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.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
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
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.
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.
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