Drunk Octopus

This is why I know we're all going to be okay. This very thing is evidence to me that we're going to weather whatever comes our way-- Armageddon, big brother, or slow and sloppy self-induced decay-- we are going to make it though to the other side. Why am I so sure? Because a drunk octopus wants to fight me.

The way I look at it, this kid didn't just look at a coat hook and see an octopus, she saw an octopus with his dukes up. (I'm deciding the mind in this case belongs to a female because it's something I would have done had I thought of it-- were I a steely-minded genius-- alas.) And she didn't just see an octopus itching for a fight, she saw nuance. She saw that the octopus isn't just hopping mad with crossed out eyes, but is also wasted, which anyone can plainly see because his eyeballs are askew.

That is what I find so extraordinary. We didn't see it plainly and she did. I've been looking at coat hooks my entire life and never saw what she did. I'm sure there are scads of industrial designers, architects, scientists and comedy writers who've been looking at coat hooks their entire lives, too, and never for a moment saw what she saw. But she did. And then she did something about it. Did she tell a friend? Did she write a note? No she bucked authority and proclaimed it in sharpie, there for all the world to see. She had a brilliant thought then made a mark and stood her ground. I want to kiss her. I want to hire her. I want her to rule my world.

She's got the combination of what I revere most in any person; imagination, a sense of humor and moxie. One's of little use without the other and to have all three will get you far. Well, maybe not far in our society, but far in her heart, I hope, and far in mine. Yes, she's a little impertinent to be sure, but so were Einstein, Julia Child and Joan Jett. As long as minds such as hers keep seeing things that no one else can see and inventing creepy vacuum cleaners that vaporize dirt into nothingness and hum-a-little-tune apps for cameras that are phones, hilarious websites like “Regretsy” and goofy noses on the sides of paper cups, we will have the necessary tools to get by and perhaps, yes, even thrive.

Because of all the joy that keeps coming my way like an IV drip—just enough to keep me going-- in bits and pieces and tiny morsels, I can’t fight you Drunk Octopus, even though I see that you’re hopping mad and at any given moment could surely come up with plenty of reasons to take you on. But I won’t, because I see your pain and in yours I recognize mine. Plus, I don’t want you throwing up on me. So, sleep it off, Drunk Octopus, and in the morning I’ll make you some eggs.

Sip & Stroll

The thing about buying a house is it's a crap shoot. You can look up the taxes and ask the realtor about the schools, you can eyeball the neighborhood-- scouting for bicycles and basketball hoops-- and make note of the grocery stores. (Sidenote: I once met a couple who said they chose Maplewood by taking the train out to various towns within a certain radius of Manhattan and the counted how many SUVs were in the parking lot.) So people choose Maplewood/South Orange for particular reasons and then cross their fingers, hoping for the best. We did that, too, my ex and I.

We bought the very first house we looked at, the only one we ever walked into. I fell in love with the arched doorways and the breakfast nook so we put a bid on it and eight days later, owned it. Within weeks we were friendly with our neighbors and within months knew most of the folks on the block. A year later we were gathering on random Fridays for BYO cocktails to unwind together and let the kids run around. A different family spontaneously offered up their back yard to host each month and, tah-dah, Blocktails was born. An eloop was formalized, a sign-up schedule was set and before long all the kids on the block were familiar with each others' play sets and sandboxes, basements and bathrooms. We were borrowing hedge clippers, recommending dentists and unintentionally creating a neighborhood vibe usually only dreamed of, or contrived for television sit-coms. But ours was authentic-- and as it turns out pretty common for Maplewood/South Orange-- and we grew to appreciate it's value.

One year around the holidays, we laughed with neighbors about decorating our entire house with no one scheduled to see it. We weren't hosting and neither were they so we decided to have a little dinner-crawl one night-- with a different course at each of our homes-- so that we could gaze at each other’s trees and validate all the exhaustive trimming. It was a rousing success, and before we knew it, other families wanted in on the action so the Holiday Sip & Stroll was born.

Eight years later, we've tweaked and finessed the Sip & Stroll to what it is today: an adults-only tour-de-force of punch bowls and hors d'eouvres-- we decided that dinner was for sissies and that heavy hors d’oeuvres would suffice-- culminating in an orgy of desserts and kitchen dancing. It kicks off the holiday season and sets the tone, or in some cases, the bar for other parties to come and for those of us not working in a company milieu, it's the one holiday party we can count on to attend or host if we chose at less than outrageous expense.

Babysitters firmly in place, we meet at the first house at 6pm for 2-3 hors d'oeuvres, beer and wine, etc. and usually a specialty drink of the host's choosing. The lights have been dimmed and the dress code runs the gamut from sequins to blue jeans so that no one feels over or under dressed. We greet each other as we unwind, with genuine hugs and lipsticked kisses. We drink our cocktails and pop canapes in our mouths for forty-five minutes then an old hand bell is rung and we throw on our coats and head out the door, thirty five or so of us meandering to the next house in winter's beautiful, brisk night. We do this four times until we reach the fifth house, where dessert and coffee is served and if the party is going to devolve into a bacchanalian free-for-all, it's usually here and now that it happens. I'm not saying that every year someone attempts the running lift in the last scene of "Dirty Dancing," but I'm not guaranteeing it won't happen either. Suffice it to say, a merry time is there for the taking.

This year was very merry. Some say we may have needed more cheese and/or bread based fabulous fifties hors d'oeuvres. Others hypothesize that it may have been due to the gaily colored leis passed out at the first-ever Hawaiian themed stop. We had been so well behaved at the first two stops but when "Mele Kalikimaka" came on we carved out a dance floor next to the dining room. Some were nudged towards the chicken satay while others gravitated towards the umbrella'd Mai Tais which may have accounted for why the dancing continued at the fourth stop where someone hi-jacked the ipod dock and replaced refined Christmas music with The Pogues. We bounced around their living room like erstwhile ska enthusiasts as table lamps were clicked off and the music was turned up. When the bell finally rang, we danced out the door to the fifth and final stop, taking with us the punch bowl of Mai-Tai dregs that we had no-so-stealthily absconded with from the third stop.

Fully in party mode, we continued where we left off, barely noticing the change of venue or feeling the sobering effects of the evening's crisp, brittle air circulating through our lungs now weak with laughter. We continued to talk, eat, dance and laugh into the wee hours, putting any garden variety five-hour wedding reception to shame. We caught up with old neighbors and introduced ourselves to new, then considered what they might be thinking of our jolly band of revelers and if they would wonder later on if they'd made a huge mistake by buying their house or had happened upon their shangri-la. I slipped into bed full of gratitude that I landed on this block where some are willing to dance while others prefer to chat, but everyone's happy to be there and everyone's got your back.

Grad School Daze

As my grad school semester draws to a close I thought I'd share a few fun facts with you about going back to school as a seasoned adult. The changes have been chuckle-worthy and pronounced, and I'm sure I've grown in myriad of ways, I just can't quite put my finger on how, but I'll let you know when it comes to me. Then I'll write a paper about it for you, double-spaced with one-inch margins and a cover sheet.

First up is the freedom of not caring what any of my classmates think of my hair, shoes, outfit or personal hygiene. Saves a big chunk of time getting ready for class that I can then re-allot to skimming the text book chapters that I didn't quite get a chance to finish because "Glee" was on. Or "30 Rock," or "Madmen." Or "Community," which, let's face it, is like a busman's holiday for me these days. And if you're wondering why I didn't do the reading earlier in the week it's because I learned back in September that if I do the reading too far in advance, I forget what I've read by the time class rolls around. So I need to read closer to class time which suggests that I'm still the student I was all those years ago, behind in my reading but happy to participate in class and too naive to know that the combination of the two only serves to point out to anyone not texting during class that I might not have finished the reading.

On the subject of texting, big purses are key in this day and age. The big purse sits on the front edge of the desk and acts as shield to the manic texting that's going on all throughout the lecture. If I were teaching I would have a "No Purses/Bags/Backpacks On Desk" Rule and I would be loathed throughout the land. But I'm not the teacher, I'm the near-model grad student who sits in the front of the class and listens with rapt attention, hoping to regurgitate something that I learned in the last week, raise my steady hand and be able to articulate my thoughts without sounding like a complete ninny. Which, as it turns out, is a struggle.

Other struggles include navigating the APA format for bibliographies and footnotes-- as dreaded now as they were then--, finding my classroom in the poorly marked labyrinth of identical Terry Gilliam-like hallways and remembering where I parked my car. The last two I was convinced would become easier as the semester wore on and I became comfortable in my surroundings, but no. Around and around I still go, hoping to recognize a classmate if I just keep circling, afraid to leave to use the ladies room for fear of being unable to retrace my steps. The parking garage offers no solace. With each successive week, the various parking numbered decks and spots I parked my car in have blurred together and I'm left wondering if twenty-four-year-olds have the same memory retention challenges. They probably program their parking spots into their phones. Or just plain remember. Rotten kids.

Not having the time or desire to make new girlfriends or flirt with guys has also freed up exorbitant swaths of time that can now be assigned to actual learning. It boggles the mind to think about how much more I might have retained from high school and college if negotiating personal relationships had been cut out of the class time equation. No notes to read, write or pass and no furtive glances of longing or heartbreak. Just nose to the grindstone and honest hard work-- as if I were a National Merit Scholar. Or foreign student.

And not for lack of opportunity. I'm bombarded daily with university emails alerting me to new viruses, game schedules and campus traffic patters. I've been invited to the LGBT Alliance's self defense workshop-- now open to friends--, ballroom dancing and power yoga the morning after the midnight breakfast. I passed up the chance to build and airbrush a homecoming float and take part in the Women's Health Clinic symposium on what every woman should have in her tool belt. I could have listened to NJ superior court judges wax about the constitution or played badminton or cornhole with the extra-curricular folks. When I emailed to inquire about the nature of cornhole, I was congratulated for asking, before being told that it was another name for bean bag toss.

I'll admit I take better care of myself now than I did then. As everyone else gnaws on a breakfast bar or drinks a diet coke for dinner before our 8pm class, I eat a chicken pesto wrap with a side of dried apricots and almonds. I've had perfect attendance and have handed in all my papers electronically and on time to excellent marks. I've learned that you can rent your books from the bookstore and that teachers no longer pass out hand-outs in class, but you have to go online and print the hand-out yourself and bring it to class-- before the first day of class! I've learned that no one says, "Whadja get, whadja get?" when papers are handed back and I've learned the hard way how to manage my time. Even worse, I've learned that I haven't changed that much since college and still start my papers at the last minute and will do pretty much anything to procrastinate working on them-- for instance, hypothetically, writing this column.

I look at all the shiny-skinned cherubs in snug jeans and Ugg boots and think about how simple life must be for them with only a single load of laundry to do and dorm room to keep neat. Then I think about the email I once received inviting me to "Join Chef Stanley in the Cafeteria" where he will teach you "4 Ways to Make Top Ramen Noodles" and I am glad to be where I am and proud of how far I've come, but I'm sorry to have missed meeting Chef Stanley. He might have helped me find my car.

High Infidelity

My girlfriend was telling me a story over the weekend about a friend of hers who was awoken at 5:30am by her husband of 26 years. His bags were packed, he told her; he'd rented an apartment and retained an attorney. I pictured her looking at the clock on her bedside table, maybe even groping for her glasses in an effort to put this new information into perspective, as if knowing the time might soften the blow. Maybe without her glasses on she hadn't heard him correctly. She probably said, "What?" even though she'd heard him just fine. Her head might have started to swirl, she might have even thrown up. But was this really brand new information? They'd been to counseling; their desires coaxed from them aloud. Was she really surprised or just shocked? I believe there's a subtle distinction between the two and that you can be one and not the other. Perhaps in her case the distinction didn't matter.

I asked my friend, "What's her name?" as a stab at injecting humor into the story. She knew I meant The Other Woman. But my friend said nothing as she raised her eyebrows, chin down and cocked her head at a knowing angle. Neither of us had to say that I'd hit the nail on the head. It's a story so old, so cliched that it barely merits re-telling. And yet, we tell it and listen to it over and over again without tiring. Maybe because we haven't gotten it into our thick heads. Maybe it's because we're guilty. Men want to have sex. Some more than others, but they do and that's just a fact. They want to see and touch your boobies and butt, and feel your warm, naked skin against theirs. And that's one of the main reasons they married you. Not the only reason, but certainly one of the top three. So, you can cook, clean and keep house for your husband, you can make him proud and impress his friends with your career, you can raise his children to be masters of the universe and you can listen to your husband and support him 'til you're blue in the face, but if you're not putting out, he's going to go elsewhere. It's that simple, and yet.

My friend leaned forward a bit and looked right at me as she continued, "She said that he told her that she just didn't understand him anymore, and you know when a man says that, it's usually because there's someone else who does." Bingo. Scene. Fin.

Since divorcing I've become fascinated with marriage. Why do some marriages thrive while others falter? What's the secret; what's the catch? I'm starting to think it's sex. So, I've been asking around. Turns out, yep, it is.

I could stop right there because it's really that simple and yes, Virginia, that's all there is to it, but there's more. The sex has to be good. And what makes it good for the man? The woman has to enjoy it and want it almost as often as the man. There are other factors like temperament, rhythm, proclivity and fit. And there is wiggle room in the realm of timing, taste, aural accompaniment and creativity. But it has to occur and it has to occur often.

As the saying goes, adults are just children with money. And if we continue along that trajectory, children are just golden retrievers walking upright. And dogs are really just simpletons; poofs of fur who's only desire is to eat, sleep, wrestle and be scratched. The rest is ancillary fluff. Men fit in there somewhere between children and dogs. The most educated, well-read and well-traveled man will tell you he hungers for sex, and he'll prove it to you any way he can if you don't quench that desire yourself. I see women forgetting that and I see them reminded in sad and painful ways. Every time you hear or read that a man has to desire his wife, remember, she has to want him right back as voraciously. Or else, as the years pass and her agenda is fulfilled and his physique fails to dazzle, her desire for him will wane. And he'll sense it; he'll know.

So I thought about that woman as she watched her husband walk out their bedroom door. There was nothing left to say in that moment and her main focus was probably containing the heart that was hurling itself against the cage of her chest or making just enough room for air to pass by the heaving sobs that were choking her breath. Or perhaps she just sat there, numb, wishing she had found him more attractive, regretting that his intelligence, confidence or bank account didn't translate into a log-lived hungering for his body. Wishing he'd kept more of his hair, or at least that extra thirty pounds off his girth. She knew she didn't crave him and had known it for some time. You can't fake good sex forever. She knew now that it's as important for the woman to desire her husband and didn't really blame him for leaving. She knew good sex and a lingering desire was and would always be imperative for the woman as much as the man to nurture a healthy relationship-- to survive the tempest of new passion-- and wished someone had told her that twenty-six years ago.

Touch Points

When they slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, scooted away
To the outskirts, precipice
The edge, her mad desires at bay

As he slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, she listened in
To his breathing, watched his lids
Her room too quiet, skin too thin

In his sleep, he stretched out towards her
Seismic shift, or subtle ebb
Til’ his skin, a speck, mere dot of it
Threatened them, their rift, their web

Instead of sleeping, she slipped down to
Where they touched, two points, pin heads
There, the channel, bridged, connected
Kept them flowing, inward led

There she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t
In her bed, her mind, her hair
But all that mighty light and energy
Couldn’t save her darkened lair

Those two points, those dots kept her awake
Til the window broke the shell
Of their delusion, his exclusion
Their separate-but-equal private hells

Once awake the points no longer touched
Bridge was broken, dots dissolved
He got up, got dressed and left her
Goddess of sunny, morning resolve

Neither point could know it was the last
Time they’d touch in just that way
Neither dot could see it coming
No time to ask its friend to stay

Sometimes things, they end with a mere nod
Foreshadowing readily ignored
Sometimes points that touched, that’s all they get
Now they’ll long, having once adored.

Mischief Night

Once upon a time, the second most thrilling night of the year was the night before Halloween. It was recognized by parents and notoriously acknowledged in schools. It had it’s own code and mystique and was as culturally relevant as it was regionally unique. It was called, “Mischief Night,” and we lived for it.

The name alone should give you a clue as to the origins of this All Hallows’ Eve eve. It wasn’t called Terror Night of the Damned or License to Destroy Everything in Sight Night. Back in the eighties it was still aptly named so like lovable movie gremlins, we brain-stormed, strategized, and carried out a single night-- of mischief.

Like it’s well-behaved sibling, Halloween, planning for Mischief Night began many weeks in advance. Tossing around ideas for pranks began concurrently with costume suggestions back in early October, but with one major difference: we didn’t discuss Mischief Night with our parents. No siree, this was our holiday, and we united as one against the whole town, independent of parental supervision or control, left to our own devices and, more importantly, consciences.

My rural New Jersey town, mind you, was small; Mark Twain small. It was three blocks wide and two blocks long and had train tracks that ran along the edge of town with a little used train yard perpetually checkered with rain puddles and a corn field just on the other side. We used one of the vacant railroad cars as our command center and from there, planned every day after school for our mission with the zeal and focus of a Marine task force.

There was so much pre-production and mischief execution to design and stage that every voice counted and I felt part of an exciting underground movement. There were at least four of us—perhaps as many as seven—ranging between the second and fifth grades. There was probably a leader, and various consigliere and lower ranking commanders but it’s foggy. I was only in third grade, so I probably followed orders.

The first phase of our operation prep was to gather resources. If each of us could pilfer between one and two bars of soap from under our bathroom sinks between now and Mischief Night we’d be in good shape. Same went for toilet paper, but we’d need to get at least three rolls each to really make a statement, so better start squirreling them away now. Of course, we’d need to hide our supplies where our moms would never find them. Someone suggested under our beds and we all heartily concurred. They’d never look there.

The corn shucking wasn’t my idea. I’d moved to town late in kindergarten and wasn’t wise to its ways like the other kids who’d grown up there, but I liked the concept. First we crossed the tracks, slipped under the fence and stole a few ears of corn-- okay, more like fourteen. Then we sat for hours discussing the order of which houses to hit with brown supermarket paper bags between our legs as we shucked the hardened multi-colored kernels off the cobs by rubbing the base of our palms back and forth till they were red and tingly.

All that was left to do now was make sure our blackest clothes were washed and ready to wear and wait. We busied ourselves with Halloween costume preparations and when asked by adults about our plans for Mischief Night we always demurred as if we hadn’t given it a thought. But it’s all we thought about and for the final few weeks, kids all over town had to be very well behaved in fear of being grounded on Mischief Night. When someone was grounded, the bleak news spread like wildfire and heads hung low in commiseration.

On the big night I let down my cool exterior long enough to ask my parents for permission to stay out later than usual. They knew what was up and asked me if I had everything I needed as I headed towards the front door dressed in my darkest dungarees, carrying a bulky pillowcase filled with “nuthin.” Mom slipped me an extra bar of soap as she reminded me that my curfew was 9pm and not a minute later. Then off I went—an eight year old with no chaperone— into the night to join a scrappy band of up-to-no-good elementary school hoodlums, giddy with excitement; over-the-moon with anticipation.

Our targets were neighbors and friends whom we knew wouldn’t get mad, and a few notorious curmudgeons whom we hoped would. We soaped their car windows and rang doorbells and ran. Then we threw fistfuls of corn kernels against windows lit by flickering televisions. The sound created a rat-a-tat racket and we giggled and squealed as we dove behind bushes to the sound of front doors opening on interrupted programs and empty threats.

The true pièce de résistance was the toilet papering of trees. The act itself took the patience and dedication of an artist combined with the depth perception, strength and accuracy of an athlete. The bigger kids hurled rolls of toilet paper up towards the branches of trees, careful to leave long tails trailing behind. The littler kids scrambled to pick up the rolls as they bobbled and fell through the branches to the ground then handed them off to the throwers to repeat this feat again and again until every tree had been transformed into an ethereal weeping willow. Long, white, toilet paper trails flowed like ghostly ballet dancers’ arms back and forth in the night breeze and our little town looked at once eerie, festive and magical.

Then it was curfew and time for bed. In the morning, porches would have to be swept and cars would have to be washed, but that was about the extent of the fall out. The trees, however, would be a reminder of how a band of kids from all different grades could come together with a common goal; to design, manage and execute the transformation of a town-- astoundingly, while working independently of adults. The trees lent our street an air of mystery and beauty until a big rainstorm would come inevitably and washed it all away. Until then, we smiled proudly as we passed under them on our walk to school. The trees, for the moment, were ours.

Ode to Cursive

My first night of graduate school classes went pretty smoothly until a bunch of us were chosen to write our thoughts up on the board. Happy to oblige, I hopped up, grabbed the dry erase marker, and scribbled away with confidence. The first to sit back down, I scanned the long expanse of white board before me. Each student was writing her answer in a clear and bubbly printed hand. I had reflexively, and perhaps mistakenly, written mine in cursive. It was speedy and looked lovely, but it was in script. Could my classmates decipher this strange code? Would my professor think it was Cyrillic?

Weeks before a friend had challenged me to come up with an argument for keeping cursive taught in schools. He’s among an increasing group of cursive detractors who think it’s a waste of valuable time. I was shocked and heartbroken but supposed I could see his argument. Like so many of the seemingly irrefutable bedrocks of my life thus far (cobblers, record stores, The New York Times, books) cursive was ebbing at a maddening pace. As I began my rebuttal, he cut me off at the knees saying, “And you can’t use speed or aesthetics.”

The most rational argument I could come up with was that all Americans should be able to read the Declaration of Independence in its original hand. A bit dry, I know, and flag-waving to be sure, but that was all I could muster at the time. Later on, while putting my favorite brand of black ink pen to a sheet of specially chosen stationery to write a thank-you note, I had another thought. As I wrote in fluid script I focused on the act of joining letters together without lifting my pen from the paper. I paid attention to the experience and how it felt. I thought about a tennis player’s serve and a pitcher’s seamless pitch. I pictured the visual legato of the pole-vaulter’s flight, the painter’s brushstroke and cellist’s steady bow. I considered how they all relied on interconnected movements, whole unto themselves; streams of energy which course through the body then release in a smooth, unbroken flow.

Then I thought of printing and of the resulting block letters that tell a different story entirely; have a different relationship to the body and its noble staccato slog towards communication. I have nothing against printing’s pursuits. Where would we be without our ability to tourniquet our energy then let it out, piecemeal, in short steady bursts; to chop vegetables or jump rope; to clap or strike keys? The tennis player needs his net game as much as a toddler needs to whack at trees with a stick. But baking and cooking can’t happen without kneading and stirring. And if you’ve ever surfed the wind with your hand out the car window during an afternoon’s autumn drive then you might agree that flow is imperative to our human nature’s ability to release the energy that manifests joy. Just ask any baseball player. Or dancer. Or kid.

So, can’t we hang on to both? I relish bouncing off the walls to The Ramones as much as gliding across the floor to Tommy Dorsey. There is a time and place for a lingering kiss just as there is for a quick, friendly peck. Imagine if we had to choose only one. My argument for cursive is simple yet elusive; it’s unquantifiable and can’t be market tested. It goes against the monolith of rational thought and calls upon the ocean’s tides, calligraphy and Bach. My argument for cursive is one of the tenets of human expression. My argument for cursive is flow.