He slid the note across the bar, then looked up at me. I picked up the small piece of paper and squinted in the dark.
"The people in this room are putting me in a bad mood. :( " The note said.
I smiled and nodded my understanding back at him. I pulled out my pen and shot back: "Tell me about it. There are some tables tonight that are SO annoying!" By the time I finished writing, he had walked away to deal with a problem with the sound board, so I left the piece of paper on his clip-board and walked away, my words clinging in perpetuity to the small yellow note. I felt a little nervous about the ink laying open to any eyes. Rarely now do I long hand anything I mean to show... and to see my hand writing with the incriminating evidence of my dislike of the people I was serving, laying out on the table like a naked person, made me anxious. My co-worker walked back over to the note, glanced at it, smiled, then crumpled it up and threw it out.
Message: Deleted.
Hand written words are rarer than ever, now. I look at the words I write in my journal and marvel at their uniqueness, each day being different. When looking at handwritten letters, I can glean a certain mood from the person who wrote the words down, like their DNA is also resting in the shape of the letter "Y" they wrote or that the way they spelled my name is an indication of their hope.
As if someone planned the evening with the subject: "Special Letters To You", I got home and my boyfriend, Jackson, had a piece of mail waiting with both of our names on it. It was from New Zealand, where his family lives. "I didn't open it because it has both our names on it." He stated. "I think it's from my parents."
"You open it." I said, when he handed the mail to me.
He tore open the envelope and revealed a hand written letter, penned by his mother. He read aloud. I stared at the words. This was such a treat! She took time to physically manifest her ideas to us. This letter took time to fly across the oceans and land here, in our bedroom, in New York City. The letter was very sweet, she mentioned how excited she was to meet me when I go visit in December, and wished us the best with the move. I touched the paper she had touched and felt like I knew her more than I thought I had when we met over Skype, for the first time, a few weeks ago.
Jackson held out the note and studied it. "We'll need to keep this." He said.
"Save it for an album!" I exclaimed, excited to have a physical piece of evidence to show someone, someday. I thought of all the electronic mementos I have and wondered how to make them special while still trapped inside a screen. "We'll need to write her back." I mused, already imagining what my signature would look like on the note, and wondering how long it would take to get back to New Zealand and what I would say. Times New Roman font wouldn't be able to mask my right hand, and spell check wouldn't be able to keep me on top of the grammatical errors I am sure to have.
The instant message I got earlier in the evening rang in my ears, and I suddenly wished I could have saved that note: a perfectly honest opinion of what the current event was, gone forever; no auto-save, no pictures, yet more of an impact than any text or whisper.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Sophie in Memoriam
She was sitting under the dining room table shivering when I walked in. I didn't really know what to expect, really. I knew she would be small, but I didn't know just how small, nor did I have any clear idea of what a Dachshund looked like up close. I had seen a few of them in the street, but to have a reddish, brown, short haired one sitting like a starving, beaten child under a table was an entirely different matter. I went over to reach my hand in and touch her long nose. Mom stopped me. "She may nip at you, sweetie. She's pretty scared."
"Why is she under the table?" I asked. Why not a bed? or the couch?
"She was in the pen for longer than most dogs. I think she finds the legs and ceiling of the table comforting." Mom mused, crossing her arms and staring at the tiny brown dog.
I stared. She looked anxious. I assumed she'd probably come out of that and grow to be comfortable. I was wrong. Almost her whole life Sophie was an anxious wreck, shivering like a leaf when scared and furrowing her little doggie brows at the first sign of danger; which happened to be everywhere. The only time she seemed to relax was at home, on the lap of a male, or when running through a large empty field of grass out in the suburbs.
I felt similar to how the dog felt the first day I met her. My life seemed to be in upheaval as well: I was going through puberty, my home had been ruined by a massive fire, I was living in a new place with a new father figure dating my mother, and I was dealing with the loss of the conventional idea of family as I had known it; my parents being recently divorced.
We'd never had a dog until that point. I remember hearing about Mom getting Sophie for Step-dad, Jim's birthday and feeling a deep seeded need to be loyal to cats. CATS ARE BETTER! My mind would guiltily cry whenever I found myself petting Sophie and marveling at her ability to fit so comfortably in my lap. I had grown up with two different cats by that point... one nasty asshole cat named Ripper who loved to scratch tiny hands and bite small fingers reaching out to caress a tail. Ripper gained his name from the brutal way he dealt with the rodent problem in the building I spent the first 11 years of life in. Nermal, our second cat, was a calico-loner. A cat so totally uninterested in what was going on that the only time I felt a sense that she cared was when she was hungry. Otherwise, to pet Nermal was to catch her at a moment of rest and then tentatively stroke her back only long enough for her to tolerate before she'd swipe at the hand with her declawed paw.
Sophie the dog was a treat compared to the cats! She allowed us to pet her, pick her up, and nap with her. When young, she loved to play with the cat, allowing Nermal to torture her with hits to the face and a flicking tail. At first enemies: the two soon became companions, both rubbing their traits off on to each other until Sophie walked (and jumped) like a cat; and Nermal learned to beg for food like a dog, meowling with fervor whenever a delicious piece of steak was being devoured by the family at dinner.
Sophie was stubborn, refusing to come when called unless the call held a promise of food. She LOVED food (any flavor or ilk), getting into some serious trouble whenever my sister or I would accidentally leave candy lying around, leaving Jim to moan "Who left the m&m's on the table!? Sophie just ate half a bag! She'll have diarrhea for a week, girls!" And my favorite: "Oh my GOD. Sophie got into Nermal's litter. GROSS. She must have eaten a dozen turds!"
Near the end of her life Sophie mellowed out, allowing herself to get picked up more, and relaxing a bit whenever in new environments and not being so anxious all the time. She was a great travel companion and a wonderful sleeping buddy. Although her breath got so bad it smelled like someone farted in the room, she was a great friend to have around whenever the apartment was empty.
She'll be sorely missed, her absence feeling more like a loss of a human family member than any of the voids left by the cats. Her personality was infectious: always running to the door to say hello whenever we got home, and jumping with joy at the sound of a walk outside (until she realized how anxious it made her to be outside!) and being such a quiet, warm little being to tell secrets to. It is with a heavy heart that we say goodbye to such a great friend who lived with us for 14 years, providing my family with much needed love and support through such large changes in our own lives. Her passing is the end of an era.
Rest in Peace, Sophie.
"Why is she under the table?" I asked. Why not a bed? or the couch?
"She was in the pen for longer than most dogs. I think she finds the legs and ceiling of the table comforting." Mom mused, crossing her arms and staring at the tiny brown dog.
I stared. She looked anxious. I assumed she'd probably come out of that and grow to be comfortable. I was wrong. Almost her whole life Sophie was an anxious wreck, shivering like a leaf when scared and furrowing her little doggie brows at the first sign of danger; which happened to be everywhere. The only time she seemed to relax was at home, on the lap of a male, or when running through a large empty field of grass out in the suburbs.
I felt similar to how the dog felt the first day I met her. My life seemed to be in upheaval as well: I was going through puberty, my home had been ruined by a massive fire, I was living in a new place with a new father figure dating my mother, and I was dealing with the loss of the conventional idea of family as I had known it; my parents being recently divorced.
We'd never had a dog until that point. I remember hearing about Mom getting Sophie for Step-dad, Jim's birthday and feeling a deep seeded need to be loyal to cats. CATS ARE BETTER! My mind would guiltily cry whenever I found myself petting Sophie and marveling at her ability to fit so comfortably in my lap. I had grown up with two different cats by that point... one nasty asshole cat named Ripper who loved to scratch tiny hands and bite small fingers reaching out to caress a tail. Ripper gained his name from the brutal way he dealt with the rodent problem in the building I spent the first 11 years of life in. Nermal, our second cat, was a calico-loner. A cat so totally uninterested in what was going on that the only time I felt a sense that she cared was when she was hungry. Otherwise, to pet Nermal was to catch her at a moment of rest and then tentatively stroke her back only long enough for her to tolerate before she'd swipe at the hand with her declawed paw.
Sophie the dog was a treat compared to the cats! She allowed us to pet her, pick her up, and nap with her. When young, she loved to play with the cat, allowing Nermal to torture her with hits to the face and a flicking tail. At first enemies: the two soon became companions, both rubbing their traits off on to each other until Sophie walked (and jumped) like a cat; and Nermal learned to beg for food like a dog, meowling with fervor whenever a delicious piece of steak was being devoured by the family at dinner.
Sophie was stubborn, refusing to come when called unless the call held a promise of food. She LOVED food (any flavor or ilk), getting into some serious trouble whenever my sister or I would accidentally leave candy lying around, leaving Jim to moan "Who left the m&m's on the table!? Sophie just ate half a bag! She'll have diarrhea for a week, girls!" And my favorite: "Oh my GOD. Sophie got into Nermal's litter. GROSS. She must have eaten a dozen turds!"
Near the end of her life Sophie mellowed out, allowing herself to get picked up more, and relaxing a bit whenever in new environments and not being so anxious all the time. She was a great travel companion and a wonderful sleeping buddy. Although her breath got so bad it smelled like someone farted in the room, she was a great friend to have around whenever the apartment was empty.
She'll be sorely missed, her absence feeling more like a loss of a human family member than any of the voids left by the cats. Her personality was infectious: always running to the door to say hello whenever we got home, and jumping with joy at the sound of a walk outside (until she realized how anxious it made her to be outside!) and being such a quiet, warm little being to tell secrets to. It is with a heavy heart that we say goodbye to such a great friend who lived with us for 14 years, providing my family with much needed love and support through such large changes in our own lives. Her passing is the end of an era.
Rest in Peace, Sophie.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Sick
The taste of mucus reminds me of being little. It's such a specific taste, and I think everyone can agree it is unique. Like a turkey dinner, the nostalgia from snot makes me think of all the blissful days spent at home missing school growing up. The night before elementary school, like Tuesday, I'd be feeling really crappy. I'd not do my homework because I could feel the cold sneaking into my sinuses and could probably bet that I could play it up in the morning and get out of going that day. I never took too much advantage of my parents; they were both reasonable people, I didn't have to have a 104 degree fever and a green tongue to miss going in. I generally got out of school with a slight warmth to my forehead and some well placed sniffles.
Sometimes, when I was younger, my parents would stay home with me and I remember a lot of fond memories doing scrabble with my mom, playing chess with my dad, paper-mache with Mom, table-top football with my Dad, etc. We'd watch movies like "Austin Powers", "There's Something About Mary", and "Sabrina". Other than feeling kinda crappy, I really enjoyed these days off. We'd eat chickarina soup and I got to drink all the ginger ale I wanted (I never drank soda!). The only annoying part was having to go to bed early. No exceptions. I remember lying awake and praying to still be sick the next day. Missing two days of school was a vacation that rarely happened.
Now, being sick is just an annoyance. It's like I have to go through my daily activities except I'm high on dayquil and feeling overall like a hot bag of garbage. When I'm home, couch-ridden, I'm usually alone and I don't buy myself ginger-ale. Instead, I drink gallons of sleepy-time tea and post Facebook status updates about the stuff I'm watching on Netflix. If I could not be sick ever again, that'd be fine by me. I Like being busy with all the stuff I do! I don't want to not go to school tomorrow! I want to do my homework! If I have a day off, I want it to be planned!
If I could tell my 8 year-old-self that one day, being sick will be a real headache, I don't think I would have believed myself. Because, who wouldn't want to spend a whole day with Mom or Dad's full attention, a nap in the middle, a hot cup of soup and someone stroking your hair as you both watch "Ferris Beuler's Day Off" on the couch? Hell, if that's what being sick still meant, I'd sign up for that about once a month.
One day I'll make my kid feel the same way about being home with a fever. And I'll drink a ton of ginger ale and get a day off, too.
Sometimes, when I was younger, my parents would stay home with me and I remember a lot of fond memories doing scrabble with my mom, playing chess with my dad, paper-mache with Mom, table-top football with my Dad, etc. We'd watch movies like "Austin Powers", "There's Something About Mary", and "Sabrina". Other than feeling kinda crappy, I really enjoyed these days off. We'd eat chickarina soup and I got to drink all the ginger ale I wanted (I never drank soda!). The only annoying part was having to go to bed early. No exceptions. I remember lying awake and praying to still be sick the next day. Missing two days of school was a vacation that rarely happened.
Now, being sick is just an annoyance. It's like I have to go through my daily activities except I'm high on dayquil and feeling overall like a hot bag of garbage. When I'm home, couch-ridden, I'm usually alone and I don't buy myself ginger-ale. Instead, I drink gallons of sleepy-time tea and post Facebook status updates about the stuff I'm watching on Netflix. If I could not be sick ever again, that'd be fine by me. I Like being busy with all the stuff I do! I don't want to not go to school tomorrow! I want to do my homework! If I have a day off, I want it to be planned!
If I could tell my 8 year-old-self that one day, being sick will be a real headache, I don't think I would have believed myself. Because, who wouldn't want to spend a whole day with Mom or Dad's full attention, a nap in the middle, a hot cup of soup and someone stroking your hair as you both watch "Ferris Beuler's Day Off" on the couch? Hell, if that's what being sick still meant, I'd sign up for that about once a month.
One day I'll make my kid feel the same way about being home with a fever. And I'll drink a ton of ginger ale and get a day off, too.
Monday, January 7, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, December 28, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Writing Like a Pro
I remember my Mom telling me at a young age that she thought I would wind up writing someday, and I never wanted to believe her. Instead, I would correct her: "No, I'm an actress, Ma."
Despite myself, I always kept a journal. I always recorded my thoughts. Even when the badly misspelled, dyslexic words wobbled out of my pencil, I would draw my feelings, expressing them on the page with a pie chart and a whole bunch of pictures. When I wrote a particularly interesting journal entry, I would show the writing to everyone I could, beaming with pride at my creation:
"Well that is my story I have to go now Bi Bi." (Natalie: age 8)
I remember my grandfather reading the note out loud emphasizing the misspelled: "Bi, Bi" (said as: Bee-Bee) and I realized with horror that that word was not spelled like it was pronounced. Oh No! I'm so stupid! See, Ma!? I'll never be a good writer because good writers can spell monosyllabic farewells with ease! I'm an ACTRESS! Actresses don't need to know anything!
The first full story I ever wrote was about a grain of sugar and how it broke free of its sugar pack and flew off into the world to experience life on its own. I even drew pictures to follow the story of the little grain of sugar. When I finished that book, I felt so accomplished! So high from a sense of achievement that I got really scared and decided to be an actor even more.
The second major story I wrote was about the "Jade Cat" that this female lead must find in order to figure out the mystery of her parent's death. It was an action adventure novel based in the late 1800's. I spent days writing that thing in long hand, carefully piecing out each detail. I got really bold when I took the handwriting process to a computer and began typing out the story on a key board (you know, back when typing for a 12 year old was key-by-key and took 12 hours to write a page?). I read and re-read that first chapter so much that I had it memorized and then recited it, (like a monologue, because I'm an ACTRESS OKAY!?) to family members. I never finished the novel, but I had written 50 pages and carried the pages around with me like a bible, peeking into my backpack and touching the edges of them like a newborn parent would a brand new baby.
It's funny how Mom's can really pin down a fact about their children, because, like, they know. Last night as I listened to the fire crackle and spit in the fireplace out in New Jersey, while reading Rachel Dratch's "Girl Walks Into a Bar" I felt a kindred spirit with all the comedians I have read the last few months: Mindy Kaling, Tina Fey, Sarah Silverman, Mike Birbiglia, etc. Reading each memoir and eating their experiences like candy I feel my own creative belly swell with a contentedness at knowing that my experiences are very similar to theirs. Hell, a story about a grain of sugar is a great start to burgeoning creative career. Although, writing a whole novel seems so daunting and fearless. Plus, these people are famous and have all sorts of fame stories to tell, and they can make fun of the really dumb actresses they've met. I'm not famous... yet.
Better get working on that, huh?
well that is my story I have to go now Bi Bi.
Despite myself, I always kept a journal. I always recorded my thoughts. Even when the badly misspelled, dyslexic words wobbled out of my pencil, I would draw my feelings, expressing them on the page with a pie chart and a whole bunch of pictures. When I wrote a particularly interesting journal entry, I would show the writing to everyone I could, beaming with pride at my creation:
"Well that is my story I have to go now Bi Bi." (Natalie: age 8)
I remember my grandfather reading the note out loud emphasizing the misspelled: "Bi, Bi" (said as: Bee-Bee) and I realized with horror that that word was not spelled like it was pronounced. Oh No! I'm so stupid! See, Ma!? I'll never be a good writer because good writers can spell monosyllabic farewells with ease! I'm an ACTRESS! Actresses don't need to know anything!
The first full story I ever wrote was about a grain of sugar and how it broke free of its sugar pack and flew off into the world to experience life on its own. I even drew pictures to follow the story of the little grain of sugar. When I finished that book, I felt so accomplished! So high from a sense of achievement that I got really scared and decided to be an actor even more.
The second major story I wrote was about the "Jade Cat" that this female lead must find in order to figure out the mystery of her parent's death. It was an action adventure novel based in the late 1800's. I spent days writing that thing in long hand, carefully piecing out each detail. I got really bold when I took the handwriting process to a computer and began typing out the story on a key board (you know, back when typing for a 12 year old was key-by-key and took 12 hours to write a page?). I read and re-read that first chapter so much that I had it memorized and then recited it, (like a monologue, because I'm an ACTRESS OKAY!?) to family members. I never finished the novel, but I had written 50 pages and carried the pages around with me like a bible, peeking into my backpack and touching the edges of them like a newborn parent would a brand new baby.
It's funny how Mom's can really pin down a fact about their children, because, like, they know. Last night as I listened to the fire crackle and spit in the fireplace out in New Jersey, while reading Rachel Dratch's "Girl Walks Into a Bar" I felt a kindred spirit with all the comedians I have read the last few months: Mindy Kaling, Tina Fey, Sarah Silverman, Mike Birbiglia, etc. Reading each memoir and eating their experiences like candy I feel my own creative belly swell with a contentedness at knowing that my experiences are very similar to theirs. Hell, a story about a grain of sugar is a great start to burgeoning creative career. Although, writing a whole novel seems so daunting and fearless. Plus, these people are famous and have all sorts of fame stories to tell, and they can make fun of the really dumb actresses they've met. I'm not famous... yet.
Better get working on that, huh?
well that is my story I have to go now Bi Bi.
Monday, December 24, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Memories of a Grandmother
I try and gain as much knowledge about my maternal grandmother, so I can piece together more of an image of her. She's a part of my history, and one that I feel like I know very little about. I only know of my grandma through stories my Mom and Grandfather have told me. Yet, I feel like she speaks to me in pieces of accounts I get from time to time, which are sprinkled through my life like bread crumbs.
I'm told I have a lot of her in me. That, if one were to compare photos of the three generations: my mother, her mother and myself all have a strong family resemblance. Yet, this woman is an enigma to me. She dances around my sub-consiouse and becomes a different person every time I hear a new story of her. I used to imagine her as a victim of cancer, a poor statistic tragically swiped from existence by an unfeeling disease. Then, when I'd hear stories about how bi-polar she was and the non-stop cigarette smoke that would billow from her mouth, I'd imagine her as a loud, unpredictable, yellow toothed monster, a woman I wouldn't want to spend a lot of time with and certainly not want to let kiss me on the cheek.
I once monologued at her. I was in an audition room and was asked to yell at a family member. I chose Her because I didn't know her. I yelled at her for dying, blaming her cigarette smoke and selfishness and found myself crying in a completely surprising turn of events. Did she hear that speech? Did she understand how frustrating it was to only get snippets of information about her, and how sensational I thought this woman to be? Who was Helen? I see her as a bi-sexual divorcee single mother who travelled around the country in the 60's and 70's teaching english as a college professor and wrote a lot of letters and poetry. She half raised my Mom. She was beautiful. She was flawed.
I wish I had met her. Maybe I'd understand a little more of myself, if I could.
I'm told I have a lot of her in me. That, if one were to compare photos of the three generations: my mother, her mother and myself all have a strong family resemblance. Yet, this woman is an enigma to me. She dances around my sub-consiouse and becomes a different person every time I hear a new story of her. I used to imagine her as a victim of cancer, a poor statistic tragically swiped from existence by an unfeeling disease. Then, when I'd hear stories about how bi-polar she was and the non-stop cigarette smoke that would billow from her mouth, I'd imagine her as a loud, unpredictable, yellow toothed monster, a woman I wouldn't want to spend a lot of time with and certainly not want to let kiss me on the cheek.
I once monologued at her. I was in an audition room and was asked to yell at a family member. I chose Her because I didn't know her. I yelled at her for dying, blaming her cigarette smoke and selfishness and found myself crying in a completely surprising turn of events. Did she hear that speech? Did she understand how frustrating it was to only get snippets of information about her, and how sensational I thought this woman to be? Who was Helen? I see her as a bi-sexual divorcee single mother who travelled around the country in the 60's and 70's teaching english as a college professor and wrote a lot of letters and poetry. She half raised my Mom. She was beautiful. She was flawed.
I wish I had met her. Maybe I'd understand a little more of myself, if I could.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Getting Halloween Ready
As halloween approaches I find myself in the awkward position of: Do I make my own costume? Do I buy the slutty Zombie costume? or do I just throw my hands to the sky and pronounce that I don't give a crap about this holiday? Every year it's the same dilemma.
When I was younger, Halloween was a Holiday of unbridled imagination and anxiety. As soon as October 1st swung around bright orange flyers would go up in the elevators of my building announcing the coming of the Halloween Party in the Lobby. There was always a sign up sheet next to the announcement where tenants would volunteer their apartments for Trick-Or-Treaters. As the days ticked on I loved running my finger down the list and noting who from the previous year had signed up and therefore who had the best decorations, or who was known for having the worst candy (Apt. 4L always gives us apples! Gross!)
In my building, Bianca on the 2nd floor was our Go-To Halloween coordinator. My sister and I would spend afternoons down at her apartment looking up costumes and how we would all coordinate, or not. Bianca was always very particular about what our costumes consisted of. Did we have the right make-up? Were the wigs we were getting necessary? etc. It was always a process. My first year in college I felt completely left out of the loop as my sister was still back at home event coordinating with B. As an effort to keep me included, Bianca took the time with me over the phone to run through several websites before finding the "perfect"Beer Garden girl outfit. When I got it in the mail I realized the skirt was about 2 inches below my crotch and half covered my butt. I thought: Awesome.
On the big night, back home, all the kids in the building would gather in the lobby at the base of the stairs. In its HayDay, my building's Halloween party was so awesome, we'd get kids from other buildings to come and listen to the story teller and drink the punch and touch the "Witch's eye balls and Monster Hair." In my opinion though: the best part of the party was the Story Telling.
Cue: My Dad. In my eyes my Father was the epitome of Super Hero on that night. He had a Robin Hood Costume consisting of green tights, real custom hand-made leather boots with brass buttons, a hat with a feather, a white renaissance shirt, and the best part: A Super Human Super Large Wool Cloak. He'd call out in a booming voice that the stories were about to begin and a hush would fall over the crowd. Kids would kick and scratch their way to the front of the steps to get a better view as my Dad lit the "Halloween Candle" which was a large, white candle in an elaborate black sconce. He'd say with a level of secrecy and authority that the Halloween Candle is lit only one day a year, and it invites the spirit of story telling into the room. It will burn as long as the stories are told, and then we'll all blow it out when the stories are done (That also marked the beginning of the Trick-Or-Treating!) I would listen to my Dad introduce that candle every year, and every year I would shiver with equal parts fear and pleasure in being witness to this magical event.
Now, 15 years later, I feel like I am still seeking that rush of excitement over this Holiday. I mean, eating candy is fun, but I find that the best part of Halloween is being freaked the hell out. Last year, Mr. Tall took me up to Sleepy Hollow to walk a Haunted Maze and that was ridiculously cool. This year? Meh. I don't know. I wish I could transport myself back to the excited 10 year old I was and wistfully stare at the Halloween Candle that sat on a shelf in our kitchen all year collecting dust until Dad took it down, blew off the cobwebs and donned his Robin Hood cloak. Maybe I'll be my dad for Halloween this year.
When I was younger, Halloween was a Holiday of unbridled imagination and anxiety. As soon as October 1st swung around bright orange flyers would go up in the elevators of my building announcing the coming of the Halloween Party in the Lobby. There was always a sign up sheet next to the announcement where tenants would volunteer their apartments for Trick-Or-Treaters. As the days ticked on I loved running my finger down the list and noting who from the previous year had signed up and therefore who had the best decorations, or who was known for having the worst candy (Apt. 4L always gives us apples! Gross!)
In my building, Bianca on the 2nd floor was our Go-To Halloween coordinator. My sister and I would spend afternoons down at her apartment looking up costumes and how we would all coordinate, or not. Bianca was always very particular about what our costumes consisted of. Did we have the right make-up? Were the wigs we were getting necessary? etc. It was always a process. My first year in college I felt completely left out of the loop as my sister was still back at home event coordinating with B. As an effort to keep me included, Bianca took the time with me over the phone to run through several websites before finding the "perfect"Beer Garden girl outfit. When I got it in the mail I realized the skirt was about 2 inches below my crotch and half covered my butt. I thought: Awesome.
On the big night, back home, all the kids in the building would gather in the lobby at the base of the stairs. In its HayDay, my building's Halloween party was so awesome, we'd get kids from other buildings to come and listen to the story teller and drink the punch and touch the "Witch's eye balls and Monster Hair." In my opinion though: the best part of the party was the Story Telling.
Cue: My Dad. In my eyes my Father was the epitome of Super Hero on that night. He had a Robin Hood Costume consisting of green tights, real custom hand-made leather boots with brass buttons, a hat with a feather, a white renaissance shirt, and the best part: A Super Human Super Large Wool Cloak. He'd call out in a booming voice that the stories were about to begin and a hush would fall over the crowd. Kids would kick and scratch their way to the front of the steps to get a better view as my Dad lit the "Halloween Candle" which was a large, white candle in an elaborate black sconce. He'd say with a level of secrecy and authority that the Halloween Candle is lit only one day a year, and it invites the spirit of story telling into the room. It will burn as long as the stories are told, and then we'll all blow it out when the stories are done (That also marked the beginning of the Trick-Or-Treating!) I would listen to my Dad introduce that candle every year, and every year I would shiver with equal parts fear and pleasure in being witness to this magical event.
Now, 15 years later, I feel like I am still seeking that rush of excitement over this Holiday. I mean, eating candy is fun, but I find that the best part of Halloween is being freaked the hell out. Last year, Mr. Tall took me up to Sleepy Hollow to walk a Haunted Maze and that was ridiculously cool. This year? Meh. I don't know. I wish I could transport myself back to the excited 10 year old I was and wistfully stare at the Halloween Candle that sat on a shelf in our kitchen all year collecting dust until Dad took it down, blew off the cobwebs and donned his Robin Hood cloak. Maybe I'll be my dad for Halloween this year.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
What's it Like to Grow Up Here?
How does one even begin to answer the question: "So what was it like to grow up, you?" It's a pretty general question that says: "I'm fascinated by your upbringing, please tell me some really juicy detail about getting pregnant behind the school bleachers or about how you worked for the volunteer fire-fighters and saved little old ladies and kittens from burning houses!" How can any one sum up their childhood in a way that won't leave the curious person who asked in a 15 year lurch as you start from day one and go through the painful and intricate details of your upbringing? It is therefore a wonder to me when I get asked "So, what was it like growing up in New York City?" by people who have come here later in life. I always ponder the answer I want to give. Or, the answer they might want to hear, which I imagine would be along the lines of: "When I got gang raped for the third time, I decided I had the right to get an abortion. I didn't abort the last two babies, they are in foster care now. I can't see them because of the Heroin addiction I picked up when I went to public school."
I have a lot of memories from my childhood that were feelings of curiosity and joy at the thought of leaving New York and seeing green, open spaces with no one else in them, and not waiting in line for anything and actually saying "Hello" to a stranger on the street. Every few weekends, my parents would bundle my sister and I up and take us out to the suburbs to see my grandparents in Long Island. I remember the joy at being in a car that wasn't a taxi and the person driving the car wasn't a guy named Kebab who got really angry when you told them they had driven past your apartment entrance. There was delight in seeing the prices of watching a movie at the theatre drop (for no reason?! WOW! It's so cheap out here! Why doesn't everybody just move here!?) And the wonder at walking into a Walmart so big the engineers who built the structure must have had to create formulas for the foundation of the building to fit the curvature of the earth.
I guess what I'm getting at is that growing up in the City was no different than what the experiences of growing up in the suburbs or rural areas would be, but I guess what sets my experiences apart were whenever I left the city and encountered drastically different ways of life that suddenly made my lifestyle glaringly different. Also, the growing pains of becoming an adult are all shared experiences, except they would happen in landmark buildings that are world famous (but that didn't affect the unrequited love I had on a boy in my class: that was still there, it just happened to be at the Museum of Natural History where we attended our classes.)
I'm astounded at the bravery it takes to decide to move from whatever comfortable (or deeply uncomfortable) 'burb one grew up in and come to New York for the first time to live here! That's a bravery that I can't imagine. I lived here my whole life and a lot of this city is very predictable for me. But putting myself in the shoes of the pioneers who come here and move into a really crappy neighborhood in the middle of Brooklyn, get paid crap money for a job that they are highly over qualified for, learn the horribly cramped lifestyle of being one-in-a-million-and-not-in-a-good-way that this city can make anyone feel, all for the sake of: __________ that only this city can offer is: Awe-inspiring.
So, what's it like growing up in New York City? You seem to be right smack in the middle of it and I think you have a better idea of what that is like than I do. I just grew up here! You're becoming your adult self in a scary and beautiful place that is foreign in so many ways it is not for me. Wow! Can you elaborate on that for me?
I have a lot of memories from my childhood that were feelings of curiosity and joy at the thought of leaving New York and seeing green, open spaces with no one else in them, and not waiting in line for anything and actually saying "Hello" to a stranger on the street. Every few weekends, my parents would bundle my sister and I up and take us out to the suburbs to see my grandparents in Long Island. I remember the joy at being in a car that wasn't a taxi and the person driving the car wasn't a guy named Kebab who got really angry when you told them they had driven past your apartment entrance. There was delight in seeing the prices of watching a movie at the theatre drop (for no reason?! WOW! It's so cheap out here! Why doesn't everybody just move here!?) And the wonder at walking into a Walmart so big the engineers who built the structure must have had to create formulas for the foundation of the building to fit the curvature of the earth.
I guess what I'm getting at is that growing up in the City was no different than what the experiences of growing up in the suburbs or rural areas would be, but I guess what sets my experiences apart were whenever I left the city and encountered drastically different ways of life that suddenly made my lifestyle glaringly different. Also, the growing pains of becoming an adult are all shared experiences, except they would happen in landmark buildings that are world famous (but that didn't affect the unrequited love I had on a boy in my class: that was still there, it just happened to be at the Museum of Natural History where we attended our classes.)
I'm astounded at the bravery it takes to decide to move from whatever comfortable (or deeply uncomfortable) 'burb one grew up in and come to New York for the first time to live here! That's a bravery that I can't imagine. I lived here my whole life and a lot of this city is very predictable for me. But putting myself in the shoes of the pioneers who come here and move into a really crappy neighborhood in the middle of Brooklyn, get paid crap money for a job that they are highly over qualified for, learn the horribly cramped lifestyle of being one-in-a-million-and-not-in-a-good-way that this city can make anyone feel, all for the sake of: __________ that only this city can offer is: Awe-inspiring.
So, what's it like growing up in New York City? You seem to be right smack in the middle of it and I think you have a better idea of what that is like than I do. I just grew up here! You're becoming your adult self in a scary and beautiful place that is foreign in so many ways it is not for me. Wow! Can you elaborate on that for me?
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Recording Everything
For 4 months I kept a bar graph in the back of my journal and at the end of every day I would record how many times I had had sex with my boyfriend. I've kept a very detailed account of everything I spent money on, everyday, for the past 4 years, with a break of a couple months when I moved back to New York from Louisville, KY and felt like my life was going to shit anyway, so why bother?
I love itemizing my life. I love recording dumb, over looked details that a normal person would not have the discipline to keep track of, or would otherwise feel was a waste of time (after all, who likes to rush home and write down the number of times you farted that day??) I get a thrill from looking at pie charts I've drawn or trends I can see in myself as time goes on (like, how much money did I make at work last September? or the September before that?).
Going back through old journals one can see a very detailed look at how I felt. I would draw pie charts and indicate to the precise percentage that I felt accurate for what my mood for the day was. "I feel 27% happy and 5% confused and 38% sad..." etc. Fascinating, because now I can clearly see how those percentages have changed as I've gotten older. Although, I don't keep pie charts anymore, I like to measure a certain amount of happiness in how little I can spend money in a day, and how much money I funnel into doing things I love.
Occasionally I will meet other nit-picky anal outliers who also record all the details of when they took a poop that week. There is a special bond there, an unfathomable understanding that I think the layman could never hope to understand. A bond that says "Hey: I know what it means to get a high from keeping track of these things, and I see you for who you are and not the weirdo your girlfriend thinks you may be when you picked up your phone to record another piece of important information that only you will ever see."
Especially when I am feeling down in the dumps, I like to turn to my records and re-record everything. "Oh, this is how much money I spent over 6 months and I can clearly see the ratio of spending to saving as indicated here, here, and here!" Another coping activity I used to do as a kid was do math problems in my journal. I loved to watch as the numbers grew to impossible lengths as I kept adding them up. I never did anything that involved a lot of thinking, just that I would add 1 and 1, then 2 and 2 then 4 and 4, until I would wind up with numbers that would stretch from one edge of my page to the other. After doing those math problems for what felt like hours to my young brain, I would look at all of the digits and admire the simple beauty of having recorded and created so many figures on my journal page.
I think, honestly, the reason I have kept a journal pretty consistently my entire life is because I love to record my day for the sake of knowing I recorded the day. Now, as I read another witty memoir about a famously interesting comedic women; I see that I am not alone in my eccentricities. Lovely. I feel enriched and encouraged. I can't wait to collect all this data and write a best-selling memoir about my life. I talk about it all the time, and I think at this point it's just a matter of figuring out the style in which I want to tell these stories. All in good time... Until that day comes when I can stare at my first draft, I'll continue to record my life in this blog and my journal, because facts about me are totally fascinating to me.
I love itemizing my life. I love recording dumb, over looked details that a normal person would not have the discipline to keep track of, or would otherwise feel was a waste of time (after all, who likes to rush home and write down the number of times you farted that day??) I get a thrill from looking at pie charts I've drawn or trends I can see in myself as time goes on (like, how much money did I make at work last September? or the September before that?).
Going back through old journals one can see a very detailed look at how I felt. I would draw pie charts and indicate to the precise percentage that I felt accurate for what my mood for the day was. "I feel 27% happy and 5% confused and 38% sad..." etc. Fascinating, because now I can clearly see how those percentages have changed as I've gotten older. Although, I don't keep pie charts anymore, I like to measure a certain amount of happiness in how little I can spend money in a day, and how much money I funnel into doing things I love.
Occasionally I will meet other nit-picky anal outliers who also record all the details of when they took a poop that week. There is a special bond there, an unfathomable understanding that I think the layman could never hope to understand. A bond that says "Hey: I know what it means to get a high from keeping track of these things, and I see you for who you are and not the weirdo your girlfriend thinks you may be when you picked up your phone to record another piece of important information that only you will ever see."
Especially when I am feeling down in the dumps, I like to turn to my records and re-record everything. "Oh, this is how much money I spent over 6 months and I can clearly see the ratio of spending to saving as indicated here, here, and here!" Another coping activity I used to do as a kid was do math problems in my journal. I loved to watch as the numbers grew to impossible lengths as I kept adding them up. I never did anything that involved a lot of thinking, just that I would add 1 and 1, then 2 and 2 then 4 and 4, until I would wind up with numbers that would stretch from one edge of my page to the other. After doing those math problems for what felt like hours to my young brain, I would look at all of the digits and admire the simple beauty of having recorded and created so many figures on my journal page.
I think, honestly, the reason I have kept a journal pretty consistently my entire life is because I love to record my day for the sake of knowing I recorded the day. Now, as I read another witty memoir about a famously interesting comedic women; I see that I am not alone in my eccentricities. Lovely. I feel enriched and encouraged. I can't wait to collect all this data and write a best-selling memoir about my life. I talk about it all the time, and I think at this point it's just a matter of figuring out the style in which I want to tell these stories. All in good time... Until that day comes when I can stare at my first draft, I'll continue to record my life in this blog and my journal, because facts about me are totally fascinating to me.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
The Pee Puddle
I was standing behind the door of the locker room in the darkness, waiting with short shaky breaths to see if I'd be caught. I could see through the small crack between the open door and the door-frame as a means of getting a bit of a head's up before the "monster" came into the room. My friends were all holed up in the lockers, tucking their small bodies one by one into the small spaces to avoid being seen. I was too claustrophobic to cram myself into those tiny boxes, so, last minute, I opted for hiding behind the door.
"Monster" was the best game we played in after school. Brian, the councilor who was in charge of the gym, would organize all of the 3rd and 4th graders into the center of the massive play space and explain the afternoon's activities. Every time he would announce that we'd be playing "Monster" a massive cheer would erupt from the 30 grade schoolers as schemes and strategies were discussed excitedly before Brian would shut us up and carefully dictate the rules.
"Kids! So here's the deal. I'll be giving each of you a sock. If you throw the sock and miss, no points. If I see you, you go to jail, which is over here and you lose 5 points. If you hit me with the sock, then the round is over and you win 10 points. If you throw the sock and it bounces before hitting me, no dice. If by the end of the round you still have your sock, you win 5 points. You'll all get 20 seconds to hide. I'll count out loud and then, once the time is up, I'll turn off the lights and I'll come looking for you. You better hope to not get seen by me! Off to jail! You lose! Find a good hiding place! When the lights come on, then you'll know the round is over and I want all of you back here in the center of the gym and we'll do a roll-call. Got it? Now come get your sock."
Then, as if by some Santa magic, Brian would hoist a massive canvas bag out of a closet. The bag must have weighed a ton because it was full to the brim with sock balls. These balls were about 6 or 7 socks crammed together into one and sewn shut. The perfect thing to throw at a monster. We'd all squabble over the best sock, which felt good in the hand, which one would get the best distance. Then, Brian would announce in a booming voice, that the count was going to begin.
I remember running for the Locker Room with my friends. We had agreed to hide there this round, as the other kids peeled off and scurried for holes and cravases behind mats, ropes, and equipment that ringed the walls of the gym. We were laughing and panting, as each of us rushed to find the best hiding places. I felt a panic once everyone had shut their locker doors and squeezed behind gym equipment. I stood in the center of the room trying to decide where to go, and then the lights went out. Jumping behind the Locker Room door I tried to calm my breathing so as to not give away my location.
Now, Brian was a big guy to all of us 8 year-olds. He looked like a tamer version of a Harley-Riding Devil's Angels biker dude, just minus the tattoos and the mullet. He'd walk around the gym and laugh with a booming, shiver-inducing laugh that would scare the pants out of whoever was close enough to really hear it. He really was The Monster. He had eyes that could spot a kid all the way across the gym, in the dark, crouched behind a pile of mats. He could hear a kid from 20 feet away just from their ragged breath. He'd call out in a loud, horribly embarrassing voice "KYLE! I see you! Go to JAIL! Mwahahahahah!!!" Then, the poor victim would crawl out of their hiding place and slump off to the loser-bin to wait for the lights to turn back on. No one wanted to get caught. Generally, the kids in the jail were the girly-girls, the over zealous A.D.D. kids and the snot-nosed social outcasts. Getting caught was the coup de gras of your social life for the day.
So, there I was, hiding behind the door to the Locker Room, sweating bullets, as I fearfully looked through the crack into the hallway for any sign of movement from the "Monster."
Then, I had to pee.
Ohhhh I had to pee really, really bad. Like, in the worst way possible. More than I had ever had to pee in my young life. Ever, ever! Oh, Oh my god. I had to go. I started to do a pee dance, wishing that the lights would come on and I could just run to the bathroom. The seconds ticked on like hours and I waited, wishing beyond hope to somehow transport the urine from my system. I got so distracted by the fact that I had to pee that when I heard Brian's Booming "MWAHAHA!" right at the doorway to the Locker Room, practically right in my ear, I peed. I wet myself. I felt the hot water run down my leg, pool in my shoes and creep out along the floor. Screw Brian! Screw Jail! If anyone found out that I had just wet myself I'd be ruined! I'd be in the "Jail" of the social arena of my Life! I stood still, relieved that I had emptied my bladder, and then completely anxiety ridden. My Pants are probably soaked. I thought, assessing the situation. By that point, Brian had caught a small group of kids and was calling their names as they marched off to jail. I had a little bit of time. No one had shot the Monster yet. I stepped out of my pee-puddle and silently crammed myself into a locker. There were no witnesses.
What seemed like 10 minutes later, the lights went on. "EVERYONE COME OUT!" Brian bellowed. I made sure to wait a couple seconds so my friends could see me emerge from the lockers. "You hid in there after all, Natty?" My friend Michael asked as I climbed out. "Yeah." I replied, as nonchalantly as I could. "Seemed smart."
The kids gathered in the center again. I glanced down at my legs and saw the darker stains. I sat on the edge of the group, knees to my chest, and prayed no one would notice.
"Someone peed in the locker room!!!!" Screeched a female voice, as Erica, a co-counceller and "scout" went looking for any last stragglers. The room groaned. "Ewwwwww!!" I joined in, even chiming in with "That's so gross." Hoping my comments would leave me unnoticed.
"Guys." Brain said, switching to an irritated tone. "We're big kids here. Can we all just use the toilets, please? In fact, why don't we all make a trip to the bathroom, so Erica can clean that up. Pee break!"
I was mortified. Absolutely unabashedly ashamed of myself. I had wet my pants. I had let the game catch me off guard and lost control. I just prayed no one would notice my damp pants.
A life lesson I learned the hard way: Don't let the game catch you off guard. Keep focused. Keep strong. Despite the distractions, hold steady. No one likes a pee-covered kid. And also, don't be the one who has to clean that puddle, because I think Erica was the real loser from that scenario...
"Monster" was the best game we played in after school. Brian, the councilor who was in charge of the gym, would organize all of the 3rd and 4th graders into the center of the massive play space and explain the afternoon's activities. Every time he would announce that we'd be playing "Monster" a massive cheer would erupt from the 30 grade schoolers as schemes and strategies were discussed excitedly before Brian would shut us up and carefully dictate the rules.
"Kids! So here's the deal. I'll be giving each of you a sock. If you throw the sock and miss, no points. If I see you, you go to jail, which is over here and you lose 5 points. If you hit me with the sock, then the round is over and you win 10 points. If you throw the sock and it bounces before hitting me, no dice. If by the end of the round you still have your sock, you win 5 points. You'll all get 20 seconds to hide. I'll count out loud and then, once the time is up, I'll turn off the lights and I'll come looking for you. You better hope to not get seen by me! Off to jail! You lose! Find a good hiding place! When the lights come on, then you'll know the round is over and I want all of you back here in the center of the gym and we'll do a roll-call. Got it? Now come get your sock."
Then, as if by some Santa magic, Brian would hoist a massive canvas bag out of a closet. The bag must have weighed a ton because it was full to the brim with sock balls. These balls were about 6 or 7 socks crammed together into one and sewn shut. The perfect thing to throw at a monster. We'd all squabble over the best sock, which felt good in the hand, which one would get the best distance. Then, Brian would announce in a booming voice, that the count was going to begin.
I remember running for the Locker Room with my friends. We had agreed to hide there this round, as the other kids peeled off and scurried for holes and cravases behind mats, ropes, and equipment that ringed the walls of the gym. We were laughing and panting, as each of us rushed to find the best hiding places. I felt a panic once everyone had shut their locker doors and squeezed behind gym equipment. I stood in the center of the room trying to decide where to go, and then the lights went out. Jumping behind the Locker Room door I tried to calm my breathing so as to not give away my location.
Now, Brian was a big guy to all of us 8 year-olds. He looked like a tamer version of a Harley-Riding Devil's Angels biker dude, just minus the tattoos and the mullet. He'd walk around the gym and laugh with a booming, shiver-inducing laugh that would scare the pants out of whoever was close enough to really hear it. He really was The Monster. He had eyes that could spot a kid all the way across the gym, in the dark, crouched behind a pile of mats. He could hear a kid from 20 feet away just from their ragged breath. He'd call out in a loud, horribly embarrassing voice "KYLE! I see you! Go to JAIL! Mwahahahahah!!!" Then, the poor victim would crawl out of their hiding place and slump off to the loser-bin to wait for the lights to turn back on. No one wanted to get caught. Generally, the kids in the jail were the girly-girls, the over zealous A.D.D. kids and the snot-nosed social outcasts. Getting caught was the coup de gras of your social life for the day.
So, there I was, hiding behind the door to the Locker Room, sweating bullets, as I fearfully looked through the crack into the hallway for any sign of movement from the "Monster."
Then, I had to pee.
Ohhhh I had to pee really, really bad. Like, in the worst way possible. More than I had ever had to pee in my young life. Ever, ever! Oh, Oh my god. I had to go. I started to do a pee dance, wishing that the lights would come on and I could just run to the bathroom. The seconds ticked on like hours and I waited, wishing beyond hope to somehow transport the urine from my system. I got so distracted by the fact that I had to pee that when I heard Brian's Booming "MWAHAHA!" right at the doorway to the Locker Room, practically right in my ear, I peed. I wet myself. I felt the hot water run down my leg, pool in my shoes and creep out along the floor. Screw Brian! Screw Jail! If anyone found out that I had just wet myself I'd be ruined! I'd be in the "Jail" of the social arena of my Life! I stood still, relieved that I had emptied my bladder, and then completely anxiety ridden. My Pants are probably soaked. I thought, assessing the situation. By that point, Brian had caught a small group of kids and was calling their names as they marched off to jail. I had a little bit of time. No one had shot the Monster yet. I stepped out of my pee-puddle and silently crammed myself into a locker. There were no witnesses.
What seemed like 10 minutes later, the lights went on. "EVERYONE COME OUT!" Brian bellowed. I made sure to wait a couple seconds so my friends could see me emerge from the lockers. "You hid in there after all, Natty?" My friend Michael asked as I climbed out. "Yeah." I replied, as nonchalantly as I could. "Seemed smart."
The kids gathered in the center again. I glanced down at my legs and saw the darker stains. I sat on the edge of the group, knees to my chest, and prayed no one would notice.
"Someone peed in the locker room!!!!" Screeched a female voice, as Erica, a co-counceller and "scout" went looking for any last stragglers. The room groaned. "Ewwwwww!!" I joined in, even chiming in with "That's so gross." Hoping my comments would leave me unnoticed.
"Guys." Brain said, switching to an irritated tone. "We're big kids here. Can we all just use the toilets, please? In fact, why don't we all make a trip to the bathroom, so Erica can clean that up. Pee break!"
I was mortified. Absolutely unabashedly ashamed of myself. I had wet my pants. I had let the game catch me off guard and lost control. I just prayed no one would notice my damp pants.
A life lesson I learned the hard way: Don't let the game catch you off guard. Keep focused. Keep strong. Despite the distractions, hold steady. No one likes a pee-covered kid. And also, don't be the one who has to clean that puddle, because I think Erica was the real loser from that scenario...
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Crying
I was talking with my close friends the other day about crying. Really crying. Allowing the tears to come, and the wails to erupt, and the sobs to rack the body, and the emotional traumas to bellow out of the soul in the form of hiccups and snot.
The last time I really cried like a crazy person I was behind the wheels of my car. I blasted the loudest version of "Fuck Her Gently" by Tenacious D, parked the car in the darkest corner of a suburban parking lot and I cried with every fiber of my being.
Crying behind a steering wheel is just about the best place, in my opinion. I've heard of others going to the last stall of the top floor's bathroom and crying there. Or, maybe disappearing into an alleyway behind a building you work in and crying over lunch break.
We all laughed as we shared stories of false alarms "I thought I would cry, and I tried, but didn't!" and laughed as we reenacted some of the emotional physicality of crying. My friend did a great impression of trying to hide the tears by shaking his shoulders up and down and flinching like he had a tick. I felt the tears well in my eyes from the mirth shared over something that seems so sad and personal, yet was the source of such epic comic material.
I've had times when I've cried so hard I laughed. There are moments when, God Help Me, I Will Not Cry Right Now as salty tears roll down my cheeks. And moments where I've looked into the eyes of a loved one and loved that person so damn much that the only way to express that feeling further is to well-up. I've cried while walking home, in the rain, with no umbrella, with no one on the street and only my short staccato breaths to keep me company. And, hell, I've cried right into a mirror just for the sake of seeing what I look like when I turn on the water works.
I find the best cries are when I'm about to sleep. Just, let it all out like I'm wringing out a rag cloth full of water and then letting it dry. Ahhh, that feels so much better, and lighter.
Crying is beautiful. It's a purely personal and incredibly relatable experience we can all say we've participated in. We come into the world crying, heaving large breaths of cold stinging air into our very new lungs.
I don't consider myself someone who cries often. I know a couple people in my life that can cry pretty easily and frequently and I have never ranked myself with that crowd. So, whenever I do cry I consider it an occasion, a time to really reflect and experience the feelings of whatever it is that has pushed me to that limit where I need to physicalize how I feel. I imagine almost a burning wreckage of an emotional blob bursting and then, like lava cooling after an eruption, fertile ground is made and a whole tropical forest can begin to grow.
That's how I'm going to imagine this new year of being 25, the actual birth-day was the lava eruption. Now: I'm fertilizing a new Hawaii.
The last time I really cried like a crazy person I was behind the wheels of my car. I blasted the loudest version of "Fuck Her Gently" by Tenacious D, parked the car in the darkest corner of a suburban parking lot and I cried with every fiber of my being.
Crying behind a steering wheel is just about the best place, in my opinion. I've heard of others going to the last stall of the top floor's bathroom and crying there. Or, maybe disappearing into an alleyway behind a building you work in and crying over lunch break.
We all laughed as we shared stories of false alarms "I thought I would cry, and I tried, but didn't!" and laughed as we reenacted some of the emotional physicality of crying. My friend did a great impression of trying to hide the tears by shaking his shoulders up and down and flinching like he had a tick. I felt the tears well in my eyes from the mirth shared over something that seems so sad and personal, yet was the source of such epic comic material.
I've had times when I've cried so hard I laughed. There are moments when, God Help Me, I Will Not Cry Right Now as salty tears roll down my cheeks. And moments where I've looked into the eyes of a loved one and loved that person so damn much that the only way to express that feeling further is to well-up. I've cried while walking home, in the rain, with no umbrella, with no one on the street and only my short staccato breaths to keep me company. And, hell, I've cried right into a mirror just for the sake of seeing what I look like when I turn on the water works.
I find the best cries are when I'm about to sleep. Just, let it all out like I'm wringing out a rag cloth full of water and then letting it dry. Ahhh, that feels so much better, and lighter.
Crying is beautiful. It's a purely personal and incredibly relatable experience we can all say we've participated in. We come into the world crying, heaving large breaths of cold stinging air into our very new lungs.
I don't consider myself someone who cries often. I know a couple people in my life that can cry pretty easily and frequently and I have never ranked myself with that crowd. So, whenever I do cry I consider it an occasion, a time to really reflect and experience the feelings of whatever it is that has pushed me to that limit where I need to physicalize how I feel. I imagine almost a burning wreckage of an emotional blob bursting and then, like lava cooling after an eruption, fertile ground is made and a whole tropical forest can begin to grow.
That's how I'm going to imagine this new year of being 25, the actual birth-day was the lava eruption. Now: I'm fertilizing a new Hawaii.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Burning Up Old Memories
It was later in autumn; the nights that start to really bite and nip at the holes in your clothes, and the coolness that creeps up on you when you think that the day was warm enough to merit wearing that light sweater and capris. I was a junior in college out on Long Island and had been dating my then boyfriend for just about two years. My boyfriend had a group of buddies he had known since they were all practically in diapers and occasionally the gang would get together and over a couple beers laugh and joke about shared memories.
It was also not uncommon for these social gatherings to happen around a fire. A fire pit in a backyard in Long Island is not unusual. There were parties were the hosts would build up a small fire and the group would gather and warm themselves while roasting marshmallows. Autumn fires are the best, in my opinion. Summer fires are fun, but generally the added heat can draw some pleasure from the overall experience.
Therefore, it came as no surprise to me and my boyfriend to be invited to what was dubbed a "Bonfire" by one of these childhood friends.
I don't clearly remember the How's and What's of what eventually got myself huddled up against my boyfriends chest on a deserted back road staring at the flames, but I do clearly remember what I was staring at.
It was a bonfire, alright. Although, one of the old pals decided that he wanted to burn an entire box of memories. Every single scrap of paper, ticket stub, toy, letter, picture and memorabilia from the relationship of 4 years that had just ended was in that box. The Pal came out of his parents' brightly lit suburban house holding the massive stack of stuff. He set it down on the concrete out back and asked the other three couples who were there to gather around.
In a very emotional speech, he said his girlfriend cheated on him with another girl, then left him, broke his heart forever. He had wanted to propose to this girl, but his dreams were dashed, and therefore: all needed to be burned. We were to be witness to this fire; this purge from this Man's life. He then doused the box in kerosene, lit a match, and threw the flame onto the memorabilia.
I'll never forget the smell of that burning plastic, the blue and green flames leaping from the different materials burning, the smoke rising into the air, and the orange light reflecting off of the eyes of the other witnesses as we each watched in silent horror as an entire relationship's material wealth went up in smoke.
I felt, even despite the heat from the flames, that I was colder than before.
I don't remember how long we stood out there, but the Pal wouldn't let us put the flames out nor would he let us back into the house until the fire burned everything to ash and there was no more flame. No one said a word. I clung to my boyfriend like a ragged flag on a school yard flag-pole in a strong wind. There was no traffic, no sounds, no other outside force on that deserted Long Island back-road except the cackle of the flames licking, melting and destroying the evidence.
To this day, I am still shocked at the hurt and anger that can pass through someone to make them do the things they do. I imagined, once, how it would feel to take what little mementos I have left of relationships from my past and burn them, only to shudder at the idea of such a violent act of deletion. I'll keep those letters and photos and ticket stubs locked away in a shoebox at the back of my closet, and try to remember the wonderful aspects of a relationship gone past its expiration date, rather than burn it all up to ash. I wonder, too: did that Pal feel better? or does he ever miss those pieces of evidence? I never asked.
It was also not uncommon for these social gatherings to happen around a fire. A fire pit in a backyard in Long Island is not unusual. There were parties were the hosts would build up a small fire and the group would gather and warm themselves while roasting marshmallows. Autumn fires are the best, in my opinion. Summer fires are fun, but generally the added heat can draw some pleasure from the overall experience.
Therefore, it came as no surprise to me and my boyfriend to be invited to what was dubbed a "Bonfire" by one of these childhood friends.
I don't clearly remember the How's and What's of what eventually got myself huddled up against my boyfriends chest on a deserted back road staring at the flames, but I do clearly remember what I was staring at.
It was a bonfire, alright. Although, one of the old pals decided that he wanted to burn an entire box of memories. Every single scrap of paper, ticket stub, toy, letter, picture and memorabilia from the relationship of 4 years that had just ended was in that box. The Pal came out of his parents' brightly lit suburban house holding the massive stack of stuff. He set it down on the concrete out back and asked the other three couples who were there to gather around.
In a very emotional speech, he said his girlfriend cheated on him with another girl, then left him, broke his heart forever. He had wanted to propose to this girl, but his dreams were dashed, and therefore: all needed to be burned. We were to be witness to this fire; this purge from this Man's life. He then doused the box in kerosene, lit a match, and threw the flame onto the memorabilia.
I'll never forget the smell of that burning plastic, the blue and green flames leaping from the different materials burning, the smoke rising into the air, and the orange light reflecting off of the eyes of the other witnesses as we each watched in silent horror as an entire relationship's material wealth went up in smoke.
I felt, even despite the heat from the flames, that I was colder than before.
I don't remember how long we stood out there, but the Pal wouldn't let us put the flames out nor would he let us back into the house until the fire burned everything to ash and there was no more flame. No one said a word. I clung to my boyfriend like a ragged flag on a school yard flag-pole in a strong wind. There was no traffic, no sounds, no other outside force on that deserted Long Island back-road except the cackle of the flames licking, melting and destroying the evidence.
To this day, I am still shocked at the hurt and anger that can pass through someone to make them do the things they do. I imagined, once, how it would feel to take what little mementos I have left of relationships from my past and burn them, only to shudder at the idea of such a violent act of deletion. I'll keep those letters and photos and ticket stubs locked away in a shoebox at the back of my closet, and try to remember the wonderful aspects of a relationship gone past its expiration date, rather than burn it all up to ash. I wonder, too: did that Pal feel better? or does he ever miss those pieces of evidence? I never asked.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Life in Sense-Mode
Looking at a clean surface in a bathroom. No dust. No grime. No sludge. No hair. Just: a clean surface. So clean, I can put my toothbrush down on it and not worry about gross bacteria.
Burning my fingers as I pop a piece of still sizzling bacon into my mouth.
Being covered in sweat after I ran for 45 minutes. Feeling the night before sweat out of me. Cleansing myself of all exhaustion and instead replacing the tired feeling with endorphins telling my brain that I'm rocking out.
Running my hands under warm water and washing off the night after a long shift at work. Rubbing my fingers together with soap, feeling the slippery bubbles gently wipe away any dirt or food, then wiping myself dry on a warm, fresh-from-the-dryer towel.
Biting into a soft, melt-in-your-mouth cookie and tasting the love and passion in the flavor. Savoring the buttery sugary texture as it slides down my throat. Ignoring the protests from a now distant part of my brain as my hands reach for another fresh treat to follow the first. Then, quenching my thirst with a cool glass of frosty milk I drink greedily and steadily.
Dipping my toes in cool water on a hot day. Wriggling my feet in the cool water, feeling the current tug at me, my body temperature dropping, the breath coming out of me slower as my body works less to keep itself cool.
Hearing the crack and split of a ripe watermelon being cut. Slicing off a piece and biting into the rich red fruit, feeling the sweet water gush into my mouth. Fully giving myself over to the crunchy refreshing river of juice as another bite brings more.
Peeing after holding out for SO long!
Blinking back tears as my eyes try to hydrate themselves from being in too much wind as I stick my head out the car window again and watch the world whizz by.
Feeling my heart beat and wondering if anyone else notices as I wait backstage for my cue. Breathing as steadily as I can. Shutting my eyes. Calming my shaking hands. Wiping away any sweat. Trying to hear any familiar laughs from the audience. Scolding myself for peeking through the curtains.
Kissing those lips I have wanted to kiss all night. The satisfying warmth. The tension subsiding. The passion growing. The wetness, the smoothness, the firmness and the tongue. The teeth. The hands. The cheeks. The neck. The ears. The hands. The Hands. THE HANDS.
My bed being made with fresh sheets. Staring at the mattress before pulling back the crisp new-like covers and slipping under. Being the first body to feel the newly washed material made even better if I have just taken a shower.
Relaxing back into the pillows and feeling my muscles relax after a long day. Feeling the pillows sag and shift as my weight falls into them. Throwing my head back and closing my eyes and following each breath as my lungs fill and then empty.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
The Love Note
“I love you” was all it said. It was written with a careful hand on red construction paper and cut out in the shape of a heart. Attached to the love note was a box of candy hearts. The message was in my locker, tucked in on top of my book bag. I stared at the thing for a while, not quite sure if what I was seeing was a prank or an actual note. Who wrote that?! I immediately thought, slamming the locker door and pretending that I didn’t just see what I saw. I was 9. Boys were gross. Even if it was Valentine’s Day...
Later, after I told just about everyone I could get close enough to, I went back to the locker and took the red heart out. My best friend stood behind me in shocked amazement. So it WAS true! I opened the candy hearts and took a bite, remembering quite clearly that I hated that chalky candy, but doing my best to give the brand another shot (candy was candy, after all). I felt the “Be Mine” crunch between my teeth before making a face and offering the offending box to my best-y. “Here, you can have this.” I said, detaching the box from the note and handing it off. My girlfriend immediately began to devour the box.
“Who do you think wrote it, Natty?” She asked between bites. Each “Love U” and “Ur Special” loudly cracking in her mouth.
“I don’t know.” I responded. I looked the note over for a sign, did I recognize the hand writing? I checked the hall for any suspicious glances, but my friend and I were the only ones there. I mentally filed through the boys I knew and wondered who would be capable of such daring bravery. Dan? Bryan? Caleb? Hmmm. Maybe Caleb. Or, maybe Stinky Rick. Ew. No one liked Stinky Rick ever since he peed himself in 3rd grade.
“Ew. What if it’s Stinky Rick?” My Best Friend speculated. She laughed a cruel laugh. “Yeah! Maybe it’s him! Ha!”
“It’s not Stinky Rick!” I snapped. I was annoyed. Why would anyone want to go and do a stupid thing like this? ugh. Boys are so gross. Boys are good to play tag with because they can run really fast, but otherwise I found them a plague. I put the heart into my backpack feeling it get crushed under my books.
I never found out who wrote that red note. But it was the first time I ever came face to face with the idea that there was someone who had feelings for me. What a strange realization to have at 9. Prior to that I would hurl nasty globs of damp sand at boys and run, screaming, back to the “base” where all my girlfriends would hide out so we could plan our next attack. The only “boyfriend” I kept was a neighborhood kid I’d known since diapers. Having a “boyfriend” amongst my friends meant status and maturity I couldn’t afford to not have. I kissed him once on the lips because of a dare, and then decided to stick to glob throwing.
Years later, as I write this, it just occurred to me that that note might have been written by a girl, too. Maybe it was a last minute thought someone had after they’d handed out all the cards and they dumped the last one into a random locker. I doubt that, but I still think about that note.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
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.
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.
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