Bring It

I'm writing a book about pregnancy and infertility and I've just reached the part in the proposal where my son is born-- you know, The Boith.

Let's go there now, shall we? Picture a wiggly flash-back cross fade to an earlier time, a gentler time. I'm in my hospital bed, waiting for my slacker anesthesiologist to saunter by and give me an epidural, which I requested some time ago.

And this, ladies and germs, is what's going through my pain-addled mind:

In birth class, our nurse/instructor/lie monger had told us to bring in a photo that we might tape to the side of our beds and draw strength from-- really hone in on during contractions. So, do I bring in a photo of a warrior? For example, a sweaty 6’1” Venus Williams reaching for an outside court shot, teeth gritted, brow furrowed, a look of rage and fierce determination on her face? No. In what I don’t realize until it’s too late as a stunning lack of forethought, I tape a photo of Jim and me standing under a palm tree on a warm, sunny day to the side of my hospital bed. The contractions come at me like great spears of white hot heat and all I can think about as I look at the photo of these two unknowing dingbats, standing there like garden gnomes in Hawaiian print clothes, grinning at me, is, “Youuuu idiooots!!”

What foolish naïfs these two? They are no help to me whatsoever. In fact, they got me into this mess. So I focus on the pretty, puffy clouds in the background. At least they have their dignity. Next time, I’ll bring in a photo of a mighty comic book heroine riding into battle on a snorting steed. She’ll be wearing a fringed bikini top of platinum to corral her mighty double Ds, red leather chaps on her stainless steel calves, and will be wielding a 25lb dagger forged from the spines of peevish dragons. Or maybe she’ll be standing on a precipice of fire and brimstone, legs planted firmly apart, torpedoes for thighs, H-bombs for boobs, wearing a chain mail unitard and chrome thong, leaning into the wind in ready position, a roll of quarters in each fist. Ready for what? Ha. Not a breezy day on the Big Island, that’s for sure. Ready for my epidural, you ninny. Ready for Child Birth.

The anesthesiologist has the bedside manner of a mortician and I stare at my husband's eyeball so hard while the giant Frankenstein needle's going into my spine that I fully expect Jim’s eyeball to explode from my awesome telekinetic powers. I'm barely breathing. Any air left in my body is leaking out my eyeball, which, thankfully, is firmly affixed to Jim’s. As I lean my spine into the Twinge of Salvation, Jim asks if I’m OK. I nod, yes, with my eyeball. Jim tells me later that he thought I was dying with my eyes open.

He asks me to say something. He looks terrified. I’d better say something, but if he looks away or takes his pupil away from me, my soul will collapse. I run through the catalogue of words I know: cat, spoon, flyswatter. None of them seem appropriate. He’s waiting for a word and I’ve entered a space-time rift where time stands still so that I can come up with the perfect word that will be the payoff to the story we’ll tell around the campfire when are children are teens. But I can’t think of anything.

Time’s up. I finally eek out a, “Hello?” in a teensy, cartoon mouse voice. Ah, well. So much for future ribald family lore. At least he knows I’m still alive, which he signals to me by blinking. I’m scolding myself for not knowing Morse code when I’m interrupted by a million little silver, icy, tingles, spreading out into my back and reaching down into my toes like Charlotte’s baby spiders crawling across a vast and intricate web. York peppermint patties fill my veins and I giggle. I detach my pupil from Jim’s retina and hoot like a cowgirl on the inside. The epidural’s kicking in and it looks like I may not die after all.

Hope Springs Eternal

I'm working on a book proposal, self-imposed deadline.
I'm writing all the live long day, yes, writing all the time.

My blog entry ideas pile up like unclaimed coat check stubs
Each corresponding to a story, makes me awf'ly troub'd.

I yearn to spend that ounce of time on posting to my blog,
But guilt abounds, the book cries out, my psyche do I flog.

Am I wasting all this time? Like time and time before?
The feature doc-u-men-ta-ry, short film, screenplays galore?

Is it all in vain, this writing, is it all for naught?
I 'spose I could just put down pencil, close the lid and stop.

But sneak I would to the computer, in the wee, wee hours,
Woken by my thoughts of nymphs beheaded by dark flowers.

So write I may as well and stockpile for a rainy day,
the stories that are brimming, seething with what I must say.

"Patience!," I call out to myself, anxious, full of ire.
Relax, you've days and days before ye, 'til you doth expire.

Your deadline's shrill song beckons as Shrew March's great thaw looms,
And with the garden, April's turn, another chance at blooms.

Hello, Gorgeous

One night I went out with an old girlfriend to two local bars. At the first, we were among the youngest and prettiest women there. The mean age of the clientele was roughly fifty-one and we felt dewy and svelte by comparison. We languished there, sipping our beers and reveling in our prettiness pecking order, which we re-ascertained every so often as a gust of frigid night air ushered in a new gaggle of women. This may sound mean spirited, this sizing up, but we meant it less in a catty, mean-girl way and more as an ethnological study in Bar Trends of the Average North American Single Person. It was an underfunded study.

What really struck me, after a while, as this pageant of ordinary and some would say homely women poured in through the door, was how beautiful they all were. Mostly to themselves, for better and for worse. But I started to sort of fall in love with each and every one of them.

Now by most accounts, this crop, including us mind you, would not have won any awards-- would not have even been allowed to fill out the forms. These bodies were beyond pear-shape with booties and bosoms resembling all manner of cones and cups and bells and boards. From the very ample to the exceedingly wanting, these bodies defied convention in a variety of combinations rarely found in the media—actually more indigenous to factory town malls and the boardwalks of New Jersey. There were bad dye jobs and brittle blowouts, relentless wrists and unforgiving chins. There were too many hair cuts from the eighties and far too little clothing for their ages, but every one of these women looked beautiful to me and I finally figured out why.

And it wasn't because I was tipsy on my half a warm beer.

These women were beautiful because they felt beautiful. Having come straight from the triumph of Getting Ready For Saturday Night, every last one of them was beaming, emerging victorious from their quest.

They all took care to choose the right outfit, some spending fourfold the time and energy of the others, but all of them looking to accentuate the positive and play down what that lady in the dressing room at Macy's had referred to as her "challenge areas." They would hang up the clothing rejected on the bed when they got home later, they told themselves. They would touch up their roots next week. This was good enough for now. This would do for tonight.

Then they leaned in closer.

Some liked what they saw in the mirror more than others but they all pressed on. They futzed and tussled, smudged and scrunched, using a combination of what they'd learned over the years from magazines and big sisters, infomercials and best friends. Some still tried to recreate what that professional make-up artist had done at their cousin's wedding all those years ago, but most had it down pat. Then they all smiled, checked their teeth, said, "Not bad," and moved on.

Good taste did not come naturally to these women. In fact, it hid around the corner. Somewhere along the line, a woman grabbed a gold anklet that an old boyfriend had given her and another grabbed a sweater handed down from a sister too lazy to hand wash. Most of them remembered to tuck in an errant bra strap and forgot that their thongs were showing. And they all chose the dangily earrings that their best friends assured them, "Aren’t too young," even though, in the back of their minds, they knew they were too old.

Every choice was carefully arrived at because it made them feel beautiful, whether via the new voice in their head, recently replacing another after a milestone birthday, or a compliment paid twenty years ago still resonating in their mind. Each layer reminded them of ordinary events or traces of people that had brushed up against their egos, leaving them with just enough confidence to keep the momentum going. Then they threw on a coat, hit the lights and headed out the door.

And hopefully, if they were just a little bit smart, they didn't give it another thought for the rest of Saturday night.

As the bar swelled, I imagined other bars in Morris County, Vermont, Madrid, and Dubai. And as the dressing hour draped itself around the globe, I envisioned an enormous wave of self-esteem brimming in Ecuadorian women parting their hair to be braided, Tokyo teenagers buckling themselves into 4" wedgies, and Masai women adjusting collars of beaded rings. With the exception of Amish women and nuns, there were billions of women all getting ready for a night on the town, or the prairie or the tundra as it may be. Legions and legions of women all looking in mirrors or hubcaps or darkened clean windows on this Saturday night and at that critical moment, in an instant of radical acceptance, saying to themselves, "This is as good as I get," and then, "Let's go have me some fun." All of them arriving at the same notion of self-good-enoughness. Or else they never would have left the house.

And so we toasted to them, my friend and I, toasted, "To leaving the house!"

We finished our beers and slipped off our stools and as I snaked through the place towards the door, I mouthed the words, "You're all beautiful and I love you."

Then we went to the other bar.

The Other Bar was in another town, a fancier town. In the Other Bar, we were among the oldest broads, the mean age being closer to thirty. These women had also taken part in tonight's beauty ritual but with far greater results. We ordered a drink and stood off to the side and marveled at their radiant skin. Their round bottoms and perky boobs nearly saluted us. Their taught bodies and toned arms practically reverberated with gym-vim. They had expensive clothes and hair and shoes and wore it all so well. Taste had either been bred into them or arrived at via checkbook, but it all came together breezily and they all looked thoroughly divine.

My girlfriend and I sipped our cocktails in relative obscurity and quietly thanked the gazelles at this watering hole for giving us something shiny to look at. For adorning the room with glamour, dripping with desire, lousy with lust. They replied by giving us the occasional dirty look, which we took to be a local custom of welcoming and warmth.

I decided to love these women, too.

Yes, mine was an equal opportunity love, and I wasn't about to hate anyone because she's beautiful. Sure, this crowd probably arrived at their Good Enough Moment long before the last crew, but you never know, you never know. My "challenge area," gone undetected by the woman at Target, was that I had to try hard to love everyone for her efforts, applaud everyone for trying. So I made a concerted effort to find the inner beauty in even the most outstandingly spectacular long-legged, white-teethed, high cheek-boned, buxom natural blond in the room, regardless of her obvious personality flaws. It wasn't easy, but I did it. And I'm sure she's forever indebted to me. No doubt she would have thanked me as I was leaving. If she'd thought of it. Or even seen me. Or knew I was alive.

My girlfriend and I left and said our goodbyes. It had been a good night and we were tired. Happy tired, sated tired. We'd had our fill of beauty, inner, outer and under. And as I took my mascara off in the same mirror that had sent me off with a slap on the ass all those hours ago, I gazed at what would greet me on Sunday morning. Goodnight moon, goodnight body, goodnight face. Thanks for another Saturday night. Gotta love Saturday night.

Car Wash

The sun broke through at the car wash as I waited for them to finish up the part at the end, after the conveyor belt's wash 'n wind finale, when it's just mano a auto with rags on the dry tarmac.

Under cover of the cavernous, dimly lit garage, I stood keeping watch over all the detritus that I had removed from the car so as to get the Maximum Clean. A huge flat-screen television hung suspended, bolted to the ceiling, displaying our nation's very own Brittany Spears singin' as if nothin' had ever happened, as if most of the globe doesn't know what has. I watched for signs of emotional evolution in her every hip grind, arse bump and world weary head flick, but couldn't find any. I wasn't surprised.

A tall, very dark black man had been standing there also watching Brittany. It was his party that I was intruding on, so I kept to myself near the open garage door and tried not to interrupt his viewing pleasure. He wore big, baggy jeans and a loose hooded sweatshirt with orange squiggly designs on the front pouch pockets. He stood very straight and still as he watched and I started to wonder what was going through his head but then stopped my mind from going there as I would stop a child from storming the door to a private room that was occupied. Instead, I warmed my face in the sun.

As the three of us did our respective things, I anticipated my newly cleaned car. I'd been thinking a lot about money lately and how to cut back. Manicures were out as was the occasional back rub. Pedicures were further and farther between, as I let the polish growing out to the tips of my toes like gaily colored crescent moons. This seemed like an extravagance, paying to have the car cleaned by other people, and it was. But time was what it always is and I managed to rationalize it just this once, groping for a normalcy that was clearly floating away.

This morning had been the lowest ebb of the bleakest month of a notorious winter. A winter that had pitched a fury on the inside of my car, and I asked the maitre'd of the car wash if they really cleaned, I mean with a spritzer and everything, the inside of the car. Because that's what meant the most to me. (You know what they say-- it's what's on the inside that counts.) He assured me they they would do a good job so I went about unloading the contents of a small intercontinental container ship onto the floor of the garage.

The tall, quiet man finally spoke. "You take trip?" he asked. How could I tell him that the many bags of crap he saw splayed before him contained items that I consider impossible to live without-- not just for trips, but for always. There were two umbrellas and a child's car seat, a bag of assorted balls (soccer, tennis and foot), and the now ubiquitous bag of bags for grocery shopping. There's the glass break tool and the reflective roadside helper, our water bottles, my yoga mat and a sharpie. There was the bag of blankets for just in case I get trapped under an avalanche in remotest Piscataway, and the small duffel full of granola bars and space blankets, disposable rain ponchos and crayons, extra boy's pants, blank pads, a viewmaster and chalk for when we get trapped in a Delaware mud slide and have to spend a week in our car waiting for rescue crews to dig us out. There were three Dr. Seuss books, two car bingo boards and my travel make-up pouch so that I can look my best for the local news cameras and firemen who ultimately save us. And that, ladies and gentleman, is literally how I roll. A circus car of contingency with luggage for my baggage.

"Nope," I said, "no trip." There was a moment's pause as he surveyed the ground then looked at me. "You live near?" he said.
"Yup," I answered.
He continued, "The car wash is no so busy today. Some days, the cars are for long time, but today I go home early."
"It's a nice day for it," I said, because it was a nice day now as the sun warmed the ground and thawed my disposition. I smiled a wide, close-mouthed smile at whom I now knew to be a car wash employee then returned my attention to the TV where some humorless dude was singing his heart out in the same wide-legged stance as a generation of earnest rock guitarists before him. Mister Car Wash was obviously not from around here. Haiti, maybe or the Ivory Coast. I considered telling him that there was more to our fair country than music videos then chose not to take that one on.

Beyond the far open end of the garage, someone waved a rag and I gestured, that's my car. I began to make the first of what would be many trips to return the many bags of crap to their rightful place in my car and psyche. Half way through the second trip, Mister Car Wash asked if he could help me. I said, yes, thank you, because I couldn't think of a valid reason why I shouldn't accept, and as he stooped to gather three heavy bags in each hand, I got me to wonderin' about this tall, strapping man.

Sometimes I indulge myself in a sort of cosmic double dare fantasy, where I get myself knocked up with my second son, the one I should have conceived with my ex, the one we were supposed to adopt together. In my delusion I ignore the scientific and financial given that it's nearly impossible, this feat-- I've a snowball's chance in hell. But that doesn't stop me from my sitcom-y thoughts of luring some Harvard grad back to my sister's place in Cambridge for a night of carnal triumph and canned laughter that only happens in apartments with three walls. I've been thinking these contrived thoughts with nary a sidebar glance as to whether or not I would ever tell the donor or what I would tell my child should I raise him to cranky fruition. This is all assuming that the guy I have sex with has sex without protection, which would make him president of the kind of club I wouldn't want to be a member of. But Groucho Marx aside, none of that stops me from calling forth the fantasy and asking the cosmos to deliver him to me without delay.

As the last bag was loaded into the car I thanked Mister Car Wash and smiled this time with my eyes and teeth. He lingered there in the sun, taking out a cigarette, and putting it to his mouth I notice a largish cold sore on his lower lip. Huh, I thought. Bummer of a cold sore. And then he said, "You want to have date with me?"

Holy shit. He's standing right here. The man for my plan. My stud.

I looked at him with casual appraisal then flashed to the weekend ahead:

This 6' 4" answer to my dreams was no doubt a PHD in Haiti, I tell myself. And that cold sore is just the result of all the stress he's under from taking ESL night classes on top of his part time job at the car wash and full coarse load at Columbia Law School. Which he'll tell me all about as he cooks for me The Food of His Country, the beat of his favorite homeland music filling the air with novelty. I'll ask him not to make the food too spicy as I set a small table for two and he'll tell me how he plans to go back home once he graduates in order to help his own people. I'll make a mental note that I'll probably never see this noble guy ever again after tonight, which is OK by me, as I fold paper towels into triangle napkins and thank my body for ovulating. Then I'll scribble down his full name on the back of the car wash receipt tucked into my wallet, just in case my beautiful, brilliant, bi-racial child wants to Google his birth father one day.

Back at the car wash, he struck a match to his cigarette and I realized then what I would say.
"No thank you, I'm married."

And before it began it was over.

I guess all that baggage had been good for something after all. Maybe that's why I carry it around.

I wondered if I had some Ambesol in the glove compartment to give him as a parting gift but was pretty sure I didn't. Then I got into my car and drove away. The interior was pristine. It gleamed shiny black. It was cleaner than it had been in years. This car wash had done a way better job than the one I used to go to and I felt reborn, like coming back from a long vacation to a professionally cleaned house. My buoyancy was evident and there was a bounce in my manual shift. I felt like a million and seventeen bucks.

Then I sighed the sigh of a thousand regrets. The cosmos had double dared me and I had demurred. No thanks, I'd said to the heavens. But I've got me a spankin' clean car and you know, that'll have to do for today.

The Other Ball

Our Reverend had been announcing it for the last few Sundays. "If you don't want to be alone on inauguration day," she said, "come down and join us in the Parish Hall as we watch the Obamas go from ball to ball on our own 170 inch video screen." I fluttered inside. I love a party invitation. Even the non-exclusive, multi-generational, church-y kind because, alas, beggars can't be choosers, you know what I'm sayin'? The Good Reverend continued, "That's right, we're gonna have ourselves our own ball. You're welcome to dress up and we'll have a nice hot meal for you, plus a DJ for dancing. Admission is a bottle of wine or sparkling cider and a non-perishable food item for the food bank." So, that's what I had planned for myself, babysitter in place. Yes, there were many inaugural balls that night, and I was going to one of them.

The day arrived and I couldn't stop crying. How could I be so over the moon with hope and love, excitement and respect for this exquisite man, this kind and brilliant leader who had come to save us-- and, yet, so sad? I suppose it was a mix of wistful sentimentality, incredulous joy, and an insidious undercurrent of, inconceivably, self-pity. It was An Historic Moment, NPR kept reminding us, (lest we somehow forgot), and we were experiencing the full blush of a new administration with a devoted husband and father at it's helm and I was sans exactly that. This chapter in our nation's history seemed a harbinger of things to come for mine in every way that is right and good except for the everyone-rallying-around-the-nuclear-family part, that element was missing from my decidedly non-historic moment as I lay on my couch alone and cried.

Obama's inauguration would be yet another in a string of single, unadorned beads marking life's grandest milestones that I would heretofore experience solo. Our country's hopeful new administration was bringing with it the counter point of my seemingly hopeless and unavoidable future by myself. There may have been millions of shivering dreams being fulfilled on this day on The Mall, and to be sure, I shared in their glee, but just as any milestone is capable of evoking as much afterthought as fore, I was also experiencing a nagging malaise from the dreams I'd let go of, the ones stamped out and ground into the dirt. My hopes unfulfilled, lost and gone.

Was Obama really meant to rescue us, all of us, from ourselves, by jump-starting us into service to each other? Could I get my head out of my ass long enough to appreciate what was happening in the grand scheme for one day? I had to finally admit to myself, as the fanfare began, that he had arrived at this moment to help our nation help ourselves, not be my boyfriend, you ninny. And the self-pity bit, on this day of all days, was playing a little thin, even to me. Our country's problems are so very big and mine are so ridiculously small but I was one weepy stepsister, swathed in pathos and grief, who might have to miss the ball after all.

I channeled the waterworks into tears-of-joy. Obama hadn't even gotten out of the car and I was already a bleary-eyed mess. I cried thinking of so many weary, forgiving hearts, bursting with pride and redemption. I cried thinking about what must be going through Michelle's mother's mind. ("My baby girl, First Lady. Get outta town!") I cried at close-ups of old black men, wide shots of the masses and even crazy old Cisely Tyson, rantin' and ravin'-- you name it and I was in tears. I momentarily pulled it together as I watched Obama move like a crowned emperor, trailed by an invisible cloak of ermine and velvet, down the long and winding corridor towards his rightful place in history, and then I saw Aretha's hat and totally came undone. Oh, Aretha. I didn't think it was possible for me to love you any more than I did at that moment, and then you had to go and wear that hat. And then you had to go ahead and sing that song, wearing that hat-- I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

I laughed as I cried thinking at 12:01pm, "Crazy old Joe Bieden is officially President." It was inconceivable to me, and anyone who's even tangentially followed his career, that Loose Cannon Joe had made it this far. And now he was President, until Obama was sworn in a few mellow minutes later. I pictured the panicked production crew on headsets, being screamed at by strict Constitutionalists to move things along, Skippy, and swear Barak in, for petessake, because it would only take one wily hang glider to take us all down.

Yo-yo and Issac took it in stride.

Happy or sad tears notwithstanding, I had started to think that it wouldn't be fair to foist my Hallmark-ad-weepin' puffy red face at a group of unsuspecting revelers later on that night. But President Obama's speech brought the room down and took the sentimentality out of my sails. I pulled it together and had some toast-- the one thing that soothes me, with out fail. Later on, after a brief inaugural nap, I put on some fancy pants and a glittery sweater over a plain turtleneck top. I would go to the ball, after all, if only just for a while.

I met Trudy in the parking lot. She was slowly getting out of her Lincoln resplendent in gold and pearls. I was struck by how beautiful this woman of a certain age looked, her hair all done up, make-up: perfection, and I told her so as I introduced myself. I asked if I could escort her into through the church side door and she said, yes as she took my arm. I helped her off with her matching wrap, the same coppery gold fabric as her long dress, detailed with delicate little pearls in a cross stitched pattern, and hung it up for her. Then I stood there for a little bit longer and helped hang up a few more.

With each coat handed to me, I returned a compliment. It wasn't hard to do. I truly felt surrounded by the world's most beautiful women in that moment and my heart was bursting with community and thankfulness that I had gotten myself off that sad sack couch and gone out into the world on this night of nights. It was only then that I realized I was sorely under dressed. Women of all ages had mined their closets for that special outfit they keep way off to the side. The one for weddings and bar mitzvahs, anniversaries and cruises, graduations, sweet sixteens and proms. Hair dos were up, earrings were dropped and I was in a turtleneck. Ah, well. Note to self, I thought, and headed towards the music.

Walking into that large basement-y room, the folding chairs and chewed up linoleum disappeared under tables topped with tablecloths and candles. Real flowers and lit candles graced each end and up above, and the chandeliers-- which I had never noticed until now-- were dimmed. It was a magical transformation, Brigadoon-like in scope, and I recalled a long ago memory of decorating the high school cafeteria beyond recognition for a dance. And then having the room ignite and lift off with the combined energy of all those dresses, tuxedos and possibilities.

Tonight's men wore suits and carried a bottle in one hand, their date's waist in another. I felt giddy now, a complete 180 from earlier in the day and even though I had no date to this ball, I didn't care. I was right here, right now. I looked around and thought, what can I do? I'm free to be of service. Free to be, you and me. So I planted myself at the bar, which was right next to the main entrance, and started accepting whatever was handed to me. Red wine, white wine, zinfandel and sparkling cider. I'd waited tables for ten years and knew the right end of a cork screw if I knew anything. So I started uncorking bottles and upturning glasses. Before long, I was a one-woman welcome wagon.

I introduced myself, greeting everyone who walked in the door, and with each new glass I handed out a compliment. Like a dressing room attendant with turrets, I couldn't help it. Reverend Sandye stopped by and asked that I help some of the older parishioners and the sisters with drinks, so during a lull, I went over to the tables and took orders. I wasn't sure exactly of whom she meant by the sisters until my eyes fell on identical twin sisters, in their mid-twenties, wearing identical party dresses with Peter Pan collars and bows in their Shirley Temple hair. Their outfits and demeanor suggested that they might have been wearing black patent leather mary janes and ankle socks as well, but I didn't peek under the table to see. Real live identical twins, still dressing identically after all these years. Like extras in an Elvis vehicle or a Bette Davis movie times two.

Sparkling cider was the drink of choice for the sisters as well as the bevy of grand dames and I relished setting their clear cups down gently before them. It was the least I could do. I hadn't helped an iota with this campaign save for wearing my buttons every day. And I wasn't there for the first eighty some odd years of their struggle but I was there for them right now, in this moment. I know it wasn't much. But it was something. Barak was right. I was here, tonight, to be of service to my community, and it felt good. Even if all I was doing was uncorking wine with hope. Bartending for America.

The Right Reverend had spent all Sunday cooking for us and dinner was delicious. Over a hundred of us sat and ate chicken cordon blue, string beans and sweet potatoes, and watched Barak and Michelle slow dance their way even further, if it's possible, into our hearts. There was an odd moment when someone changed the channel on the big screen to a broadcast of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? and I flinched. I am white and the congregation is mostly black and although I had always loved that movie growing up, I had never asked myself what blacks must think of it. A patronizing fantasy exercise in white guilt or an earnest attempt at breaking barriers and challenging social mores? A little of both perhaps, but the channel switched back to Beyonce after only second or two and all was right with the room once again.

Later there was dancing, but I had to get going. Stevie Wonder and The Gap Band cranked up the levels of pride and jubilee as long skirts and high heels clicked and swayed to the music that wasn't too loud. I managed to sneak in a few dances, craning my neck to see if the sisters would be joining us to tear it up on the dance floor, (Oh, please, oh, please) but they had gone. It was time for me to go, too. Back to my cozy home, trusty babysitter and sleeping child. Back to my hometown with its neighbors keeping watch over each other's kids. Back to a new America and my new family full of hope and promise. A different kind of family and smaller, sure, but a family just the same. Full of hope and promise and, from now on, much more service to community. Beginning with getting off the couch.

Dream House

In one of my many dreams of public acknowledgment, Domino Magazine (RIP January 2009) asks to do a photo layout of my house.

Ever since my first dorm room, my various shares, pads and apartments have been little more than a string of repositories for an unfulfilled creative exuberance and obsessive compulsion for composition. One could always find me limp from paint fumes, shuffling through take-out containers with a cordless drill at my hip. I had a maniacal look in my eye, like the seven dwarfs' evil cousin Shirley-- but no whistling, just raw, pent-up design hostility.

Many moons later, I live in a house which is so stuffed to the gills with accumulated nostalgia and rummage sale treasures that I should have visitors sign a waiver releasing me from indemnity should the offended guest have a seizure.

There's so much internal baggage that I've either shed or shelved in the last nine months that now all I can see when I look around is what everyone else has always seen-- a cozy little house over-laden with too much crap. It's all I can do not to jetison the stuff out the window like the brooding, lithe model in that moody lame jeans ad-- an Italian opera blaring in the background. And there it would be in a pile on the damp lawn; the popsicle stick lamp from my rummage sale wedding shower; all the art I bought off the sidewalk from homeless guys in the east village in the eighties who dumpster dived for unclaimed portfolios in front of Cooper Union and SVA during locker clean out week; the stack of vintage suitcases I used by default as a media stand and never upgraded and every other piece of shit that I see and think either:

1. Oh my gawd. Someone maaaade that! Look at that color combination/wild design/insane person's vision realized! Some sweet little old lady in a crafts class, way beyond her prime and silently seething for giving up her dreams of being a graphic designer so that she could raise seven kids, made that. Look at all the work that went into that! So many teeny googly eyes and so many fuzzy pipe cleaners. It's enchanting!

or

2. Oh my gawd, it's how much? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what this is worth in Nolita/Tribeca/Williamsburg/on Antiques Roadshow?

So I buy. I have a collection of strange wire trees with shells or pebbles for leaves and angel food cake cutters with Bakelite handles. I have a set of dinner plates comprised of souvenir US state plates from the 1950s. (But they're only two bucks each!) And at least five paperclip and contact paper necklaces from the seventies. I have paint-by-numbers, Chinese silk fans and calling card rulers from the last hundred years. And I. Can't. Stop. Because I can't stop appreciating the work or the artistry or the trouble that the person went through to create this incredible thing that has ended up at some rummage sale for six bucks. Or seventy five cents. So I buy.

Which I guess is a good thing, because I'll never get my home in a magazine and even if I did, it would go a little something like this:

I glide effortlessly towards the front door in a robin's egg blue cinch-belted day dress with rustling crinoline and black pumps. (collar smartly turned up) My hair was set the night before and I kept my curlers in an extra two hours after I awoke so as to keep my natural curl (wink) for as long as possible. The pillows are pouffed, the dishes are done and the magazine folks have arrived to a clear, cloudless day. The garden's in bloom, the photographer's ready and his reporter's pencil is poised on a little spiral ring palm-sized notepad. I clear my throat and begin.

"Let's start in the foyer (pronounced foy-yay), as you can see, we chose floor colors that would enhance the mud that would be tracked in daily in both states of wet and dried. The mud, I'm proud to say, was dislodged by foot and has been tracked in from as near as the back yard and as far as the local playground, with up to thirty-two exotic locations in between. In the winter, the salt from the snow on our boots dries to makes particularly darling Rorschach-esque lily pad designs all over the floor. On some days, when my son or I forget to take off our boots at the back door, the little salt designs look like the paths of pixies have graced our dull wooden floors to our sheer delight."

"Speaking of our wooden floors, we've chosen not to re-varnish the gaping cracks between its slats so as to showcase our impressive collection of organic cookie and cracker crumbs. We believe it pays homage to similar crumbs on Native American tee-pee floor coverings that may have been erected on this very plot of land before they were driven away or slaughtered. Right this way to the kitchen." I turn on a heel and clack my way through the dining room, glancing once at the photographer in a surreptitiously flirty way.

"Notice the dried oatmeal stuck on the kitchen table." (I run my long, lacquered fingernails over the table's charmingly bumpy surface.) "We think this gives the table a nice topography evoking the quotidian warmth of use and wear. We're glad you like it, as we can't seem to clean it off, no mater how many sponges we soak in piping hot water." I smile and wink at the photographer again. His name is Gus. He's looking at my floor under the kitchen table. "These pizza crust and grilled cheese crumbs have been left on the floor purposely to evoke a sort of olde towne corner pub peanut-shells-on-the-floor feeling. We like it. And until we get a dog someday, which will, quite frankly, never happen, the crumbs stay." I smile and twirl one perfect twirl to the other side of the kitchen.

Opening a cabinet I say, "I put the shelf paper down myself when we moved in, and, although we've only been in the house a mere eight years, I like the smooth patina of olive oil, worcestershire and soy sauce that has masked the original paper's design. The sticky swath of dark, murky guck at shelf's bottom helps to keep the peanut butter and vinegar from slipping off the shelf although I do wish it didn't seem to glue down the Morton's salt shaker in it's wake, but what's a girl to do? A couple tugs and presto!" I tug at my Morton's salt canister and it doesn't budge. Gus leans over me, reaching up with his strong, manly arm and with one yank, also can't get it to budge. I close the cabinet and chirp, "On to the living room!"

"The Sofa? Why is it so soft? I thought you'd never ask. Once a season, I harvest the dust bunnies from all over the house and wad them into little balls creating a cotton candy-like puff of spun silk and nestle them in the cracks of my sofa. It's so much more time effective that plugging in the vacuum cleaner. And it makes the couch bouncier, see?" I bounce a little, giving Gus one more come hither look to seal the deal.

I stand and gesture out the picture window, "The garden, we've left in a state of permanent need to weed because we think that it says to our neighbors, 'We're too busy living life to its fullest to pull out last fall's annuals and the tangled net of weeds you see before you! Come join us in our lust for life!' Or so I think it says." I look out the window. The garden is pathetic. "I guess that just about does it," I say, "the rest you can see for yourselves. I'll leave you alone to do what it is that you do do." And with that I toddle off.

They leave soon thereafter and I immediately take off my pumps and rub my calloused feet. I realize, too late, that I've been saying, "We" this whole time, as if speaking for my husband or my staff, both of which I have none. I guess that means I've blown my chances with Gus. No matter, he looked a little sweaty anyway. And besides, I have things to do! I'm a very busy woman, busy, busy, busy! There are still rooms to paint and pictures to hang, furniture to upholster and curtains to sew because, when I get right down to it, I do love my house. It's my sanctuary, my steady boyfriend, my one constant companion. It's my dearest true love and I wouldn't change it for the world! Not a spec, not an inch. La di da.

Christmas Bird

I was driving to my 12 step Coda meeting the other night. You know, the one where I'm supposedly learning to let go-- the one where I'm learning to accept people and situations for who and what they are and forgive, forgive, forgive.

I take unfamiliar highways because apparently there are so few people in the tri-state area who have control issues such as myself that I have to travel great distances to get there. AA meetings? Please. You can't go thirty yards without tripping over some grisly pack of loitering, smoking, over-caffeinated alcoholics. Their meetings are conveniently held everywhere and at all hours-- hundreds of open doors within a few square miles beckoning with hot coffee and folding chairs so that their personal demons can kibbutz and cavort with the voices in their heads.

But for those of us afflicted with a penchant for trying to control the stars' twinkling and the snows' falling ("No, no snowflake, you land there, and you land there..."), the ones who need to be tied down from helping out when help wasn't asked of us, the ones who see themselves through a giant pair of circus clown glasses, the lenses jam packed with the faces and imagined judgments of his or her community instead of just themselves-- for us, there are but a few scant meetings. So I drive.

On the way, I was signaling to get over into the right hand highway exit lane so that I might, you know, exit. (Exiting being the perceived key to me getting to my meeting, learning to let go and becoming a better person, a better friend and all around stellar human being.) The driver behind me and to my right wasn't giving me enough room to move over but wasn't passing me either. I felt myself winding up as my exit loomed closer and made the executive decision to bully my way over safely, but none the less, under driver's duress. The other car, now behind me, flashed his or her brights then passed me with no intention of ever exiting. That's when it hit me.

I must flip this person the Christmas Bird.

I must show him or her the err of his or her ways. Clearly, that's my job, right? My anointed duty to point out injustices, to right wrongs? To show people that they're not being Christian at Christmastime, even if they might be Jewish, Muslim or Agnostic? Christmas is no time to refuse someone entree into your lane when they're clearly using their directional signal. Would this person refuse a pregnant teenager a room at the inn? Probably. I had to do something. I had to act fast.

I reached for the electric window button to roll it down so that my Christmas Bird might be thrust into the brisk night air with poignancy and panache. In that split second I thought to myself, You know, Self, every one's safe, thank goodness. There were no egregious errors made, no resulting accident. Perhaps the other driver was locked in heated conversation or silently ruminating over some recent bad news. Or was blasting the radio, singing joyfully and full of such reverie and gusto to "Tainted Love" that they spaced out for a moment and didn't see your turn signal. Maybe the flashing lights were more of an "I'm Sorry" gesture than a "Hey, Jerkface." Sure, there could have been a small pinch of selfishness or aggression in the other driver's actions, but really, is it worth getting out the bird for?

"Heck, yes!" was my Self's reply.

So I pushed the down window button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. There was a minute lurch, but with no result. The window was frozen. There would be no Christmas Bird. Jesus, my co-pilot, laughed.
"What, Jesus," I snapped.
"Nothing," he smirked.
"No, what's so funny?"
"Your window's frozen shut."
"No, duh. Did you do that Mr. Miracle Man?"
"Didn't have to." He sunk down in his naugahyde seat and tried to muffle his snickering with his robes. I was pissed.

I took the exit ramp then said, "You know, Jesus, you think you're so funny."
"No, I-"
"Mister Love Everybody, Mister Kindness and Forgiveness, you try getting to your meeting on time. Oh, I forgot, you're so perfect, you don't need any meetings. It must be nice, feeling so superior all the time. And please take your grubby sandals off my dashboard."
Jesus sat up and after a moment casually reached for the radio's tuning knob and said, "Oh, c'mon, relax, I'm just trying to make light of a light situation."
"What, you're trying to tell me that it wasn't worth flipping the bird over?" I steamed.
He said nothing as he listened for a salsa station then found one and smiled.

We were on secondary roads now, the occasional evergreen boxwood wrapped in tiny lights twinkled. Passing all those lit up reindeer and blow-up Santas forced me to relax my grip on the steering wheel.
"What?" I asked guiltily.
"I was just wondering why you choose to take everything so personally. Other drivers, your family, your in-laws, watering your Christmas tree, gift-wrapping, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, shall I continue?"
"No," I sulked.
"It's not your job, you know. None of it is," he reasoned, "you are your only job."
"Ah, ha! What about my son?"
"Sure, you should clothe and feed him and love him, but ultimately--"
"Yeah, I've heard. I get it." I turned off the main road and pulled into the dark church parking lot. Warm bodies lit up the inside of the building.

Jesus asked, "That superhero feeling, the one where you feel responsible for righting wrongs and fixing everyone around you, how's that working for you?"
I pulled into a spot and turned off the ignition. The car ticked as the motor cooled.
"Sucks."
He started to crack a smile, which got so wide he had to turn his head away from me.
I got defensive, "Jesus, Jesus! So what do you want me to do then? Let me guess, be kind, love everyone, be forgiving, let go and let your Dad handle it? Your Dad, God, who supposedly got Mary, an innocent thirteen year old pregnant with you? Nice. Happy Birthday, by the way."
Jesus said, "I'm just saying try doing nothing."
"Yeah, yeah. Let go," I said. I'd heard it all before.

I stewed. Then I had a glimmer of a thought. I turned to Jesus and said optimistically, "I've done it with my ex-husband. Let go. No more expectations. Finito."
He sat up straight, "Good! And how's that going for you?"
I brightened, "Sad but good. And muuuuch better. I'm actually happier."
"Well then, Merry Christmas to you," Jesus said in his kind-Jesus voice, "Now, try it with the rest of the world."
"O.K., I know, I'm trying," I said, because I am.
"I know you're trying. Cut yourself a little slack, too. The whole forgiveness shtick? It's for you to do to yourself, too."
"Yeah, OK. Got it."

I gathered my stuff, reached for the door handle and said, "I'd love to stay here and shoot the breeze with you, Jesus, your being so wise and all, but I gotta-- what is so damn funny?"
He had started to crack up again.
"The next time you want to flip some one the bird..." Jesus trailed off. He was laughing too hard to continue. I cracked a smile. I tried to be tough, but I couldn't help myself.

I was wearing mittens.



Merry Christmas to everyone. And I mean everyone.