my alma mater

My first experience tailgating. Mike does a good job stocking the cooler and cooking some brats. Just when the party is about to get off the hook playing nerf catch with Evan, Mike's Uncle Bill and his friend show up. They brought sandwiches and deny our chips and brats. Just then Zane tries to put the car in reverse. And someone drinks the last root beer. That's about how tailgating seems to go when you have kids and no beer.

The people with beer and no kids, however, seemed to be having a REALLY good time. Different groups of people gather behind trucks or SUV's making all sorts of loud, boisterous noises. I turn around, expecting to find something obviously funny or outrageous going on. Nope. Just some overweight men with their shirts off, beers in hand, throwing bean bags at a piece of wood with a hole in it.

The longer I listen to them hilariously laughing at the fun they are having with bean bags, I begin to believe it must be a super fun game! Part of me starts to get up from my chair determined to head over and join the fun, then I remind myself : bean bags. They are tossing bean bags. It's only fun to them because they are buzzed. Then I sit back down and say to myself 'oh that's right'. I have this conversation with myself a few times. But I might invest in a bean bag game just to be sure I'm not missing out.

***

I love the energy of a large collection of people in one spot. Add cheering, bright colors, soda, and cotton candy and I am all over it. You like that Oxford Comma? I like to use them. But I understand people are leaning away from using them these days. It's nothing to argue about. Just to write songs about.

We have 2 extra tickets from our neighbors, so we each take a kid and sit apart. Zane immediately complains about wanting to go home. The row in front of us is filled with middle aged men sporting crew cuts and thick necks. Their seats alternate with elementary aged sons that are well versed in shouting and cheering at the same time their dads do, but have no idea why. The man next to me has an adorable son Zane's age. He explains the game step by step as things happen. I do what he is doing to the best of my ability. I pretend to know what is going on and point at the field whenever I finally see the ball. I say something about a 20 yard line and talk a lot about the colors of their team and our team. Then fireworks explode and Zane's heart leaps out of his chest. I catch it, put it back in, and then cover his ears. He actually likes the fireworks best, despite his hyper sensitivity to noise. Thank you autism tendency.

He pulls at his blue cotton candy while I wonder if we look like a family with this guy next to us. We are good friends until he denies me the seat switch for Mike and Evan to join us. Something about enjoying the arm rests. Whatever. PANSY! Now I like him less. And I want his team to lose. Badly.

More fireworks! More of Zane complaining. He needs a drink to wash down the fluffy blue sugar. We make our way down to Mike's row. He's in the middle. I shout out for a guy to tap his shoulder. Once I have his eye, I make the international sign for PIMP by rubbing my thumb and fingers together so he can pass on over some money. People think it's funny. I secretly wish I painted our faces half maroon and half gold, but with a stripe of green down the middle just to be confusing.

Sparky is the name of the Sun Devil's mascot, which is so dumb to me. Why can't it just be a devil? Sparky sounds weak. Whenever the other team scores he does push-ups. This means nothing to the crowd. Except the lady 2 rows behind us. Who counts the push-ups out loud the way you would teach a classroom of 5 year olds how to count. Does she know she is the only one counting out loud? I never turn around to see her face. In my mind she has on a pink cardigan and pearl earrings. I don't hear her voice any other time during the game.

Each time I cross my legs my foot accidentally kicks the guy in front of me right in his crack. I lean forward to apologize every time, but he never acknowledges. I wonder if he likes it? It is hot out, I have to switch my legs a lot. I honestly think it happens 7 times. Hard.

Mike's seat neighbors trade us tickets so we get to sit as a family. I enjoy holding Evan as he falls asleep in my arms under the giant, yellow moon. Zane dives into his cup of ice. I love to see Mike's smile as his team scores and little tufts of breeze cool us as night sets in.

It turns out, that guy is right about the seats with arm rests. They ARE way more comfy.

The Reverend

I'm going to tell you about my friend from college, Tom. He was a drinker. By drinker I mean he had a fake driver's license at age 16 (had an older brother he looked exactly like) and by age 19 was in the ER for liver problems he drank so much. I met him in a photography class, he had on a shirt with iron-on letters OI! So I asked him if he liked ska. He made a wise crack about how those freaks just go to shows and look like fools running in place to silly music. I took that as a 'no' while I muffled my giggle. Only then to discuss at length in the dark room while we developed our photos how incredible The VooDoo Glowskulls are and my adoration for The Pietasters and on and on trying to convince him of the joys there are to ska music. Even if the people did, indeed, look like fools dancing to it.

You could say we were not fast friends, but sometimes those are the ones that make life a little more interesting. I like an edge at times. The rough shell to break through. Tom was a less than social rockabilly boy in my photography class that I talked into being my friend. And he even convinced me into listening to some Reverend Horton Heat on occasion.

My favorite story of Tom was when he told me about a bar he went to with his friends. How he struggled talking to girls. He told me of the cute girl that approached him at the bar and asked if he had a girlfriend. He told her "Yes. Well, I did have a girlfriend. Until I killed her". The girl walked away. He was so confused and totally bummed, I guess she was hot and everything. I had no advice for Tom. I actually thought what he said was rather clever.

Today I read on CNN it's legal to kill wolves. This article prompted my rememberance of Tom.

One afternoon during a photography class we were talking about our week. I told him how I was trying to find a room to rent so I could move out. I listed the locations and odd details about each option. One seemed worse than the next. Of the few ads I planned to respond to, the one that said 'must like dogs (and wolves)' caught my eye. I actually thought it was a joke. Who has wolves for pets, anyway? Tom and I were equally curious and he insisted on going with me to check out this room for rent. And to make sure I wouldn't get eaten by these wolves. What a good friend.

Tom and I approached the door, making jokes about these "wolves" the ad referred to. Would Wolverine be answering the door? Perhaps there are stuffed wolves hanging above the mantle? Maybe they are in a business where they breed baby wolves? Little cute, fuzzy ones and I could help on the weekends tending to them? Perhaps there was a breed of dog that looked like a wolf? Whatever. I had dogs before. I wasn't scared. Bring it ON.

We rang the doorbell. Sure as Sherlock. We heard the wolves. REAL. FREAKING. WOLVES. On the other side of the door. Viciously howling. Biting at the broken blinds covering the window. I could SEE the gnarly teeth through the door, dripping with hungry foam. Now what do we do? The guy knows we are here, we can't be total wusses and leave. I think Tom and I were equally scared, but neither of us wanted to back down. I knew before the door opened I would not be taking the room for rent.

You won't believe me when I tell you this, but the guy actually peeked his head out and told us to wait a minute, he needed to get the taser for the wolves before he opened the door. And then we heard nothing. Chaos to silence and a slam of the back door.

The guy was probably in his mid to late 20s, pretty sloppy in appearance and health. The home was a disaster and very dark. We walked down a smelly hallway as he showed us each filthy room of the common living space areas. Tom immediately leaned over and whispered 'you are not living here'. I knew that before we went in, but I felt bad this guy lived in such odd cirsumstances and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. So we carried on with the tour. Thankfully, we happened to not get murdered or eaten by wolves in the process.

The best part was the available room for rent. We never actually saw the inside of the room. Because it had a deadbolt on it with a key hole on both sides of its deadbolt. He couldn't find the key to open the room that was for rent. The one he wanted to lock me inside of. With no way to escape. And no window. And if I tried the wolves would stop me. The room in the house with wolves that reminded me of Silence of the Lambs every single step we took. I kept expecting him to ask me to put lotion in a basket.

When we left it was like we broke free from an underground bunker. I couldn't wait to escape and drive far, far away. It's hilarious to me that it could be a possible fit for someone. Anyone at all. Wolves, I actually belong to the American Wolf Lovers Association! And I like to be locked inside of rooms in dark houses, this is the perfect place that meets my needs. Seriously, how many people besides me even went to look at that place?! I'm betting zero. I'm betting no one else thought the wolf part was funny. ha. haha. ha. hahahaaa. not funny.

Too bad I don't remember Tom's last name. I wish I could find him on FB. I wonder if he gave up alcohol like he wanted to and also if he remembers this experience. I'm glad he came with me. It's a good thing to still be alive.

Sometimes I think my mom would have died if she knew the dumb situations I put myself into. This was one of those times.

July 2008

I recently allowed my mind to wander back to the trek here from the sunshine state. I remember the idea of how we would get our stuff loaded and what our respective roles would be-how daunting a task it seemed for each of us, but temporary and enchanting to imagine our new life together in a new place where we would get to finally plant our roots as we longed for. And p.s. to finally have our own home. It was a time of transition, two busy little boys, excitement, dreams realized, family near by, hot weather, leaving our favorite place we have ever lived, and moving on. A mixed bag of feelings to say the least.

I think back to that brief chunk of time and I recall Mike helping me load the boys into our little CRV for the last drive I would take away from Siskiyou Drive. I remember the quiet family prayer for safety and then concern and confidence in his eyes as he kissed me goodbye and wished me well on my journey alone with the boys in tow. Friends and strangers from church were arriving to assist with the loading of the truck. I had worked hard to back every single box and my heart kept beating pulses of gratitude for Beka and Tara for the boxes they packed well into the late evening hours with me. As I pulled away from the curb, missionaries arrived. Several of them. And it was the first time since that one night I remembered a giant box sitting among all the others Tara labeled for me: Sex Toys. Which was really just heavy winter clothing.

I left the cable box with Cox and tried to peek into that Comic Book store we always promised Zane we would take him to, but was always closed too early. It wasn't open yet. And then we finally left. I merged onto the 680 one last time. Tears brimmed in my eyes as I gave an adios salute to those golden hills I was leaving and amazing wild flowers on all sides of me waving goodbye in the summer breeze. Oh, how I would miss Northern California. It was like breaking up with someone you really still liked, but knew it was time for something else. Something more fitting for a long term plan. It's an unsettling feeling, but eventually it's like completing a really good book that sticks in your mind for weeks, but once it's removed from the bedside table and finally placed on the shelf; somewhat forgotten.

The drive was smooth. I couldn't even tell you if it was 12 or 16 hours before I arrived at my in-laws. Mike would be trailing behind several hours after me and with a tired back from loading and driving this massive truck. My next memory was waking up the next morning and feeding the children. Mike's mom arrived from the early morning truck unpacking *party* with humor in her voice. A nice man from our new ward arrived to assist the unpacking efforts. And he brought his barely-a-teenager son. And that son found the Sex Toys box. You know, the largest box in the entire truck. He found it, the boy.

I remember Mike returning later to his parents' home after returning the final items were unloaded and the truck returned. Having little (if any?) sleep and looking so tired. He stood in the middle of the kitchen as the boys and I watched him with an eager smile. It was like he slaughtered the best looking bear in the forrest for us and we couldn't wait to see it! I asked him if he wanted to shower or eat breakfast before heading over to the house. And I will never forget his smile when he replied with, "No, I just want to take my family home". And we gathered up all our suitcases, collected the children, and we headed over on the 202 to start our new life in our first home. Tired. Exhausted. Exited. Out of place. Tired. He was the first to use the shower while I was running around the house with my camera exploring and soaking it all in detail by detail along with the kids. So glad to be home. Where we had been waiting to be for so many years.

The back yard was still dirt. Evan was sometimes still crawling, always hanging on a pant leg.Zane in his slip-ons he has since outgrown. And the baby not yet made. We stood on our front lawn that night and took this picture. Both so weary but bursting with pleasant feelings. I love this picture. It makes me feel really good. I love my family. I'm glad we're here. It might be really brown and dusty, sure actual tumble weeds roll all around, and the summers are torture. But jeez, there are colors in the Arizona sky in the early evenings that you can't find anywhere else.

crush: volume 1

Sometimes I think back to how I conducted myself and managed my interest in crushes when I was a bunch younger and single. Most of these stories are ridiculous to me and essentially classified as what a normal person would call stalking.

I wanted to like a cute boy once who I heard worked at a sub shop. He never led me to believe in any way shape or form that he noticed my flirting glances. But that didn't stop me from jumping into his path as often as possible. Trying to get him to trip over me while I tap danced on top of his feet. Very typical Young Liz behavior. Oh, you don't like tap dancing, what about flame throwing?! I can juggle knives you know! Wait.... where are you going.... stop and see me looking at YOU!

I was not good at taking hints. Where was Oprah's friend who wrote the book 'He's Just Not That Into You'? I could have used his advice.

So the sub shop. I assumed he worked at the one near his home. I would go at all hours of different days to try and figure out his work schedule (limited to only once in a day- I did have my limits). I would always get the cheapest size of yogurt with my pocket change. Never could catch him in a shift.

What was I thinking? Who does that? I gave up on the whole idea within one month because it was too hard to track him down and btw he didn't even know my name. A mutual friend several months later mentioned him in a story that involved his job. I figured out he was at a totally different location like 10 miles away. I burst into psychotic (internal) laughter at my failed super sleuth antics that only led me to a giant month of wasted money eating that disgusting yogurt.

the friend with that brother

I hung out with my sister and her friends before I learned how to drive a car. It was my ticket out of the house. And I enjoyed hanging out with them. She had a friend with an interesting older brother. He had a real job that paid him real money, however, he still lived at home. When he was working we would go into his room and his sister would tell us how strange he was and show us his stuff.

He liked Christmas music, a lot. So he would listen to it all year long. It played on his alarm clock radio when he woke up. His entire music selection in his car was strictly Christmas music. He often left it playing in his room even when he wasn't home. I thought it was unique and peaceful.

I guess he had a tendancy to really go overboard if he liked something. I don't know if it was a clinical disorder we tend to classify interesting people as, but I found it refreshing. I loved how he surrounded himself with what he had passion for. He also adored his hardtop Jeep. He bought every gadget and add-on possible one could get for a Jeep. With the lighting accessories and all the other bells and whistles, it looked like he was driving a UFO down the street.

He really really loved Sandra Bullock. Naturally, he had every movie she had ever been in and knew every possible fact about her. If she had a movie in the theaters, he would attend as often as his scehdule would allow. I never thought much about her as an actress, but once I learned of his deep interest in her I appreciated her a little more.

His sister told us about his boss at work, I guess he was a real asshole to everyone. She told us stories about things he would do or say and how mad her brother would be. It didn't seem fair, who would be mean to a guy that found happiness in Christmas music and driving his UFO mobile? Several times when while he was at work we would go into room, find his boss's number programmed on his phone and call. We crank called his boss as often as we could. I was the culprit, repeating his last name over and over in a deep, scratchy voice like an angry old woman dying. I can't remember the last name now, and I believe I might have even been saying it wrong all along, but it seems to me it might have been something like Tiller.

"Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer"

{said in a whisper. pause for effect]

TiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRR

{said louder, as if getting more irate}

Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer

{click. I can't believe he stayed on the phone that long almost every time. He must have been so confused}

+++

Then there was this mean girl they went to school with that had legs like tree trunks. So I would call her and just say 'Arbor Day' and remain silent. Any time they would say something back I would repeat it like it was a normal greeting in the most nerdy whiney voice possible.

Excuse me? Who is this? Who are you calling for?

Arbor Day.

This call also lasted a lot longer than I imagined it would. And this was a weekly ritual.

------

Then caller ID was invented and that about ended my period of the length I would go in the juvenile delinquency category. That's really about as dangerous as I got.

718

photo from flickr

Brooklyn was an interesting place to live and learn about. We first lived on 6th Avenue and 21st Street. Then on Greenwood Avenue right by the cemetery. I wish I had maintained some sort of photo journal during that time in my life. So many things seemed odd to me that very first month, but then by the time we left nothing really seemed odd anymore. It just became my way of life and it became home. Of course, that still meant there were parts of the borough I would not enter in daylight, however, over time I knew exactly where those imaginary lines were so I knew how to be street wise without being scared. Graffiti was part of its history. Drug busts around the corner just came par for the course. Millionaires down the block and hoodlums a little further down.

There was the usual crowd gathering around their territorial bodegas. Normally nothing in hand actually purchased from said bodega. Just grown men who knew this place like the back of their hands hanging out. Same spot, same time, just loitering. But no one would consider it loitering, it was just what people did. And everyone that would pass was a known friend since birth. People born in Brooklyn, at least around our streets, didn't seem to leave Brooklyn.

We didn't live in the trendy section of Park Slope, we were in South Slope. It was mostly occupied by Puerto Ricans. If you don't believe me, visit those streets instead of the Puerto Rican Day Parade next year. And then all the transplants like us started creeping in and filling in the gaps. We were taking over, so they said. Us young, overpaid white kids were taking over the neighborhood and making rent go up. The Jewish landlords were buying up all and every building they could - blocks at a time in certain areas. They were fixing them up cheaply and doubling the rent. I guess this type of thing has a word- they call it gentrification. I just wanted a two bedroom with a short commute to the city. I didn't know so much more was going on when we moved in.

Anyway- so getting used to Brooklyn was an adventure. I don't remember hating it, although we did have some choice words to mumble when the truckers rumbled over potholes at 2am outside of our window. That pretty much sounds like a truck is driving through your brick wall. And when the trumpet music blared from the neighbors as if 15 mariachi bands on brass were marching in a living room parade. It literally caused the walls to vibrate. And when the ice cream truck parked on our corner weeknights at 11pm. Funny the lingering crowd at 11pm buying 'ice cream'. Bars on the windows of every first floor became common, even for the fancy brownstones by the park. After the first week, I never thought about crime rates or break ins or any sort of theft. Even after our snowboard rack was stolen, we never felt in danger the way you would think bars on windows would make you feel.

When people would visit from out of town, we would see our home with new eyes all over again. We would reassure them it was a safe place. Walking home from the subway at night there was never a moment I felt threatened or concerned. Although there were a lot of people coming and going all over the place every time of every day, I felt it was a rather harmonious community. Probably not the prettiest or cleanest buildings or streets you ever did see, but it was a true bit of history and culture and life we got to live in the middle of. And it was like nothing we will ever experience anywhere else we live.

And then our first Brooklyn summer was most spectacular. It was like the movies, we would be walking home from the subway after work and fire hydrants would be cracked open for kids to run through! Streets would be blocked off for block parties and that always meant urban sprinklers. People came out of the woodwork- every stoop was filled with people sitting and chatting, laughing, relaxing, enjoying each other's company. We had no idea how many people lived around us until the summer! The transition into summer on the streets of Brooklyn would be a fabulous photography project. We didn't have a stoop in the first place, we had trash cans outside of our building door instead- no steps. But we would visit friends who had stoops so we got to participate in this age-old tradition of people watching. We didn't know if we would live in Brooklyn forever or just how long we would stay, but if we bought a place there one day we knew it would have to have a stoop. Or find another way to linger out front comfortably.

photo from flickr

Then we learned about all these free concerts in Prospect Park. Blue Man Group. New York Philharmonic. They Might Be Giants. In addition to movies under the stars. Drum circles. Soccer. Picnics. All of a sudden we felt our quality of life triple just with the activity and adventure associated with this awesome park in the summer. I can't even begin to discuss our favorite places to eat, it would take too many words. It was a wonderful pit stop for our little family of two for a bit. We miss a lot about that place. Especially in the summers.

***

When I started that job in Jersey City, NJ and my new boss heard that I was commuting from Brooklyn she got a sour look on her face. She asked me what it was like, as if it was the slums. And then she proceeded to tell me how she lived in this pretty little quaint and quiet town in New Jersey where the homes look like doll houses. Then she told me about her strange neighbors from Brooklyn and how they bring folding chairs out into the front of the garage and just sit there for hours. All the other neighbors think it's so odd. She laughed to herself as she explained their ritual and wondered out loud what could they be looking at and why they don't just go into their back yard?

I smirked inside and knew the secret ways of Brooklyn that she would never understand. I thought about her neighbors when she invited us to dinner in her doll house. I longed to find them and imagined my conversations with them to be entirely more interesting than the one I was forced into about drapes and the paint colors on her boring walls. On the drive home Mike remembered what I told him about her Brooklyn neighbors and we were both sad to not see them outside. And we both chuckled at how one day we will be back in the suburbs we will be just as odd with our chairs in the front. We were silent for a bit after that while we drove thinking of our distant future, smiling.

***

I smirked inside this afternoon when Mike got out the folding chairs and placed them outside of our garage. We are finally living in that distant future and I love it.

I am so happy we have taken a little piece of Brooklyn with us into our suburban, Arizona life.

pills

Mornings in Brooklyn were lazy for me. I hated getting out of bed. Mike worked at Metrotech, Brooklyn's business center, so his commute was an unbelievable 20 minutes door to door. No one in New York has a commute like that. Since he had the better commute and since I was so selfish, I often begged for a subway drop-off by car because I was always running late. He would be saving me the 15 minute walk. He did it often and never complained.

One morning I asked him to leave me at CVS so I could run in and get my birth control pills. I had already missed a day and wanted to catch up ASAP. He insisted the pharmacy would be closed. I still insisted he drop me off there just in case. We went back and forth several times about how I was wasting more time, but then no I would be right....etc. I marched smugly to the back of the store to find the pharmacy closed. He was right.

Even more late for work than usual, I headed to the subway (F train) for a regular Tuesday. I worked for a bank as a temp in HR in Jersey City, NJ. It was ridiculous how many subway lines it took to travel through Brooklyn, then Manhattan, then under water to get to work each day in another state. But it was a good job with a good company, so I knew it was worth it because it would lead to a permanent job.

Like usual I stared at the subway floor waiting for time to pass. People on, people off. The typical jerking of the train car as it switched tracks and adjusted its gears. It was a warm, sunny day for September. I checked my watch and saw I was running more than my typical chunk of time behind, but not too terrible that I needed to feel stressed about it. We came to my final stop in Manhattan in my journey before transferring, Cortlandt Street. The train car was packed, the doors opened, but no one moved. Someone on the platform said "what was that sound?" I don't know if someone else or that same person said something about a 'boom'. A few people got off, but the doors were staying open. I saw a poof of brown dust and broken glass drop onto the platform from the sidewalk grates in the sidewalk above us. In my mind I thought 'I am not going to suffocate and die in this subway train in the event more smoke were to come in! Get me outta here'.

I nudged past several people, still few were speaking and it was silent in the air. A man going up the steps in front of me hesitated, but I put my hand on his back and voiced my urgency "go!" He sped up. Once I got above ground I saw cars and taxis stopped in the middle of the street with heads poking out car windows and looking up, people standing on the sidewalk and in the street on mobile phones talking about what we were all looking at: smoke streaming out of the world trade center. Downtown Manhattan felt like it was frozen all around this trail of smoke sneaking out of a really tall building. Perfect pieces of paper were floating from the sky like a ticker tape parade. It was like all the filing cabinets got shaken, however no folders or furniture or anything else was on the ground. Just perfect sheets of work paper similar to ones I had waiting for me on my desk. I looked at one work form and almost wanted to keep it, but left it on the ground because I felt sick for thinking of the person who started their morning just like mine, only they might be burning or suffocating from smoke right that moment. She used a felt tip pen on that paper, wrote a name on it, it was in black.

My typical commute would be to cross the street and enter the world trade center building that was not burning then to get into a train that carried me into New Jersey. I decided immediately I wasn't going to work that day. Then I thought bomb. That was all I could think. My feet ran, I was the only one leaving the area for some reason, those feet took me as fast as they could to 1 Chase Plaza a couple blocks away where I knew I could get a subway home. I stopped in the retail part of the bank open to the public to use a phone to call Mike and tell him I was okay- I just used the first phone I could find on a desk. Rules didn't matter. People were walking into the building with grey soot on their heads and they didn't even realize it. Got his voicemail. A woman working there was crying and her coworkers were comforting her, asking which floor and which building he worked on. I think they had her breathing into a paper bag. I then ran down the stairs to the 2/3 subway and the ticket person said it was a plane. I told her it had to be a bomb and wished she would join me on the train and go home, too.

The train was ghostly empty. I was shaking like a leaf, hoping no more 'bombs' would go off above my head. A girl from another train car got off at my station. We walked up the street together with the silence in the air, much smoke pouring from Manhattan's skyline, and dozens of fire engine sirens from far and near sounding in every direction. It made me feel sick, to know they were going where I couldn't get away from fast enough. I had no idea what was happening, I just knew I needed to get far away. And I had no idea how the people in those trucks were going to get those people help in that building so high up there.

I got home and the phone didn't want to work. I should remember who I spoke with first, it might have been my mom or my sister. I just remember my t.v. wouldn't work so she was giving me all these details my head couldn't accept. Planes?! No. I was just standing there, I didn't see any evidence of that. As I tried to think about all the details another plane went down and the buildings collapsed while I was on the phone with my sister. A lot happened during my commute home and it didn't stop happening.

I remember a thin layer of gray ash on the roof of my car. In Brooklyn. Way far away. I remember walking around my small apartment and cleaning just to keep from crying and waiting impatiently for Mike to get home. He walked home. The subways closed down right away. Not sure how I snuck home, everyone else had to cross the Brooklyn Bridge by foot. He had seen from his building in Brooklyn on the 11th floor the second plane go in. He was looking out the window when I tried calling him. He saw that second plane go into a building I normally would have been commuting through right about that time had I not gone to the closed pharmacy that morning, giving me an extended delay I will always be grateful for.

When I finally went back to work (1 week later?), it was incredibly hard to trust that everything and everyone in my path would be safe. I wanted to hid under my bed forever, but then they would be winning. And we can't have that. No one talked, no one smiled, no one made eye contact during those first weeks back to work. I think we were all just lost in thought about it. Like a long-term moment of silence. And then everywhere you turned there were photos of people posted "missing". Hopeful loved ones. Weeks those pictures were posted all over of faces that were all done here on earth. And even though I wished they were all just lost and disoriented on a street somewhere to be found, I knew they weren't.

I never wanted to write about this, it was such a dark day it's like tweaking the nerve endings of my guts to speak and write about it. Especially after knowing the survivor stories I have read and heard first hand. I don't have much to say, my experience was so slim and easy. I didn't see body parts, death, nor pass bits of airline seats, or run out of the burning building. I didn't save anyone, comfort anyone, or lose a friend or relative. I was just a really lucky wife and daughter and sister that got to live. And that day I felt so grateful for the breath moving in and out of my chest. I never want to forget that feeling. The gift of being alive.

not to fifty!

I remember my very first best friend, Niya. We were in second grade. She was so awesome. She was the only girl who could beat me at tetherball. I remember she made me laugh a lot and I never got mad when I got rope burn on my arms from stopping the ball (ropesies we called it). She never called rules - we would just play. All the other kids would call rules and make it so boring, then get defeated easily. I remember being impressed with her strength (does tetherball really require strength? or skill?). She had twin brothers, they were younger. She was the first friend I made outside of my neighborhood that invited me over to play.

I remember wondering why she wanted to be my friend, what were the things she liked about me? Not that I thought I was an unlikeable kid- I was just curious what parts of me she thought were interesting enough to tell her parents about me, call me, and have me come over. It made me feel so good to be invited to her house and I hoped she knew that I really liked her. I can't remember exactly what the things were I liked about her, I just knew I enjoyed being around her and hanging out on the playground was never boring when she was around. I wish I had known specifically what was cool about her to me and that I had told her. I was really sad when they moved away. I wonder how she is doing now and where she is.

It's so funny how some people you meet in life you bond with instantly and you don't even know why or how. Some personalities just click right away. I wish I could collect all those people I have met and clicked with and keep them all close by. All the Niya's could get to know one another and we could crack the code. Have a party at least once a month and see what we all have in common, if the whole lot of them get along as well as I think they would. We would take a survey and find out similarities, personality traits, goals, etc. and find the common threads. Or maybe there would be none at all and it would be super awkward.

It's fun to think about why I really like someone. This month I am going to revive my Thoughtful Package idea and spend some time writing emails or letters telling my friends what I like about them.

And someday when I am 50 years old I am going to look up all those favorite childhood friends and have a big party with a lot of red balloons in the deepest of green grass and have rootbeer floats. With twisty straws. And staw hats. Everyone gets to sit in white wicker rocking chairs (with plush padding). And I will include my adulthood favorite friends, too, and gather everyone up I enjoy the most in one big, open space. Rachael will you be my DJ?

journey: stop 1

Since we have been married, our journey away from our homeland has led us to many towns. Each home and location has had new and different things to adjust to (+ and -). I write about them so as to not forget the little details I still recall in my fast fading memory. As with all things, the further time passes, the more nostalgia brings to light less of the negative and surfaces more of the pleasant. It will try to record both because they make up the entirety of the experience. Today I will write about the first home away from home- August 1999.

*

Mike got into a management development program that relocated us to New York. We were so excited for his new salary, we felt it was well beyond our wildest dreams at that stage of our lives. Then he went apartment hunting and reality crashed on our heads. We lived comfortably in Arizona with a $500 per month rent payment that included one bedroom, a laundry facility, maybe even a gym, two covered parking spots and a couple of pools. Rent in New York would BEGIN around $1100- $1500 for a one bedroom, and even that *low* price was hard to come by. That was the start of the high cost of living reality of our new lives. And that never included a gym or a pool, almost never a parking spot.

We moved to Long Beach, Long Island and landed at E Broadway and Lincoln Blvd. It was a beach town, however, I had a hard time locating a skate/ surf shop for some reason. The grocery store was filled with old people and the strip malls off the main street seemed dated and empty. It turned out Long Beach (during the non-summer months) is a retirement community filled with many nursing homes. Most of the people living there settled their weary bones in for the final years of their lives while we were just beginning ours.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw that we would be living 2 short blocks from the beach. I actually fell out of bed and went running on the boardwalk, essentially my back yard. It seemed odd for such a cute town to be empty considering how peaceful, beautiful, and accessible the beach was. It felt like our little secret hideaway home no one knew about. It didn't matter that the dishwasher only held 7 dishes or that the ceilings were an inch above our heads. That the washer and dryer was outside behind another home (mostly because Mike did laundry in the snowy winter). Or that the closet molded out our sleeping bags and board bags. It didn't matter that our little space was 1 of 4 apartments carved out of what was once a huge house. It was our first home in our introductory New York experience.

*

I remember it took me a while to find a job and it caused us some concern. Bills were going to be huge, the train and subway alone was over $200 a month! I even applied for jobs at Blockbuster and Pier One Imports because we needed me to generate income fast. I got a job at a fancy mall in Long Island for Clinique as a make-up artist. I sucked at that job. The manager kept yelling at me to wear more lipstick each hour. I was so thrilled when I finally got a bank job in the city. Mostly so I could do something I thought I might be better at, but also to have the company pay for my education and to see more of this city that terrified me.

I remember I sat on the (wrong) train with sweaty palms on my way to the interview. The train was empty and I was worried it wasn't the right job for me and that I would get lost or mugged in the city trying to find the building. I finally found a ticket puncher and he pointed out the correct train, I hopped on right as it was closing its doors. I remember exactly what I wore and the purse I was holding. I remember saying a silent prayer so I could get this job so we could have enough money to live in New York and give this place a fair shot. Even though so much of me wanted to run back home to what was familiar.

*

I remember the only good dinners I knew how to make from scratch were chicken noodle soup and turkey chili. We ate them both every week in the winter. And nachos for lunch every Sunday while we watched t.v. after church. I wrote a little about what Sundays were like here.

I remember how strange it was that our bathroom towels never seemed to dry.

I remember taking surf lessons in the ice cold water, even with a wetsuit on it was impossibly cold. I was secretly happy there was a sea lice outbreak so I had a legitimate reason to not go in the water for a while.

I remember us going on a nightmare snowboarding trip up north with the Wheelers (our first friends that were there from AZ, too, for the same reason). It was negative 20 degrees that day. I did one run and felt like I had shattered my knee caps. It was ice, like trying to cut an edge on a metal table. It wasn't worth the hassle and cost of going. I knew we wouldn't be back. I cried in the lodge and threw my boots across the floor at the fire place. I knew it was the end of a hobby I loved for a long, long while. I didn't know then that NY in and of itself was its own hobby waiting for us to explore.

I remember once I stopped being a big baby, I dried my tears and had lunch with my husband and friends. Mike took off his waterproof overalls and had on these sweatpants that were super thin and somewhat fitted. I was sitting across from him as he stood up at the table to take off his coat. In my mind I thought of doing something that seemed funny in my head, but I didn't actually realize I was acting on the thought. In the middle of a busy lodge I reached out and grabbed his package. I don't know why. The best part is he totally stood there like it was no big deal. Hey getting your junk grabbed in public is totally normal, we do this all the time. Anybody else wanna piece of me?

*

I remember this is where we lived when we made the all-night drive in December to Washington, D.C. to go to the temple and be sealed for time and eternity. I remember feeling like my heart opened up a new chamber and my love for him expanded beyond what was humanly possible. It was like love on steroids. Only spiritual. Ergh! There are not proper words to explain the change that occured.

*

I remember the green hill on the way to Pergament (home improvement store) that reminded me of the teletubbies. I wrote about grocery shopping here.. The Clam House that was closed until summer. The Palace, the retirement home across the street and how there would be sirens going in the middle of the night that sounded like a dj was at a turntable (woooo wopwopwop wooooo wop WOP wowoWOP). It's since been torn down and seems luxury condos have been put up.

On weekdays we literally left for work before the sun came up and got home after it went down. It took both of us about 1 hour and 45 minutes one way to get to work. Young people didn't live there because it was too far from where life was happening. Long Beach was a town for the young people to crash in the summer, not live in. We set our sights on Brooklyn. It would save us a lot of money to shave the train tickets off our budget by just taking the subway and cut the commute time a ton. We wanted to enjoy life more, have some spending money, and get into the city for FUN more often.

Next stop: Park Slope 18th Avenue and 21st Street.


*note to self: find a scanner to add paper photos of these memories

grosser than gross

My sister and I were so bored during the summers with nothing to do in the heat of the Arizona desert. School was out, swimming was no longer attractive. Watching soaps in our jammies was pretty much how a great day went. Always preceeded with a healthy dose of The Price is Right while pushing the German Sheppard away. He had a broken tail and was rather pesky, but he had a killer name: Spike.

Sometimes we would get crazy and cook something daring. Something besides nachos with cheese piled to the ceiling. Sometimes I would make blueberry muffins from the box. Once or twice my sister would make giant omelets with everything you could imagine folded into the spongy egg. It always smelled so good, but after two bites I would remember how much the texture of spongy cooked egg made my throat want to close up forever. In order to not offend, I took a break from my 15 egg omelet, hoping I might suddenly like that texture at the next commercial break.

I went back for more with my sister proudly trailing behind to hear about how delicious her masterpiece would be by now. We both stopped dead in our tracks when we saw the plate completely empty. It took us both a few minutes to realize the dog was dry heaving below the kitchen table.

I don't know what went through her mind, but in mine I was racing to remember what was in the omelet and if we needed to call the vet. Then I was thinking about how much I disliked that spongy egg and now it was going to be all over the floor and I didn't know if I could clean it up without tossing my own cookies. But I knew it was my fault for leaving the food on the table for the dog to get, I was secretly hoping my sister would save me from the clean up, even though I should be the one to do it. And then I realize I would never be able to eat eggs again.

As we stood speechless watching the dog finally spew forth the goods, one of us went to get paper towels. Before one sheet could be torn, we heard the sound of lapping up. The dog was happily eating its vomit. You will never know the relief in my heart to see the puker cleaning its own puke. I was so happy to not have to clean it that I wasn't even grossed out. Good dog, Spike. We left him to his (second) brunch and returned to our soaps without even discussing it.

*

I scrub the baby's bile (orange, green, white) from the carpet as often as I did when I was potty training Zane. So when I hear the brewing of a good spit-up I naturally think of another interruption to get down and scrub or another opportunity to change my colorfully drenched clothing.

So when I hear little slurping and the smacking of lips after the baby eats his own spit-up in his mouth I can't even be grossed out about it. Cos it's one less thing I have to clean up. Good boy, Evan.

cube life

Although it's odd, I enjoy remembering random people or experiences that pop into my head for no reason at all. It's like I have a menu in my head with a section for the memory de jour- will it be my sister's former love for The Monkees or that rainy day in the suburbs of Illinois? Some thoughts float on the surface for fun and others more deep and surreal, almost taking over my mind like a thick haze.

Today's is not so serious. It's my first cube neighbor in my first office job. I worked the full time shift from noon to 9pm. We were collections reps at a call center for a bank. The team I joined was comprised of quite a variety of personalities and backgrounds. I was the youngest, just starting out at ASU. I remember almost every person on that team.

The cube behind me was empty and the person that shared my cube wall to the left worked mornings so we didn't cross paths often. To the right of me was the break room. D. Lovejoy sat in front of me. What a perfect last name! I secretly wished he had an Irish accent. He didn't. We worked the same shift.

D. was in his late thirties. He was a man of little expression. He had this huge insulated cup on his desk he used to refill with water every single day. He carefully hung policies up in his cube with thumb tacks. He spoke quietly and never raised his voice. He had a thin, blonde mullet with a part in the middle and wore pants that were about 10 years too small for him. It was the first time I had seen a man with hips like a woman. Every time he would return to his cube to sit, I wondered if he was uncomfortable. His dress shirts were normally thin, if he were a hairy dude I would have been able to tell. Sometimes he would have on the blue button-up with a white collar and white cuffs. That was my least favortie shirt of his. The sleeves were normally too short. He was a nice guy, I really wanted to give him a make-over, but then he wouldn't be D. Lovejoy.

He wasn't so great at collecting money from cardholders, he was too soft. He would never be a star on the team. I wondered if he wanted to be or if he was just happy being the standard Joe Collector with almost below average productivity.

He once told me I had really good posture. Then he turned into his computer and took another call. I loved to hear about his daughter and wife, he would smile so sweetly when he spoke of them. Those were the few times his face escaped the constant shade of neutral. We had a potluck once (my all-time favorite days) and he brought his family's leftover spaghetti. It was about 1 cup worth of broken, cooked noodles mixed with a little sauce to share with a 14 person team. I felt bad for him, either he totally forgot about the potluck or they were just really poor and that was all he could offer. It's all good D. Lovejoy, I got your back. We are cubicle buddies.

I was the only one who ate the spaghetti. Later people on the team joked that it must have been 2 weeks old because not even D. Lovejoy ate any of it.

The best memory of D. Lovejoy was somehow the team was talking about people being flexible, you know regular circus lingo, and he suddenly stood up in the middle of the row and raised his leg up to his head with a completely straight face. Like it was no big deal, people in small pants do the splits in the standing position all the time, in the middle of the afternoon, in front of people, at work.

I had a dream last month that I went back to visit the call center. In my dream D. Lovejoy came out of a large office. In the dream I asked what he was doing and he told me he was a senior manager in the Fraud Department and that it turned out to be a much better job fit for him. It was sort of like the end of Raising Arizona when he has that dream there are all those kids are coming to the table and they are holding hands and it's all perfect. The movie ends and you want to know what happens next, you want so badly for the happy ending.

long beach

Our first home in New York was in Long Beach, Long Island. He told me I would be mad about how small it would be. He said it so often I began to worry. Until I walked in. It was perfect for two people who would work a lot of hours in offices far away. Just right for our new little family of two; we were only married for about 4 months at the time of move-in.

It was 2 blocks from the beach. There will probably never be a time in our lives we live near a beach again. I wish I had taken more photos. I wish I had written about it at the time.

But I didn't, so here's a shot at hazy memory lane.

I remember each time I walked or went running on the boardwalk I would pass an old brick building with a sign on it that said "fallout shelter". I had never seen a sign like that before. I always wanted to check it out. See if there were old, dusty cans of food stacked on shelves or just rusty old puddles of water in a dark area that wanted company once in a while.

I will always remember the scent filling my nostrils while rounding the corner. I tasted the salt water air on the roof of my mouth with that first deep breath. I am pretty sure I smiled every single time; that scent never gets old or familiar to someone who was raised on a desert.

I wondered about the ocean-view buildings and the people living inside of them. What the boardwalk was like in the summer. I tried to guess when those modern condos had been built and imagine the character erased from the one that stood before. Many buildings were for retired people, but not the kind that are able to play shuffle-board.

I remember our first Sunday, we couldn't find the place to meet for church. We were told it was in a tiny little dance studio that rented space on the top floor of a store along the busy street. We couldn't find it. Oh, flower shop, I think it was above a flower shop. We drove up and down that main street for 30 minutes and went back home.

An hour after church an older woman with a looooooong island accent appeared at the door and wanted to welcome us. She brought with her a little loaf of banana bread wrapped in plastic wrap and a little gold sticker on it. She knew my name and said they were all expecting us and couldn't wait to meet us. I learned this to be the honest truth. We were surely needed. Even though the banana bread was gross, like the ones stacked up on the counter of a gas station or bodega, that gesture was what kept my feet grounded many times when I got homesick.

The following week we found the place. I remember there as a strange note on the door written in paper that caused us both to pause, but I don't recall what it read. Something about the missionaries and making sure we are safe (?). Something like 'no drugs allowed' or something completely unusual. We proceeded up the rickety, tired, old steps to a large, shiny dance floor and about 10 cold, metal folding chairs arranged in two rows of 5. We knew it was going to be a small crowd, Mormons in Long Beach, but we didn't realize THIS small. Mike was one of about 3 men total. The rest of the congregation, about 8 usuals, were women in their 60's and beyond. Except for one, she was in her 30s. I was 22. Each week I was selected to say an opening or closing prayer and/ or taught some kind of lesson. It was a safe place for me to learn to be a Mormon. It was nice to feel so needed every single week.

This room did not have working heat, so in the winter you kept your coat on and people brought blankets to keep warm. Someone always brought an extra blanket because they knew I would forget. That line my mother will understand best and smile.

I remember one lady would always stand and talk about her husband who didn't hear so well. I wondered if he heard anything she was saying while he sat next to her, sometimes snoring while he slept. She referred to him as "Sarge" and she would tell the same stories about him every week. She would always have the same high level of energy and enthusiasm telling it and laugh at the same parts like it was comedy night each time. I got the biggest kick out of her. I remember at Christmas she gave everyone things from the dollar store. The 30-year-old lovingly joked about how she gives out this sort of stuff each year and rolled her eyes a little. It made me feel embarassed how much it meant to recieve anything at all from someone and made me wonder if I was too touched by dollar store giftage. Do I really please too easily? It just felt good to be thought of, especially because I only had one New York friend at the time. Her and these ladies at church were my only local friends for a long time.

There were many ladies who were too old and ill to come to church on Sundays. A couple of them would arrive and sit briefly in the back, then leave before the end. I never remembered their names, but there was one that was my favorite of all the ladies. She snuck in like a ghost and watched me the whole time. She was always bundled up in a lot of clothing, but I could still tell she had a frail little body under all of it. She kept very still and quiet. She had these baby soft, full cheeks and a clever smile. It was like she couldn't wait to tell me some great secrets. She looked at me like we were old friends, always peering playfully when I would glance over my shoulder at the chair by the stairs. She had a bandage taped over her left eye every time. I wanted to talk to her, but at the end she would be gone or already shuffling slowly down those dangerous stairs. It was a little empty on those Sundays her chair remained empty. I wonder about her now, if she is still alive 8 years later. I also wonder if we will recognize each other in heaven and if I get to hear what those secrets are.

face my lot

For some strange reason in my Junior year of High School I decided to switch schools. I wanted to be a tough girl and force myself into something hard and pretend it wouldn't be a challenge. Well, it was. My only sister had moved out of the house. The first boy I ever cared about was about to break up with me. I had distanced myself from all my girlfriends. My running went to crap and I went from earning my Varsity letter at the former school to barely making the new JV team. I essentially felt completely alone.

My step dad worked at this new school and I will never forget the third day. I went to his empty office and sat in a corner wedged myself between it and the door so no one would see me. It was raining outside so there was also a large coat hanging on the door to hide me. I sat there and cried during the entire hour of lunch. I just bawled. I was angry and afraid and lonely and sad. It sucked. But I think it was the therapy we all need from time to time. To stare directly at the fact that we are not immune to bad feelings, so accept it and purge it.

I think the next day I was boldly determined to shove those bad feelings into strength (maybe it was a week or month later...who knows). I used all the output of sad and translated it into fiercely active energy by making friends of all sorts. Not necessarily lots of them, just all sorts. The strange art kid who drew amazingly dark pictures and wore his girlfriend's black lipstick. The socially odd swimmer, Gib, who wore jeans with large holes in them. The girl in History who loved Smashing Pumpkins and got high. Anise, the girl from Germany, who ran cross country with me and loved to listen to Lita Ford. Angie and her friend with the convertible who was an only child and invited me to a fish fry. The boy in Physics who told me I was pretty, but that I would be more pretty if I wore make-up and fixed my hair. The girl who hit him and told him that was rude. It was true, I could have tried harder at looking nicer, and I wanted to kiss him hard for saying it out loud. He was right, although it didn't change me. Not that year. I still didn't really care about that sort of thing at the moment.


The interesting thing about this time in my life was how clearly I heard my teachers. It was like they were the people in my life at that time I found most interesting and gained some direction from. The ones that made the strongest imprint in my High School education because the kids around me didn't really matter as much as usual, they were all equally unknown to me.

The Chemistry teacher walked the track after school in white orthopedic shoes and always told his class you can eat anything you want if you exercise. The driver's ed teacher loved the bumper sticker "Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty" and laughed with me when my musical Christmas socks accidentally went off during a written exam in the middle of October. My English teacher found my writing to be rather mature and creative, this was a first I had heard of it being something of a talent for me. My math teacher was impressed I requested we turn in the homework when giving the class this as an option. I wanted to be able to hold myself accountable for actually doing it and being prepared for the exams. I believe this was the first semester I did not get a report from a single teacher that I displayed 'inappropriate classroom behavior'. I wised up sucker, and worried a little less about making people laugh around me and more on learning.

I completed that semester with remarkable grades, unique acquaintances I wouldn't see again, and headed back to where I started my High School experience. It all looked different and made me all the more eager to head off to college. Not just for my boy crazy grazing, but I genuinely looked forward to the knowledge and insight Professors might deliver.

don't do the dew

While there were some subjects in school that were enjoyable and came easily to me, math was never one of them. It's something I knew as a child and grew to accept. Sort of like the way you hate winter, but you can't escape it every year. You just muddle through it and think about spring.

Then those sore subjects slap you in the face when you begin college. There is no hiding it. When I was muddling through statistics I thought I would have a nervous breakdown with every exam. I had never experienced so much anxiety over a class prior and I knew where my grade was heading. Funny, those math classes never seen to have that bell curve to help those of us on the low end. I chose to withdraw from the course so I could retake it the following semester and get a better grade.

The next time the same feelings rushed back just like before; it wasn't any easier. I would spend much time meeting with the teacher, in tutor groups, and racking my brain to figure out what I could do to be better at this course. It seemed to suck the life out of me. The night before the final I crammed in hopes to squeak by with a C, even after several weeks of studying the best way I knew how. I got my first (and last) purchase of No Doz, a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew and parked myself into study mode until from 9pm to 5am. I wanted to walk into that exam knowing I had given this class every single minute I could, which I truly did. Probably too many minutes.

Then as I walked out of the class and began to feel like a junkie hopped-up on crack with all the craziness I put my body through, I finally realized loud and clear what I had been doing wrong all along. I remembered the instructor's words that I never followed: Study what you DON'T know, not what you already know how to do.

It didn't make any sense until I thought about the problems in the homework and on the tests I struggled with. Through both times taking the course I had trouble with the same types of questions. While others I mastered and felt proud to accomplish. Naturally, I spent time practicing problems over and over I knew how to solve because it made me feel like I knew what I was doing. I could have spent FAR less time on those and should been working on solving the unknown.

+++

Although I got my pathetic C for the class that would ultimately become an elective credit due to changing my major and I could never drink Mountain Dew again, I am finding the instructor's advice helpful as a mother.

I am working with my willful toddler on preschool activities at home and find myself planning activities I know he will enjoy. Of course he would love to learn about the shape of a circle if we play soccer and decorate cookies. These things are easy for him, it's the drawing of a circle and putting toys in a circle and sitting in circle time that is more of a challenge. But I hesitate to book too many of those into my plans because they will take more work, patience, and not leave me feeling as awesome as the easy would. He needs both, but a generous heap more practice with the things he doesn't know as well.

In addition, there are new things I need to be learning as a mother for each child and every new age we encounter. The fun activities are easy and come naturally, however, the developmental and behavioral information needs a bit of digging on my part to make sure I am directing these boys on the mark for their age.

+++

Stats teacher, I had never hated an instructor more in my entire life. But thanks for the tiny lesson that might help me to be a better mother. And thank The Good Lord above that doesn't include the direct use of differential equations.

open letter to eric c.

dear eric,

you might not remember me, i sort of hope you don't. i was your date to your senior (my junior) prom. although unoriginal, i sort of liked the way you asked me. i woke up one morning for school and found it rather odd my mom was eating cold pizza for breakfast with her coffee. i asked her when she ordered pizza as i didn't recall seeing it in the fridge the day before. she told me she found it on the doorstep the prior evening and had no idea where it came from. she shrugged her shoulders and continued eating her breakfast. this early morning exchange always makes me smirk when i think of it. i love that my mom must have been like "hrm. a random pizza on my doorstep. how about that. i guess it'll be good in the morning. why don't i put it in the fridge and go to bed and not tell anyone about it". she had no answers to my 43 questions, she just kept slowly eating it as if these things happen every day. pizza, it just falls from the sky. [?]

i thought it curious and hoped it had a hidden message so i could go to prom that year; as it was 'asking' season. sure enough, i saw the word P R O M spelled across the pizza in pepperoni with your name written on the cardboard underneath (somehow my mom didn't see this cryptic message). i knew who you were with a quick memory jog thanks to your photo in the yearbook.

sorry i made the carload during the day trip listen to Depeche Mode's Somebody on repeat for several hours. i never heard the song before then and really liked it. we didn't really talk much, i mostly looked out the window wondering who my Somebody For Life would be and what he was doing at the moment. i only knew for sure it was not you. i don't know why, really, i never gave you a chance. perhaps it was the retainer on your nightstand that grossed me out? i saw it when i trashed/ decorated your room and left a fortune cookie that said "yes i will go to prom with you". that was my sister's idea. she drew the man with the asian hat on the sign we left on your door.

sorry i pulled away when you tried to hold my hand that night. it just means a lot to hold hands and i didn't want to lead you in the wrong direction. sorry i didn't hide the fact i had zero interest in you very well. sorry if we didn't dance, i honestly don't remember. sorry my favorite moment of the whole ordeal was while we were leaving. we passed another ballroom that was playing My Sharona with frat boys and sorority girls. i kicked off my shoes, ran in, and started to dance at 110% full energy in the middle of the dance circle. they just seemed to be a lot more fun to me that evening. i wish i had stayed there a little longer. i think i got their party started while you awkwardly waited by the door, probably wondering why your date had not had that kind of energy with you all night long. or..... perhaps you were embarrassed to be the one taking me home.

the truth is, i imagine you might have wondered why you asked me to go with you to prom. we didn't talk again after that, aside from the ritual of splitting up the photos. i could have been a better date. you also could have chosen more wisely.

the sad thing is i am not kidding

The very first time I had money to shop for gifts I was in 4th grade. I helped collect cans, crush them, took them to the recycling center, and ended up with about $35 to spend on my sister and parents.

We went to Target and I got to roam around by myself with a shopping cart for about 20 minutes or so to get the gifts. I had never shopped for someone else before, so naturally I picked what I thought I would want for a gift [which I still have a bad habit of doing as an adult].

My mom got a 3 pound box of assorted cream chocolates. My sister got a 3 lb box of assorted nut chocolates (because I loved those and could steal them from her when she was at school), and my step-dad got a 3 pound box of Clusters (because I didn't like him, he didn't like chocolate, and I knew I could eat them all and he would never know).

My step-dad saw me put them in the cart and told me chocolate isn't a gift! My mom corrected him and said I can give any gift I selected. I never ate any of her chocolates.

+++

I remember the first Christmas with Mike right before we got engaged. We were seated in front of his family's Christmas tree with all of his 400 siblings, I was still getting to know the family. I secretly hoped I would be getting my diamond ring, but knew it wasn't the time when he handed me a long, rectangular box. I opened it to find a long rose wrapped in gold.

"A chocolate rose! Awesome!!" Just as I began to take it out of the packaging to eat it, he corrected me.

"No, it's a real rose dipped in 24 karat gold!.......[awkard pause for reaction]......So you will always have a rose from me".


I kept blinking at it and said the most inappropriate comment possible when receiving a gift.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

To understand how adorable of a gift that was one would have to read this post I wrote about giving a lady flowers. His gift was smooth, unique, clever, and timeless.

I just have a sick obsession with chocolate. And making bad impressions.

===

If I picked my own name for Christmas and had a budget of over $100 to shop for myself I would be slightly torn between using it for either a gift card to Amoeba and this awesome sure-fire heart attack gift tower from Fannie May. We both know the tower would win by a long shot.



It's a good thing I didn't pick myself.

But seriously, how awesome would that be sitting on your front porch waiting for you?

Someday when my husband passes away before I do and I am sitting around waiting to join him I am going to go the way of pleasure and indulgence. I will spend all of my social security money sending myself gift towers like this bad boy every month.

dressed in yellow she says hello

As far back as I can remember, I was always excited to start a new school year. Never nervous. The first day of each year I would find my desk and then scan the room for the cutest boy I would decide to have a crush on. I remember all of them, even in elementary school.

I was never good about keeping it a secret and it never donned on me, in most occasions, that perhaps they didn't like me back. Even if I followed them around the playground while they ignored me. I hate to admit I held this bad habit all the way through college!

1) Tommy Eaton was the first I remember. He was the Ken Doll of what my memory tells me might have been first or second grade. Blonde, feathered hair and blue eyes. Back when boys had cooties and girls never admitted a boy was cute. Well, I was different. While they sat in a circle with their pretty dresses playing jacks, I followed Tommy all over the monkey bars, through the swings, and passed the tetherball courts. I finally caught up to him one day and asked what he was doing. He told me he was making Jason (the kid who ate paste) do an initiation (how did he know this word?) for his club. He told me I couldn't join because I was a girl. I told him I could still do whatever Jason had to do, but better.

He laughed and shifted his attention to Jason and told him to run all the way around the soccer field. I trailed behind and eventually passed him. Jason gave up and never finished. I returned to Tommy and found him speechless, honestly admitting he didn't think I would be able to do it. That was the first time I realized I had talent as a runner. I felt more excited to have done something better than a boy, that I let go of my interest in following Tommy. I think I started hanging out by the kids in the soccer field from then on trying to play sports with the boys.

2) Tony Montoya was the next one. My sister will have to help me with this one, but I think it was second or third grade? This boy had a girlfriend, Meredith, but that didn't keep me from following him around and hoping for his attention. She was my first experience of having true jealousy. I am embarrassed to say I reveled inside the day she hit her head flipping over on the monkey bars. I honestly thought she wouldn't come back to school and then maybe Tony would like me. But.....she got stitches and was back at school, I remember being disappointed to see her (what an evil little girl I was!).

I had a birthday party and he was the only boy I invited. We had a break-dancing contest and he won. I ran crying to my room because I didn't win and hid for the rest of the party. I don't think he brought me a present. My adoration for him ended the moment I closed my bedroom door.

3) B.J. (I SWEAR that was his name!) was a trouble-maker. He always had a crew cut, I think this might have been third or fourth grade. Somehow I remember him wearing Vision Skateboarding t-shirts, but I have a hard time believing I was thrilled by skater clothes that young. He had a birthmark on his forearm. He wasn't very good with his schoolwork and that concerned me, since I was certain we were going to be married someday.

A girl named Sissle gave me a candy heart that said "Hot Shot" in my Valentine's Day card. It hurt my feelings. I knew she was right. Then I opened B.J.'s card and the hearts inside said "I Like You" and "U R CUTE". It could have been chance; his mom could have put them randomly into envelopes. But my heart skipped beats as I looked across the room and smiled at my crush who might have secretly liked me back!

4) Jason (not the paste-eating kid) left school every other Friday for skateboarding contests. His dad came to pick him up on a motorcycle and had hair to his waist; always tied in rubber bands. Jason definitely wore Vision and G&S clothing and his shoes were always ripped up. I thought it was because he was poor, but now I realize that's just what happens when you skate. I think this was fourth grade. I remember things really started to pick up between us one day after school. We went down the tunnel slide at the same time!

Then all of a sudden he wasn't at school the following week. I heard a rumor he missed too many days of school and was going to be expelled and that is why they moved. I was sad, but always wondered what he would do for work to support our family if he ever got seriously injured (weird that was important to me so young!).

5) A.J. Rutherford was for sure fifth grade. He had perfect teeth and brown eyes and hair. We sat out front on my lawn with our boom boxes listening to MC Hammer, Run DMC, The Beastie Boys, and Young MC tapes together. This boy actually liked me back and 'asked me out'. Which meant he thought we should hang out during recess. But since I wasn't used to this attention actually being given back it freaked me out. I broke up with him quickly and then felt a bit betrayed when he had a new girlfriend in sixth grade. Abby, she was the only girl in school who actually needed a bra. I heard they kissed under water at golfland and it made me glad it was her and not me. Kissing seemed so gross to me back then.

6) This was by far my most pathetic crush in the history of crushery: Mike Lynch. He reminded me of Fred Savage from The Wonder Years. I put all my boy focus on him from the end of 5th grade to 7th grade. If a boy told me he liked me or wanted to eat lunch with me I would say "sorry, I like Mike Lynch". We had class together in 5th or 6th grade and the desks were set up in a U shape. I was so thrilled when we sat directly across from each other so I could stare at him all day like a psychotic FREAK. One day I wrote on the bottom of my pro-wing high-tops with Magic Marker:

I

L
O
V
E

M
I
K
E

When I kicked my feet up onto the desk for him to see during reading time he laughed out loud!

Although there were many times I was proud to have made him laugh, he never liked me. I didn't accept that truth until I asked him to dance at a school dance and later someone told me he was looking for another girl during that song and wanted to dance with her. I was crushed and finally gave up. Only to see him in 8th grade and realize he was way too short for me anyway. He stopped growing and I didn't.

chain talk

Remember the Sizzler restaurant commercial, you would hear a man's voice whisper {ssssssssizzllllllllerrrrrrrr}?

I remember they started to go out of business one by one in Arizona. So when I had a friend in college, Matt, tell me he worked there I laughed every time. All I could think about was there is still one standing? and the whisper {ssssssssizzllllllllerrrrrrrr}.

We were hanging out once and he had to stop and get his paycheck. I just stared at the sign and laughed while he went inside. As he got back into the car I asked him about red-headed waitress who kept looking at me through the window. He told me how he used to date her and they just barely stopped going out.

As she seemed rather attractive, almost out of his league attractive, I asked what happened.

"Dragon breath" was all he said. That was it, apparently bad breath was a deal breaker for him.

Tonight on my way home from shopping I passed a Sizzler and all I could think about was a man's whisper {draaaaaagon breeeeeeeath}. I have never eaten there and never will because it is completely associated with nasty paste-mouth in my mind. Like the way you feel as if your tongue is made of shredded cotton after you run a long time in the desert. yuck.

***

What were your deal breakers?

Some of my more shallow ones were:
poor smile
dirty finger nails
big booty
lame shoes
lack of life plan or aim
pot smoker
didn't open doors for me

W4

Several years ago I had a job at a bank in a department that was sold off to another bank. I was either going to join another department or take a severance check. I wasn't intrested in either option and began to job hunt. I had ideas of getting another fancy bank job with all those benefits that someone of my youth couldn't possibly appreciate. I hoped it would be in Midtown Manhattan so I could shop during my lunch break and admire huge, flashing, sexy advertisements darting at me from every angle. I wanted to feel the heartbeat of New York with every breath I took.

At least that's what I thought I wanted. I started to wonder if there were other options, something less stuffy than a formal bank setting. Something that would allow me to be a little less corporate, but still professional in work and pay. That potential something came by way of headhunter within a couple weeks of my searching.

It was a job in Greenwich, CT. A locale thick with trees, Mecedes, and fleece pull-overs. It would mean leaving the urban plan and subway to hop into my car for a commute that could be upwards 2 hours one way. It would mean leaving the security and learned tricks of the banking world to figure out a new industry entirely. It was a risk I wasn't sure about. I spent the initial pre-screening process uncertain about my interest.

I remember my commute home one evening, transferring at West 4th Street. I had spent many hours pouring over the pro's and con's of this job prospect. I crawled out of my pounding mind and looked around from the outside of myself. I saw myself stepping down from the curb and crossing the street with yellow taxi cabs flying by. I watched myself pass the usual street performers and inncense burners. I determined on W4 for certain I wanted this to be my job. This would be a risk worth taking and an opportunity worth checking out. I would put my very best foot forward, research everything I could about the company and prepare myself for my best interview possible. I committed to giving it my all, my 110%. I packed up the fence I was sitting on and left if behind as I boarded the F train home to Brooklyn.

That moment at West 4th was important for me to determine the level of confidence and ability I would have going into the process of something new and different. If I went in with a ho-hum attitude or lack of complete interest in succeeding, If I didn't believe in myself I might not have gotten the job. A job that was my favorite, most memorable experience as a working girl.

*

People keep asking me how it's going with two kids. I admit I was terrified to bring a new one to the fold, uncertain of how I would do. I worried about all the things I might fail at and what challenges might face me that I might not be prepared for. Even once Evan was here, I cried in a room alone at the idea of my mother leaving my side and worried I would not be able to handle this on my own. I was on the fence, partly convinced I could not do this alone during the day.

Monday was a West 4th Street day for my new life with two. I decided when I woke up I would give it my all. I would be entirely patient, accept the energy I had no matter how little, focus on specific and realistic tasks, enjoy my toddler, and coo with my baby. I had a plan, I wanted to succeed and I determined it would be productive and positive.

I had the confidence to know I could handle it with a calm heart, even the scrubbing of accidents on the carpet from my toddler. I was amazed at what I accomplished at the end of the day and felt a sense of ability I had not felt as a mother before. I was happy with the way I divided my time between my children and the home and even had dinner on the table by 6pm.

*

Is each day a West 4th Street day? No. Some days are a train wreck. Tuesday was a train wreck and we had fast food for dinner. But it's nice to know a Monday Kind of Day can exist and can be my example for myself of what I can handle when I set my mind to it. And to accept that not every day can be like that. Many will not be.

So, how am I doing? Depends on the day you ask, and even that day my answer changes from hour to hour.

potassium salt of tartaric acid

Still here, even after a little false alarm that provided an opportunity for us to do a full-on dress rehearsal that landed us back at home. With that, I will share a little memory that made me laugh to/at myself this week.

----

It's no secret I am not so talented in the kitchen. He knew this going into the courting experience as I attempted several botched meals he choked down with a smile or even helped me salvage to an edible state. We are okay with my lack of cooking skills, it has given us much opportunity in our marriage to laugh.

Early in our marriage I once was attempting to try a new recipe from a cookbook, something I had not tried to do before. It called for several ingredients I did not have, some I had never used before. I wrote these ingredients on my grocery list in addition to the rest of our regular needs. I felt excited for the planning and prep I normally didn't spend time doing before shopping, I felt like a successfully organized wife!

Upon my return Mike perused the bags and commented eagerly on this snack and that, little suprises he would be excited to eat throughout the week. As I put things away he got REALLY excited about me getting shrimp. With our food budget at the time, that would have certainly been a big luxury. Confused, I asked what he was talking about. I had not put shrimp in the cart, nor did I bag it or place it into the car. I saw he was holding up the jar of Tartar Sauce I did buy and assumed I got shrimp for it.

I replied, "No, it's this new recipe I am trying out this week. It calls for Cream of Tartar but the closest thing I could find was tartar sauce. Same thing, right?"