How to Move in

The 10 step guide: How to Move in to Your New Place.

Step 1:

FREAK OUT!

Step 2:

Calm yourself. Take some deep breaths. Call your mother.

Step 3:

Have Mom and some friends over and watch, in a slight stupor, as they pick up your life and move it somewhere else.

Step 4:

Go on vacation with a friend for a week and a half. Forget about how upside down everything is for a while.

Step 5:

Go back to your new address from your break and FREAK OUT.

Step 6:

Do some thumb sucking, slink around pulling on your baby blanket, and then start throwing stuff out.

Step 7:

Begin unpacking. Wipe down furniture. Move couches around. Drill holes to hang pictures.

Step 8:

Tell yourself: "This is my new home." And repeat.

Step 9:

Spread the word! The new place is wonderful and you all should come see it! (When it's finished...)

Step 10:

Come back after a long shift at work, trip on your own pair of shoes that you left by the door, then sigh with relief when you lie down in what now feels like your own bed.

This is what home feels like.

Moving

A thin layer of dust had covered the handle. When was the last time I opened this drawer? I thought, running my finger over the dust and drawing a smiley face. It has been over a week since I stayed in my bedroom, and it's no secret. My clothing lies in unkept piles and my objects of no importance are strewn hither and yon in the frenzy I create when I've visited briefly the last few weeks. I looked around at my room and wondered at what point a room is no longer mine, but just a memory: a snapshot of what was once considered wholly mine and is now more of a place holder in the timeline of change.

I've decided that I will be moving in with the Boyfriend. The Musician is now going to be the Roommate. Now that a date is chosen (sept. 1st for the official move-in) I'm in limbo. My stuff is in two different places and I am reminded of when my parents were divorced and I had to carefully plan where I would have my stuff during the week. If I left a textbook at my Dad's on the West Side of Manhattan, it was a major pain-in-the-ass to go back over there and get it before heading to my Mother's on the East Side. I always kept a backpack packed with papers, books, special bras or underwear I wanted to wear in case I wanted it and couldn't easily get to it until Monday next week. Now, 15 years later, I'm finding myself in a very similar situation. Slowly, the piles of my stuff are accumulating at his apartment and every time I return to my room I need to carefully choose what stuff I want to take with me and have just in case I want it later.

I've never lived with a boyfriend before. The idea of coming back to an apartment that is only occupied with someone I love to see and then get naked around makes me excited. My whole life I've shared a space with other people: Mom, Dad, Sister, room mates, visitors, etc. that I've lived with out of necessity. This time, I'm sharing my space with someone who is carefully chosen and selected out of a pool of worthy candidates and is not only living with me, but sharing a bed with me! We'll have to navigate groceries, rent, saving for that special piece of furniture, travel, and the occasional disagreement. He'll be family, friend, lover, room mate, and guardian all in one! What a concept!

Our stuff. Our home. Our dirt. Our food. "Ours" rings through my head every time I come back to My room and look at the stuff sitting unused and covered in neglect. This is what grown-up's do, so I'm told, yet I can't help feeling like I did at 13 when I caravanned my worldly goods around on my back and made the best out of two very different spaces to live in. I'm in limbo until the 1st, dreaming about a world where almost all things are combined and a place to call "home" is not necessarily a place, but the person I will be building it with.

Witnessing Revolution and Renaissance.

I was asked to write about a revolution or social change that I was a part of (and maybe didn't know at the time) as a prompt for a writing group I've joined. I thought this was a fascinating question to ask, because haven't we all been a part of a major change in some way or another? As Annie (the woman who was running the group) put it: "I was alive at a time when the president of the United States was black and the number one rap artist was white."

Annie gave us ten minutes to write after showing us another example of what she meant: A hand written account of a gay man who wrote about going to the Stonewall inn back in the early 80's. What an account! This was someone who was writing about what life was like for the LGBT community which was finding a home and community at the Stonewall Inn in a society that unabashedly hated them for who they were. He was at the Stonewall right as the riots began.

I got to thinking of the revolutions and changes I'm living through that give my voice and eyewitness account meaning in years to come.... As pictures flood the media and Facebook and twitter keep up to date reactions to life's top stories, it seems that the only unique thing is to be as honestly me as I can be. What did I think? Where was I when it happened? What was I doing?

I looked around at the group of women in my writing circle when we were given the prompt. Annie said we had ten minutes and we needed to start: now. Every woman scratched her head and began to write. My mind went immediately to the uniqueness of being a native New Yorker witnessing the change in the city I grew up in first hand.

I remember I was walking out of the G train station (not too long ago) and into the heart of Bed-Sty. "Bed Sty Do Or Die" was the name my friends and I called the neighborhood growing up. I never went on the G train as a kid. My dad always said that subway line was the harbinger of the last throws of the New York City that would make Batman gulp (the city from the big bad 80's and 90's). Why would I ever get on the G? I was a middle class, Upper West Side Manhattan white girl and my whole life growing up was the red 1 train or the occasional trips of the yellow line to Coney Island.

Rappers were born in Bed Sty. Murders happened in Bed Sty. It was said that you passed through Hart and Throop streets if you were a bullet. Race riots and gang wars and cop sirens happened in Bed Sty: not white girls.

So, coming out of the G train I felt all of this weight on my shoulders. Like, I knew with every step I took up to the street, that I was the wave of gentrification. I was there to meet my black friend, Cheryl, at her newly renovated apartment to smoke some weed and then walk around Brooklyn. Had someone told me they were going to do that ten years ago I would have gotten very worried about their potential future as a functional human being. Bed Sty was the murder capital of the United States when I was a kid. Yet, here I was years later walking into a neighborhood where an apartment recently sold for a million dollars (one of the highest purchases the area has ever seen). There are cafes moving in, white people on their iPhones walking through the neighborhood with an artisan wrap clutched in their left hand. And I was no different. I was there visiting a friend. I was the Upper West Side deciding it was totally cool to go and take a romp through the heart of Brooklyn.

My city is now completely different than it was when I was growing up. Its bigger, cleaner, richer, louder, more crowded, more expensive, and more of a place full of opportunity than ever before. Witnessing the revitalization of it has been a wonder. Yet, I read about where the people who used to live in these places go. It seems that the shelters are seeing wave after wave of families who can't afford their rent. Large swaths of the city are becoming too expensive for poorer communities. Even the rents I was looking at when I got back to the city a few years ago are laughable now. "$750 a month for a bedroom?! Get fucked! I'm not paying more than 650!" Now it's more like 850/mo and you're lucky to find that. I cannot believe the prices of rent here!

Given the fact that I lived here at a time when you couldn't pay someone to live in certain areas that are now charging upwards of 1300 bucks a month for a room in an apartment there, I feel blown away at the change. I am witness to the renaissance of New York City: and what a thing to see.

The Art of Being Compulsive

I can't believe it either. Really. This whole thing did come out of the blue. One minute I am a single, somewhat bitter, 20-something who was beginning to believe that cats would be the only means of companionship after all my eggs dried up and I was left to live off the meager wage of a poor and pathetic server for the rest of my days. And then the next minute I'm...

Gone: Just like that. My room is a museum of my old life. I come home to change my bra, throw my dirty shirt onto the neglected pile of sweaty clothes and then I'm off again in his arms for another solid week.

I feel like I have given new meaning to the idea that I've been swept off my feet. In a space of three weeks I went from Single to Dating, had him meet both sets of parents, took him up to the Farm my dad owns in Upstate New York, fell in love, came back to the City and decided (at 1:30 AM on a week night) that I needed to buy plane tickets to New Zealand to meet his family and friends. Oh, and by the way, I'll be gone a month: spending the Christmas/New Year holidays down there. That all just happened in less than 4 weeks.

What happened? Is it chemistry? Why this guy and not another? I have no clear answer other than I know in my bones that this is exactly what I want to be doing and who I want to be doing it with.

I'm no stranger to impulsiveness: I've done stuff like this in the past, and maybe that's why I'm not as wind blown and freaked out as some other people in my position may be. When I was 23 I decided that I needed to buy a plane ticket to Rochester, New York, and fly up there for 5 days to spend the time with a dancer I had fallen head over heels with. Prior to that I had only known him for a weekend. Only spent a few hours with him. He told me, once I was up there, that he had no intention of dating me after I got back to New York and that I needed to move on. Heart crushing, but I valued his honesty. And felt a deep sense of accomplishment in going.

I decided, at 24, that I needed to see the world. And, rather than discuss what we would do and map out how we would do it and where: I bought two tickets for my sister and I to fly to Thailand for a month. Fuck the rest, we'd make it work, right? And we did.

At 21 I decided that Grad school was not an option, so I drove myself up to Boston, in a borrowed car, to go and audition for theatre companies I had never heard of in the hopes that I would have something to do once I graduated university. I got accepted to Actors Theatre of Louisville in Kentucky (prior to that I had never even considered Kentucky a state worth knowing) and once accepted packed up my life and drove myself down with 2 thousand dollars and a bunch of bags to get me through the 9 month apprenticeship. On my own. I'd never lived outside of New York until then.

I think, as I've gotten older, that the more I think and deliberate about things I could do, the more I feel I can't change. However, if I decide on a whim  to make a change: I'll do it. I'll deal with the repercussions later (and I've found that there never are any negative repercussions: only the feeling of accomplishment and elation). Even when we were deciding about renting a car and going upstate to my Dad's farm, my boyfriend and I decided to just rent the damn car (at 2:30 in the morning) and pick it up at noon (that day) to drive up. Fuck it. Let's just go.

And here I am: only dating the guy for two weeks and I bought the plane tickets to New Zealand.

Because: Fuck it. I want to go.

6 Things I'm Glad I Never Said

In a late night reflection of life's choices I've collected:

6 Things I'm Glad I Never Said
in no particular order:


1. "Don't marry her!"
I run up to their door, it's pouring rain, I'm soaked in my white cotton shirt, I'm shivering (even though it's summer). I peak inside to see if anyone is home. They all are: him, his fiancé, her kid, their dog, and, I dunno... a gerbil. They're all about to sit down to dinner. I knock. He answers. I say the fatal three words as the door opens thinking somehow by hearing them from my lips he'll change his life, take the devastation of our break-up by the preverbal balls and go on a grand tour of South East Asia in order to find himself. Life never works that well.


2. "I think you're a trite, ignorant, flop of-a-turd"
...anytime I've worked with someone I find incompetent. Especially bosses.


3. "Sure, I'll move in with you."
Giving up my apartment, my amazing rent, my balcony, my life; to move into a stuffy one bedroom where the guy I was willing to give my life up for would eventually wind up sleeping with another girl in a drunken night of loneliness while I was off staring at Noh theatre in Japan for three weeks. Dodged that bullet.


4. "Please don't kiss me, my breath stinks and I have to poop."
Instead I stuff a piece of gum in my mouth and gently excuse myself to "tinkle" for ten minutes. Ladies must always be dignified until you trap a man in your web of lies and reveal you're actually a filthy nose-picking slob who farts after eating the third slice of pizza.


5. "I LOVE YOU"
Except it's a totally inappropriate time to bring that up. Especially in the past when I really thought I would go under a bus for a guy who spent more time staring at his rippling pecs in skin tight tighty-whiteys than keeping track of what my life goals were. Or to get the attention of a guy I really want to date, but don't know how to get his attention.


6. "I was the one who farted"
Said no kid, ever. In grade school and middle school, if I wanted to commit social suicide, all I would have needed to do was admit that sentence. I'd be a dead bug smudge on the windshield of life for ever and ever.

Identity Crisis

I saw a play tonight in Bloomington, Indiana with my grandparents.

We sat in the center of the audience of a room that could hold maybe 60 people.

It was a solo show called "Underneath the Lintel" by Glen Berger (who has subsequently written the book for Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark) about a man researching his way around the world and out of his mundane life in an effort to catch up with the myth of the Wandering Jew. The show was fantastic. I left the theatre with a sense of awe. My grandparents did, too.

A phrase kept resonating in my brain: "I was here." In the show, the actor winds up writing that sentence all over the walls of the room. I was HERE! I found it ironic that I was wishing I could write my own signature on places I've been while in a place I am rarely in.

Let's rewind ten days: I audition for two different Improv theaters and get rejected from both. I feel like I was punched in the gut and, as a result, have been running from dealing with the extreme sense of identity crisis I feel stalking around in my head like a rat in an attic. What the effin hell am I DOING? What AM I!?

I want SO MUCH. I want love! I want marriage! I want to direct! I want to write! I want to travel! I want to teach! I want a life well lived! I want people to see me and think: She's great, I want to get to know her and hear her stories and learn from her because she's lived a life I want to lead. I want to inspire!

...And I thought  that was through the path of getting on a house team. But, as fate would have it: it is not.

I am HERE, goddamn it! Here in this sodden, slippery, worry-soaked crossroad that is my life! I could have chosen another life...

...Like my cousins. They're my age. One cousin is all of ten days older than me and is due to have a baby in October. The other cousin (14 month older than me) has a 1 and a 3 year old. They're both moving in to the stage of their lives in which they focus on nothing but wiping poopy butts, drying tear soaked eyes, and shuffling, bleary eyed, through sleepless nights to attend to nightmares and wrongfully tucked in toddlers. I got a good dose of that life the last few days and felt a flash of fear rip through my uterus. Not now. I am just passing through. I was there...

I thought that was what adults did, not twenty-somethings, and realized with horror that somewhere along the way the children I grew up with were adults.

I am HERE. I am at the wood and stone threshold of adulthood and, well, I'm not ready to step inside yet. If I was I would have married my ex boyfriend from college and would be popping out mini-me's, too.

What do I do? I can agree with myself as to what I am not, which is a mother, a professional improviser and a married woman. So what am I? What can I do? The answer screams back at me: SO MUCH! EVERYTHING! The world is my oyster and I am the pearl!

I am HERE, at the Thought-I-Knew-It-All-But-Don't intersection of Freak Out Avenue and Don't Look Back Yet Street.

I watched tonight, as the character in "Underneath the Lintel" wound up pursuing his crazy passion and, in doing so, losing his job and shedding his mundane life. Watching, I felt restless. I need to get up and go and be and I don't know how to get the courage to do so because as easy as it is to state what I am NOT it is harder to actualize what I think I am! Ah!

I am HERE at 25. And I'm sick of feeling so confused and worried about what to do next when I get back to New York City tomorrow. And the next day. And next month, and the next five years and, hell, the next 25 years! I keep telling myself to take it all day at a time. Breathe. Another opportunity is right around the corner.

Romance Novels

I waited until the apartment was clear. Mom had stepped out for a couple hours and Dad wasn't supposed to be home until 6-ish. My sister was too young to even know what I was doing. The preverbal coast, was clear.

I calmly walked over to the large couch that sat in our small New York City living room. Mom had amassed a ridiculously large collection of books which she stacked (sometimes three deep) on shelves that lined the walls of the apartment. These books ranged in topic from the large stack of 1980's National Geographic magazines to the several versions of Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings." Exploring the shelves for good books to read has always been a past-time of mine. And, generally, I'd discover something fun that Mom had already read and would give me a short review, usually boiling down to "That's one you'll like" or "It was okay, had some fun bits."

This time, however, I was going for the small section of romance novels that Mom kept behind the couch. The part of the shelves that the public couldn't see. I have very vivid memories of Mom eating pieces of chocolate while sitting propped up on a mound of pillows and reading a maroon covered paperback on Sunday afternoons. After devouring the novel, it would get shelved with the rest of them in the shadowy regions of the book collection behind the furniture, to get covered in dust and be largely forgotten about.

That is, until I found them...

I wasn't looking for them, I was just trying to find an object I had accidentally dropped behind the couch one day and discovered a treasure trove of "Fabio" covered paper-backs. Knowing that I couldn't get away with picking one of them off the shelves and reading it before dinner while everyone was home, I had to wait for the right time to steal one of them and read (what I hoped would be) some deliciously filthy sex scenes.

I knew. Oh, I knew what was in those books. Some of my friends at school had talked about Porn. Some talked about sex. And some talked about the Romance Novels. The ones you can buy at the grocery store. Those books, with the scantily clad ladies being seduced on a white horse while Fabio runs his hand over their thigh; were the ones with the raunchy chapters. The trick was you had to find the desired pages without reading the boring parts.

That afternoon, I found what I was looking for. I opened one of the books and, as luck would have it, I turned right to a really graphic part where Romeo was really giving it to Juliet. I read all 10 pages of the "Roll in the Hay" before getting stranded on a boring part (I don't care about Juliet's dead father or the will that needs to be executed or whatever. Jesus. I just want to read about how she's getting diddled by the Farm Hand, okay?) After finishing the steamy section I put the book down for a minute and wiped some sweat off my brow, my 12 year old self humming with new feelings and urges.  So, adults do this stuff? I'd never even kissed a boy at that point and these buxom brunettes in the tale were getting it in the tail. Wooh!

I only allowed myself one more chapter before carefully placing the book back among the others and walking back to my bedroom to reorganize my Barbie's shoe collection. I picked up one of my favorite dolls and stared at her rock hard triple-D tits. Then, I picked up a Ken doll and tried to reenact the scene I had just read (and really only understood about half of). I didn't get the same rush of jittery excitement like I did when I was reading from the romance novel. I felt filthy, like I had done something wrong and then perverted my dolls with my dirty mind tricks as well.

My younger sister wandered into the room, and seeing that I had already started playing with Barbie she promptly plopped herself down next to me and started up a game. I wondered then about how different we were at that moment. To her, the Barbie was just a doll. To me... well. I knew that that thing between my legs could have some really crazy sounding stuff done to it, just like Brunhilda had experienced when Alexander took her over a barrel of salt pork out behind the washing rooms in the story I just read. Barbie has had a TON of sex with Ken! Oh my god! I can make my own dirty soft porn stories! I have all the ingredients at my finger tips and a sister that thinks boys have cooties! She'd probably not even get what I was doing!

I had entered a new chapter of awareness, and I wasn't going back. Instead, I made a deal with myself to go and read those delicious fuck-a-thon chapters again, as soon as possible! I needed to school Barbie with some tips I was going to pick up. She wouldn't know what was about to hit her. I wasn't filthy! I was on a new page of awareness and I craved more information.

Directing

I sat listening; my chin in my cupped hands, my fingers curled, my cuticles in my mouth. I watched their movements: their choices, and listened to their voices, watched their body languages. I analyzed what they were saying to each other, the three women in front of me, and I sat in my corner with my legs crossed, the one foot I had on the floor jiggling to relieve the urge to jump up out of my seat.

It was the third time we were going through the play, and it was the second time they had gotten up to put this piece on its feet.

I felt the "wobble" as the actresses worded their lines. Each pause seemed like a step as each word was read off the page and each physical movement was noticed and recorded in my memory for the first time. "There!" I said, suddenly. "Keep that! I love what you're doing!" The play stopped: all 6 eyes on me. I felt like a piece of clay had dropped in front of me and I was trying to delicately mold it into a recognizable figure. "Let's explore that. I challenge you to make that bigger..." I said over and over, each time feeling my chest swell with excitement. The women took my words and folded them into their own batter, mixing their thoughts and feelings with what I was directing them with. I watched in awe as my words changed their behaviors and choices.

In my life, I'm an older sister. I'm an opinionated, frank, judgmental actress. I'm an improviser. And today: I was a director. Holy crap does it feel good to be on the other side of the room telling others what I think and feel and helping them see what I want an audience to see! What are the levels? The contrasts? Where is the climax? The breaking point? Where do the powers shift? Where does the hubris lie? Where is the vulnerability? How do we get to that point? Where does the tension exist? And on and on...

I jumped up several times and gesticulated a couple times feeling my body tingle like it does when I meet someone I find really attractive. More. More!

I thought of the bad shows I've seen and I thought of the good. I thought of the work involved in what I was trying to do which is create a canvas using a 3D world and human bodies that are thinking and doing from entirely different perspectives than my own. This is a collaborative effort, but I am in charge of collecting the ideas, like rainwater, and mixing the concoction to form a work of theatre that an audience must drink (and hopefully like!).

I was a director today, but I have been one my whole life.

I can't wait to see this show finished.

When I First Got Stitched Up

The first time I ever needed stitches, I was 13 and I was standing outside the door of my math class, feeling a little sorry for myself (because I sucked at Pre-Calculus). The other 8th graders were filing out of the room: some I knew, many I didn't. I stared off into the middle distance, clutching my heavy textbooks to my chest when, out of the complete blue, an object hit my left eyebrow and I saw white.

Funny how getting injured is such a visceral experience. I don't necessarily remember the thoughts going through my head, it was more like my memory created words to translate what my body was going through. For instance:

La la la la I hate Math.

WAMMMMM

White out!

Wh-Wh-What just happened?

I feel funny.

The hallway stopped. The kids coming out of the room stopped. Someone screamed. Maybe that someone was me? I hit the wall next to the entrance for support and dropped my books. Something warm was running down my face. I reached up and gingerly felt the left eyebrow. My assessment: That can't be pee. I don't pee up there.

The series of events after that were also a haze. I walked into the math class, my teacher, Mr. Donnely, a goofy bearded man with thick round glasses, looked up over his frames to greet us and his jaw dropped. "What happened to your face, Natalie!?!"

So, as a kid (and really as I always will be, I guess) I can kinda, sorta' keep it together if no one asks me how I am or what happened to me recently if I am going through a traumatic event.  For instance: If I just got terrible news of a death, I'll soldier through the day and make believe that I'm stronger than I look for the sake of the people around me. But, the minute an authoritative person asks me "What the fuck happened to you?! You look like something bad happened! What's wrong?" My house-of-cards facade goes down in a puff of wind and I wind up blubbering like a baby (even though I HATE crying in public).

I suppose what I was trying to do was act totally normal, because I didn't want to start crying. And there I was, a 13 year old version of me, with a gash in my head, blood streaming down my face and onto my shirt, walking into Mr. Donnely's math class with a stupid smile on my face. I'll bet I even said "Hi, Mr. Donnely!" in as chipper a voice as I could.

Crying like a baby, I was rushed to the principal's office, they called home, Mom was sent to pick me up, and I was taken to a doctor for stitches.

But, what hit me in the face? No one else had any weird objects thrown at them with enough velocity to cause stitches! It wasn't big, like a building beam or a brick. But, it must have been thrown really hard.

When the bleeding was staved with gauze in the office, I was escorted to my homeroom (which also happened to be the math classroom) to pick up my coat. As I walked in to the room I stepped on a heavy plastic Chess Piece. For whatever reason, I bent down, picked it up and KNEW that was the culprit. I had been slingshotted, in the face, with a Queen.

Really? C'mon. Who in the world gets hit with a chess piece?!

I don't have a very prominent scar, in fact, I can barely see where that chess piece hit me. Being a testament to the age I grew up in (you know, those crazy 90's!) I was in class the next day and not one teacher said a word about terrorism or guns or my purple, green, and pink face. Guns are scary. Chess pieces are, too.

First Love

We were watching "Team American: World Police" on my tiny college mattress. My room mate, Linda, was out for the night so we had the whole 12x12 room to ourselves. To say my mattress was about the width of a desk chair would be an over-statement. The glorified "cot" was extra long and extra lean, making me feel deeply sorry for anyone over 175lbs who tried to sleep comfortably.

I turned on my laptop and turned off the lights, bathing the room in the blue glow from the screen. He was sitting on my pillows, trying to seem comfortable; but I knew better. I scrambled on to the tiny space and tried to relax into the experience. "This is a great movie, very funny." I reiterated, trying to sound like I wasn't nervous. I really, really liked this guy. He nodded in approval as I hit play.

To try and watch a stupid satirical south-park-esk movie on a third date is pretty tough when you're watching said movie for the first time with that person. I would recommend watching "Team America" with someone who has seen it before, someone who can chant along the silly verses and the ridiculous one-liners with you. Not someone who really doesn't have the same sense of satire or really no clue about South Park in general.

So, there I was, acutely aware of where our bodies were pressing together and trying really hard to laugh along with the opening. I kept glancing at him and trying to read his face. Was he enjoying himself? He didn't look like it. And his small attempt at a smile was making me nervous.

I thought back to the last few dates we had been on. The first one where he picked me up in his parent's cool Mitsubishi and took me off campus for an egg sandwich while listening to Jamie Cullum's "I'm All at Sea" and talking pleasantly about how stupid our theatre class we had met in was. The second one where he took me to play pool and, being that I was so bad, I had him "show" me how to hit a ball better. When he leaned over me and put his hands on mine I felt a flutter. I liked him so much!

Tonight was the third freakin' date and we still hadn't kissed. I could feel the pressure building, especially since earlier that week one of my girlfriend's and I decided to have a race and see who could lose their virginity first. We were 18 and in our second semester of freshman year, let's get it ON! I was determined not to be a desperate virgin, though. I would not do it with just anyone. I promised myself that the person I'd have sex with would need to be someone special. And He was pretty special. I could tell.

The opening of the movie finished and I hadn't even heard so much as a guffaw from him. I felt stupid for even suggesting this movie. I needed to make a move to save what felt like a dying third date. I looked at him. "It's an acquired taste, I guess." I said. He smiled. We looked at each other for a couple seconds, I felt my body inch toward him, my pulse quickening; then I looked back at the film, pretending to be absorbed in the plot.

Fuck! FUCK! I was scared! I wanted to kiss him, but didn't have the guts. Up until that point I had drunkenly made out with a couple people, but kissing was still a new concept for me. Especially kissing someone I really liked. Jesus, if I can't even get the balls to kiss him, how will I ever lose my virginity or  (even worse!!) love anyone?

"Freedom Isn't Free" struck up in the movie. I made a move by awkwardly rolling on top of him and sticking my tongue right in his mouth. THERE! I did it! We wound up awkwardly making out for about 30 seconds before I started laughing hysterically, catching myself by surprise at my boldness. "I really like you." I said, feeling myself blush.

"I like you, too, Nat." He replied, laughing with me.

I hugged him. I was still sitting in his belly, but I went for the bent-over crunch anyway. The hug felt good. It felt right.

He's the one. I thought. I'm so lucky. 

And I was right.

Witnessing Santa

I remember sneaking into the living room to watch the fire escape on Christmas Eve. Growing up in New York City meant that the tradition of Santa coming down a chimney didn't exist for us, instead my parents told me he climbed into our living room through the fire escape: "kinda like a burglar, but a nice burglar who only eats the cookies you set out and places a ton of presents under the tree!"

I must have been young because I still held out hope that the big fat man would wind his way down the rickety fire escape and magically shove his huge bag of toys into our cramped living room, and do all of this without making huge clanging sounds that would wake up the neighbors.

...And I wanted to be there to see it.

My parents put my sister and I to bed and I lay awake (for what felt like hours) until I snuck down my bunk bed and out my bedroom door, trying to be as stealthy as Santa (if you're gonna catch him, you better be a mean-fucking ninja). I remember stealing past my already asleep sister and silently cursing her. How can you fall asleep on Christmas Eve so damn quickly?! My kid sister could go into a REM cycle before her hear hit the pillow. She had (and still has) a gift for sleep.

The apartment I grew up in was a 750 sq. ft. 2 bedroom on Manhattan's upper-upper West side, only a few blocks down from Columbia University.  My parents' shared a room right next to my sister and I, and to sneak past that bedroom door was difficult. The living room was only a few short steps away from the bedrooms, but at the time, the pre-World War 1 building provided a healthy amount of creaky wooden floors that squeaked and creaked under any pressure (even our cat, Nermal, would make small sounds as she stalked the night).

So, instead of walking, I hurdled myself into the living room, springing for the sofa and tumbling into the pillows over the arm of the couch like a rabbit running from prey. I figured that if I was REALLY fast, the squeaky floors wouldn't be able to give me away. I lay in the dark with the iridescent glow of the christmas tree lighting the shadows of the room before I noticed that, down the small hall, the kitchen light was on. I saw my mother, her back to me, leaning over a project that was splayed out on the kitchen table. She looked like she must have been rolling small balls of clay. I watched her, mesmerized. Was she also waiting for Santa? I held my breath so she wouldn't chance to hear me, but the activity she was doing looked like so much fun, I almost wanted to get up and join her. Was she making jewelry? After each ball was carefully rolled, I watcher her add details to them: a nose, a hat, an eye, a mustache; each little bead becoming a head as she formed a small village of personalities that populated the table she was working on. From my vantage point I still couldn't see too many details, but I was riveted.

I remember my eyes getting droopy as the cushions began to eat me. Oh, they were so comfy, their siren songs singing comfort and rest. The fear of being caught out of bed made me mindful of the sin I was committing in being on the couch in the first place. Santa hadn't come either. When I snapped back to the task at hand I half expected the tree to be bursting with shiny gifts, but no such luck. Just the small shakes and rattles of my Mom's hands working their way through the bead-faces. I pondered what to do next. I remember a kid telling me that if anyone actually saw Santa, or that if he knew you were up, he'd pass over your house and not leave anything. A cold fear twisted in my small gut. I wanted the Barbie Mobile Home so bad, and if that guy didn't leave it for me because I was trying to CIA-his-ass then I don't know what I would do. Might as well stop being a kid and offer up my allowance as my portion of the mortgage because I was the only kid on the planet to witness Saint Nick  (and therefore, am not allowed childhood anymore).

I snuck back to my bed. Less worried about being caught heading back to bed.

The next morning, when I pulled the necklace of hand made bead-personalities out of my stocking, I realized with awe, that I had, indeed, witnessed Santa.

Call The Crap Out

My coach looked at me as he gave me his notes from a scene I had just done. "I know you, Natalie, when you don't know what to do in a scene I can see it on your face. Call him out on his choice if you don't know what he's doing. Don't be afraid to directly ask: 'what's going on?'" I nodded. Yeah, I'll keep that in my back pocket: you're right.

I walked home in the pissing December rain after the practice and thought again about the parallels of improv to my life. Funny how the higher up I have gotten in my classes and practices, the more and more I feel I am not being coached in a form of art, so much as a form of life. I mean, seriously, everything I am learning in class I can use when in the real settings of real social situations. What a blessing! I somehow stumbled on "Way To Live Better" classes!

I began to apply my note to a real situation. Cue: Kismet.

I was sitting on a couch in a friend's apartment watching TV when I got a crap-tastic text from Kismet explaining how busy he was and how he couldn't see me the next day. *As in Improv, As in Life* I turned to my friend: "This is stupid, huh? I don't think I should take this on anymore, I don't really want to wait around another month for this guy to remember I exist." My friend, reading the text, nodded sagely, and told me to respond with a really sarcastic text, followed by the elusive and maddening ellipses at the end of my "response" (apparently, boys hate that? I think everyone should, actually. Who the hell responds to anything important with an ellipses unless they are passive aggressively dying for attention?).  I thought about how best to approach this situation, then realized that I must look like a character in a scene who doesn't know what to do next. Oh.... I get it! Call this bull-shit out. Define it like I know what is true, and then, end the scene. *As in Improv, As in Life* "Don't be afraid to directly ask: 'what's going on?'" My coach's "Mr. Tee" voice drifted back to me in a weird dream bubble that figuratively floated above my head.

"Fuck this guy." I mumbled. He's not that into me. He just wants sex. Boom! Called it like I see it! I responded with a curt, polite text (no ellipses) and wished him well with all of the stuff he had to do in his very busy, busy life. I put the phone down and as soon as I did: wished he would flood my inbox with sorry messages about how he really wants to see me, that I mean something more, to demand to know what was wrong, and would I go to South America with him? because he already bought our tickets...

He didn't. In fact, I never heard back.

Le Sigh. Bye, Kismet.

End Scene.

Not Yet

The wind blew cold in my face as I let my head fall back onto my shoulders and looked up at the trees. The walk back from the subway to my apartment is always a reflective walk for me. It takes approximately 6 minutes to walk from the trestle to my apartment door, the stroll taking me past large trees and silent houses and avenues. When I cross my first intersection I can look out over the edge of the road that slopes into the distance and see Manhattan sparkling for me and the millions of other eyes that I know are also sharing the experience; but simultaneously seeing the splendor and glitter of the Chrysler Building and the reds and blues of the Empire State Building from the view of their own dreams and aspirations.

Occasionally I put music on to give me a pace at which to think. I wonder about people mostly. Where they are, why they do what they do, who I am to them, and what they would do if I left. I imagine myself packing up my few belongings and leaving New York: my cradle and my foundation; off which I have worked for years to build my own small house-of-cards that I call my career and life.

As another person comes into my life and then passes out of it, I feel somehow less attached to the glitter of the distant sky scrapers. I feel as if another thread in the fabric that is keeping me tied to this metropolis got snipped, and all I am waiting for is the tension of the remaining threads to become taught enough sling-shot me across the oceans and land me in another place where, maybe, I can have the space to grow fabrics to add to my life quilt I wrap myself in when I feel vulnerable.

The majesty of the other countries and communities I have yet to see seems brighter in my minds eye than those glittering peaks in the distance that wink at me as I walk home in the evenings.

Not yet. I tell myself. A mantra I repeat when I feel as if my last threads are ready to break from the frustrations I can feel here.

Not Yet. I sing to myself before I fall asleep, imagining the possibilities of a world to big to comprehend.

I'll know. I'll feel the ground shift and the earth move in my life. I'll know when it's time to go out into the world and live somewhere else, and experience the foreignness of not being in my adult cradle; swaddled by the browns, grays, blacks and silver that make this city's colors my childhood blanket which stifles and comforts me daily. But, like a frustrated toddler who has outgrown her toys, I ache for a new pace and new way to live, comforted only by my lullaby:

Not Yet.

First Kiss

The first time I ever kissed a boy was during a game of spin the bottle. I was 16.

I was petrified of boys at 16. I had a group of friends I would hang out with occasionally and I remember the girls talking about the boys they had kissed, who they had crushes on, who they wanted to start dating (or were currently dating) I, however, always felt completely baffled by this talk of the opposite sex. What happened to Boys having Cooties? I was supposed to be kissing them now?! I started to really feel the pressure after Sophomore year of high school when my last girl-friend, Stacy, admitted she had kissed a boy. Crap. I needed to get on the bandwagon! This was Junior Year and I needed to get my lips in contact with a male's: Stat!

I was not too awkward in High School. No acne. I was a major Theatre Nerd: I was a member of the drama group, I could sing all the songs to all the musicals, ever. I used to have long hair, but cut it all off and wore it in a Bob that I would pin back with simple brown pins. I was also discovering that I had hips, and had even gone so far as getting myself a pair of hip-hugging jeans that I was really proud of. But, none of the stupid High school boys appealed to me. Who, in the pool of guys I knew, could fulfill the important role of first kiss?

I imagined my first kiss being like a scene out of Lord Of the Rings (which I was OBSESSED with). It would go as such:

I'm standing on a romantic, moonlit bridge overlooking a cascading waterfall. I'm wearing a dress that looks like it belongs on an Elven Princess. I'm trying to make a wish when, suddenly, a romantic stranger passes by. He sees me on the bridge. I make a wish. He comes over, his blue eyes catching the white peaks of the water. He whispers something clever that makes me giggle. He says I have a cute giggle. Then, he leans in and kisses me, and we confess our undying love for one another.

The end. That was the whole fantasy.

So, none of the geeky, pizza-faced, short, awkward, immature 16 year old boys seemed to fit that mold. Or, maybe I was a lesbian? I mean, seriously, not a single dude made me want to kiss them. There was that one cute guy who was in the school band, but he was off limits: too cool for me. Anyone who was as into Lord Of the Rings, and musical theatre as much as I was, was not in the popular crowd. I resigned myself to sexual confusion and celibacy for the rest of my life.

Cut to: The closing night party of our school's rendition of "Into The Woods". There were a bunch of people there: cast members, band members, audience members, wanna-be's and friends. And then, after a couple swigs of that all-too-sweet Mikes Hard Lemonade we were all drinking, someone placed their empty bottle on the rug and announced we were playing spin the bottle. Oh. Shit. The rag-tag group gathered 'round the bottle and I took in the crowd. The only guy I could have considered, who also happened to be the host, was already making out on the couch with another girl. But, wait: someone brought a friend wearing a Red Hat. He was cute.

I distinctly remember the moment Red Hat and I kissed, the fear in being unsure of how to "do it right" disappearing the minute contact was made. Oh. I know how to do this! I was made to know how to do this! I LIKE THIS. We parted lips and I wanted more. Plus, every time I looked up from the spinning bottle the host and the girl on the couch were Gettin' It On.  The bottle span and span. I wound up kissing a plethora of people: dead fish lips, big sloppy red lips, dry lips, soft lips, men, women, lesbians, gays (this was Manhattan, my school was full of all types) and then: Red Hat. I wanted to have that bottle hit Red Hat SO BAD! After a couple rounds, I spun the bottle and then just up and pounced on him. The room gasped (or, at least I like to imagine they did). I felt like I was having an out of body experience. Like a pro, Red Hat got up, grabbed me by the hand, and led me into the hallway were we started making out like two love-sick teenagers.

This was my first kiss, my first make-out, and Hell, the first time I realized I REALLY liked boys. Like, Really, Really liked them. I gave Red Hat my number because it was getting late and I needed to get home.

I remember floating toward the subway, waving goodbye to the smirking friends as I left the party (I knew I would get a whole lot of shit for what I did the next day at school once the news spread that Natalie mauled a dude at a party). It wasn't until the train stopped at 86th street and I was told by the conductor that the trains were not running to my stop did I snap back into a little big of reality. I walked out of the subway and decided to hoof it the last mile home. It was 2am on a Thursday. I walked briskly, trying to avoid the vomit splats on the pavement from the bars lining Broadway.

Funny thing about being distracted while trying to walk really fast: I concentrated so hard on avoiding vomit puddles that I forgot to watch out for cracks in the pavement. I tripped. I fell. I got up quickly. I looked down at my hip-hugging jeans and saw the fall had ripped the knees to my pants wide open. Whoops. That didn't bother me, though. I felt more like a badass. I earned those holes! And, frankly, I felt more accomplished than I had ever felt up until that point. Those holes were a badge of honor. And I was a Woman at that moment. Epic.

Confrontations

This past week has been a full on LetsGetThisOutInTheOpen-Fest. I didn't plan to have all events stack up like they did, but, funny how in life it never just "rains" it "pours" all at once.

I don't feel comfortable telling someone I have a problem, I don't feel secure enough that the problem I have is large enough to say something so I generally talk myself out of saying or doing anything and hope that the problem just goes away... sometimes, they do. The alternative, however, sucks.

I always admire people I know who can voice their concerns and problems with a candor that can make my mouth drop:

"I don't feel like doing that, and I'll tell you why: because I've been working hard all day and I feel like you haven't been pulling your weight, so you can just do the rest. I'm done."

To which my version of the same situation would be a mumbled "Really?" then after a silence:

"I'm tired. I'm annoyed. You need to do more. I'll help you, but, like, I really need you to do more... Okay? Do you understand where I am coming from? You don't? Oh. Ok. Forget it then. No. Really. Forget it. No, I'm not angry, why the fuck would I be angry!? I'm just... tired."

...And then, I wind up finishing the last of whatever the task at hand is while totally hating the person I am with.

This week I was in two confrontations: One was a fight and the other was a full on confession. Both issues with both people are on their way to being somewhat resolved, and I say that because I don't believe that all things can go back to a thumbs up until both sides can lick their wounds and trust the other person again, but, man, finally getting "it" over with and saying what needs to be said feels SO GOOD.

Do you ever go into the bathroom, and when you know no one is there to walk in or overhear you, you start a monologue in the mirror imagining that there is a person you need to confront and you tell them everything? I do it all the time. I'm always perfectly eloquent, too! I know exactly what to say, I am confident, I am determined and I always win. Life doesn't really line up like that, but self confidence sure gives the whole measure a boost.

The fight was a tough one this week because it was with a person that, outside of our differences, I really like. Plus, I feel like the two of us are very similar in how we deal with problems: to wait until things blow over, or things get so bad that we boil over and explode; which is what we both did. Hell, I was shaking I was so angry. I had to consciously breathe and work out how to not kill, pillage and burn after the worst of the fight. Instead of a rampage; I cleaned the apartment.

The confession was me looking at two options with the other person. Option A: To avoid and deflect the situation and let the Pink Elephant that was prancing around the room continue to exist and hang in the air. Or, Option B: To  say, "Yeah. I did it. Now what?" ...I chose option B. Cue the look of anger that flashes across their face: Oy. Shit. Now, I need to defend my choices and stay strong. I did. They deserved an explanation.

I feel better. I feel like I went through a whole lot of flaming loops, and my lips and cuticles are the perfect evidence of how much anxiety and nerves I felt as a result, but all the nervousness aside: the right thing happened. Confronting the problems made me feel a whole lot better, and even though the gauntlet was hard, I feel a lot more comfortable where I am now than where I was before the week started. I mean, jeez, stewing in your own anger and yelling at your reflection in the mirror doesn't solve a whole lot.

Manipulation

Manipulation tactics are just about the lowest, darkest forms of control over a person. At least, if someone were to physically hold you back from something, you can see where that arm is on your body and you can clearly guess that that person does not want you to reach your goal. Manipulation is, I think, a conscious effort on the part of the antagonist to control the protagonist using tactics that are conniving and in many ways, just plain mean.

My theory is that the most manipulative people are the ones who have had a whole lot of it done to them, and they don't seem to know any other way of getting what they want. I find that I get suckered by these people more often than I care to be, but, don't we all? Also, it's rare that in the middle of being manipulated to do what the antagonist wants that I realize that I am being fucked with; usually it is after the fact that I realize I was had or that I did something I was not comfortable doing.

Bullies can be incredibly manipulative: "Hey if you let me copy your homework, I'll talk to Jane about inviting you to her party." Or "If only you had answered my call, you could have really gotten the big break you've always wanted, but you didn't and now you should learn from this mistake. Pick up every time I call you. No matter what." Or "I took you out for dinner, bought tickets to see your favorite show, and you're not going to date me? You led me on." Or "Are you OK? You are acting so weird. You should talk to me about your problems. I know you say you're fine, but you don't seem fine to me at all." Bullies can be anyone: friends, boyfriends, bosses, family friends, etc.

I feel like the more I become self assured, the easier and faster I can spot manipulation. However, being that I wasn't raised with manipulation (my family has more of a guilt and passive aggressive based upbringing) I am still very susceptible to it. I think when a really skilled asshole, whoops, I mean, fast-talker, catches wind that I have a high threshold for guilt it's like a pinata burst and a whole crap ton of candy spilled out; ripe for the taking.

There will always be manipulative bastards out there. Unfortunately, these are the pariahs that Mama tells you about in a hushed voice when you put on your first bra at 12 and think you've got what it takes to be a confident, worldly woman. There will always be the people who use the over active guilt glands in my body to make me feel bad for doing what I wanted to do. I'm still grappling with how to confront those people and how to avoid those people... and then the passive aggressive side of me writes a blog post about those people. But, I say to you, whoever is reading this and has once been had by the sticky tentacles of a manipulator: be sure of who you are and what you want. Be confident in your choices, because you always have choices regardless of whatever that other person may tell you. Manipulators stand no chance against truth, and they have no sway with confidence, and they themselves are deeply hurt people who see something in you that makes them feel powerful by controlling that. You in fact, have the power over your choices and life. Always.

Being Poor

When I was little, getting 20 bucks was like winning the lottery! I never had money other than the weekly allowance of 5 bucks I got every Friday. The wild fantasies of what those 20 dollars could get me would make me salivate and agonize over how best to spend and use the money. I remember going over a spread sheet with my Dad about what it would take for me to live off of the bare minimum in order to buy more Barbies. We puzzled over how one could save a ton of cash by living as simply as possible. I told him I could eat carrots for a week and that would save all the grocery money. He looked at me with amusement. "Really? You'd just eat carrots for breakfast, lunch and dinner?" Yep. I loved carrots. Totally made sense, especially if I could buy more Barbies with the money I wasn't spending.

At the theatre where I was working, I'd make my life work on $150 a month. That meant I had 150 bucks to spend on drinks, clothes, gas for my car, and whatever else I needed. Thankfully I was on food stamps so I didn't need to buy groceries. I budgeted down to the dollar, recording everything I spent money on and sweating the end of the apprenticeship when I had 70 dollars for the 14 hour drive get me back to New York City.

The other Apprentices and I would swap stories of resourcefulness, "make sure you buy beans from this Kroger, not the one on Bardstown Road." And: "Freddie's is a bit cheaper than Magnolia Bar." At banquets we'd raid the buffet tables, shoveling food into take-home boxes, ecstatic about having good, home cooked food to eat for the next few days. I'd lend my car to actors who were visiting, knowing that if they borrowed my car they'd fill the tank with gas.

When I got some money for christmas that year I felt like the little kid who got the 20 bucks. This means I can finally buy new underwear! I CAN! I don't need the stained, threadbare, ripped undies I've been holding on to anymore! Now, I can make-out with that guy I really like and not get embarrassed when he sees my nasty bra. Wahoo! I'll only live off of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beers for the next two weeks so I can save up enough to buy a new shirt. Totally makes sense.


Being "Poor" is a limit to what one can do, and therefore, creativity and resourcefulness can be practiced more. I learned a lot the year I was broke, and am so grateful for the ability to travel and take classes with the money I make now, with only a relatively small amount of budgeting and planning.

The Comic Books

Zombies were my biggest fear in my teens and early twenties. I would lie awake and imagine my world crumbling under the corruption of death. My recurring nightmares were always of me running away from a hoard of biters who had once been my family. I’d imagine zombies in the woods when I went upstate, I’d imagine zombies in basements, at work, at school, at home, etc. I’d shut my eyes and wrap my arms around the nearest friend/boyfriend and have them tell me over and over that it was all OK, there were no zombies to be worried about... all that stuff. 

Two years ago, if you were to tell me that I would be buying 75 dollars worth of comic books about Zombies, I would have given you the weirdest look and told you that I didn’t read comics and I especially didn’t read about Zombies. Yet, here I am in 2012 devouring book after book of “The Walking Dead.”

It’s funny to me now that I can sit and read about the terrible plight of these characters I’ve grown to admire and fear in this series. I’ve never considered myself a comic book reader, or even a person who could read comics without getting a head ache. I used to look at the nerdy kids in high school and college as they drooled over their Batman books and exchanged excited glances as they read during lunch break. That sort of entertainment never meant anything to me. I was too busy reading Lord Of The Rings or Harry Potter to really care about the Avengers or Superman. 

I felt the first inkling of curiosity for graphic novels when the Movie “The Watchmen” came out. I wasn’t particularly enamored with the movie itself, but I was fascinated by the world those characters lived in. Could that be a stuffing for the hole left behind after LoTR ended? Yes. I read “The Watchmen” graphic novel and enjoyed it, much to my surprise. 

I guess the summary of what I’ve come to discover is that not very deep inside of me exists a nerd of epic proportions that seems to grow stronger and more courageous each year, now to the point where, in a conversation with my room mate as to the best way to survive a zombie attack here at home, I calmly explained that according to the “Zombie Survival Guide” by Max Brooks, Zombies have very poor coordination and can’t climb stairs easily. Therefore we have an advantage being up by the roof and could therefore escape through the window so long as neither of us was bitten. My room mate looked at me for a minute before laughing and declared that I was: “such a nerd.” 

It was a proud moment. I’ve come a long way.

Soaked

I was soaked. Drenched, sopping, dripping, filthy and carrying twenty pounds of groceries.

Let's rewind. An hour beforehand my sister and I decided that we needed to do some grocery shopping, except: we needed to go to it at the Super Stop & Shop that was a ten minute walk from my apartment. Leaving the house with our umbrellas in hand, we made our way down the hill of 48th street, under the trestle of the Long Island Rail Road, past the Home Depot Parking Lot to the entrance of the supermarket. To say that the rain pissing down on us was anything less than biblical, would be a gross understatement. Torrents of rain! Buckets of rain! Rain so thick and strong that when the wind blew the visibility fell to only a few feet. The lightening was striking mighty close as well! Each flash in the sky would immediately answer back with a loud chest exploding boom and crack, setting off car alarms and shaking the ants my sister and I had become, sending us scurrying and screaming and laughing.

I wore my flip-flops, knowing full well as we first set off that the sky would most likely open up and we'd get drenched. We went shopping, imagining in our ignorance that once done the rain would let up and we'd walk home in much cooler temperatures. We stepped out of the store and saw bedlam before us. It seemed that in the course of 40 minutes the entire street by the entrance to the Home Depot parking lot flooded with feet of water. Cars sat submerged in 4-5 feet of dirty, muddy, trash-filled destruction. The traffic was halted as everyone in their cars stared with a dumbfounded expression at the Noah's-Ark-worthy flood that had stopped up 48th street.

My first thought was: Oh Shit. I've never seen a flood before. I grew up in New York City and have seen plenty of houses floating away on boulevards covered in a free flowing river on CNN, I've seen waterfalls in the subways, and really, really big puddles on Broadway. But this: This sight before me was a new experience. Cars that had been parked on the street were nose deep, the sidewalk was completely lost, and small waves splashed up against the side of the buildings as cars stuck their toes into the water before deciding that the river was too deep to forge, and then turned around.

I looked at my sister. "We have no choice, we have to go through it."
"Are you sure?!" She asked looking slightly worried and thrilled.
"We have no other choice! This is the only way to get back to the apartment. It's this way or we have to walk about 40 minutes in another direction!"
We stood there in dumbfounded silence as we watched a brave soul forge the river. She was the first human we'd seen on the street. The tiny asian woman was wearing a garbage bag and was pushing a wire mesh cart. The water, at its deepest, came up to her hips. She soldiered on, clinging to the side of the chain-link fence like a subway rat to keep from being carried away until eventually reaching the shallows under the trestle on the other shore and then disappearing into the rain.
"If she can do it, we can." I said, determined. "Let's go."

To say that swimming through that river was just about the filthiest thing I have ever done, would be correct. There were leaves, grass, branches, McDonalds wrappers, greasy oil slicks, and most likely the dead bodies of discarded mob hits floating at the unseen bottom. I felt the floor with my flip-flops praying that the cheap $2 pair of thongs wouldn't snap in the water leaving me wet and shoe-less. The water got up to my mid thigh before it finally began to recede. I held the groceries up to my chest as I balanced the umbrella on my shoulder probably looking completely ironic and silly with an umbrella protecting my head from the rain while the rest of me was submerged in a flood.

I moved slowly up the hill from the disaster. Cars and trucks on the other side of the water looked on at the two of us as if we were the swamp things coming up out of the muck. One idiot decided that he'd drive on the sidewalk and crept past us in his white 4xNothing SUV. My Sister called out that he should turn around, but her voice got lost in the pouring of the rain and I secretly hoped that car would get swallowed up in the torrent.

I was so angry! Why why why was this happening to me!? WHY did we have to go shopping at that grocery store!? I felt the frustration of breaking up, coming back from vacation, changing plans, the pressure of turning 25 and bunking up with my sibling all bubble up, as if wading through that filthy refuse had unstuck all of that and floated it up to my conscious surface. A huge clap of thunder boomed and I screamed. I set down my groceries and took a couple of deep breaths. The rain poured and poured. My sister stopped walking and watched me appraisingly, as if waiting for a signal in which way to proceed. Is Natalie going to fall apart? Is she alright? I felt the water run down my back and closed my eyes. I felt like screaming more, so I did.

The thunder echoed in response. My sister, ahead of me, put down her bags of groceries. She analyzed my voice and body language, and: seeing that my response to our current circumstance was not directed at her, she breathed deep and walked on. "It's behind us now, Natty." She said matter-of-factly. "In fact, that was kinda' fun."

I looked at my soaked clothing and shook the wet hair out of my face before picking up the groceries. I felt better for screaming really loud. I felt like less of a victim and felt less sorry for myself with each step. I took another breath. Actually, as much as that sucked, it was kinda' fun, actually.

Pat

My babysitter, Pat, was the neighbor on the 2nd floor of the building I grew up in. I remember her as a big, tall woman, smoking a cigarette, all in black, and she had long dark hair she'd wear pulled into a ponytail at the base of her head and she always walked with a hunch, carrying her over-sized canvas bags over her back like a desert explorer might when the camel died of thirst. Pat used to be a Montessori tutor, so my Mom figured she'd be a good match for my sister and I when we were done with school and had several hours to kill before our parents got home.

Pat's apartment was unlike any other apartment I had or ever have been in since. Her husband, Bill, had painted the entire place from floor to ceiling, furniture included: with renaissance style murals. There were leaves and faces and trees and birds and white fences and flowers and clouds all over. The unit got very little sunlight so everything was shrouded in a twilight when one walked in, and because Pat and Bill smoked constantly the air had a heavy tobacco presence, giving the dimly lit murals even more of a mysterious air when, in the long afternoons, my sister and I would go exploring, tracing our fingers over the brush stokes and envisioning ourselves mapping out new territory.

The living room is where we spent the majority of our time. Pat and Bill had big maroon velvet sofas planted underneath victorian-tasseled lamps that were hand made. Because of all the cigarettes, everything stank of tobacco, including my clothes, which always had to be washed after a visit. I remember one day, while tracing a mural, I discovered a basket of crystals trucked behind the love seat I had been sitting on. In my young age, I thought I had discovered a basket of diamonds, and remembering that someone had told me diamonds were the hardest substance on earth: I stole a crystal, coveting its smooth, hard surface and wondering how I could test that claim. Later that evening, after I had been brought home for the night, I stole into our bathroom and after a few minutes of debate, dropped the crystal into the porcelain tub where it promptly cracked into 3 pieces. I stared in horror at what I had done: not only was that theory not correct, but now I could never return that diamond without someone knowing it was broken! I still feels pangs of guilt 20 years later when I think of how I carefully placed the pieces back in the basket of crystals and prayed no one would notice.

Pat and I spent long hours with each other. I remember Pat's low gravely voice, her southern drawl and her smoky breath. She always had new projects for me, pulling materials magically out of the shelves that lined the long hallway of the apartment. "Today we're using popsicle sticks, Honey." She'd announce. Or: "Draw with these crayons, they're brand new!" One day she said we were going to sew. She pulled out a bag of fabric and asked me to choose my favorite piece. I picked a lovely pink silk. I watched in awe as she cut the piece and then fitted it onto a wooden frame. "We'll be sewing on this, Honey." We spent hours hunched over the fabric, my young fingers clumsily working with the blue embroidery floss, Pat untangling knots and patiently rethreading my needle. I had gotten ambitious and wanted to sew "Daddy", but after the last curl of the second 'D' stopped at Dad. Pat taught me to embellish the word with a couple of flowers and I suddenly had the best present I had ever made sitting in my lap like a prized trophy. She looked over my shoulder at the cursive and smiled. "Great jawb, he's gonna luv it." She moved to get off the couch and then yelped. I jumped about six feet, I'd never seen a grown-up yell like that before! "Heavens!" She chuckled, pulling my needle out of the palm of her hand. "I must have scared you half to death!"

It was about a year later, as I was running down the staircase of my building to get to the lobby when I stopped suddenly at the door to Pat's apartment, my eyes drawn there by a white piece of paper. The paper announced Pat had died. I knew she had been sick, in the hospital with a brain tumor for a few months. But, there, taped on her door in a tiny matter-of-fact way was an announcement that Pat was no longer a person I would ever see again. I stood in the hallway for a minute processing this news. Pat was the first person I had ever known, ever really had a relationship with, who had died. I stayed rooted to the marble of the hall for a couple seconds before running on, as if by running faster I could pretend that the news I had just read wasn't true. She was dead. I thought only fish and gerbils died, not people, not Pat: the cigarette smoking, dark haired lady on the 2nd floor! It wasn't until her funeral did I really understand that death meant forever. I'll never forget Pat, and sometimes when I'm coloring a picture in, or threading a needle I think of her as a chapter of my childhood that even 20 years later I go back and re-read from time to time.

RIP Pat.