Like Father, Like Daughter.

Spent 14 years working for Barnes and Nobel right out of college, moving from suburban Long Island to New York City in the 1980's.

Devoured the history of the City and becoming an ardent New Yorker by reading book after book about the growth and change of the metropolis. He'd go for walks, taking in Brooklyn and Queens and tracing his finger over a map to show me the edge of the world he'd seen that day. Being a Manhattanite I'd only stare in awe at large swaths of the city I never thought I'd one day see change so much.

Becoming a major Yankee fan, scoring the high honor of being voted the "Biggest Yankee Fan" on MLB.com. Driving across the country to see games in foreign stadiums and collecting pins to stick in his hat, it was my first reason to ever go to Detroit: to watch the Tigers play the Yankees on Memorial Day weekend.

Decided to collect and publish the world's most comprehensive list of English language citations on King Charles the 12th, king of Sweden. Why not get a Master's degree in Library Science? Oh, and let's fly us all to England so we can get one more citation on the way.

The building we lived in burned down. We lived all over. East side, West side, Hotel, Duplex with backyard (the only one I've ever lived with), Studio Sublet... all in 2 1/2 years. My middle school years were peppered with "Time to Move" and "Gotta Unpack" days off.

Figured selling the apartment on the West Side and buying a boat to sail around the world for the rest of his life would be a great way to spend retirement. In come the sailing magazines and nautical books.

Biking enthusiast, he could hop on his trusty two wheeler and go for a 100+ mile ride every weekend.

Sold the apartment in the City, giving up the New Yorker lifestyle, bought a mini-van and built a shed (made of found flag stone from the side of the road and the local dump) in his suburban backyard. A playground for new ideas.

Bought land in the Catskills and figured he'd build his own house from the stone found in the ground, he'd be entirely self sufficient and live off the earth, being his own boss for the rest of his life. In come the homesteading books. In comes the beard.

But wait, how about starting a Lavender farm instead? Bought a stone house built in 1820, 80 acres, and set a date: he'll be a farmer and owner of a Bed and Breakfast in a year.

That's my father in a very brief nutshell.

I see his high cheek bones in my face when I look in the mirror, his hands and feet, his long arms and legs reflect in my own body.

Is it any wonder that I can't keep still either?

A Different Set Of Choices Leads To...

I lie awake and think about how different my life could have been had I married my first boyfriend. Then, I think about my first boyfriend and how much of a "first marriage" that would have been and shudder with relief. Then, I realize that I am thinking about the relationship I had with a now married man (What the Hell!?) who really did want to get married and start a family, I just wasn't willing to do that. And then: I think about people I know who did wind up marrying their first loves... cue: my parents.

...and then, I compare where I am now in my life to where my parents were at my age.

I'm by no means wishing I could live the same life my parents led! I gave that idea up when I decided to not marry my first boyfriend when I was 22. That decision made my life go in a completely different direction and now I am writing from an apartment I never could have guessed I would be living in at 25 in a borough I never thought I would be a resident of. Go figure.

My Dad was 25 when my mom and was pregnant. Granted, my mom was 30 when she had me so I will use the time line of my dad as a comparison as he was the same age I am now when I was born.

New York was a completely different place when my folks were here raising me in the early 90's. The Upper West Side near Columbia University was probably like what Franklin Ave. in Crown Heights is today: There were a few unsavory types roaming the gratified streets and the corner deli probably still had chicken wire over the windows. Now, the UWS is an American Apparel sporting, Chase bank rocking, Chipotle eating, plethora of chain stores frequented by Gap wearing Columbia students and Gucci sunglass-ed momma's punching in to their cell phones as they wait for the line of BMW's to cross Broadway before making their way over to the over priced gourmet supermarkets to buy gluten free cookies.

My parents were struggling with bills and making ends meet as my Dad pursued a master's in Library Science and Fatherhood. I remember eating a lot of "Tuna Wiggle" [Tuna Wiggle: A casserole-like stove top dinner recipe for the tight wallet consisting of canned tuna, rice, butter, milk and hard boiled eggs.] Now, at 25, I debate whether I want to buy myself a new pair of expensive leather shoes, or save the cash as plan a trip to China.

Is it that life in the 80's was so different? A couple of my friends are getting married, but just a few, no mass marriage pile-up yet. Will that happen later? Like, when we're all pushing 30? My parent's friends were all getting married at my age, does 25 years make a difference to the marriage age? Or, is it that I live in an urban area and therefore the marriage age is higher?

I don't know. What I do know is that at 25 I am feeling the urge to figure out something like a family and partner for life in a way that feels more biological than logical. (Again: Planning a trip to China and listening to the lady who does my nails bitch about how annoying her two kids are and her lazy husband not doing chores really turns me off of the whole "Family Life" thing for a whole lot longer!) But because this biological clock is going off, lying awake and thinking of what having a baby in my belly would feel like is more and more of a frequent occurence. And, when I do eventually have a family, I can't wait to see what my kid thinks about what Mom was doing at 25. (I may just leave out the fact that I am sharing a room with my sister, and instead inflate the China thing to maybe that I was living there...)

A Penny Dreadful

50 Shades of Grey can make a mint selling copy after copy of badly written fictional porn and rather than reading the whole book, I picked up a copy and I wondered about what the mother of the author must have thought the first time she picked up the copy of the manuscript and read it. I applaud E.L. James's bravery at writing a trilogy of some of the most raunchy material that has hit main-stream American bookstands. There have been times in the still, boring afternoons when there feels like there is nothing to do, when I've sat down at my computer and tried to challenge myself with writing about a really detailed raunchy sex romp. Getting only about a couple sentences in I find myself giggling at the prospect of other people reading what I wrote. Especially my parents. How did James do it?

Once, I wrote down a dream I had. The entire dream was so vivid I had to record what had happened, and then: I was so excited about having written something as sensual as I did, that I showed the story to my Mom, only then realizing as she made her comments on the story structure and other details I could have provided, that my Mom had just been privy to the intricate details of a sex dream I had had. AHHH!!

But, where is the line drawn when writing about personal experience? For whatever reason, when sitting in front of my laptop screen and willing myself to go into a recount of a particularly filthy and delicious encounter I've had: I stop. Unable to really let myself get into the details of "'Holy Shit.' She murmured, as he lifted her off her feet and banged her up against the closet door." I begin to giggle and then relive the event in my own head. Naw, I don't need to write that down to share with anyone. I doubt that'll leave my brain anytime soon. Heh heh...

Maybe one day, for the hell of it, I'll just have to get over the idea of the blushing faces of people I grew up with (and who have known me since I was peeing in the bath tub) reading the detailed accounts of fictional (or are they?) actions that are occurring to my characters. Because, honestly, writing (and sharing) about sex and crazy escapades is pretty damn fun. And E.L. James made a mint writing pretty mediocre "She Murmured" dialogue and heavily buttered, oily S&M details.

If anything, I feel inspired to create my own Penny-Dreadful and I don't need to have to meet an incredibly rich, good-looking, CEO to give me stories to write about; just a boring afternoon with nothing to do should suffice...