what they thought of me a few days later, he patted my cheek, and said, "They're feelin' the kid. They're feelin' the kid."

Because Charles was unable to get the first night of Pesach off from work, I ended up attending a Thursday night seder with him and his family at the home of some old friends, instead. When he first extended this invitation to me, some low-grade anxiety took over, and my mind unwillingly conjured an image of the worst possible seder ever, myself cast in the role of most obnoxious Passover guest in history.

In my mind's eye, I saw myself in a skimpy black dress, patent leather boots, and lots of make-up, angel food cake in one hand, and a spiral ham in the other with a giant, emblingened (another word I made up, meaning to be encrusted with Bling) crucifix swinging from my neck. I would bray things like, "Is this seat taken? It's not, right? Whaddaya mean it's for Elijah?" through a wad of gum. Or, "Stop talking funny, and let's eat! Jesus, I'm starving over here!" or, "What are you doing with that knife? I'm circumcised, alright?"

On Thursday, I met Charles at work in Union Square, and as it was a lovely afternoon, and we had lots of time, we decided to stroll up to midtown, where the dinner was taking place. On the way, we passed a bakery that (according to him) has the best red velvet cupcakes in the city. While standing on the sidewalk with our noses pressed to the glass, we debated going in, but decided against it. Charles said, "We probably shouldn't eat cupcakes before a seder. They'll smell the leavening on us, and all eyes will go to you, gentile." I replied, "Hey. You still have plenty of time to push me into traffic, and grab a nice Jewish girl that you can pass off as Brooke Woodenberg, but do not underestimate my shiksappeal." He noted that the bakery closed at ten, and suggested we try to duck out of dinner in time to head back there for dessert.

We were the first to arrive at the rambling apartment of our hosts, and were immediately greeted by three hopping, barking dogs, ranging in size from large to extra small. The hostess, Joni, crossed the kitchen with her hand extended to me, saying, "We have lots of dogs!" I responded, "Oh, I love animals, obviously," and gestured at Charles, who is currently sporting a beard of Paul Bunyan proportions. So magnificent is his facial hair, that, mid-seder he was introduced as, "All the way from ancient Egypt, ladies and gentlemen, the hero of our story, Moses!"

Charles's old school friend, whose name I will never spell correctly, and therefore will refer to as Jeff Jr., led the seder. He is smart and extremely charismatic and did an excellent job of guiding us through each step of the meal. He and his family have a more modern take on Pesach, as they quote Leonard Cohen, and sing the Jeff Buckley version of "Hallelujah," one of my most favorite songs, ever. There was lots of humor and love involved in addition to the Hebrew prayers that are said and sung. Jeff Jr. said that it was his hope that everyone present could use this time of togetherness to air their tensions with one another as a family, and come to one another with an open palm instead of a closed fist. I thought this a lovely sentiment, though I was momentarily concerned that the evening could turn into an episode of Jerry Springer: bubbes pitted against kinder, brothers slapping sisters, husbands leaping over the table for the throats of their wives...gefilte fish and bitter herbs flying in their wakes and scarfed down by one of the three dogs or the geriatric cat.

The first hour and a half to two hours of a seder is devoted to distracting the guests from their extreme hunger by offering them wine and decoy food, such as sliced vegetables dipped in salt water, while stories are read. I myself demolished almost an entire plate of kosher dills in this interval, hoping that the sound of my teeth tearing the crisp pickle flesh would drown out the growling triceratops I had stowed in my stomach prior to arriving. Charles's sister, Simone, sat on my right, and after realizing that I had never attended a seder before, took time out from her love affair with Monroe (the newest puppy in the house), to explain the meanings of the stories and questions to me.

Jeff, Sr. also made a point to include me, as he brought a bowl filled with photographs down to my end of the table, and instructed me to choose one. This was to put a face with the segment of the meal in which examples are given of the wise child, the simple child, the wicked child, and the child who doesn't know how to ask. Since I chose my picture, I was able to categorize my child and explain why I did so. The photo was of Jeff Jr. and his great grandmother. He is smiling and happy and standing beside her on a porch. I proclaimed him to represent the wise child, as he looks loving and respectful, and his bond with his elder is apparent. Michael, Charles's dad, complimented me, saying my comment was astute (a statement with which I didn't necessarily agree, as I was faint with hunger, and not at my best; but I was glad he noticed that I was making an effort to participate).

Michael ("Ya Honuh") is a lovely man who is all the dearer to me because he is blind in his left eye, and therefore has no depth perception. This consistently makes him the only person at the table who is klutzier than I am. I also admire his unfailingly positive attitude, and his love of music (Charles inherited both of these qualities, though he loves hip hop and his dad loves opera.) Another quality Charles shares with his dad is an appreciation of cornball humor. E.G.: there is a segment in every seder when a large round of matzoh is broken into one small piece and one large piece, and passed around the table symbolizing how the Jews fled Egypt so quickly that they didn't have time to leaven the bread. Matzoh is dry, bumpy, and let's face it, a bit cardboardy. As we prepared to bite into our pieces of matzoh, Michael told the following:

"Two friends are at a seder, and one of the friends is blind. The sighted man passes a piece of matzoh to his friend, and after feeling it for a moment, the blind man says, "Who wrote this crap?"

Michael and Jacqueline gave us a ride back to my Brooklyn abode, and as we crossed the Manhattan Bridge, Jacqueline asked me what she referred to as the "litmus question" - "You didn't vote for George W. Bush, did you?" I replied, "God, no. I had to stop listening to the news, because the sound of his voice made me want to puke blood." We had an interesting chat about politics and the election while Charles alternately dozed and gazed at the full, buttery moon with me. It was a lovely evening, made even lovelier when Charles surprised me by pulling a bag of red velvet cupcakes from the trunk of his mom's car (that he had secretly purchased while "walking his sister out" after dinner).

I am not religious, preferring mainly to stick with the golden rule, though I do believe in the divine. It's just that the how and the why and all of the ritual associated with most organized religions is not necessary to me. I was happy to discover that Charles feels the same. That said, it was truly wonderful to be able to observe first hand the deep and historic rituals associated with someone else's faith, and to be made to feel so welcome in the course of it.

My own surrogate parents, Kay and Barbara, faithfully attend a Methodist church in my hometown of Birmingham, in spite of the fact that they often disagree with the messages issuing from the pulpit. When I asked Kay about this, she replied, "Going there for that hour or so every week prompts me to think on what it is I DO believe." Passover provided the same for me. And, I would definitely have sex with those red velvet cupcakes.

Pocket Review of Death

2009-03-13T10:53:00.000-07:00

Two big things have happened to me in the last two months. Well, three, actually (things, not months).

1. I had to put my kitty, Oscar, whom I had for 17 of his 18 years, to sleep (Yes, I am one of those single women who loves cats. Deal with it. I have never owned more than two at a time, therefore, I still have hope of marrying). It was absolutely the right time, and absolutely heartbreaking. Yes, 17 years is a long life, but he was with me through three cities, 13 moves (as noted in a previous review, I'm a freakin' gypsy), two cars (the watershed moment of trading Hannah Honda in for Loretta the Jetta) , and three broken relationships, not to mention all the sub- relationships and friendships that fell away over the years. This little guy was my rock, and I miss the crap out of him.

2. I have started dating a significantly younger man which is a WHOLE other review; but if it works out, the chances of me not having to suffer through his death are really strong, so that's good.

3. A friend that was not terribly close, but whom I deeply admired, died of cancer a week ago.

My response to death is not so much, "Oh, shit! I don't wanna die!!!," though I don't. It's more, "Oh shit! Who else that I love is going to die?" I experienced this panic and irrational fear with my mom (I didn't want to go away to college, in case something happened to her - I thought I could prevent it) right after my dad died, and I experienced it with Oscar after I had to put my kitty, Felix, to sleep. This means that I have spent the last five years dreading the day that Oscar's health would fail, and it has been difficult. I'm like Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, constantly leaning over the crib in the night to see if the baby's still breathing. However, I now realize that my mom needs to be put to sleep, and I'm learning more and more everyday that trying to control the uncontrollable is a FUTILE pursuit, energy-waster, and time-killer. Aforementioned younger man is Mr. Right Now, and I am assuming I need to learn from that.

Oscar came into my life in 1992. I had been attending a local community college in Birmingham, following my father's untimely death, when I started dating a crush from high school. The crush turned to love, the love led to an engagement, and I transferred to the University of Alabama to be with this person, who (unbeknownst to me) was an abusive alcoholic. In the salad months before I would come home everyday to find him drunk in his bathrobe in a sea of Dorito crumbs watching "Green Acres" from our bed, we decided to adopt a dog at the local humane society.

I believe in pound animals and saving their lives, but I hate seeing them all in their little pet prisons, desperate to be chosen. As we walked the gauntlet of cages (cats on the left, dogs on the right), Abusive Alcoholic went right for a golden retriever, and I went right for a black and white domestic short-haired feline. He had markings like a Holstein, and immediately flopped over on his back, and offered me his chin to scratch. From that moment, we were in love, Oscar and me. The workers at the shelter had named him "Charlie", and told me that he was way past his expiration date, but they couldn't bring themselves to put him down, since he was so sweet. We signed the papers, changed his name, and took him home.

The first two weeks were rough. Oscar had a bit of difficulty adjusting to our two bedroom apartment. On his second night with us, I was awakened by his bobcat-like wailing at four in the morning, and ran into the living room naked, to find him climbing the drapes that concealed the sliding glass doors to the balcony. Extricating him from the drapes proved tricky, as I was semi-conscious and trying to point his fully extended claws away from my fully exposed flesh, and he was in a state of high dudgeon. It appeared that he was intent on escape, and willing to climb the castle walls to do so. I couldn't understand this ("You're getting three squares a day, buddy! What's the prob?"), and tried to put him at ease.

However, I unwittingly contributed to his anxiety the very next day, by walking towards him and trying to pick him up while wearing some slippers that were called "mouseshoes" as they were made to look like giant, stuffed gray mice (my feet went where the mouths would be). I couldn't understand his terror, as I chased him the length of the apartment with these ridiculous rats on my feet, and stomped down the hall saying, "Come here, sweetie! I just want to LOVE YOU!" Eventually, I found him hanging upside down from the box spring of our bed, Sylvester-style. Ultimately, he came to understand that I had saved his life (from euthenasia, not giant mice) and was utterly devoted to me from that point forward.

About a year after I got Oscar, Felix found me. He just showed up out of nowhere at my mother's house one day, and blended in for more than a week. My mother, you see, truly IS a crazy cat lady, and has five to nine cats at all times. Felix was a cute little solid black kitty (well, save a small finger-print sized white spot in his left armpit. Supposedly, it is still rare to find a truly solid black cat, because many of them were burned as witches back in the day), and I drove him to my college pad following a weekend trip home. He was an angel, and slept all the way, curled up in the passenger seat.

It became immediately clear, however, that Felix suffered from classic second child syndrome. He was totally spoiled and into EVERYTHING. Oscar would calmly sit by the window and sound the alarm, meowing loudly and insistently when Felix would do things like attack the screen in my garage apartment, and therefore, fall one story out the window to the ground below. Though it took Oscar a few years to truly love and accept Felix, he always understood his duty as Number One Dog Kitty, and never failed to say, "Timmy's in the well! Timmy's in the well!" whenever Felix needed rescuing.

Oscar lived through me giving him the wrong amount of pet tranquilizers on my drive out to Los Angeles from Alabama (so, he had the equivalent of what appears to have been a four day acid trip), Feline diabetes, the reversal of same diabetes, and eating a needle and thread from a knitting project I was working on. He didn't live through what now seems to have been intestinal cancer, (but was diagnosed as kitty inflammatory bowel syndrome).

I knew a bit about what to expect, since Felix also had diabetes, and had to be put to sleep about four years ago, as we could never get his insulin regulated. But, making the choice to take the life of someone you love is so very painful. People say, "They're like your children," but that's not so. They ARE your children. You make an agreement, just as you would with a human child, and that is that you will give them the best quality of life, possible, and if necessary, be with them when that life ends. I held Felix when he was put to sleep and I did the same with Oscar. Both times, I felt like a murderer. Oscar's quality of life had radically diminished, but still... Grief is such a sneaky thing. You feel it brush up against you in the water, but you don't know it's a jellyfish until your leg's on fire. And, for weeks afterward, you're finding new spots where the tentacles stuck to you. I wonder if my young man will hold me when I'm euthenized...

A close friend of mine lost a close friend of hers to cancer about a month ago. Then, my acquaintance, Bev, passed away last week after a second bout with cancer. She was a lovely lady - inside and out. In every memory I have of her, she is smiling.

Everything feels a bit sad at the moment. I'm not dead. I'm not terminally ill. I am loved and friended and surviving. But, these are evaluators, these three things. And, at the moment, I am spending lots of time on my off days clad in sweats - the official ensemble of grief, wearing Violette (my surviving kitty) like a stole around my neck, and wasting lots of time looking at the same old photos. To sum up, death is something that I would definitely not have sex with (because, among other things, I am not Alice Cooper.)

Twenty Five Random Things

2009-02-06T12:54:00.000-08:00

25 RANDOM THINGS

I don’t know how random this will be, as I feel weirdly pressured to be clever, and may obsessively edit this before it is publicly consumed. Nah… I don’t have time to write it, as it is. Bring it, stream of consciousness!

1. I have been putting off starting a blog because I feel it is very self-indulgent.

2.On February 12^th, my father will have been dead for 21 years. Next year, I will be the same age he was when he died. I have lived longer without him in my life than I did with him in my life, and just typing that still makes me feel like someone took a potato peeler to my insides.

3. I got my first ipod, (Generation – First. Style - Mini. Name - Pinky Tuscadero) several years ago, and every time I would listen to it in the first two months of owning it, I was possessed of a neurotic fear that I would publicly fart without my knowledge.

4. I absolutely loathe Las Vegas, Nevada.

5. When I was 5 or 6 years old, I asked the preacher at our local church (First Baptist, of Gardendale, Alabama) if Adam and Eve were cavemen, and if there had been dinosaurs in the Garden of Eden. He laughingly responded, “No. Cavemen and dinosaurs didn’t exist.” I didn’t buy this, having grown to deeply love the Flintstones, and when I pressed him on the issue of evolution, was told that there are many, many things that are beyond our feeble, human understanding, but that God gets. I have been suspicious of organized religion ever since.

6. I will no longer vacation anywhere that will not allow me to flush the papel in the bano.

7. When I was a freshman in high school, I had a twin-sized bed. One night, in the throes of sleep in said bed, I lay on my left arm for such an extended period of time that I rendered it numb to a degree of icy unfamiliarity. I shifted position in the night, and as I did so, my left hand brushed my cheek, feeling like a cold, dead thing. In my sleep-addled state, I became convinced that a horrible, zombie-like creature was attacking me, and responded by grabbing my wrist (which I believed to be zombie man’s) and beating my hand as hard as I could against the brass headboard of my daybed, all the while issuing panicked, startled shrieks. My mother, whose room was across the hall, was disturbed by this commotion, and came into my room, saying, “Brooke! What the hell are you do…” while she simultaneously flipped on the overhead light. The sudden illumination of my room froze her in mid-sentence, and me in mid-shriek, and left me staring straight into my mother’s startled face, while still clutching my left wrist in my right hand. I remember thinking, “At last! Help is here!” until a few seconds later, when that hand finally started to regain feeling. I was bruised for weeks.

8.I secretly read every book that Meg Cabot, creator of “The Princess Diaries” series, writes.

9.I have more nicknames than anyone I know (with the possible exception of my high school pal, Andrea Atchison Greenlee). My theory is that this is because both of my names (I have no middle name) each have only one unsatisfying syllable. A few of them are as follows:

Annette Benning

Bahama Mama

B-Dub/Dubbers/Dubby/Dub

Bionic Monkey Girl

Brenda

Brookie (Also, Brookie Cookie)

Brookster

Brookesy

Brookenstein

Bru Wu

Butt Lady

Douchebag

Dumplin’

Facsimile Earl

Flora

Ginger Snap

Hollywood

Juseffa Schwartz

Mavis Bodacious

The Peach

Penny Slots

Red

Sugar Pie

Sweetface

Treen

Miss Woodenberg

Mz. Wood

Woodsy

10.I often feel that I have spent every romantic relationship of my life waiting:

Waiting for them to call

Waiting for them to evolve

Waiting on them hand and foot

Waiting on them to come over

Waiting on them to catch up

Waiting on them to come through

I wonder, is there something encoded in the female DNA to make women wait, and something in the male DNA to be the waited for?

11.I often refer to my private area as my tuffet.

12.No matter how many mouse pads, umbrellas, and tote bags Van Gogh’s images have been silk-screened onto, seeing his actual paintings still makes me want to levitate.

13.I want to be a writer when I grow up. I also want to be madly in love for a long time.

14.When I was three years old, I cut my heel off.

In the Civil War, when I was a child, people didn’t wear seatbelts. Nor did they wear shoes when they were riding on tractors, in the backs of pickup trucks, or on bicycles. I have countless photos of my wee self, doing all of the above, (from the South, remember) completely unshod. I particularly remember a picture of myself (age 4-ish) standing in the middle of the front seat of my Godmother’s car (an old Impala with bench seats), while we sped obliviously down the road.

So, the heel: One day, my mom offered to take me for a ride on the back of her old, emerald green Schwinn. (I loved this bike, and remember licking it on the fender to see if tasted green.) I grabbed my tiny Raggedy Ann doll, and ran out of my granny’s house, shrieking with delight (I’m a shrieker, apparently), leaving the screen door banging in my wake.

A small, yellow, plastic bucket seat was attached over the rear wheel of the Schwinn, especially for me to ride in. There were two small metal rods that protruded from under the sides of the seat, and were intended to act as footrests for me. After we had ridden a mere few blocks from the house, I dropped Raggedy Ann onto the street, and bent to try to retrieve her. Somehow, my left foot slipped, and got caught in the spokes of the rear wheel. My mother, unaware, kept riding, while I quietly said, “Mother. Mother.” Finally, my foot was entangled to a degree that made it difficult for her to pedal, and she glanced back and saw what the problem was.

I remember every moment of this event vividly, but most vibrant is the image of my very white ankle bone sticking up like a little atoll in a sea of very red blood. A close second is my mother screaming like a banshee, dropping the bike on the ground, disentangling my foot, and holding me facedown across her arms while clamping what was left of my heel onto my foot. All the while, she was screaming at the top of her lungs, “IT’S OK, BABY! MAMA’S GONNA FIX IT!!!! MAMA’S GONNA FIX IT BABY! DON'T YOU WORRY!!!!!!”

They stitched my foot up like a baseball, and I was so discouraged with the Tiny Tim crutches they gave me, that I reverted to crawling around the house. I was also convinced that if we took the bandages off, part of my foot would be gone, and my mother indulged me in this. Due to not changing the dressing often enough, I had to have plastic surgery to reconstruct my heel. I still have a scar.

15. I feel that the adventuresome/ gypsy/ artist me is at constant war with the homebody/ security-craving/ domestic me.

16.I believe in love and magic and past lives and the Loch Ness Monster.

17. I wish I could get back all the time I have spent hating my body.

18.I am an anglophile, and if I could be anyone else, I would be Jennifer Saunders so I could have the pride and enjoyment of creating and performing the character of Edina Monsoon.

19.Fall is my favorite season and crème brulee’ is my favorite dessert.

20.I love to sing and do so often. I am also a whore for karaoke. However, alone in my home, two of my favorite songs to sing are “Amazing Grace”, and “Oh, Susanna,” the latter because my father did the most haunting rendition of that song I have ever heard. I have an old tape of him messing around in his studio one night, and on the same tape that he plays “Oh, Susanna”, he laughs. I made myself listen to it after he died, because I didn’t want to never be able to listen to it again.

21.I am constantly amazed at the amount of love and friendship in my life. It absolutely boggles me.

22.For reasons that are not quite clear to me, I have long been a magnet for predators, alcoholics, cowards, and manic-depressives.

23.Hearing live music feels to me the way I assume going to church feels to other people.

24.I like to make up my own words/expressions. One phrase that I have used for many, many years, and take full credit for is: “black up singer”. Recently, I coined the term, “appleanche” to describe what happens when one removes a load-bearing apple from a supermarket produce display.

25.I don’t believe in settling.

Really Long Vicodin-Induced Pocket Review of the Worst Day, Ever

2009-02-05T16:30:00.000-08:00

Sunday, November 30, 2008 at 1:21am

MORPHIN’:

OK. I am going through something. Have you ever looked in the mirror, and stared deeply into your own eyes? And then noticed that you don’t recognize the person you see? I don’t mean, “Wow. I’m old. When did that happen?” I mean you see so deeply into yourself that you look completely unfamiliar - alien or evil, almost? (I look alien at the moment due to my accident, but I’ll get to that). I have, many times - most of them in my adolescence. Now, I am not seeing my real soul in the mirror, but I keep seeing myself in others. In their qualities I don’t like. Yeah, definitely going through something…

Anyway, as previously mentioned in other reviews, I work a lot. November has been one of those months (up until now) when I have had two off days.

Two.

Total.

As a result of this, I have been seriously considering a career change, or at least a career consolidation (I love both my jobs, but doing them to the degree that is required to make enough money and keep everyone happy is problematic) – to what, I know not. I am just waiting for the perfect job that utilizes my skillZ of sarcasm, literacy, and inappropriate humor to find me.

And pay me six figures a year.

A string of recent experiences has contributed to my decision to change my life (or at least my career).

ELECTIN’:

First, I was working in Toronto on Election Day, and had to vote absentee. That was fine, as my candidate won – finally. I have felt from the beginning (and have oft discussed this with friends) that Barack Obama is the right leader for this time. As much as I love a Clinton, I knew from the moment I heard him speak, that Barack was the one. Yeah, I have a bit of a school - girl crush, I admit it. And though I would not kick Bill Clinton out of my bed for eating French fries, he never gave me the goosebumps that I get whenever I hear Obama speak.

The odd part was that every time I saw a newspaper headline that week regarding the victory, I would start to cry. I was seated on a plane from Ontario to Ottawa when this happened the first time; and the French Canadian gentleman beside me lowered his paper (featuring a headline reading, “Obama Overcomes”) below his gray-bearded chin, and said, “Mademoiselle? Are you all right?” I shudderingly replied, “Yes, yes – I’m fine. It’s just that I’m American and I voted for him, and, and… I’m SO relieved!” He responded, “Ze whole world is relieved.”

I had received many text messages and pictures from friends on election night informing me that we won. That was lovely, but when I saw that many of my fellow New Yorkers were celebrating in the streets, I felt keenly homesick, and intensely aware that I was missing out on something special. (Believe me, if it gets New Yorkers in the streets being nice to each other, it’s special) Normally, I appreciate the perspective that traveling gives me on our country, but I have started to wonder exactly how much longer I want to experience important life moments on airplanes or in hotel rooms…

CONSTRUCTIN’:

The second week of November, I was in Chicago staying at a cute little boutique hotel, “The Monaco”. I was ready to hit the haystack at 9PM having had a long day of traveling and working, but I was unable to because a construction crew was using a JACKHAMMER directly outside my room for SEVEN hours straight. At 8:30, I called the front desk and said, “Any idea when the construction will stop? They’ve been at it since 6:00.” Front desk girl replied, “Hopefully, any minute, Miss Wood.” I called again at 9:30 and said, “I’m sorry, but I have ear plugs in, and not only can I not sleep, I can’t even concentrate enough to read.” I was told that as the crew had a permit, they could jackhammer as long as they wished. The front desk manager had asked the foreman of the crew to stop, and he said they would “at some point” (read, 1AM). When I suggested that maybe I should call the police personally as they were surely in violation of a city noise ordinance, I was informed it would do no good, as they had that permit. At 10:30, I called down to the front desk again, and asked where I could get a permit to sleep. They apologized profusely. At 11:30, I called and asked to be moved to a quieter room. I was informed that the construction noise was disturbing the entire hotel, and that further more, they were sold out, so they could not accommodate me in any way. I replied, “The reason one gets a hotel room is to have a place to sleep, and since that is not an option here, you have to do something to compensate me.” They took a hundred bucks off my bill, but that didn’t help me feel any more chipper or rested the next day.

SUFFOCATIN’:

I flew from Chicago to Phoenix, and worked a 12-hour day, then boarded a 5-hour flight from Phoenix, to JFK (on an airline with which I don’t have frequent flyer status). As I was silently thanking the universe that there was an empty seat between me and my elderly, sweet lady row mate, thus allowing me to catch up on some shuteye, I saw Jaba the Hut lumbering down the aisle right for me and the vacant middle seat on my row. I thought, “I gotta make a change.”

Honestly, this man was 6’7, dripping with chins, and by his own admission, weighed over 400 pounds (perhaps to compensate for the fact that he was overflowing the armrests and forcing me up against the window so that I looked like a can of smashed assholes, he was extremely nice and chatty). I have a drop of the claustrophobia, anyway, and being seated next to a man so huge that eating my packet of peanuts (the only food one is given on a 5-hour flight, these days), required me to pin my elbows to my sides and awkwardly bend my mouth to my little clenched hands like a Tyrannosaurus Rex contributed to my general feeling of entrapment, and made me long for a career that requires less public transportation.

ALARMIN’:

Last week found me in Toronto again in an Intercontinental Hotel with a brand new, but still magically non-functioning business center. If one has a problem, one is to report to the front desk, though there is no sign that says this. In fact, there are credit card machines (that actually only take “access” cards that are the exact size and shape as credit cards, only less convenient, that one must purchase at the front desk, but there is no sign saying this, either) that read, “System offline, please see business center attendant.”. This message appears only after one has wasted precious minutes foolishly shoving one’s credit card into the machine repeatedly and to no avail. There is, of course, no attendant, so once one has telepathically intuited that the front desk is the only option for accomplishing any task in the “self-serve” business center, one has to walk all the way across the giant first floor lobby only to discover that none of the front desk employees have the slightest clue how to assist with or repair anything in there.

After thirty dollars in access cards and three unfruitful trips to said business center culminated in a single printed sheet of paper, and me waiting “five minutes” that spanned three quarters of an hour for Raoul, the IT guy, to arrive, I asked the front desk manager to refund all of the money I had spent in vain on their crippled printer and computers, and pay for a cab to take me to the nearest Kinko’s. They agreed, but it was midnight before I had completed all of the necessary printing for the next day’s meeting, and tumbled wearily into bed.

At 3AM, an unholy blaring that sounded like an air raid siren jolted me out of my king-sized slumber, and had me disorientedly grabbing my cell phone and trying to shut the alarm off. After seven piercing shrieks, approximately one banana apart, would sound, a recorded announcement would say, “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. We are investigating the source of the alarm, and will inform you as soon as we have more information.” This cycle, of shrieks and message, repeated over and over for 40 minutes. After 20 minutes, I called the front desk (the circuits were jammed, but I finally got through), and asked if I was actually in danger, and should I evacuate? “NO, NO, MISS WOOD,” she shouted over the deafening siren, “I KNOW IT’S LOUD, BUT EVERYTHING’S FINE. SOMEONE LEFT A DOOR OPEN IN THE KITCHEN, AND IT WILL STOP SHORTLY.” When it finally did stop, I was too jarred to go back to sleep. The next day’s meeting was for several hundred people (more than the usual number of attendees for this client), and very challenging on a 3-hour nap.

LOSIN’:

I left Canada at 9 PM, landed back in New York late Friday, and had to be at Trader Joe’s for work Saturday morning. And Sunday. And Monday. Tuesday night, after working a closing shift, I went to a karaoke party in the east village to honor my friend, Kaylen (it was her birthday/going away party – she will be singing on a cruise ship for the next 7 months, and traveling the world), and had a great time, despite my fatigue. I left the bar around 3AM, sober but very tired. I went to another bar with my co-workers, and stayed approximately five minutes. I then bought a bottle of water at a bodega, and shared a cab with a friend.

The cab driver didn’t want to continue to my house from my friend’s place, so I called my regular car service to pick me up. When I pulled up in front of my building, I realized that I no longer had my wallet. I then remembered that I had dropped my water bottle in the last cab (though I had heard it fall and retrieved it), and realized that my wallet must have fallen out at the same time, unbeknownst to me. This necessitated me making three trips up to my apartment to find a credit card with which to pay the driver (that wouldn’t require immediate canceling). I then spent an adrenaline-filled morning calling and canceling/freezing every card and account that had any possibility of being in my missing clutch. I also filed a lost property report with Yellow Cab of NYC (for which they made me pay $15 – bastages.)

I finally went to bed for a few hours of precious sleep before work, but could not drop off because the floors in my recently deceased neighbor’s apartment were being sanded/refinished. If you have never heard this procedure, allow me to describe it: Basically, it feels and sounds as if someone has installed the motor from a Harley Davidson motorcycle, along with one of those wind engines they use on boats on the bayou in your own bed and is driving it through some super rough, gator-ridden terrain, with you in the sidecar. When they pause in their work, but leave the sander idling, it feels merely like you are in a cheap motel bed with a malfunctioning “Magic Fingers” massage attachment (Think “Vacation”). And this is in the neighboring apartment.

I finally gave up, removed my eye mask and ear plugs, and headed for the shower, only to find that there was no water in my apartment. None. A quick call to Denis, my wall-eyed Super, who resides in the basement with his constant companions: a hyper Yorkshire terrier, and a Marlboro Red, informed me that the water was shut off in the entire building while a valve was being replaced, and would not be back on for at least an hour. An hour I didn’t have, as I needed to leave for work in 30 minutes.

I handled the situation thusly: I called a girlfriend in L.A. and told her all about my night, berated myself for losing my wallet (first time, ever, by the way), and generally bitched about my crappy morning, all the while pacing the apartment and intermittently testing the kitchen faucet to see if the water was miraculously back on. It wasn’t. With no other options, I decided to approach the situation as though I were a pioneer woman. I boiled some water from the Brita water pitcher (OK, so they didn’t have water filtration systems, then, but there was less pollution, so they didn’t really need them) in my fridge and used that in combination with my oatmeal and jojoba for sensitive skin make up remover cloths to take a whore’s bath of sorts near and around the kitchen sink. I used the remainder of the Brita water to brush my teeth and fill the kitties’ bowls. This meant that I had to forego coffee, which is unacceptable on a normal day, and even more untenable on a day with no sleep.

FALLIN’:

Decaffeinated and semi-clean, I left for my job at Trader Joe’s Wine Store on the day before Thanksgiving – A.K.A. “The Busiest Day Of The Year”, A.K.A. “Black Wednesday” (Seriously, there is a line that is half a block long comprised of cold, cranky, New Yorkers just waiting to GET IN to buy their Three Buck Chuck. It’s like we are an exclusive club, and all of the would be patrons are Tom Arnold instead of Mary Kate and Ashley.) I made it to the train station and realized that my recently purchased unlimited metro card was in my lost wallet, and hurriedly dug my one remaining credit card from my purse to purchase another one. I rushed down the steps to the platform just in time to see the back of the train I needed speedily retreating down the tunnel; and waited over 20 minutes for the next one, making me late for work. I needed coffee and water and some type of food item, and had no cash or time to purchase any of them.

I got to work, and somehow, I rallied. I was nervous about my errant wallet (especially after I realized that I had had a small, business-card-sized cheat sheet with two of my bank accounts listed on it inside it), but I work with some really great people, and the day turned around. I was visited by several of my city pals, who were in the neighborhood, or came to make purchases, and that made me happy. The bank was still open on my 5 o’clock lunch break, so I was able to run over and close my potentially compromised accounts, and open new ones. The woman who helped me at WAMU was incredibly kind and understanding.

Finally, there were only 20 minutes left in my shift, and I could see the light at the end of a very long 24-hour tunnel. I went over to the grocery store to share some supplies that we had at the wine store (They completely ran out of TP, all right? It was an emergency), and as I walked out the swinging doors into the corridor in which we receive deliveries off the street, I stepped on a pile of folded plastic trash bags, that someone had left lying right in the middle of the slick, cement floor. I was wearing sneakers with thick, rubber soles, that normally have lots of traction. I wasn’t running. I wasn’t pirhouetting. I was merely walking at my normally rapid pace, but my feet shot out from under me the moment I stepped on the bags and I didn’t have time to catch myself. I landed on my left cheek with a sickening crack, and immediately after, my ribs and left knee slammed into the floor. Everyone around me who saw or heard my fall gasped, and admonished me not to get up. I was so stunned, I didn’t know I was down, until I was attempting to stand back up. Instantly, my left cheek started to swell, as a giant goose egg took formation right under my eye. My ribs were hurting so badly I could only hold myself in one awkward position with my head leaning way back, thus elongating my rib cage.

People I didn’t even know (we have lots of new hires at the grocery store), and a few that I did, swarmed around me – getting me a folding chair, helping me up, helping me sit, pressing bags of frozen peas and vegetables to my cheek, ribs, and knee. Steve Dingle, one of our managers (who I believe has a military background) was in my face saying very loudly, “You’re gonna be alright, sweetie! Just relax, just relax! Don’t cry, darlin’! We got help coming for you!!!” I said I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I hate doctors, and I REALLY hate emergency rooms. I didn’t want to sit there for hours by myself, either, and tearfully said so to my friend, Chuck, who is also a manager. He said, “Give me a minute,” and ducked back into the grocery store.

My friend, Will Ferrell, (no, not that one) who is 6’4 and plays rugby, stopped by. He said, “Brookie? You OK?” I responded by saying, “I fell down,” and removing the bag of peas from my cheek. He said, “I heard.” Then, when he saw my face, he visibly blanched. I explained that it did not fill me with confidence to see a rugby player grossed out by my wound. Just then, Chuck emerged from the grocery store with all the necessary paperwork to process my worker’s comp claim, and someone got my coat and bag from the wine store. The EMT’s arrived soon after.

There was a female EMT and a male one, and it became quickly apparent that they had some kind of good cop/bad cop MO, with the woman being the bad cop. She roughly examined me after saying, “You’re just gonna have to deal with the pain for a minute,” and basically treated me like a suspect in a murder case instead of an injured person. She led me to the ambulance, but wouldn’t allow Chuck to follow me, saying, ‘”Give me a minute, “ even though he was hovering behind me with my purse and coat. She then proceeded to give me grief about the fact that I had only my passport for I.D.; and when I explained that I had lost my wallet the night before, I could almost hear her thinking, “You’re just the type to fall down – irresponsible. Probably drunk, too.” While Bad EMT was busy interrogating me, Good EMT was checking my vitals. He pronounced me hypertensive, which seemed to further convince Bad EMT that I was up to no good. Trust me, you'd have high blood pressure too, if you thought you had just broken your face off.

WAITIN’:

Eventually, Chuck was allowed to climb aboard, and Bad EMT loosened up a bit. Chuck has that effect on people. He knows absolutely everyone in New York City, and has never met a soul he couldn’t shoot the breeze with indefinitely. It is a very brief drive to Beth Israel Medical Center, and after another check of my vitals and temperature, I was given my own little stretcher in the ER. Chuck stood at the foot of my bed rapping with Good EMT, who was filled with questions about Trader Joe’s. I swear, working there in NYC makes you a minor celebrity, or something. While some hospital personnel wheeled an extremely chemically altered young man in on a gurney and shoved him up against the wall, Chuck and Good EMT engaged in a conversation that went something like this:

Good EMT: “So, three dollar wine, huh?”

Chuck: “Yep. ‘Three Buck Chuck’.”

Good EMT: “I’m not much of a wine drinker, but for three dollahs….”

Chuck: “Yeah. We got some good beer, too – in the grocery store.”

Good EMT: “Yeah?”

Chuck: “Yeah. We got microbrews, Brooklyn Lager, of course. And,

for $5.99 a six pack, we have a great beer from Germany…”

At this point, Chemically Altered Guy decides to stand up and walk out of the hospital, which results in him landing on his head so hard, it bursts open and squirts blood. Both Chuck and Good EMT pause and look at the floor.

Good EMT (bending down toward Chemically Altered Guy): “Sir, you seem to have bumped your head. I’m gonna get someone over here with some butterfly sutures, alright?”

(Back to Chuck): “So, $5.99, huh?”

Good EMT eventually took his leave after wishing me well, and we settled down for the long wait to see the doctor. Chuck sat on the end of the bed, and we were having a quiet conversation about the alien baby hatching out of the side of my face, when we suddenly heard the following from the neighboring bed:

Nurse: “Well, Mr. Weintraub, what seems to be the trouble?”

Weintraub: “Ohhhhh. I have horrible gas.”

Nurse: “OK…”

Weintraub: “It’s HAHrrible. It’s pressing on my lungs, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I’ve taken everything over the counter. You have to give me something really strong for this hahrrible gasssss.”

Cut to Chuck and Brooke silently shaking with inappropriate/church laughter so hard that the hinges on Brooke’s stretcher start to squeak.

After that, I am unsure of the order of events, but eventually, a cute Indian doctor came in to examine me. He was concerned that I had actually broken my cheekbone, and decided I needed to have a CAT Scan. In the interim, he sent in a nice nurse who asked me to pee in a cup and then gave me a shot for pain, (which was quite painful in and of itself). Then Mr. Weintraub chimed in about his gas, or began dry heaving, or making bizarre belching sounds. Then, Cute Indian Doctor came back to tell me he thought I had a fractured rib, but since it wasn’t puncturing anything, there wasn’t much he could do about it. At some point, I walked painfully over to the bathroom only to discover that my motor skills had deserted me, and I had temporarily forgotten how to open the bathroom door.

There was more from Mr. Weintraub – “Oh, my gasssss!”. Then, a crazy – haired young woman with one sock on, and her right hand gripping the back of her hospital gown, scuffed across the floor towards the rest room, glancing furtively over her shoulder all the while. Chuck, pointing at her, said, “Your homegirl is gonna get in there and blow it up.” He was absolutely right, as I discovered on my next trip to the loo.

Someone’s monitor started incessantly beeping, and damn near drove me insane. It wasn’t beeping in an “I’m gone die way,” but more like an “I’m sending Morse code signals” way. In retrospect, maybe it was the pain medicine talking, but I remember telling Chuck that I couldn’t stay there any longer listening to those Morse Code signals. I said, in the general direction of the beeping, “You’re in the hospital! Help has arrived! Shut up!” I also tried to convince him that I didn’t need a CAT Scan, and to let me walk out. He was adamant that I stay and said, “What if your face is really fucked up? What if you can’t even get out of bed tomorrow? Is that what you want?” He was kind of bossy, actually. He also started “making a beat” out of the Morse code monitor sound. As I was shaking my head bemusedly at Chuck's beat-boxing, a short, wiry guy whose entire demeanor screamed, "NATIVE NEW YORKER, 100% ITALIAN" walked by in a hospital gown. Unlike my "homegirl" from earlier, he made zero effort to close the back of his gown, and actually strutted as he wheeled his IV pole by us. I couldn't help but laugh at the contrast.

So, the CAT Scan was clean, and I was finally allowed to leave at midnight thirty with a prescription for hard-core Ibuprofen, and one for Vicodin. Kaylen came to meet us at the ER, and took over from Chuck, helping me get my prescriptions filled, and riding home with me in a cab. She measured out the correct dosage of medicine and when she read on the bottle that I was to take it with meals, she gave me Cheez –its and Jelly Bellys, and said, “Here, Dub. Let’s call this a meal.” She came into my apartment with me, carried my stuff, and after turning off the kitchen faucet that I had accidentally left on that morning, even fed the cats for me. I was extra grateful for the Cheez-its, when I opened my refrigerator and discovered that I had nothing but a box of Corn Chex and a six-pack of Ginger Ale. I mean the cupboard was BARE, Mother Hubbard.

HEALIN':

My ribs are still ridiculously painful, even several days later. Whenever I move a certain way, there is an undulating wave of pain so intense, that I moan, or cry out. Then, I laugh at how ridiculous I sound. The neighbors probably think I am having a long weekend of REALLY rough sex. Also, my face is HIDEOUS (No shit – I went to my still-living neighbor’s door to get a package she received on my behalf, and she gasped and covered her mouth when she saw me. She said, “I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else. My friend was just here, and I thought it was her, coming back.” I said, “Martine, you asked me who it was before you opened the door. I fell at work.” She started laughing at her own discomfort, and said, “Well. Is there anybody you can sue?”), but I cannot help but feel very fortunate.

I am fortunate to have two jobs, when some folks don't even have one. I am SO rich in friendship. Giv, Ryan, Fannie, and my friend, Whitney, all brought me food and medicine, and kept me company on Thanksgiving. Chuck has checked on me everyday, and made me laugh (though that is quite painful). He is also taking care of all my worker’s comp crap. My friend Bryan, in L.A., sent me flowers. I have gotten countless calls, emails, texts, and Facebook messages from friends and co-workers. I am very lucky that I didn't suffer a serious head injury. And, a good Samaritan even mailed my wallet to the address on my Driver’s License, which is in L.A. My old roomie is forwarding it to me, and it should be here on Monday, which is also my birthday. I think the universe is forcing me to slow down a bit, and in spite of the pain, I am grateful for the opportunity to do so. When one is in constant motion or deeply fatigued, even simple tasks like getting from A to B with all of one's belongings becomes challenging.

I have decided to work my repugnance to my advantage, thus calling my previously-planned birthday party “Brooke’s Horribly Disfigured Birthday Bash.” I might even don a black cape, get a barge pole, and ride a skateboard from my bedroom to the living room to greet party guests, since I look like the Phantom of the Opera at the moment. (When I mentioned this to him, Chuck, ever supportive, said "You could totally rock a skateboard. I have one if you need it.")

In conclusion, I have to say that Vicodin rocks, and I would totally have sex with it. It even made “Must Love Dogs” (which, in spite of featuring my future husband, John Cusak, and the fabulous Diane Lane [whom I want to be when I grow up] is an absolute piece – even among other Romantic comedies of that ilk) watchable.

So yeah, Happy Disfigured Thanksgiving/Brooke’s Birthday Bash!

Pocket Review of Service in America

2009-02-05T16:24:00.000-08:00

Friday, September 12, 2008 at 3:03pm

While part of me is MORTIFIED at being a 37 year old woman who slangs wine for a living a few hours a week, another part of me is proud to work for a company that still actually provides some customer service. If you buy a food item in a Trader Joe’s grocery store and do not like it, you can return it, (even if you ate most of it before you decided it wasn’t for you); and we will refund your money, or let you exchange it for something else. The wine store’s rules are a bit different, as New York State law governs EVERYTHING we do, but still, if a bottle we sell you is spoiled or corked, we exchange it, no questions asked, and no tude given. My co-workers and I try to make the shopping experience fun for the customers (and ourselves), and generally treat everyone like human beings, which is more than I can say for most flight attendants (And yes, I mean that to be grammatically ambiguous. Most [OK, some] flight attendants are NOT human beings, and most [OK, many] flight attendants rarely treat passengers as if THEY are human beings).

Case in point: on the second leg of a flight from L.A to Birmingham several years ago (I hate to name names, but it was Southwest), I left my seat, and started to walk towards the restroom. I was about five feet from the door of the necessary, when the pilot illuminated the fasten seatbelt sign due to turbulence. A flight attendant yelled at me, “Sit down, immediately!!! The captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. We have hit a rough spot! What are you doing???!!!,” as she rapidly buckled herself into one of the jump seats. I told her there was no need to yell, that I was (obviously) in need of the facilities; and since I was already there, wished to proceed (I don’t know what hijinx other people get up to in there, but for me, it is so damned tiny, I think it is probably safer than a regular seat). She berated me further, and insisted that I sit down in the seat closest to me.

After twenty minutes of supreme discomfort, during which time I resorted to mental tricks like alternate nostril breathing and thinking of the Sahara, this same flight attendant came by with the drinks tray (Southwest doesn’t have carts). She crouched down in the aisle, and in her best Southern accent said, “I hope you don’t think I was being ugly before, but we would rather you use the restroom in your seat than risk falling and getting hurt (read sue us).”

Now first of all, I had no idea we would be encountering turbulence when I set out for the can. Secondly, I think yelling is rarely necessary. And C, what?! Go in my seat?!?! What is this, a slumber party in first grade? She capped this little speech by telling me that it was STILL unsafe for me to get up, even though she was balancing a tray of hot coffee on one hand while saying so. I responded that as she didn’t personally know me, she had no way of discerning that I am not as litigious as the average American, but that as she had eyes, she SHOULD have been able to discern that I am an adult, and not a three year old, and addressed me as such.

And then I peed on her.

Basically, I think Paul Westerberg said it best:

“She don't wear no pants and she don't wear no tie

Always on the ball, she's always on strike

Struttin' up the aisle, big deal, you get to fly

You ain't nothin' but a waitress in the sky.”

Bottom line? They can’t stop you from leaving your seat. You don’t HAVE to do what they say (during taxi, there are set federal laws, but in the air, it’s anything goes), as they are merely there to ADVISE you on what is preferred/safest (Like if your server at Sizzler said, “Be careful with that knife – you might cut yourself”). However, I would certainly exercise caution when simultaneously exercising your free will (Post 9/11, there is a real “us vs. them” vibe between some flight attendants and passengers. I think the current administration, which I would classify as “fear-mongering” is largely responsible for this. The constant alerts – amber, orange, heliotrope - make everyone edgy, and the law, or at least the TSA enforcement of it, is extremely fluid. I mean, six months after 9/11, I was allowed to fly with knitting needles big enough to impale Vlad himself, but my small travel scissors [What am I gonna do? Cut the pilot’s cuticles?] were forbidden. And, as previously noted, heaven forefend I use the toilet instead of my seat to relieve myself).

It is not news that airlines give bad service - they are notorious for it. Still, I feel that there is a bad service pandemic. I don’t know what the cure is, but I’d give a lot to be treated like a human being. I’d give a lot to even be given the opportunity to TALK to a human being, instead of a digital recording.

Exhibit B: I am shipped a GIANT “black box” (no foolin’, it looks like it contains a dead body) for every event that I coordinate for one of my travel clients. As a result, I have to call DHL at each of these gigs to schedule a pick up for said box. Every single time, I tell the voicebot all of the details and when he gets to the last request for information (a yes or no question), he says, “I’m sorry I’m having trouble. Let me transfer you to a representative.” (This in spite of the fact that I am enunciating so fiercely my jaws ache, and speaking into the phone the way my mother talks to “foreigners”, by which I mean at the top of my freaking LUNGS). When a human comes on the line, I have to go through the entire process again. I have asked numerous times if there is a way to bypass this recording, and have always been told that there is not. If this worked, it would be fine with me (though I think technology has robbed us of many of the simple niceties such as politely interacting with other persons), but as it DOESN’T work, it drives me mad because it is so inefficient. I hate doing things twice.

I’d REALLY dig a return to “The customer is always right” era, but since that is not an option, how about just appreciating my business, instead of treating me like an inconvenience? How about NOT charging me a “convenience fee” when I did everything my damn self, and on line? (I mean, honestly – F you, Ticketbastard.) How about a “day” or “night” in a hotel being a full 24 hours instead of check in at 3PM, and check out at 11AM? How about speaking to me, the customer, during our exchange, instead of your co-worker (about how your man done pissed you off again)? How about having actual vents in the back of the cab, instead of a corrugated plastic tube duct-taped to the dashboard, and running under the front seat to the rear floorboard, so that only my left big toe enjoys a controlled temperature (I’m talking to you, Philadelphia)? I mean, I have good karma – I tip 20-25% always. What’s the prob, Rob?

I realize that I am from a different time. I got my first job at 14. I was “Santa’s Little Helper” and therefore, made to wear a white turtleneck sweater, red fur skirt with white trim, silly hat, white tights and white boots (after Labor Day – oh, the humanity). I “helped” a photographer by placing children on Santa’s lap and distracting them long enough to have their pictures “made,” as we say in the South.

This all took place in the cafeteria of our local Kmart, which was run by a stout, middle-aged woman named Myrt (short for Myrtle, I assume). She had platinum blonde hair styled like Sandra Dee, wore frosted green eyeshadow and giant glasses, smoked Virginia Slims, and had a rack like a bunk bed – truly right out of Central Casting. As manager of the cafeteria, she would make periodic announcements throughout the day: (in an authentic Appalachian accent) “Attention, Kmart shoppers. Come on back to our cafateery, where our lunch special today is country-fried steak, mashed taters, and turnip greens, all served with a glass of sweet tea, and a HOT rollllllllll and BUTter!”

In retrospect, it was kind of an inauspicious introduction to the workforce. Especially considering the fact that I was paid by the photo, if memory serves. Nothing like enduring the humiliation of being dressed like an elf, and then not making a dime for your efforts. (Myrt did pity me with free beverages and the occasional hot rolllllllllll and BUTter, though.)

I graduated from little helper to cashier after my mom coerced the personnel manager (who was a friend, as Mother was employed by the same Kmart for nearly 20 years, and throughout that time, referred to it as simply, “the store”) into overlooking the fact that I was two years too young to be hired by their establishment. I worked Friday evenings and Saturdays until my sophomore year, when I added shifts on Sundays and Monday nights as well. This allowed me to buy all of my own clothing and make-up, and take mother and me to the beach for vacation every year. Back then, being a cashier (even at a lowly establishment like Kmart) required the following:

1) The ability to count back change (which NO ONE but dinosaurs like me can do now)

2) The attitude that the customer is always right

3) The willingness to help customers with their packages (all the way to their cars, if necessary).

In exchange, we were paid in cash (all of my savings lived in a ceramic vase in my room), and treated respectfully ourselves.

Because Kmart was always fair, I was surprised to learn that my mother quit her job there not long before I moved to L.A. Her reasons are still unclear to me. However, I do recall the following phone conversation, which took place shortly before she gave her notice:

Me: “Hello?”

Mother: “Well, they found a human head in a bucket behind the store. It’s too decomposed to tell if it’s male or female, but it’s definitely a human head. One of the little boys from the street behind us was out there throwing the ball around with his brother, and found it. Well, I’ve gotta go. It’s Jeannette’s birthday, so we did a potluck today, and I wanna fix my plate before a thousand nasty hands get in it.”

Me: “But, how did-“

Mother: Dial tone

It was the early eighties before Kmart (at least in the Bible Belt) was even open on Sundays, and once they adjusted their schedule (to compete with Wal-Mart), they closed early – 6PM instead of 9PM. If I am not mistaken, it is still impossible to purchase alcohol in the Heart of Dixie from midnight Saturday until midnight Sunday- Lord’s Day, and what not.

Now, I am most definitely not what one would call “religious” (I think Lesbians, Thespians, and Equestrians are books of the Bible), but I do dig that whole “do unto others” rap. That makes sense to me, and that’s really all that good service is – thinking about somebody besides your goddamned self for a change. I also kind of miss the days when there was one day a week when no one had to work (Except church people, I guess. But they knew what they were getting into when they signed up).

I realize that my complaints are mostly directed at businesses that are necessarily of the 24-7 variety, but I guess I am wondering if there were only six days a week when we had to give service, if the quality of that service would be any better (kind of like the long-married couple who have “relations” once a week)? Or, if we took a siesta in the middle of the day like the wise and wonderful Europeans often do, would that impact our consideration quotient? I’m just speaking for me here, but I know I have often thought, “You need a nap,” about myself and others (though not as often as I have thought, “Some people just need to get laid”).

There are exceptions, of course. I finally got medallion status with Delta, and am upgrading willy nilly. Apparently, people in First Class are widely recognized to be adults who have balance, motor skills, and the ability to determine when they can no longer wait to whizz. I had only to smack my forehead Homer style, when I realized (after we had sat on the runway at JFK the requisite hour + waiting to take off), that the pilot was never going to turn the light off, as it is only 36 minutes in the air from New York to Boston, for the flight attendant to come to me, and say, ”Is everything OK, Miss Wood?” He even gave me a moist towelette as I skipped to the loo.

And, at the dreaded Days Inn in Hillsborough, New Jersey (which is actually a lovely township), when I ordered take out from a local Italian joint and the delivery guy forgot my beverage AND my dessert, he surprised me by returning with not one but two chocolate mousses to make up for it. When I thanked him profusely, he replied simply, “No Prahblem.” This almost helped me forget that the air conditioner in my room was louder than Paul Bunyan’s blender on margarita night (With the A/C off, it was stuffy, and I was nearly asphyxiated on the scent of brand new industrial carpeting. With it on, I never fell asleep.)

So, there are some folks that still like to soive out there, I guess. I just wish they were the rule, and not the exception. And, I totally did not have sex with that delivery guy, though I ate the hell out of those mousses.

Pocket Review of Being a Freaking Gypsy

2009-02-05T16:20:00.000-08:00

Thursday, September 4, 2008 at 2:50pm

I'm thinking about home. Speculating on it. Where it is and what it means. Is it a place or people or what? A lot of the time, I feel that the wide world is my home. I am out in it all the time, and I am mostly just as comfortable here as there. I am adventurous about most food (no cute animals and no monkey brains) and experiences (I have a Holly Golightly approach, generally speaking: “Of course, I’ll marry you, Doc. I’ve never been married before.”), and I genuinely enjoy meeting and talking with people.

My obsession with the notion of home began earlier this year, when I did a whirlwind international work tour to Berlin, Prague, and Mexico City. In Berlin, (a truly heartbreaking and amazing place), there is an 8’ tall “wall” where the actual wall used to stand, that functions as a museum installation, though it runs right through the center of the city. This wall is comprised of huge black and white photographs and captions detailing Berlin’s checkered history.

One of these photos moved me to tears: in it, there is a woman who is dressed in a crisp Donna Reed frock and pumps, with sunlight gleaming around the crown of her head. She is standing on the uppermost rung of a ladder, her head and shoulders just above the wall, and her hand is raised in greeting to two young men on the other side, who are clad in shabby woolen slacks, denim shirts, and hangdog expressions. They are her relatives. This is the only contact they are allowed. I couldn’t imagine being divided from my own family against my will. With my will, no problem, but not against it.

In Prague, (my second time to visit there, and I find it a truly magical place – the quality of the light is like nowhere else I have ever been) I picked up an intestinal parasite – “Thanks, former Czechoslovakia!” - (Let me just say that Eastern Europe is not the ideal locale for this type of ailment, as the quality and quantity of the paper products there would seem to indicate that they are still under communist rule), and spent a significant chunk of time hoping that I would not have to go to the hospital while in another country.

I am by no means a jingoist, and it would not occur to me to think that their care is in any way inferior to that I would receive in the U.S. (I’ve been to the emergency room a few times in the good ol’ U.S. of A. in the days before I was insured, and I only recommend it if you like seeing people with knives stuck in their eyes). However, when I don’t feel well, I feel vulnerable, and when I feel vulnerable, I crave the familiar. I crave home. When I identified this feeling in Prague, I realized that I am no longer certain where home actually is.

Mexico City is, in many ways, just like any other city (and like all places in Mexico feels home-like to me as it reminds me of Los Angeles, a.k.a. “North Mexico”). But the people are proud and kind, and the onus is on family, always. This notion of being near one’s relatives is often the deciding factor in what people pursue and where they pursue it. Many Mexican families spend their entire lives under the same roof. (This might account for the fact that cerveza is the national beverage, and that the margaritas are SO very exquisite there).

After spending a solid month on the road, I was lucky enough to get a coveted exit row seat for the five hour flight from Mexico City to JFK. (Every time I sit there, and the flight attendant asks if I am willing and able to assist in an emergency, I giggle uncontrollably, as in my mind’s eye, I see myself pulling a Costanza: elbowing my way through a knot of children and the elderly, throwing the door open, and holding my nose while I cannonball onto the yellow inflatable ramp, pausing barely long enough to deliver a “Later, Suckas!” over my shoulder right before I drop from view. I want to believe that I would be cool, efficient, and helpful in an emergency, possibly even recalling my CPR training of yore. But the truth is, I have no idea how I would behave, as I have, thankfully, never had to evacuate a plane before.)

When we finally landed in New York, the sunset was still smearing its iodine-stained fingers over the glinting razor blade buildings of the skyline, all of which was clearly visible to me through the fisheye window of the exit door. I stared at the city for the seemingly interminable drive to the gate, and a voice in my head said, “You’re home. You live here. That’s your home.”

I didn’t buy it, though.

My real “home” by the standard definition, is Birmingham, Alabama. I lived in a duplex there until I was 12 (and lied about my address so I could go to a better school in Gardendale. My mom used my grandmother’s address on all school documents, and I lived in constant fear of being found out), then moved to a house right next door to said grandmother, (who suffered from severe arthritis, diabetes, and a form of mild dementia associated with the early stages of Alzheimer’s, and at that time referred to as “hardening of the arteries.”)

Gardendale is a tiny suburb about 25 minutes from Birmingham proper, but offered an experimental program for “gifted” children in which I was placed at the end of first grade. They segregated we gifted into an “enrichment” class, so instead of “traveling” from class to class (with a different teacher for each subject as the great unwashed did), we stayed in the same room with the same teacher all day. Once a week, a segment of the enrichment class went to another building on campus for something called Resource Learning Center, or RLC. (Interestingly, this building also housed the severely mentally retarded in our school system. The lunchroom on RLC days featured a row of math nerds averting their eyes from the opposite row of seriously debilitated kids, who unfortunately drooled quite a bit.) Being a small group who were always together, we RLC kids came to know one another very well.

I left Gardendale High and transferred to a magnet high school (also called RLC) for my junior and senior years, and lost touch with most of the Gardendale crowd. After that, I attended the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, and then moved to Los Angeles for 9 years. I tend to think of myself as having had many lives, each based on my city of residence at the time. (L.A. never really felt like a home, though. More like an extended vacation.)

A few years ago, a friend from the Gardendale RLC program found me online, resulting in the usual electronic catch-up. Last week, this same friend was in Manhattan, and I had the pleasure of hanging out with him. He is a very talented musician, and has never really been employed as anything else. Seeing him play made me realize that I have lots of pride and admiration for him, as he is actually living his dream, and doing it gracefully.

He played snare in the marching band when I was on the dance line (we used to neck on the bus traveling to and from away games), and he has since toured with many heavy hitters in the music world. It’s been 20 years if not longer since we have seen one another, but I was struck by how the same he is. It made me wonder if I am the same, too.

In spending just a few hours in his company, I was assailed with memories I thought I had forgotten. The memories weren’t just specific to him (among other things, I remembered his middle name), but to my childhood – my Gardendale life - from which I have been distancing myself slowly but steadily all these years. This is due in part to the fact that in addition to my ailing granny, the adults in my life consisted of divorced parents (narcissistic mom, and alcoholic but wildly talented and charming dad), and a truly evil stepfather.

I realized about 4 years ago that I have spent a great deal of time separating myself from my own Southern-ness (and it was easy to do, living on the other side of the country as I was. My dad died on his 39^th birthday, and, as a by-product of her illness, my mom stopped speaking to me about 10 years ago. I am happy to report that I have no idea what happened to my stepfather). It just seemed so limiting, and well, sad – intertwined as it is with some difficult memories.

With the realization that I was denying a big part of my heritage, I’ve spent the last several years attempting to re-integrate myself. And, maybe because of that, many people from my Southern past have re-entered my life. There’s my drummer friend (who made me homesick with one phrase: “Damn, girl, you grew up GOOD!”), and my friend, Tim (whom I have known since 5^th grade and who is one of the most important people in my life - we just had a lovely visit in July), and a friend I’ve known since I was 14, (whom I saw a few weeks ago when I was working in Birmingham for 24 hours. It’s been nine years since I saw him, and for six of those we were out of touch completely, but when he hugged me, I still felt like we had been dropped from a great height into a little pocket of safe. He told me that a big difference between him and me is that I have always valued individuals, and he values ideas. I knew this, but couldn’t help thinking, “Of course, I do. What the hell else is there to value?”) just to name a few. And, with all these friends from my past, little bits are recovered – pleasant and happy bits. I love that, though it is always a tad bittersweet for me. SO wonderful and comforting to know the connection is still there, but so melancholy, too, to realize how much our lives get in the way of our relationships.

Additionally, talking to folks from the past seems to make me see my life on a parallel time-line - like, "Who would I be, if I had stayed in Birmingham or Tuscaloosa, Alabama with these wonderful people?" Obviously, I am part gypsy, and staying in my hometown my whole life wouldn't have suited me. And truthfully, I am grateful I left, for two reasons:

1) Living in non-Southern parts of the world contributes to who I am just as much as being from the South does, and

2) It allows me to be nostalgic about what I left behind.

I do value individuals, partly because the actor in me is constantly engaged in character study (If I weren’t the laziest student in history, I’d be a psychologist by now. Though my laziness wouldn’t be the only impediment. I probably wouldn’t excel at that “just listen” thing either. Instead of, “And how does that make you feel?” I’d be far more likely to say something like, “But what has he done for you LATELY?! Dump his stupid ass, already!!!!!”) If there is any common denominator between me and another person, I always investigate to see what else we have in common. I love to know what makes people tick, and therefore shed a little light on my own operating mechanism.

The other reason I value individuals, is because there are lots of special ones who comprise my family. I oftentimes feel like a sculptor chipping and chipping away at the same old stony, immobile issues. Or, like a cobbler working endlessly on the same old pair of shoes. But, the cool thing about being well… sort of orphaned, is that one has the liberty to cobble together one’s family of choice.

My 20^th high school reunion is next year (about which I am in UTTER denial), so I assume I am right on track to be taking stock the way I am, but I just find it all so fascinating. The individuals I know now that I knew then, and that still want to know me. Tim said, “If Mrs. McPherson had said to us in 5^th Grade, ‘Look around you. Who do you think will be your friend in 25 years?’ would you have thought it would be me?” And the truth is, I probably wouldn’t have thought so (though he did ask me to marry him on the playground once. Sadly, this was not to be the only proposal I would receive from a gay man).

And, it is nice to feel a little homesick and nostalgic (Call me old-fashioned, but I much prefer “Damn, you grew up good!” to what a guy in my ghetto-adjacent Brooklyn hood said to me the other day. I had thrown on a T-shirt and shorts but skipped the undergarments to run down to the corner bodega. As I passed this guy unloading a dresser into his recently fire-damaged building, and felt compassion for what he had been through, I heard “Nice nipples. I like that.”) It is also nice to realize that my home IS everywhere. It’s here in Brooklyn, where I keep my cats and my stuff, and where my neighbors smoke weed on the street (no fights, and lots of snacks). It’s in Palm Springs, where two of my chosen family members reside (being in their home feels like being in my home – only better, ‘cause they’re there.) It’s in Birmingham, which I still know better than any other town. It’s in Tuscaloosa, and L.A., and Utah, and Fire Island and Orange Beach, and every damned where. And, that is a fact that I would totally have sex with, y'all.

Yacht Man

2009-02-05T16:18:00.000-08:00

I use the same car service every time I go to or from the airport - “Legends” (I know, it sounds like an escort service instead of a car service), but I never have the same driver twice. Despite the fact that there are no repeats, I have noticed there are only three types of drivers, and they are all Middle Eastern. Honest - for whatever reason, no matter what city you’re in, most seem to be of Middle Eastern descent. (Though I once had a native New Yorker. He was 100% Irish, a retired dockworker, and had a face like a sausage swelling out of its casing beneath his pork pie hat. He was born and raised in my neighborhood, and spent the whole ride giving me a fascinating lesson on local history in his thick Brooklyn accent. After we briefly discussed property values, he summed up with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Ahhh, what the hell. You can’t live nowhere no more.”)

Here’s the breakdown of the Middle Eastern drivers: they are all either

A) Age 25-30 (drive gray Town Cars, and talk loudly in Arabic on their smellular phones all the way to the airport, then turn on the charm: “Have a safe flight, Miss Wood” as we pull up to the curb in order to get a good tip, then grouse because you are paying by credit card)

B) Age 55-60 (drive black Town cars with minor body damage, People magazines in the stretchy pocket on the back of the passenger seat and scream like the deaf into their Nextels at the equally deaf dispatchers for the duration, or

C) Age 50-55 (drive Honda or Toyota mini-vans, and somehow manage to propel the vehicle forward by standing on the gas and the brake in equal measure).

My first experience with type C, was a defining one. I landed at JFK in the middle of the night after a series of delays, and called the dispatcher to inform him that I had arrived and had my bag. Ten minutes later, a tan Honda Odyssey van (a vehicle I know well, having driven one while portraying a soccer mom for Honda in L.A., though the one I drove was an early model, and one of the first to feature the built-in nav system. I swear before Gawd that the recorded voice therein said, “Approaching Reft turn. Turn Reft at next light.” Made in Japan, you know) careened towards the curb where I was standing.

The driver opened the automatic side door, stepped out, grabbed my bag, and threw it in the back. I heaved myself into one of the middle seats, sleepy and aching to be home. I was immediately greeted with a CD of Indian chanting at an ear-blowing decibel. I thought, (foolishly) that he would turn it down now that his passenger was on board. I was wrong, though. Dead wrong. I decided to hold off on saying anything, as being a driver has to be boring as hell, and I don’t begrudge them doing whatever is necessary to stay awake between clients.

While considering how long I would give him before asking him to lower the volume, I noticed two things: 1) There was a beach towel featuring a Hindu God (though not one I recognized such as Ganesh or Vishnu) draped over the passenger seat. The design faced the back of the van, so it obviously hadn’t been placed there to protect passengers from sticking to the leather seat. Instead, it seemed to be more like a work of art – a wall hanging (or, in this case, a seat hanging.) And, 2) A red glass bottle emblazoned with the words, “Yacht Man” in white was super-glued to the dashboard. Protruding from the left side of the bottle was a silver oval-shaped tab, perfectly situated so that the driver could depress it with his thumb.

Here I should say that I am not a big fan of cologne in general (though reading The Emperor of Scent has encouraged me to develop my nasal palate), especially really strong-smelling ones (Drakkar Noir and everything by Calvin Klein are some of the most repugnant smells on earth to me), so I am admittedly ignorant of many of the scents on the market. Preferring the classics (Old Spice and Brut by Faberge’ to name two) as I do, I guess it isn’t surprising that I had never heard of “Yacht Man,” before. I had two thoughts, the first being, “No cardboard Christmas tree dangling from the rearview for Yacht Man”, and the second being, “Damn. Yacht Man sure is proud of his Indian heritage.”

Sometimes, after a long traveling day, my patience with being in constant motion runs out right as I step off the plane. It is very difficult at these times to maintain equanimity for the 45 minute ride to my apartment. I have always been prone to motion sickness (though it usually manifests in extreme and prolonged queasiness vs. actual vomiting, thank God.) However, I have also always been prone to fall asleep in the car (except when I am behind the wheel), which is great, as nothing takes one’s mind off nausea like unconsciousness (just ask the good people at Dramamine).

As we pulled onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, it became abundantly clear that I would not be losing consciousness on this ride. The van was uncomfortably warm as well as loud, and when I leant forward to say so to Yacht Man, he slammed on the brakes with such force that I found myself smashed cheek to cheek against the beach-towel God in front of me. I typically don’t wear seatbelts in rear seats because I have the bladder of a pregnant woman, and don’t need any extra pressure in that vicinity. However, this sent me scrambling to buckle up. Unfortunately, the ride was so bumpy I was unable to snap the male end into the female one (Ain’t that always the way?). And, as we swerved violently to the right, I made a blind grab for the Oh Shit Strap, and skittered and swung from it like a tin can from a newlywed’s bumper for the remainder of the ride.

About five miles into the journey, I realized that Yacht Man employed the deafening music, beach towel, and cologne (which I had noticed him spraying moments before in time to the music, which resulted in me hearing: ”Aiiiiiiiiiii yee yee yee, phssst phssst!”), as a smokescreen. Like a magician using misdirection, Yacht Man blasts and baffles the senses of his victims to distract them from the eye-wateringly rancid curry gas issuing from his ass at regular intervals.

I have never, to my knowledge, eaten goat, nor even been in the vicinity of someone preparing goat, but some smells are so distinctive that we recognize them with no prior exposure to them. I sat, momentarily stunned, enveloped in a cloying cloud of curried goat funk, until another butt bomb prompted me to instinctively swing myself MacGyver-style to the window nearest me. I was heartbroken to note that, being a family vehicle, the window was designed to function only as a “vent.” With no other recourse, I used my free hand to pop the window out, locked it into place, and jammed my mouth and nose right against the crack, trying desperately to inhale some fresh Manhattan air. I focused all of my mental energy on not vomiting, until we finally screeched to a halt in front of my building.

I am not anti-Indian. I LOVE Indian food (except goat, as I said), and eat curry and naan weekly. And God knows, everybody poops, so it stands to reason that everybody farts, too (except for Southern women who do not have digestive tracts). I am merely pointing out that being trapped in a hot, noisy, windowless car with a smelly man with lower GI issues, is a ring of hell that is surely portrayed in Bosch’s painting, if one looks closely enough.

Car services are a necessary evil of living in New York, and mostly, I am quite content to let someone else drive. Living in Los Angeles for nine years will leave a person driven out. I don’t really miss it. But getting from A to B here can take lots of energy (The car ride home is often as arduous if not more so, as the flight from which I am returning). And though I can see the humor in the Yacht Man experience, it is the very type of experience that always brings this thought to my mind: “I love New York, but I don’t think I’ll die here.”

I had to incorporate myself earlier this year at the behest of one of my clients. Not taking the process very seriously, I chose “Globetrotter, Inc.” for my company name. (I keep envisioning a company logo that features a cartoon me dressed in flag-printed satin shorts and tank, and spinning a basketball-sized earth on my middle finger a la’ Curly Neal.) My second choice was “Gypsy, Inc.” (I guess it’s just as well that I didn’t go this route, as this mental logo features me swathed in scarves and banging a tambourine with a map silk-screened onto it on my hip a la’ Stevie Nicks.) Since I plan, for now at least, to keep traveling, I will just have to take the fact that this globetrotter could find absolutely nothing about this car ride to have sex with in stride.

Thanks for mutton, Yacht Man.

You can’t live nowhere, no more.