Party Hearty

The holidays are bearing down on us like the Grinch on his sled heading for Whoville and that means it’s party season.

I love parties. Love throwing them, love going to them, and I love hearing about them. Growing up my parents threw parties all the time. They taught me the tricks of the trade: background music always on, lights mostly off and the other ones low, and plenty of bread and cheese-based hors d’oevres.

Back in the seventies, my parents had a New Year’s Eve Party. About eight couples could make it but six couples couldn’t at the last minute, so my parents made about six mannequins by stuffing their clothes, giving them photograph heads, and set them in chairs all over the house to make it look like there were more people at the party. Even Nixon got his own mannequin. They hosted a Come As Your Favorite Couple Party for Halloween. I remember Adam and Eve, Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, and Princess (him in drag) and the Pea (her, all in green) from Dad’s super 8 movies. I went to a Halloween party with the same theme just recently and the host and hostess were dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and Wolf Blitzer.

Once, my parents went to a Vacation Party where every couple brought a check for $50.00 made out to the local travel agent and showed up with their bags packed. After dinner they put all the checks into a hat and a winner was drawn. My parents won! They left for the airport the next morning for an all-expenses-paid weekend in Bermuda. In the nineties they hosted a Rocky Horror Picture Show Party for their friends-- who were all in their fifties-- and hadn’t seen it. Guests had to research the movie and come in character, which they did by golly. Dinner was followed by a living room screening complete with props.

When my parents hosted parties, we were allowed to pass hors d’oeuvres for the first hour and then it was up to get ready for bed where we sat in our pajamas at the top of the stairs, our faces pressed between the railings, looking down at the tops of their hairdos; hearing bits and pieces of conversations that mostly went over our heads. Eventually we were discovered and hustled off to our rooms. Back in my day, children were out-of-sight, out-of-mind at parties, unless it was a family party.

These days I’m thrilled when I go to a party and the hosts subscribe to the same throwback ideology. There are plenty of bar-b-ques, picnics, birthday parties, neighborhood events and holidays to hang out with our kids throughout the year. Grown-up parties are different; we can speak freely, connecting on a different level, not as parents, but as adults, independent of our children. I like your kids, I really do, but I want to talk to you. Uninterrupted. Without Spongebob in the background or your eight-year-old listening to me answer your questions about my last date. And I want to hear about you. I want to know if your boss has been fired yet and if your marriage is surviving the economy—things that kids shouldn’t overhear. A grown-up party is like a spa date; no one asks me to open juice boxes or tells me how much they like farts. And I’m sure they’re a particularly welcome respite for our friends whose kids are with the other parent on that weekend, or who simply don’t have them.

So, I’ve been thrilled over the comeback that grown-up parties are making lately. I’ve heard of some hilarious theme parties as well. My sister was invited to a party where the ladies had to wear either their wedding dress or a bride’s maid dress. The men had to stuff themselves into their tuxes. My other sister went to a Wear-What-You-Never-Get-to-Wear Party. One woman came in a prom dress and another guy came in scuba gear. There was a hula skirt, feetie pajamas, and a woman in mechanic’s overalls. One guy wore the shirt he bought for an East Indian wedding and his friend came in his beloved Wookie costume. A recent party theme I heard about-- best held near the holidays-- was the Ugly Sweater Party, where folks unapologetically wear the ugliest Christmas sweater they can get their hands on, and there are myriad out there just begging to be worn.

I wish January through March weren’t so bereft of social functions—just when the holidays are over and we need them most. Maybe I’ll host a theme party in February. And another one in March. If everyone hosted just one grown-up dinner party a year, think about how much more relaxed we’d all be. All those little spa dates would have to add up to some good. Plus it’s a great motivator to get your entire house really clean.

Stop Loving Me

(Adagio)

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the wind loves the sea
I will love you completely; cherish you through and through
I will love you and there’s nothing you can do

(Jazzy)

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the shadow loves the tree
I will love you completely for your shal-low-ness and depth
I will love you regardless, ‘til your last dying breath

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the rock loves the key
I will shelter and protect you, hold you dear to my heart
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.

(Bridge)

I will love you in the morning, I will love you at high noon
I will love you after supper, strolling un-derneath the moon
But my love won’t last forever, so you’d better treat me right
Better use those please and thank-yous; kiss me gently, hold me tight

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the circus loves the flea
I will dazzle you, en-ter-tain you, with all of my heart
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.

Story Slam

I remember sitting around my parent’s kitchen table growing up, listening to friends tell stories. A few friends were really good at it; one was particularly excellent.

Dave knew just what story to tell; he knew how to unravel it without losing the thread. He could craft it on the fly-- describing each character with salient detail-- then bring it to its hilarious and harrowing conclusion as we laughed and cringed. I loved the way he did the different voices and lit up when he spoke; he owned us and lit us up, too, as we listened, open mouthed, anticipating the words like tasty hors d’oeuvres.

I think that’s when I started to become aware of what made a good storyteller; a resistance to ums, a varied pitch. I tried to emulate my friend Dave but only ended up comparing myself to him, which resulted in subtle losses. I tended to leave stuff out, forget where I was, and that death knell of a good story, warble on too long.

All this is to say that I appreciate a good story and the talent and finesse that goes into its telling, so was thrilled to hear about a Story Slam event. The Story Slams are part writers’ group, part happening, and part Gong Show shenanigans. Five bucks gets you in the door and a canned beer-- the king of beers. Absolutely anyone who desires—from 21 to 91, regardless of vocation-- may put his or her name into a hat at the beginning of the evening. Throughout the show, our hostesses pull twelve names out of the hat. If your name is called, you hop up onto the stage, address the audience, and dazzle us with your story. Most folks read from the page, but some memorize their story, and still others do it off the cuff. Your story must be original and it must be under five minutes. If you go on too long, you get played off by the lovely folk band in the corner, Bloomfield, fronted by that nice young man who makes sandwiches at the deli.

It’s daunting and exhilarating all at once, the act of storytelling on demand. There’s the room and the audience and then there’s the clock in your head. Some folks saunter through their stories, blithely unaware of the drummer, picking up his sticks towards the big payoff at the end and mosey right into an unintended resolution. Some wrap up just in time with the confident finesse of an Irishman at a pub with all the time in the world and some speed through their stories as if being chased on the train tracks, a locomotive full of English Composition teachers bearing down on them in hot pursuit.

I go to the Story Slams because I love to hear great stories. I love hearing all the good ones and knowing that the one I’m not so crazy about will only last another four minutes. I get off learning about how other folks perceive the world and I love finding myself alongside the main characters, suffering right along with them in that rowboat or laughing alongside them on the examining table. I love that there are so many gifted writers and funny people in our neck of the woods and I’m inspired by their talent and chutzpah. But mostly, I appreciate a good storyteller. It’s not easy. And yet, they make it look easy.

Fire

Eyes cool blue and no smile
As though it were wrenched from your soul all the while
You stood playing with fi-re, quite lit-er-al-ly
Mm-mm and fig-ur’-tive-ly

You filled me up with desire
Then drained my patience while I suppressed ire
Couldn’t care less, I wanted you to undress me
Mm-mm-mm, literally

(bridge)

Do you use fire to give you the heat
that should start in you feet,
burn internally
Is fire your wing-man, is fire your crutch?
Is it there in a clutch, your hands chilling?
Do you need it so much you’re unwilling

(chorus)

To give into desire.
Stop playing with fire.
Please give into desire and start playing with fire.

So I chose not to stay
I took one last drink of you then walked away
You remained thinking of fi-re, quite lit-er-al-ly
Mm,mm and fig-ur’-tive-ly

I dreamt of you that night
Lecturing your lis’ners, rapt with delight
Couldn’t care less, I wanted you to undress me
Mm-mm-mm, literally

(bridge)

Do you use fire to give you the heat
that should start in you feet,
burn internally
Is fire your wing-man, is fire your crutch?
Is it there in a clutch, your hands chilling?
Do you need it so much you’re unwilling

(chorus)

To give into desire.
Stop playing with fire.
Please give into desire and start playing with fire.

Awake

Recently I exchanged emails with a lovely man on a dating site. He was just my type. I know my type because my girlfriend made me make out a list of the important qualities I would need in a man for him to qualify as boyfriend material.

“Be specific,” she said, “and do it now, while I’m sitting here watching you.”
I grabbed a piece of scrap paper and scribbled, ‘smart, funny, kind,’ then added, ‘employed.’ I handed my friend the paper, saying, “here.” She handed it back and said now go put it under your pillow.
“All the way upstairs?”
“Yes,” she said, “I’ll wait.”
I said, “So, you’re saying this won’t work if I put it in the cheese drawer of my refrigerator?”
“Under your pillow, smartass,” she said.
So I did. And she waited.

Apparently it worked. This guy’s profile was smiling, smart, age-appropriate and there was no inappropriate use of quotation marks-- as in, “I really ‘enjoy’ canoeing.” We liked similar movies, similar music and he seemed sweet and funny on the phone. We made a plan to meet for a quick lunch and I told him to call anytime after 8am to firm our plans and that I had until 2pm. He said that he hoped he would be awake in time. I thought, hmm, awake? Well, that’s when most people call, after they wake up. Did he mean awake in time to have lunch? Well, I guess I’ll find out.

At 10:45am he emailed. He apologized for not contacting me sooner, not because he had just woken up but because he hadn’t gone to sleep yet-- from the night before. Apparently the stress of being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in order to meet potential lady friends had taken its toll and he had been suffering from debilitating insomnia for a while now, or more specifically, ever since he joined the dating site scene. But then he added brightly that he really liked the way I write and wouldn’t it be fun to continue emailing? Then he wrapped up with, “Why don’t you tell me all about yourself? That way I can reply at 3am when I’m awake and you’re asleep.”

I thought about his offer for about four minutes, then I wrote back to him. Very politely and with grace and empathy I wrote that although he was clearly a great guy, I wasn’t looking for a pen pal. I wrote that I want to see his face and hear his laugh. I want to go to the movies, hold hands and maybe split a chocolate nut brownie ala mode—none of which I could do to my level of satisfaction online. I wished him well and said that if he every gets his sleeping issues in order, he would be welcome to call. He wrote me a very friendly, understanding response.

That night as I was arranging my pillows for bed—at 10pm-- I came across that rumpled piece of paper; the list. I took it out and read it again. It never occurred to me that I would have to be so specific. I just assumed that there were some things that were a given; some things that I could actually take for granted. But, apparently not. I would have to be very specific. So I grabbed a pen off my night stand and scrolled down my rumpled list; smart, funny, kind, employed,” then I added, “nice to kids, likes his mother, chews with mouth closed,” and “awake.”

There's No Place Like Italy

I dragooned my son to go to Italy with me recently. We were going to go to Spain, but when he asked, “Are there chicken nuggets in Spain?” I thought twice. If I was going to get him to Europe, I’d better choose wisely. A neighbor asked, “Why don’t you take him to Disney?” “Well,” I said, “because Epcot isn’t Europe. I want him to travel; to experience other cultures where people speak different languages, use different money, enjoy different rituals and eat different food.” “You mean like pizza?” Yeah, like pizza. Okay, I was busted. I wanted to go to Italy because it’s Italy.

We have family friends who live in Milan and who have two boys about my son’s age, who are bi-lingual and who could put us up for four days. So, we flew over there and within three hours of landing, they were playing four square and trading Pokemon cards-- Italian Pokemons with names like Picachini and Floatzilio. Then we went to a public park with a playground that had twelve trampolines laced together surrounded by a high net. We gave the mustached old man in the tiny wooden booth two euros each for twenty-minute jumps and off the boys went, each to their own trampolines; shoes off, laughing and flying like beautiful birds.

I explained to my friend that this would never work in America; that the mustached old man could never afford the two million dollar liability insurance on what he makes a year, and that he’d most likely spend his lifetime gnarled in litigation from the class action suit of parents who sued him because their child broke an arm. She looked at me quizzically as if to say, you’re joking? No, I assured her, it’s no joke. Then we resumed watching their joyful, bouncing bodies and listening to the happy squeals from our bench, in the sun, in Italy.

The next three days flew by, filled with a visit to the beach, a boat ride with a swim in the Mediterranean’s warm, teal waters, and a day and night’s stay in a midevil village high atop a mountain on Italy’s coast. The village—population 350—is pedestrian only-- it’s streets too narrow for cars-- and only two restaurants, one church and no hotels to support the whims of travelers or schools to attract young year-rounders. There were no planes overhead, no air-conditioners grinding away like oil refineries, and no leaf blowers to crash and stomp on the peace and quiet that is one of the supposed reasons why people move out of cities in the first place. And with too few trees within the village to support the chatter of frogs, crickets or cicadas, it was the single quietest place I have ever experienced in my life. It was deprivation tank quiet; simultaneously pleasing and confounding.

I strong-armed my son to visit only a few cultural touch points. At the duomo—the third largest cathedral in the world--we walked all around the roof, also a litigation nightmare by American standards. It was spectacular in an almost Harry Potter way, being so high up among the gargoyles and spires, looking down on the birds coasting below us, we felt a little magical, a little primeval. At least I did. I bored him with my meanderings on the generations of artisans and sculptors who spent their lives building and assembling this feat of architectural, engineering and aesthetic mastery. Every saint’s face, every drape of each angel’s robe was a stunning example of grace and perfection. While I tried to wrap my head around the single mindedness of an artist’s lifetime quest times thousands, my son wondered how high a rubber ball would bounce if dropped from the tippy-top .

I think he felt more magical eating gelato, which we did at least once a day under the “We’re on vacation” provision of the often-used Traveler’s Rationalizations. The gelato was outer-worldly, as was the prosciutto and the bread. At a housewarming party I accompanied my host and hostess to on Friday night, the new home-owners served a mozzarella ball the size of a large meatloaf. When three flats of foccacia bread arrived in the arms of a guest from Genoa-- bought especially from a particular baker who makes the best foccacia in all of Italy-- the room practically broke out in applause. No one ever said ‘fresh’ in four days. They didn’t have to, it’s implied.

So appreciative was everyone of the bread, the wine, the meat, shrimp and cheese, I wondered why we all shouldn’t eat this way every day, like Italians do. In fact, I wondered why Italians ever leave Italy. I mean, yes, of course, I know why they leave now—the economy-- and why they’ve left in the past—the fascism-- but why don’t we all go back? All of us! Italians and non-Italians alike!

I say we go. Who’s with me?

Seen It All

Patricia is a beautiful, vibrant and good-humored woman who was an elementary school nurse in the same district in New Jersey for thirty-two years. When I asked her if she’s seen it all, she replied, “Seen it all and heard it all.”

Patricia told me that not only did the kids come into her office for their issues, but that parents and teachers spent a good deal of time in her office, too. She knew all about the marital problems of most adults who came in to sit with her and usually knew about her students’ conflicts at home long before their teachers and even sometimes before their parents did. But most of all, she said, “People just needed to talk.” And Patricia was there to listen.

She said that she always kept quiet games and coloring books for the kids and music on the radio turned down low. And she always made herself available for chit-chat. I asked if she could tell the fakers right off the bat and she said, “After a while I got pretty good at telling. Headaches and stomachaches were the most popular because they couldn’t be seen. Sometimes they were bored but most times, they just needed a break. Or someone to talk to. If a kid trusts you enough, they’ll start to tell you things.”

If she saw something was amiss with a student, or was told something in confidence, she always waited for the child’s teacher to, “form his or her own opinion.” Then, if the teacher came to her with a similar finding or hunch, she could corroborate what she knew and they could work towards a solution together.

One little first grader she remembered “was a recent immigrant with a troubled mother.” Patricia was as compassionate as she could be and then the little girl moved away suddenly and always left her wondering. Fifteen years later the girl returned one day to tell Patricia that she was okay now, and so was her mom. She asked to pose for a picture with Patricia and stood close as they smiled.

Decades before there were aides and experts assigned to students with disabilities and special needs, teachers with spirited or disruptive students would send them out of the classroom to Patricia’s office for most of the school day. One little boy with ADHD, she said, “practically lived in my office” for his entire K-6th grade career. He came back every year after that to give her a big hug on the last day of school. Every year without fail, a big hug.

“As the years went on,” she said, “I saw too much of the parents. I just wanted to tell most of them to get out and go find something to do. But I had to be nice.” Patricia’s cousin chimed in, “She’s very even tempered and she’s wonderful with people who annoy her. I should know.”

“How did you avoid burn out?” I asked. “Well, it changes every year,” Patricia said, “but there is no greater bunch than the teachers. There was just so much camaraderie. It wasn’t all work; we had fun in between. Things can get stressful, but as long as you have friends to help you through… and I miss the kids. They were so much fun. But they had so much they had to do. And then after school activities—they just needed a break. I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.”

She said that she wishes she’d kept some of the excuse notes she got. I thought they might make an excellent coffee table book for doctor’s waiting rooms and lobbies. Then I asked her what I knew was a leading question, but I asked it just the same. “Would you say that most kids are basically good kids?” “Oh, yes, absolutely,” she said without missing a beat, “that’s why I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.” Always, I repeated to myself. That’s a precious commodity in these times. Thank goodness for school nurses like Patricia.

Thank goodness for the benefit of the doubt.

Hurricane and Went

When I was 10 or 11, there was a big hurricane that hit the Jersey Shore in the summertime. The firemen came to our door and told us to evacuate to the local public school basement, which was inland by a few blocks, so Mom packed our pajamas, sleeping bags and some dolls and snacks and off we went. Each family staked out their little 7x7 foot plot on the gymnasium floor, and they opened up the equipment closet for us so that we could play with the scooters and kickballs while the men stood in raincoats at the door, watching the wind and the rain absorb the air sideways. It was exciting to be in a strange school at night playing with phys-ed equipment, staying up way past our usual bedtimes. In the morning we returned to our rental homes and resumed our summers, blissfully unaware of any flooding or hardship that others may have endured. I remember that night fondly as do many of my friends who are now parents themselves, staying at the beach for the summer with their children. So when we heard there was a hurricane coming, we became excited, even nostalgic. We’d stay down to watch the sideways rain and hear the wind rattle out shutters and then walk the beach in the morning looking for sea glass, trying to identify who’s porch ended up on whose front lawn along the way.

But that’s not how it played out.

I was slow to the evacuation party, happily looking forward to the excitement, unaware of the news corps’ omnipresent phalanx of fear mongerers doing their best to get under our skin. Then I started getting texts from friends and thought perhaps there was more to this storm than a pajama party in a school basement. After plenty of corroborating emails and mandatory evacuation pleas from local law enforcement, it was clear that leaving the beach was the best course of action, if for no other reason than to get our cars to higher ground. We were all sad to go; sorry to miss the drama and the heightened frenzy of Mother Natures’ operatic moment; sorry to miss the majesty of the ocean’s fervor and the wind’s dominance over everything not nailed down-- and many things that were.

The Friday before the storm was to hit was a bit of a mind game. How could such a serenely gorgeous day herald such mighty devastation only 36 hours later? Back home up north, I finally tuned into the news in short bursts when my son wasn’t in the room. Showboating newscasters one-upped each other all along the Eastern Seaboard as the storm’s graphics and logo smash-cut across the screen with import and flair. They were predictably redundant-- stating the obvious-- and I turned off the TV, choosing instead to talk to neighbors and text my friends for the salient bits. Mostly, my son and I listened to music and readied the house, pausing from storing the patio furniture in the garage every so often to dance, turning the music up loud and expending some nervous energy in one of the best ways I know how.

I pulled up the basement rugs and piled all the toys onto the ping-pong table-- even though we’ve never had flooding-- just in case. I brought in all the contents of the screened-in porch and piled all the furniture in the corner—just in case. Then I scrubbed the tub and filled it with water, and set out the batteries, candles, matches and gardening gloves—just in case. I’d filled up my car with gas and gone to the super market, even though, like most American’s, I probably have enough food in my cupboard to survive for three months. And I bought a case of water—just in case.

It was curious to be thrown from a casual summer schedule of certainties—one lined up after the other like dominoes on end—into a potluck of possible outcomes. It was good for me to have to think above and below the mundane hum of predictability and use my imagination to conjure scenarios; the way science fiction writers conjure unforeseeable futures. “What ifs” dominated my problem-solving mind and I was forced to get creative as the hurricane approached. Where should I put the car? In the garage for the first time ever. Where would we sleep on the night of the storm? At a friend’s house on a street with fewer large trees. What will we eat once back at our house if the power goes out? Lots of peanut butter and canned peaches, as it turns out. And what will we do once the sun goes down? Listen to our battery-operated radio and read by candlelight. Lovely. Necessity is the mother of invention, after all, and it was satisfying having planned for contingencies that came to fruition. I feel like Ma from “Little house and the Prairie.” It’s fun camping indoors, for a while.

I hope my son will remember Hurricane Irene as fun, exciting and do-able. I hope he’ll remember the candles and eating up all the ice pops before they melted. Because life just keeps coming at us and we can only control so much; it’s good to be reminded that it’s elusive and for kids to see ho we handle uncertainties. These lessons are not always pleasant, but they keep our creative problem-solving minds nimble and remind us of what we’re capable of, who are true friends are and what matters most. Then we clean up the mess and start setting up the dominoes again. Until the next breeze comes along, and then we’re off.

Sea Legs

When Chris Wojcik was three years old, his favorite toy was his scuba GI Joe, which came with a wet suit, mask and fins. After sufficient badgering, his mother outfitted him with paper plates, which she cut in half and rubber banded to his feet, and giant seventies aviator sunglasses, which he wore for a scuba mask. Suited up and ready for adventure, little Chris headed off to explore the great deep under his dining room table. Years later, the summer “Jaws” hit theaters, Chris badgered his parents again. It was R rated, as you may recall, so they went to see it first-- as any responsible parents would-- then decided to take him along. He was seven. That infamous summer, when most people ran away from the ocean, Chris ran towards it; secretly chummed for sharks with leftover tuna sandwiches, which he pocketed when his mom wasn’t looking.

Chris eventually graduated with degrees in biology and biological oceanography. But it was all those summers spent working with his dad-- a contractor— which gave him the additional experience and confidence needed to work with all manner of tools and building materials. So it was no surprise to anyone when Chris ended up as a leading environmental education specialist. In other words, he’s the guy who gets paid to travel all over the world, then design and construct exhibits and sculptures for zoos, aquariums and natural history museums.

As the CEO of Ionature, Inc., he’s a busy guy. Because of his intrinsic artistic ability, he can create most anything you need while keeping an eye on its natural oceanic compatibility and organic integrity. Whether building and installing reefs and shipwrecks for the San Diego Zoo and the National Aquarium in Baltimore, or researching peet swamps in Malaysia, Chris has been very successful using his unique combination of knowledge and skills to interpret nature for the public. He knows about water currents, waves and tides and the feeding cycles of all sea creatures known to man. He can spot ill-placed anemone and misappropriated barnacles on the wrong side of a piling sculpture in a museum exhibit a mile a way.

But he’s also drawn to more unusual challenges. Recently Chris was commissioned by the family of a career commercial fisherman who died to design a 12 foot flounder inside which the ashes of the fisherman would be placed, then submerged to become an underwater reef and art installation for eternity. He took on the project, crafting the flounder sculpture with great care and respect, then offered to submerge the tribute reef himself, as he’s also been an accredited scuba diver for twenty-four years.

Which brings me to his sideline career as an underwater cameraman. Chris is the also the guy you hire to shoot footage of historic sunken ships salvaged from the 1800s off of Pt. Pleasant, New Jersey, of which there are many. While doing so a year or so back, he met a guy from the Discovery Channel who needed a shark expert to field and answer the onslaught of live chat questions about sharks that rolled in during Shark Week programming. Being a shark expert, Chris said, sure. So he’s done that, too.

I asked him what he’s excited about lately and his even-keeled manner spiked ever so slightly. “Underwater reef sculpture,” he said, and his eyes lit up. Apparently there are underwater sculpture gardens out there for combo scuba/art enthusiasts. There’s a big one in Mexico, and there’s Touchdown Jesus in Florida, of course, but Chris has plans for us right here in New Jersey. Big plans.

Starting in a few weeks, Chris will begin building a fifty-five foot, thirty-five thousand pound horseshoe crab reef sculpture out of rebar and cement—the only two materials that are 100% sea-friendly. It will take him 4-6 weeks to construct and weld to the top of a steel barge, which will then be towed out to the reef location at which point a special team of guys who get paid to blow things up will detonated the floaties under the barge. That awesome fun will enable the barge to sink to the ocean’s floor off of Mantoloking, with the sculpture in tact, where it will become home to hundreds and possibly thousands of oceanic life forms for eternity—like the fisherman in the flounder-- and art to scuba divers, too.

Chris chose the horseshoe crab because it’s “one of the oldest unchanged animals left on earth,” and because “its natural design and shape allows it to withstand currents and waves.” He built a model in a diorama-- he builds models of every he does beforehand-- of the happy scene he envisions; two scuba divers placidly gliding down into the welcoming depths of the ocean to see a giant Gulliver-esque horseshoe crab, surrounded by its new reef family and friends.

I asked Chris if there was one thing he wanted people to know about the ocean what would it be, and he answered, “Don’t be afraid of the sea.” He said that even thought fish feed at dawn and dusk, that’s when he likes to swim. “It’s like a big undersea day/night shift change and life gets very interesting down there.” Good thinkin’ I thought and filed that away in my summer brain. Wasn’t it Steve Martin who said, “never at dusk”?

You’re welcome to visit www.artasreef.com for more information, or to just get lost in an ocean lover’s dream; one of many born out of a child’s inexplicable and innate passion for the sea, fostered and nurtured by parents who knew well enough to support their son’s intrepid spirit any way they could, then get the heck out of his way. And keep plenty of paper plates and rubber bands on hand.

A Novel Idea

Hebbo Frehbbends,

Just a quick note to say thank you for checking in and reading this from time to time. I appreciate your patronage more than you will ever know and I find you all very attractive-- on the whole-- as a readership.

I know most of you don't comment-- and you know who you are-- and that's just fine by me, because I probably wouldn't comment back. But when you do it warms my cockles and reminds me that my eyes aren't the only ones on this stuff, and that's nice, too. But I wanted to write to you on this steamy summer morning because I have some news.

I thought it might be fun to share with you that the reason there were no posts in July is because I wrote a novel. I signed on-- in a sort of honor system way-- to write 50,000 words of a novel in 31 days, which I just completed yesterday, on July 31st. I was shepherded through the process by this book called, "No Plot, No Problem," written by the funny, friendly guy who started the National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo movement eight or ten years ago in San Francisco, I think. You can google it.

He posits that writers spend too much time talking about writing and not enough time doing it, so he challenges writers to write 1,700 words a day for 31 days and I did it. It was hard. No. It was grueling. But I did it, dammit and I hope you'll all cross your fingers for me and pray to the publishing sprites and fairies that my salacious sex-filled novel about sanctioned adultery amongst suburban friends sells a million copies and is in theaters by October.

It was fun and now I can join the pantheon of cocktail party bores who hoist a gin and tonic to their lips, take an important sip, then say, "Why, yes. I am a novelist." Then you can yawn and walk away.

At any rate, I'll keep you posted. And for the love of Pete, contact me if you know anyone in the publishing world. Thanks.

Lurv yous.
All a yous.

xo

Send in the Clown

About once a month my son and I turn the corner in front of my mom’s beach house at the Jersey Shore to find a car parked out front with a bright red, plastic ball affixed to the front grill. The car tells us that Bernie is inside—short for Bernice—and that the house is being cleaned. You see, Bernie is my mother’s cleaning lady. She is also a clown.

For about seven or eight years now, Bernie has been under my mother’s employ and in that time I’ve learned a few things about clowning. For instance, I’ve learned that “clown” is a verb, as in, “I clowned on Saturday and some kid threw up on my shoes,” Bernie might say, “Thankfully they were longer than my feet and made of plastic so I didn’t get covered. I just wiped them off.” Or, “The air-conditioning was broken where I clowned on Sunday, so my make-up started to run and I looked a little like the scary Joker from that Batman movie.”

Bernie is a large woman in most ways with a very friendly face; a face that one could immediately imagine tracing with the large, happy red lips of a clown’s over-the-top smile. Her eyes are bright and her bosoms are huge which, I imagine, would serve to enhance the overall round-y clowness of any working clown in the biz. She speaks not quiet slowly but with the same steady rhythmic inflection on each syllable of every word, as if there were an invisible piano teacher sitting on her shoulder reminding her of the calm, predictable pace of a metronome nearby.

Thankfully, I don’t have to imagine her smile because there is a business card of Bernie in “full clown” tacked up our kitchen bulletin board. “Laffles” it says in a loopy italicized font and she’s available for pretty much any event you can conceive of. Bernie’s longtime husband is also a clown. Sometimes they work together but mostly they work apart. Whenever they’re hired to work at children’s hospitals or for veterans, they never, ever charge them. If she gets hired for a gig and can’t do it, she passes the job onto other clown friends. Apparently there’s a ring of local clowns and they all look out for each other. Sometimes Bernie forgets to collect her fee, and sometimes she collects it then misplaces it. But you won’t hear those stories recounted with bitterness or frustration. There is too much to be thankful for in Bernie’s life to get upset about something like money.

Bernie can’t clean and tell me stories at the same time, and so we stop to talk and catch up with what turns out to be great length. Occasionally she forgets where she left off and misses something she was supposed to clean. It’s no big deal and in fact, gives Mom and me a chance to sharpen our skill at clown puns. Once I came back to my bedroom to discover that the waste paper basket hadn’t been emptied. On my way down to the kitchen garbage to empty it myself, Mom stopped me and asked what I was doing. I explained and she said, “Oh, that Bernie; probably clowning around.”

Sometimes when my son and I round the corner there is a black pick-up truck out front with a hood ornament of a boxer dog welded to the car. That car belongs to Mom’s handyman, Stanley, who is the other person who rounds out my mother’s staff. Stan is a dead ringer for Hulk Hogan in every way except much, much friendlier. He’s got thick, blonde hair that he wears helmeted under a bandana and a blonde handlebar mustache that dips down around the corners of his mouth to meet up with his beard. He wears brightly colored T-shirts and parachute pants with neon yellow and pink triangles—not unlike something you might have seen in a Whitney Huston video back in her heyday—and a single, solid gold chain around his neck the size and thickness of your pointer finger.

His blue eyes twinkle as much as Bernie’s and he’s got that steady cadence speech pattern thing like she does, too. The only difference is that Stan speaks much louder than Bernie because he’s got tinnitus. That’s also the reason why he brings in a boom box to play 1970s biker hard rock at deafening levels when he’s repairing anything in the house. He tells me he listens to music just as loud to fall asleep to as well, but his wife’s used to it. He’s got a Dalmatian dog named, Trixie, and three daughters to whom he each gave a motorcycle when they turned sixteen.

I take great comfort in knowing that my mother is being looked after and taken care of by a clown and a biker with big smiles and twinkly eyes. It’s a little like living on the Island of Misfit Toys but my mom wouldn’t have it any other way. Sometime I’ll tell you about her plumber, Steve. He’s in a rock band with his brothers and sings top 40 tunes from the sixties while he works. Life’s a circus if you choose to see it that way. Sometimes more literally than figuratively.

Savage Beauty

I like risk takers and am generally drawn to people who are a bit nuts-o, so I was excited as I headed into the city to see the Alexander McQueen show at the Met. Mr. McQueen was a whack-a-doo couture-clothing designer and the Met has a retrospective of his most outlandish work entitled “Savage Beauty” up through August 7th of this year. I was not an ardent disciple of Mr. McQueen’s and cannot recall his clothes by name, but was just aware enough of his work that I would smile when I caught a photo of his runway show in the paper; of a model wearing resin antlers, or a headpiece swirling with dozens of bright red butterflies completely obscuring her face.

I say “was” because he recently took his own life at the age of 40 and so my girlfriend and I talked about suicide as we waited in line for 35 minutes on the second floor of the Met, ruminating over what drives a person to that daunting brink then tips them over the edge when so many step back. As we chatted we shuffled past pearly white busts of daydreaming Greek gods and the achingly tender embraces of Rodin’s naked lovers. It occurred to me that daydreaming and kissing are two of life’s greatest pleasures and excellent reasons to ride out the most hopeless seeming storm. I wished Mr. McQueen could have held on.

Entering the exhibit was like entering a spooky ride. The sounds of winter wind and labored breathing curled up our legs and hovered above us, reminding me of the old haunted house Halloween album that my dad used to play for trick-or-treaters. It was a fitting introduction to the two pieces of eye-candy that greeted us; one, a long, clingy red dress covered in cascades of rectangular, glass, medical slides painted red; and the other, a floor-length, regal, sleeveless number comprised entirely of layered rows of hanging polished and varnished razor clam shells which, when worn, would give the aural impression of Neptune’s wife sidling up next to you like Mae West. Clearly, we were in for a treat.

Turning a corner, we were introduced to a young Alexander’s graduation collection from fashion school in London. So impressive was his novice work that the collection was purchased on the spot in its entirety by renowned fashionista, Isabella Blow. I could see why: Mr. McQueen had turned the women’s suit jacket on its head. Lapels dipped and meandered along shoulders and chest giving the jackets an understated whimsy, downplayed by the seriousness of the somber black wool. Occasional placards with quotes from McQueen reminded us that he drew great strength from powerful women and was thrilled by the discomfort he imposed on the fashion voyeur every time he put forth a female model as steely and unforgiving as an evil empress.

Knocking and barking, scraping and creaking, the Edgar Allen Poe audio accompanied us into the next room where we were introduced to a more Nine Inch Nails McQueen as renegade recycler, spinning found objects into object d’arts. The skulls of vultures and small alligator heads perched upon molded black leather shoulders as epaulets. Horse hair and shiny black duck feathers made their way onto the silks of gothic gowns. Repeatedly we were reminded that McQueen saw himself as a romantic, but these were no teddy bear infested, heart-shaped confections. McQueen was hell bent on exploring the dark, forbidden corners of romanticism usually conjured by David Lynch or Tim Burton; panicked lovers chased by the gnashing teeth of rabid wolves in murky, moonlit forests—that sort of romance.

The next room was a cavernous visual carnival of his most bizarre and outlandish accessories interspersed with TV monitors showing loops of memorable moments from his infamously dramatic runway shows. Metal spines, alien-type serpents and tails made of brass and steel hugged mannequins next to images of models being soaked by wind and rain or dripping in red bugle beads ringed by actual flames of fire. I cracked up at the earrings made of real pheasant claws holding dripping lengths of pearls between their talons, and the leather high heels molded at the toe to look like bare feet. There were the breast-plates made of molded glass and balsa wood, and the majestic headdresses of drift wood, birds nests and bonsai carved cork. There were the impossible looking, metal-studded and jewel encrusted, high-heeled hoof shoes, worn by Lady Gaga as only she can. And there was the crowd: reverent and agape at the imagination and artistry; energized by the macabre audacity.

I was giddy to learn we still had eight rooms to go. There were a few eight-year-olds in the room and I predicted they’d have a nightmares before morning. There was the conservative looking older man in his seventies who had hired a private guide to explain the show to he, his wife and grandson. They looked very mid-west, with their khaki pants and pastel golf shirts, but I fully respected them for wanting to know about this madman. The grandfather leaned in to hear every word the guide said about passion and misunderstanding, genius ignoring boundaries, and I hoped that my intellectual curiosity would be as open-minded thirty years from now. Curiously, although it seemed in life Mr. McQueen sought to push and provoke, in death everyone was invited in. His clothes did not shirk or slink and neither did his ideas or the women he envisioned wearing them. He was a master craftsman of pomp and creepiness. I’m sorry for the fashion world’s loss and glad we had him for as long as we did.

Love You More

(intro)
Here’s a song about my son
He’s seven and a half years old
He calls me pretty, still nestles in
When we snuggle these moments are gol-den

We put on K.C. and the Sunshine Band
And boogie around the room
We wrote this song together
When we sing it my heart goes zoom, zoom.

(chorus)
I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me

Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me

You will grow older and smelly
Dark hairs are gonna grow on your belly
You’ll be sullen and morose
And when I try to hold your hand you’ll pull away saying, “Gross!”

“Mom, I don’t think so. Ugh. Don’t even touch me. Infact,
don’t look at me, okay. Just stop. Ugh, go away. Leave me alone.”

You’ll hold your head down and mumble
When I ask how was your day you’ll simply grumble
I know all you can think about is sex
But would you look me in the eye and just stop text-ting "for one minute? Would it kill you to look at your mother
and tell me one thing you did in school? Just one thing?”

“Okay, here’s one thing. I thought about how much I hate you.”

“Honey, that’s sweet. I love you, too.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Sweetie, we can agree to disagree. Hey, let’s sing that song we wrote together when you were little and wanted to marry me and held my face in your hands and told me I was pretty several times a day.”

“Go to hell!”

“Dinner’s in an hour!”

“Fuck you!”

I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me

Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me.

Invention Convention

Recently I had the extreme pleasure of attending the Invention Convention at the South Mountain Elementary School. Every third grader had been encouraged to come up with a pressing problem that needed solving and then present his proposed solution to the public, comprised mostly of her peers. Long tables ringed the outside perimeter of the gymnasium, with 3 to 4 inventors behind each table. They waited-- some patiently, some anxiously-- for folks to wander up and ask them what they had to offer. Then, like olde time snake oil peddlers their eyes brightened as they let go a sales pitch that would make Ronco proud.

Clearly having practiced, their spiel was down to a science. I would walk up to a huckster, and he or she would take a deep breath then lean towards me a little, gearing up for the big sell. Most of them began the same way, “You know how when…”, regardless of the age of the listener. I liked that I was one of them; sharing their problems, feeling their pain. When you get down to it, aren’t we all just simpatico souls looking for answers?

I walked up to a fair-haired girl who looked in my eyes and asked, “You know how when you’re on the monkey bars and your hands slip?”
“Yes,” I said in all earnestness. It was an irksome predicament.
“Well, these gloves are sticky on the palm for wearing on the monkey bars.” I looked at the proto-type. “Awesome,” I said. And I meant it. Slipping off the monkey bars can ruin any gal’s day. But it doesn’t have to now, not when you’re wearing Stickeroo Gloves.

Looking at the pretty, colorful charm bracelet dangling from the next inventor’s wrist, I asked, “What have you got there?”
She answered matter-of-factly, “It’s the Eraserlet. All the charms are erasers so you just wear it to school and you’ve always got one near by.”
“Genius,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I thought it was. In fact, they all were.

There was the Jump Rope Soaker wherein small holes have been poked in water bottles for handles which sprinkle water to keep you cool while you jump rope, and the Wheel of Fun, which you spin to help decide what to do on a playdate. There was the No-Hands Rabbit Feeder and the Semi-Automatic Bed-Maker which helps you make your bed by dragging the sheet, blanket and comforter up to the top of the bed in one all-attached rope handle with multiple clips. He even demonstrated it’s semi-automatic action on a doll’s bed. It was amazing. I would have placed an order on the spot.

There was the Stuffed Animal Holder for keeping your stuffed animals from falling out of bed and onto the floor at night while you sleep, and the Backpack with Interchangeable Decorative Covers. There was the Remote Finder, the Lollypop Saver and the Toothpaste Pump. These were the pressing dilemmas of a nine year old and here were their obvious solutions. They were so creative and so sure of themselves-- hawking their wares like Javitz Center pros-- that I knew that our national sales and promotions culture had a robust future. But mostly I was proud of their creativity and imagination; proud beyond belief and they weren’t even my kids. I wanted to linger and ask if they’d considered spending their summer applying for design patents, but I was short on time and didn’t want to miss any.

Some ideas were clearly born from hearing grown-ups kvetch and although those inventions secretly cracked me up, I was just as impressed. Like the good people-pleasing co-dependants some kids—mostly oldest children-- become, they had fashioned solutions for an adult world, hoping to cut down on the carping they have to overhear while playing video games; half in their world, half in ours. Or maybe they just want to be helpful.

There were the Thorn Avoider Gardening Gloves and the Mop with Hollow Handle that you pour water into and then squeeze into the floor sponge as needed. There was the Toss-A-Meal Dinner Decider spinning wheel, and the removable and washable Dirty Tissue Jacket Pockets that velcro inside your jacket so that you can pull a clean tissue from one pocket, then return it used to the other. One girl had designed a hollow secret-key hiding place inside a flower pot which could house actual dirt and flowers, and a future funny-man demo’ed his Nail Holder for holding nails away from the hammer so that you don’t hit your fingers, while wearing a fake, bloody, nail-through-the-finger bandage on his finger. Points for visual drama and gross-out humor, kid. Way to know your audience.

I left the Invention Convention with a bounce in my step and a chuckle in my heart. I know that China’s going to clobber us in told and untold ways for many years to come, but our can-do spirit is alive and well in our elementary schools. These students were polished and passionate, creative and industrious, and I’m anxious to see what they come up with next. Until then, put me down for a pair of Stickaroo Gloves and a Lollypop Saver—make it two.

Old Jewish Man

I like the Marx brothers, and I like to dance
And sometimes I say slacks in-ste-ad of pants
And I like Ernie Kovaks, and Madeline Khan
And Django Reinhart and Sean Connery’s James Bond

And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo

(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man

I enjoy puzzles, and strolls 'round the block
And prefer the face on my old kitchen clock
And I like to garden and play cards in the shade
And ruffle the sheets though the bed’s just been made

And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo

(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man.

Rummaging Around

Most people have second families. Sometimes at work, sometimes at church, and occasionally they come in the form of a teaming ocean of in-laws. My second family is comprised of about a hundred volunteers for the Visiting Nurses Association Rummage Sale in Far Hills, New Jersey. Many of them are octogenarians whom have known me for nearly twenty years. Once you start volunteering, it’s hard to stop. People get sucked-in, as they say. George in the camera department is ninety-four. He hasn’t missed a sale in twenty-six years.

My mom got sucked in first; then me, then my dad. Rummage, as we volunteers call it, -- because to us it names the destination, the activity, the sale, and the ensuing lifestyle—happens twice a year, always on the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday of May and October. It began as a fair on the polo grounds just outside of town over a hundred years ago, but there wasn’t a rummage table until a few years later. Now there are five circus tents, two long barns and a couple of smaller tents, which together house the 28 departments that comprise the sale.

People come from near and far to attend this twice-yearly event. Folks who used to attend or volunteer and who have since moved away plan their family reunions around the sale. I know a woman who lived and worked as scientist in the Amazon for years who planned her yearly trips back to the states around the sale. She even bought her wedding dress from me in the Vintage Department, which I ran for 13 years—even when I worked and lived in Manhattan; commuting out for 2 ½ hours each way every weekend for “set-up”, the month leading up to the sale.

Set up lasts the month prior and the sale accepts a steady stream of cars packed with donations, 6 days a week from 10am to 1pm. Over 400 volunteers work in the heat and dust, snow and rain, battling sunburn, mud and wasps; many of them every day to set up the sale. The constant movement and buzz of handcarts sorting and delivering the donated items to their respective departments gives the sale the appearance of a smurf village. My friend who works at refugee camps all over the world feels right at home at rummage. Except that we laugh a whole lot more.

Once delivered to the proper department, the item is micro-sorted, then sometimes nano-sorted. Electrical items are fixed, curtains and men’s pants are measured and clothing is hung up according to size and sometimes color. The fastidious-- read: borderline OCD--departments heads count playing cards and lego pieces, group golf clubs into sets, shelve books alphabetically according to subject and/or author and see that every puzzle piece is accounted for. It is a stunning monument to organization and systems. It is also a dysfunctional family.

For as much as we laugh over the ear of corn that was donated encased in lucite, or the souvenir dishtowel from a leper colony in Africa, there are tears. There is infighting and occasional back-stabbing, there are temper tantrums and betrayals. And every season, when our tent city sprouts up from the grassy fields out of nowhere like some bizarre Brigadoon, and we come together to hug and ask, “How was your summer?” or “Did you survive the winter?”, we notice the absences. We learn of sudden and tragic passings and the reluctant confinements to homes and beds. But mostly we learn of the grateful grantings of rest. It’s a curious thing to have ones friends die so often. It forces me to let go of old friendships and make room for new. I’ve gotten quite good at it, sad but true.

This second family of mine threw me an engagement party, then a baby shower. They watched over my son as he toddled amongst the racks and hangers-- a bell pinned to his back so we could keep and ear out for him; watching over him as if he was their own—and took turns keeping an eye on him as he napped in his filthy stroller so that I could hang second-hand clothes. They bolstered me through my divorce and understood when I left Vintage under its pressures to work closer with my mom in the Household Department. They grieved with us when my father died—he had fixed radios in the Electric Department for eight years and then catalogued in Records for five. They fortify my mother and me even now.

It’s a parallel life I lead each Rummage Sale, and my family there is vast and warm. I love them because everyone’s just a little nuts like me. Most of them are good nuts; caring, hilarious and kind. There is the woman who takes home every bread machine and makes bread in it to test it, then brings in the warm, fresh bread to pass around before marking the appliance, “Tested – okay!” I’ve missed only three sales in eighteen years; when my son was born, when my divorce was imminent, and when I began my graduate school studies. This spring’s sale is taking place this weekend. I hope I’m there for fifty-one more.

Textile Tango

I enjoy winter’s deep, rich hues of charcoal, cranberry and plum, but I love swapping out my wardrobe for the giddy pinks and melons of spring knowing that setting up my back yard patio isn’t far behind. Turning the corner of the cushion aisle at my local big box store, my mood actually brightens at the wild patterns and crazy color combos that seem to be saying, “You survived another winter. Now lighten up and let’s boogie.” I imagine a career where I would get paid to sit around and design patio cushions; thinking about patterns and color combos all day. Sounds like heaven; sounds like fun. And really, how hard could it be? So, I asked a friend of mine, Janna Sendra, who is Director of Textile Development for a manufacturing company that makes outdoor furniture replacement cushions for big box stores what it’s like to have a job where you think about color all day. Turns out it’s pretty intense, incredibly complicated, and ultimately fascinating. But it aint easy.

Beginning in high school, Janna collected textiles—curtains, tea towels, scarves and such—because she was drawn to quality eye-catching graphics, interesting patterns and unexpected color combinations. In art school she took a class in weaving which inspired a Masters of Science in Textile Design at the former Philadelphia College of Textiles and Science. There she learned the science of dyeing and finishing fabrics, weaving and printing, pattern repeat, yarn strength and the properties of cottons vs. synthetics. Before graduating she began an internship at a third generation family owned and operated textile mill, which began making piano scarves in 1903. There she learned how to design for and weave patterns into jacquard upholstery fabrics and interpret design trends in order to create a line for furniture makers and high-end fabric manufacturers, and on what to base her insight on color and design.

It was at about this time that I realized I knew precious little about the textile design business considering its omnipresence. Because of our friends on TV, we feel intimate with forensic science and have convinced ourselves that we could perform an emergency tracheotomy should the occasion arise. We’ve logged thousands of hours watching home makeovers and miracle interior reincarnations, but do we have an inkling of what really goes into designing the fabrics that will grace the aesthetic elements that define our lobbies, offices, hotels, restaurants and homes? Did I even realize that it was a science? Not really, no.

“The real challenge is responding to trends in color and design, which is ultimately led by fashion,” Janna said. Textiles, interiors, paints, appliances, home décor, rugs, and car colors are all influenced by the all-powerful runway and shifts in the economy. The more permanent the item—like a couch or a car—the slower the trends are to turnover and the smaller the knee jerk reaction to fashion. But the irresistible throw pillow will reinvent itself again and again, luring us with its promise of newness and right now. The art and science of successfully pinpointing color trends remains a delicate balancing act based on history and previous sales. There are few long lunches in textile design, but there are very, very long nights.

Janna explained the nuances between different colors’ personalities the way one might describe middle school lunchroom cliques. Green is important right now and blue is getting a lot of attention. Red is always popular; it always sells. Orange, pink and yellow are more marginal, but proudly maintain an anarchic streak as accent colors. Blue/greens are their own category with teal making a big impression lately, and purple is very hot, very on trend. To most Americans, purple is a mystery; only Europeans and gay decorators can appreciate its lure.

More recently Janna learned to merchandise the fabrics for decorators, creating books of fabric themes-- or “color stories”-- for decorators and hotbeds of home renovation. She then became a buyer, and is now in charge of textile development, traveling to Taiwan to oversee print runs and the process of mixing UV inhibitors in with dyes for outdoor furniture cushions; the very cushions that lighten my mood when I turn the corner in my local big box store. “Color is very subjective and emotional,” she said, “it’s hard to predict.” But one thing is predictable: we will willfully allow ourselves to be seduced by a fresh take on an old standby. Whether it’s a new haircut or simply re-arranging the patio furniture from last summer, we strive to be relevant; we want to be now. I may treat myself to new patio cushions or more likely settle for the simple guilty pleasure of a single, fabulous throw pillow. Either way, I like my seasonal, emotional tango with color. It keeps me on my toes.

GRE 'n Me

Raise your hand if you thrill at the prospect of taking standardized tests. Yeah, me neither.

Recently I had the dubious-- and what I hope to be unique-- anti-pleasure of taking the GRE or Graduate Ridiculous Exam. I’d managed to worm myself through two semesters already with a near-complete application—minus my GRE scores-- and could avoid it no longer. After nine months of procrastinating—eschewing, if you will— I finally buckled down and began studying. I was fairly confident I would earn the minimum score in the verbal section, because I can use the word eschew with reasonable confidence as evidenced above, but the math had me up nights, so I hired a tutor; a stranger I met at Starbucks.

He was an hour and a half late to our first session but incrementally arrived sooner. The book I’d chosen to shepherd us through this odyssey was not “The Princeton Review” as everyone had recommended, but it’s lesser cousin, “The GRE Test for Dummies.” I chose it because it was funny and written by three women. Who better to escort me through my tenth circle of hell than three funny women? The first time I cracked the math section of the book back in August, I read the word “integer” and burst into tears. What were integers? The word teased me with its familiarity and yet, remained distant, elusive. I knew I should know it but having not been in a math classroom since my junior year in high school a hundred and fifty years ago, I panicked. Then I cried.

Now it was April and I was cruising through the book. When I didn’t understand something, I dog-eared the corner of the page and had my tutor walk me though it. I carried the book with me everywhere and even wrote a song incorporating all the formulas—rhyming “isosceles” with “if you please”-- so that I could remember them on the big day of the test.

Then an unlikely thing happened; the math began to click. I didn’t just know that the area of a triangle was half the base times the height; I could reel off its ratios as well. Not only could I compute the total surface area of a cylinder, but it’s wily volume to boot. I learned the degree measure of an inscribed angle, exponents and reciprocals, and the FOIL method became my friend. I welcomed primes and composites into my world, and developed a crush on Pythagoras and Pi.

But the week before the test I panicked again. There was still so much that wasn’t making sense. I should have started studying sooner; I would never pass. I hated math’s guts and resented my brain for not understanding with the ease of my tutor and the three funny authors. Other brains could unravel these problems with the simple logic of untying a knot in one’s kite string, but I just picked and stared then wanted to throw it down and go inside and play hearts.

I emailed my friend, Steve Simon, who is the Chief Poo-Bah of All Things Mathy at Oxford University in England—not his real title. I told him that I felt that math was mocking me and asked him to tell me something about her to make me like her; some embarrassing fault, perhaps, to make her seem vulnerable and therefore likeable. I also asked him why x to the zero equals one, just for kicks.

Steve wrote back that I shouldn’t feel threatened; “everyone fights with her,” he said. Math was a benevolent but tough mistress; “a goddess of such beauty that no Cleopatra, no Charlize Theron could ever hope to compare.” He wrote, “…she is fair and loving and when you uncover her secrets and understand them fully, she will reward you and smile upon you.” But he also concurred that she doesn’t give up her secrets easily. “Would anyone respect her as queen of the sciences if she were easy?” Spoken like a true math geek. Apparently it was the process that I had to embrace. He recommended that I think of math as a series of elegant puzzles, “an entertaining game, like Boggle.” He warned me not to attach my future worth to my math score and added that Einstein had math troubles, too.

So, armed with a balsa-wood clad memory for all the formulas I had to keep straight, I headed into the belly of the beast. The testing center was like a day trip to the pentagon. I had to present two forms of ID and sign a dopey contract promising not to aid or abet cheating, then put all my personal property—including jewelry and water bottle—into a locker. I was photographed then asked to empty all my pockets and pat myself down front and back. I pulled an elastic hair band and three throat lozenges from my front pocket and was told I could take in the hair band and one tissue, but had to leave the lozenges. Some jerk with a fake cough had clearly ruined the party for the rest of us by scribbling, “the area of a circle is pi R squared” on the inside of a wrapper and now I would have to quell my sore throat with my own spittle as balm. Oh, what sweet metaphor for life! I thought and stopped myself from shaking my fists at the heavens because I was pretty sure the test center’s fascist gatekeeper wouldn’t think it was funny. It was a very unfunny place.

The test room itself had all the creature comforts of a bank vault and housed a warren of cubicles, each with it’s own monitor and keyboard circa 1992. Although I came out of the starting gate raring to go, the creeps at GRE central sucked the wind out of my sails by making me take a non-optional, non-paid demographics survey for the first twenty minutes, then I wrote my two essays, took the verbal—yes, I knew the opposite of glib was not bourgeois—and finally arrived at the gnashing teeth of the math section. My pulse raced; my eyeballs tensed. I resigned to consider this foray not a waste of time, but a practice test. With seven minutes to go, I made a mad dash to solve functions and subtract like radicals. I didn’t belong here. I was a radical, too. The daughter of artists, I could fake tap dancing better than math, and math knew it. But I pressed on. I was a lousy tap dancer and terrible at math, but by golly, I was no quitter.

The clock ran out and the two and a half hour test of stamina, recall and misery was over. I opted to see my scores in the seconds that followed and was stunned to see the numbers. I made it! Not by much, but I had beat the minimum score. Shocked, I looked and looked again, silently intoning the numbers the same way I read no parking signs before turning off the engine. Then I began to cry-- silently. I couldn’t help it. I felt such relief. I was careful not to interrupt my fellow test takers, and used my tissue to mop the flow, but had to take a moment before getting up to exit. Seems this had been a bigger deal than even I had thought.

I sent my scores to my graduate school, which has now officially accepted me with the caveat that I take a summer math refresher or two. I emailed Steve at Oxford, thanking him for his Lord of the Rings-like advice and he congratulated me in earnest. He even took the time to explain to me why x to the zero equals one. I understood his elegant explanation more than I would have before, but its beauty still eludes me. Yes, I can look at octagonal paper plates at a birthday party and know that the average measure of one of their sides is n minus 2 times 180 over n. But I don’t. And I could eyeball a can of baked beans on the shelf and compute its volume, but I won’t. I’m going to give math some space for a while; a little breathing room will do our relationship good. Sure, it was nice getting reacquainted, I suppose, and I’m happy to see her thrive. But I’m doing just fine without her. And I’m content to read the labels.

Regrets

Why sleep
when I can write?
Sleeping's for sissies
I always say.

But I don't mean it
I know I should try
and would if I could so
out goes the light.

Then all my regrets
come bumbling in,
turn on the light and
make themselves comfortable.

Uninvited, one leans
on the empty pillow
facing me
with snide eyes

A couple more
begin to sit
at the foot of the bed
without decorum

I have to shift
my knees, feet quickly
An elbow jabs
me in the back

While others hover
with bad breath
and look at me
expectantly

Now who's the sissy?
one seems to chide
Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
the introductions go

They think they're more
entertaining than they are.
Don't you all have
a bus to catch?

Don't you have
somewhere to be
at three-eighteen
in the morning?

Shove off, bubs.
I have work to do
and you weren't so special
to begin with.

So Badly

The following is not a song about my ex. That would be too easy, too obvious, and frankly, he doesn't deserve to be enshrined in song and you, dear reader, deserve more. I will say, however, that my life has been long and a heart can be crushed in all manner of ways. So be mindful not to assume. Because when you assume, you make an assu out of me.

Hit it, Monty.



First I recognized its shape
the color, make and model
The first three letters cinched it and
my breathing slowed to shallow then I

peaked in all the cafes
I was mindful of my crusty, healing heart,
it’s depth and scope
This town’s too big for both of us

(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly

Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

A block away I saw you
You looked good, were stepping lively
I slowed way down to watch you
then I willed you to please turn around

I hoped you’d fall in a sewer grate
of piranhas and hot lava then-I
scaled it back-to just piranhas
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving

You didn’t turn around cause you were
chatting with someone, she was a blonde

(Song stops)

Singer says to accompanist, “It’s always a blonde.”
He answers, “Pretty much, yeah.”

(Song resumes)

You smiled while you were talking
Your life is clearly perfect so I
hoped you would be eaten alive
by a boa constrictor

Then I dialed it back to just maimed
by a fire breathing wart hog
with rabies and bad dandruff
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving

I walked into the café
then spotted where you’d just been sitting
Your seat was still warm
You seemed so close but were so far

I ordered what you would have had
if we were still together
Then I changed my mind and thought fuck you
and ordered a BLT!

(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly

Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

Hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

Show Time

This past winter I had the pleasure of seeing three performances: the Shanghai Circus, a delightful display of feats of strength, balance and derring-do; Savion Glover, a delightful exploration of percussive tap dancing to live flamenco music; and the Queen of Spades, a delightful slog through a four-hour Pushkin opera at the Met.

In all three cases, I had to surrender. The shows had no heady dialogue to follow in order to occupy my mind. I had to take off my coat and stay a while, acknowledging to myself that in order to get the full effect of the entertainment experience, I had to completely immerse myself and let it wash over me. It meant turning off the cell phone, turning off my brain and giving over the controls to someone else until further notice. It meant begging off the scheduling nymphs and list fairies and allowing awe and wonder to scramble up from where they’d been bound and gagged, waiting patiently to see the light of day again. In all three cases it worked, and as I relaxed and let go, I was dazzled.

Pushkin was up to his same old melodramatic tricks at the Met but with a compelling avant-garde flair. The depth and scope of the vast stage’s starkly compelling sets elicited gasps from the opera-goers around me each time the curtain was raised, and the costumes’ design and palette thrilled the fashionistas in the audience with their modern take on an age-old winter wardrobe. I read the summary in the program and then decided to leave the LED narration off and float through. The story line was simple enough to explain to a stranger in one subway stop and because this was Pushkin I just assumed that everyone would either die of consumption or a broken heart, but that they were sure to suffer madness on their way there. I was right, and since the opera clocked in at about the same length as a flight to Phoenix, I cozied-in and, once again, surrendered.

The Shanghai Circus was mind blowing. It’s performers showed such nimble control, such deft coordination, that my son and I found our selves unable to decide which act impressed us most. Was it the strongest man I’m likely ever to see; able to support and balance his own body weight in impossible, one-armed ways? Was it the mad, multi-ball hand juggler or the whimsical foot jugglers; passing balls to each other in Dr. Seuss fashion? Naturally I was attracted to the plate spinners, whose ability to multi-task-- spinning twelve plates on twelve sticks with each hand while moving and grooving-- spoke to the mother in me, and the eerie, science-fictiony, high-pitched hum they gave off was mesmerizing.

Savion Glover was mesmerizing, too. Having discovered the percussive seduction of flamenco, he teamed up with the equally mesmerizing Carmen Estevez of Spain. The daughter of a jazz drummer father and a flamenco singing mother, she drummed and sang with the cool, detached rasp of an aloof femme fatale while Savion-- two feet away on a tap platform—listened and let her music soak into his every pore until his head was so wrapped up deep inside the music that and only his tapping feet remained free. My mom and I watched—along with the flamenco guitarist nearby-- like voyeurs to a flirtation. Carmen played and sang as Savion hoofed and tapped and together they wound and weaved not so much a story but an experiential journey, like when you felt your way through the woods with your eyes closed, on a dare, when you were young.

During intermission, my mom told me about a Tap Happening she went to with Dad back in the 1960s at the Dixie Hotel on W.43rd (now the Hotel Carter, named
the dirtiest hotel in the US for 4 years in a row). Metal folding chairs were set up down in the basement and a record player sat in the corner. As my parents sat in awe, Howard "Sandman" Sims, Charles "Honi" Cole, Jimmy Slyde and Chuck Green tried to best each other; walking to the record player one at a time to put the needle down on the song that would take them to that place where body and imagination paired up and left the head in the dust. Mom said that tap had gone out of style at the time, but these guys just wanted to get together to keep it alive, to see old friends and to work their craft with nothing but camaraderie and fun as their goal. Having grown up seeing these greats on the big screen, Mom and Dad were blown away.

During the second half of the show, I thought about the plate spinners and opera singers and wondered if they’ll ever get together someday in a basement, just to catch up with old friends and show each other what they’ve still got. I thought about how much fun they would have without the pressure of a theater crowd and itchy costumes and marveled at the sight of them smiling and laughing it off as plates and notes were dropped. A lifetime of hard work and show times behind them, I pictured the plate spinners teaching the opera singers that it’s all in the wrist, and the opera singers giving voice to the muted acrobats.

Then the lights came on and the show was over. It was time to put my coat on and head back.

Hate Your Socks

When we’re entangled, wrapped up
In our cocoon of denial
Blind men and deaf ladies
Neighbors, focused, wander by

They don’t see us dancing, dreaming
They can’t hear us laughing, screaming
Stroll below with perma grins
Oblivious to the bliss we’re in

Then your phone alarm goes off
And you get up and out of bed
The cone of warmth is broken, darn
It’s time to let the world back in

You start to think about the time
And what is next on your to do list
You’ve already disengaged
I’m getting cold, then mad, enraged

I hate the world, I hate the clock
I hate your phone, I hate your socks
Don’t put them on, just leave them there
Let’s live our lives, in here bare naked

We can order take out, we can
Make this room our hide out, we can
take our courses all on line
And skype and work remotely

Not a soul would miss us,
Okay, just our moms but they would
understand once we had told them
That we love each other madly

I know society would fail
If everybody did the same
Bridges wouldn’t build themselves
Gnomes wouldn’t stock grocery shelves

But can’t you just leave us alone
For we’re so insignificant
Don’t matter in the grandest scheme
Please carry on and let us dream

I hate the world, I hate the clock
I hate your phone, I hate your socks
Don’t put them on, just leave them there
Let’s live our lives, in here bare naked

Snow Days

The snow is finally melting-- at least this batch is-- and as with anyone who’s muddled though this past winter, I’m thrilled about spring’s debut, but I’m also a little sad. “What?!” you say? Before you hack at your computer screen with scissors, please hear me out. I actually enjoyed all the snow. Not because I’m a big cold-weather snow-person. To the contrary, I loathe being cold. But there were some very cool things about this past winter that I want to gingerly bring up before you pack it in, label it “The Worst Winter In Recent Memory” then shove it away in a shoe box under your bed.

Living out here as we do in the burbs, the snow stayed pristine and lovely for ages as opposed to you-know-where where it turns sooty, grubby and grey within 48 hours. Our snow gave us a bonus landscape that really was quite magnificent and remained visually awe inspiring for so long that every last one of us had to succumb to it’s beauty. We had no choice.

I loved that for a while—okay, a looong while—we lived not in our familiar town, but in an alternate version of our town. Dark green grass and brown mud took a hike for a while and we were left living in a stunning black and white portrait; stark yet beautiful. It was as if a surreptitious roving band of midnight art directors descended upon us, blanketed our world with soap flakes and glued cotton batting to every branch, and then took off, leaving a version of what we knew to be our town in it’s place for free. How lucky were we to be lifted out of the visually mundane with the added peace of mind that it would definitely end; that this is a limited run, and this snow will melt for certain.

I loved that we had to completely rethink our relationship with snow. It became more nuanced and complex as the weeks passed and the snow continued to pile up. In the past, we could chalk snow up to a brief dalliance or mad tryst, but this time we were forced into a more mature relationship with snow and had to learn to live with it and accept its shortcomings. Collectively, we all became more mindful of its demands and I for one learned a ton. I learned when to shovel after the snowfall and how not to wait too long-- the hard way. I became intimate with the turning radius of my car and appreciative of the design that goes into a good shovel. I learned that a six inch snowfall is nuthin.’ I learned to watch for the days that the air would rise above 32 degrees and what that square edged shovel in the back of the garage was perfect for. Like gardening, the snow had to be cultivated, cut back and groomed. It had to be cared for; nurtured and nudged.

For those of you in a long distance love affair with a beguiling Inuit Eskimo lass or on the fence about whether or not to move north, we got the chance to see what it would be like to live in Fargo, Anchorage or the Ukraine without actually having to move there to check it out. “No, thank you!” I can now answer with gusto should someone ever ask me if I might like to live there. “I had a brief taste back in 2011, and yes, I’m sure the answer is no. But thanks for asking.” How lucky we are to remove all doubt.

But the biggest reason I’ll miss the snow is the general kindness we were forced to hang on to long after we’d dismantled our holiday lights. Over and over again I danced with the stranger in the oncoming car, slowing down to navigate our single lane together. Many times a day I accepted the offer of “You first,” and as many times extended it outward. These gestures were often acknowledged with a quick flash of the headlights, or a small wave. But each time-- as with every conversation I had with my weary neighbors while out shoveling or breaking up the ice—I was reminded that we were in it together. That we were a team. Sure, chit-chat turned to grumbling early on for most, but it didn’t bother me. I listened politely and nodded in agreement as I looked around at the magnificent wonderland that had transformed our mini-mall parking lot or simple, little street and thought—wow, spectacular. How lucky are we.

Pleasing/Gone

Last night as I was sinking down
Floating into new sleep
I wrote the loveliest, richest poem
That none shall ever peep

I didn’t reach for paper
Nor for pencil, what’s the point?
My thoughts lingered like vapor
Which my pillow would anoint

It was a pleasing poem
And I smiled my inside smile
Knowing it would please you
As I wrote it without guile

But like the day, I let it go
They’re not all for preserving
Like when I’ve left my camera
Though the moment seems deserving

Sometimes a week can pass this way
Unworthy of remark
No news is good news as they say
From curled up in the dark

And so I’ll strive to make peace with
The poem that is gone,
As hours and friends who’ve flit and fled
Like fireflies on the lawn

Was it enough to know them?
Some things just aren’t meant for keeps
I hunger for desire
But want is thin and aching seeps

Some friendships aren’t conducive and
Like poems and steam dissolve
Wee hours can be elusive
Not the time for staunch resolve

Noble Crusade

Years ago when I was living on New York City's exquisitely blemished Lower East Side, I went to a colorful panoply of parties all year round. There were basement parties and rooftop parties, parties in gardens and on stoops. There were parties held in the back rooms of bars and restaurants because the hosts' apartments were too small to house more than four revelers at a time, and parties that spilled into hallways and staircases because the hosts didn't care that there was no room. The crowd I went with tended to live in cramped and occasionally squalid quarters. They had roommates-- sometimes two and three-- and slept on pull out couches, murphy beds, loft beds and in railroad apartment "middle rooms." Together we balanced plates on our laps and navigated common spaces the size of department store elevators. Not unlike the stateroom scene in "Night at the Opera," life was cozy, comical and we were used to it.

I lived on 9th Street between Avenues B & C, long before anyone ventured east of A. I moved in with a cartoonist whose ad I answered in the Village Voice newspaper. I never laid eyes on him and knew nothing about him before the day I saw the apartment, and even though my room had no closet and was too small to fit a twin bed-- 5' x 5'-- I took it. The kitchen had exactly enough room for a sink, bathtub and fridge, a hot plate, tiny table and two chairs. The toilet was located outside the apartment and half way down the hall. It was shared by other strangers living on my floor whom I never met or ever saw and I wisely chose never to imagine them; out of sight, out of mind.

When every so often I found myself at a party in a spacious apartment, it was a huge thrill. Walking into a giant apartment was like walking into a fairyland and I gasped as I marveled at the ability to walk more than two paces without bumping into furniture.

One chilly winter night towards the end of February, I recall ending up at a party on 14th Street in an enormous loft apartment with 18' ceilings. There was so much space with so many rooms-- 2 living rooms, 4 bedrooms, and a large, eat in kitchen!-- that I immediately suggested a game of Hide and Seek to anyone within earshot. I re-introduced the rules to ten or so eager campers and we scurried about laughing and squealing, giddy like children finally playing outdoors on the first day of Spring as we reveled in our ability to move around freely without hobbling layers of outerwear-- or walls-- to oppress us. Many of us hadn't played Hide and Seek for twenty years and I was thanked at the end for thinking of and organizing the game.

Guests continued to arrive in droves-- unwrapping themselves like presents-- and soon the party was amiably boisterous and bulging. I wandered from room to room thinking about how I would paint the walls and re-arrange the furniture if given the chance, when I spotted a guy holding a gallon sized zip-lock bag of something near the stove. He was of average height and build with one of those barrel chests like a pudgy William Holden except that his hair was shaggy, greasy, covered his ears and was a dull, tinny blonde without sun. His chin was weak and his nose, non-committal, and his skin appeared oily to the touch. I couldn't make out his eyes behind his thick, beige plastic aviator glasses that he wore without irony and with misfortune years before MTV's cabdriver character would plant the look in its viewers' gestalt. Sporting a slightly dingy, white v-neck t-shirt and baggy, olive green army pants, he was a sad sack in every way, and I watched him as he set the bag down and started rifling though the kitchen cabinets.

After a moment I moved closer and after a few more cabinet doors opened and shut, asked him, "Do you live here?" even though I was fairly certain I knew the answer.
"No," he said without looking at me, still focused on the task at hand.
"What are you looking for?" I pressed.
"Baking sheets," he said.
"Why?"
"I'm going to make cookies."

And with that he uncovered two baking sheets, pre-heated the oven, and handed me the zip-lock bag that was heavy with chocolate chip cookie dough.

"You're going to bake cookies?" I asked incredulously. The party was in full, deafening, cacophonic swing; there were beer bottles on every surface and it was after midnight.
"Yes," he said.
He was all business, no smiles.
"Right now at this party?"
"Yes."
I was flummoxed.
"Does the host know of your plan?" I asked.
"Nope." I thought for a moment. There must be something I was missing. Then it occurred to me, "Are there drugs in the cookie dough?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"So, you're just baking cookies for fun?" I asked.
"No. I'm baking cookies to meet women," he said.

Of course you are. Brilliant. I should have known. And I walked right into it. I laughed at myself as he spooned the dough onto the baking sheets, 2" apart as one does.

I said, "Because who doesn't want to talk to the guy baking fresh, homemade cookies at a party?"
"Exactly," he said.
"And does it work?"
"You tell me," he said and finally looked directly at me for the first time. He had either tried to shave or sort of quasi- didn't have to and his glasses lenses were smudged. I wanted so much for there to be something in his face, some visual hook that might make me want to kiss him, this cookie baking party man, but there was nothing there for me. I kept looking.

"Do you do this often?" I asked.
"Yes," he said and I believed him. He had clearly mastered the task at hand and as he single-mindedly went to work on the second sheet of dough, the mesmerizing smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies freshly baking began to waft out of context and out of the kitchen and through the cavernous apartment's labyrinth, reaching every corner and every nose; making everyone undeniably happier. The party's host finally wandered into the kitchen, appraised the situation and asked, "You making cookies?" To which the baker replied, "Yeah. I hope it's okay." "Cool," was the host’s blessing and then each man carried on as before.

People started to pop their heads into the kitchen and I could sense a show of sorts was about to begin. I hoisted myself up onto the deep counter, cozied up against the back splash and watched as girl after girl-- guys, too-- sauntered in to enquire about the incredible smell intoxicating everyone with thoughts of mother, home, and lazy, snowy days from childhood. He answered their questions, as he had mine, with the perfunctory duty of a busy research scientist being visited by a Girl Scout troop. He never touched a beer. And when the cookies were done, he scraped each one off the greased pan and onto a plate with purpose and finesse. Some guys wanted their freshly baked, right-out-of-the-oven cookies placed directly into their palms and ate them with reverence like over sized communion wafers. One girl found a thick wad of napkins and passed them out to the other ladies who made a big show of blowing on the cookies before coyly biting into them. Everyone thanked him and yes, the women talked to him. They reached towards him for more cookies and made alluring yummy sounds as they chewed. I watched him watch them and even saw him smile, but only once.

This guy was crafty; this guy was smart. He was self aware enough to know that he wasn't a looker and that he'd need some pretty good game to compensate if he ever wanted to get laid and that even his top game probably wouldn't cut it, so he came up with a plan worthy of an evil genius in a Saturday morning cartoon. I admired his pluck and I imagined the kind of life we could create together: Cookie Guy and Hide and Seek Girl. Yes, we met at a party and spent the rest of our lives in domestic, whimsical splendor, but I couldn't get past the aviator glasses with the double bar over the nose and the odd, patchy whiskers. Even as I gave him a shampoo, haircut and shave in my mind, then took him to get new frames, a clean T-shirt, and better fitting jeans, I knew it wouldn't work. He probably knew it, too. I wanted so much to be attracted to this guy, this ingenious baker with a heart of gold, and as I sat and ate a parade of warm cookies, I watched the women thank him and then wander away and out of the room, probably coming to the same conclusion I had and I wondered if that was why he didn’t smile more.

At 2am, the party was morphing into a different kind of beast and I was starting to feel sleepy and done. I slid off the counter and headed over to say goodbye. I told him that it was a pleasure to meet him and he told me his name was Wade. I said, “Well then, good luck, Wade,” and smiled but didn’t linger as I was less than noble. But I loved that he was committed to his gimmick and his boundless optimism made me root for him like the noblest of underdogs. I had high hopes that his crusade would yield fruitful results and that at least one of the women at the party would warm up to him. The night was still young to some, and Wade still had what looked like a batch and a half left.