As a single girl in New York, I knew that I was allowed – expected even – to have certain feelings about Fleet Week. And at first, seeing those starched white uniforms bobbing en masse down Fifth Avenue on my way home from work the other night, I did indeed feel those feelings. A little bit of intrigue, a healthy bit of lust for a broad-shouldered, square-jawed man in uniform.
Then I met a few, and all that changed. It wasn’t even the arrogant, Tom Cruise circa 1986 testing the weight limits of the bathroom counter, busting to show you his, errr… government secrets type. That’s not what I’m talking about.
“I’m George,” he said, offering a hand. “And this is Bud.”
“Hi fellas. Having a nice time?”
At three AM, The Gansevoort was packed. The drunk who’d forced my awkward introduction to the Marines had already disappeared back into the crowd (presumably to assault others with his too tan skin, too white teeth and shirt unbuttoned just two too many buttons). But in contrast to Shirt Guy, George and Bud were good humored, well-buttoned and completely inoffensive. Eyes flitted occasionally to my chest, but for the most part, they were gracious and gentlemanly. I was relieved to find myself in safe conversation.
We talked about Texas, my date to the junior prom (who Bud had known at the Naval Academy) and even a little about Iraq. A baby-faced sailor joined us and Marine/Navy ribbing ensued – a one-two-three-not-it sibling rivalry over being the military’s red headed stepchild. It was then that I felt it. Maybe it was the combination of the hour and the number of cocktails I’d drained, but in a matter of moments, all lusty inclinations to de-uniform had been replaced with pure, unadulterated sap.
I still wanted to my patriotic duty, alright. But I didn’t want to tear their clothes off. I wanted to make a big pan of lasagna!
“They’re just babies,” I told Stephanie in the cab on the way home. We were finishing up an unusual night of adventuring, and I was overcome with the usual near dawn drunken sincerity. Not only had I been moved by the overtures of Shirt Guy et al (“Thanks for serving, man. Can I get you a drink?”) but my own maternal instinct had kicked into overdrive. I will probably never look at another service man again without wondering if he’s written his mother.
Fleet Week has officially been ruined. But as a single girl in New York, I’m still allowed – expected even – to have certain feelings about men in uniforms. Thank God there’s NYPD.
One night over dinner, talk turned to personality quirks. He had an almost obsessive-compulsive need to keep his house stocked with extra toothpaste and toilet paper. Dozens extra. I had time zones in my apartment. The only clock that was set to real time was the computer. The microwave clock had a five minute late cushion, and the bedroom was set an absurd 44 minutes ahead, so I could snooze freely in the morning.
“I’m never really fooled, but it still helps.”
“That’s stupid.” He sounded annoyed and I didn't like the way he was looking at me.
“What?” I asked not because I han't heard him but to give him a chance to recant, or at least change his tone. He did neither.
“That’s really stupid. You should set it to the right time.”
“It’s not stupid…”
I said nothing more, and instead turned my attention my plate, pushing pink salmon flakes around with my fork, while warning bells went off in my head. I’d only been dating John a few weeks, so I didn’t know him well. But Control Freak certainly wasn’t one of the labels I’d picked out for him. He’d been a perfect gentleman, lauding me with compliments, calling when he said he would. Sending flowers.
He was thoughtful and… obviously ridiculously uptight.
And so, a couple weeks later, when he broke things off and blamed an entry about an ex in my blog that he didn’t particularly like, I was none too surprised. Or upset. The man had called me stupid! If he wanted to know why I’d begun to act… cagey after that, it might have occurred to him that calling your date stupid wasn’t too smooth of a move. And maybe (just maybe) I’d written that post to test his mettle. You never know. Passive-aggressive is the new straight up. He’d said he wasn’t reading it – you know, to give me my privacy and freedom to write. But I’d had my suspicions that maybe (just maybe) a man that hung up on the numbers on my alarm clock would have a few other issues with my freedom of expression.
I won’t go so far as to say this man is going to die alone with an enormous collection of personal hygiene products. He had plenty of nice qualities. But he did break it off over email and refuse to discuss it when I phoned him. Which, amusing as that is, kinda makes a girl want to say (ever so civilly of course),
“This is why you’re forty and single.”
I’ve been having a hard time finding the right words.
When I learned that one of my closest friends lost her father very suddenly this weekend, I didn’t call her. I did keep in close contact with those who knew times for the services, names of funeral parlors and addresses where to send flowers, but I didn’t call Elle. Because I knew she wouldn’t want me to.
And what if she had? I’m fairly certain that had my dear friend been the kind to feel comfortable with emotional outpouring, I’d have done a terrible job delivering. Since receiving the news, I’d been over-indulging my own sentimentality – imagining how it must have been to have your loved one simply not wake up one morning. And I could not wrap my brain around that kind of grief. I felt dumbfounded and comfortless. What comfort, then, could I possibly be?
I caught a train from work yesterday afternoon and spent the hour and a half ride to Connecticut worrying that I didn’t know what I would say to Elle when I saw her. My sympathies ran deep, but any which way I tried to express them sounded trite. I walked quickly from the train station to the funeral home dodging puddles and car splashes, feeling mute and uncertain. And then sort of foolish. The moment I walked into that funeral parlor I understood all that worry wasn’t necessary, that the worst thing I could have done would have been to unleash upon her some perfectly constructed, sappy Hallmark sentiment. She didn’t want that sort of attention. Even hugging seemed awkward. What she wanted – and ultimately what she got – was for her friends to sit around on folding chairs giggling and telling stories.
Remember that time we…?
If laughter is inappropriate at a wake, it certainly didn’t seem so. It felt healing and frankly, the exact right thing to do.
Despite all the laughter and comfort of seeing so many beloved faces, I left Stratford feeling like my heart was worn too thin in a few places. I knew I would. So, back in the city, tired and with a headache pounding above my right eye, I left Grand Central and headed uptown. But not toward home. I didn’t feel like being alone where sad could find me too easily without distractions. I flipped open my phone.
“Hi,” I said, “You home?”
“Not yet—I’m about three blocks away. You?”
“About the same.”
“See you in a minute then.”
A few minutes later, we arrived at his front steps simultaneously. I had to smile. That kind of thing only happens in movies and cell-phone commercials. I'd made the right decision not going home. See, a good friend knows when you need to talk, and when you really just need to eat frozen pizza and watch the Gastineau Girls or Robbie Knievel – America’s Greatest Daredevil. A good friend also does not let you get tired and go home before dessert. When I left, I felt better. Less lonely, less overwhelmed. But still tired.
And cold. So I wimped out of waiting for the bus and hopped a cab across the park. A few blocks from home, a distressed cabby realized he’d not set the meter. He shrugged his shoulders and clicked it on. I understand, I said. It’s been a long day. And when we pulled up to my apartment, I dug the cash from my wallet – not the small sum on the meter, but what it usually costs for a ride from Ben’s house to mine, plus tip. The cabby seemed surprised.
“God bless you, dear,” he said as I climbed out.
“Um, okay. You too.”
You too? I shook my head, pushed open the courtyard gate and decided that this was one of those days when doing the right thing would have to count. Because when it came to finding the right words, I really wasn’t doing so hot.
Shhh. Don’t talk. It’s better that way.
Last night, I had a dream that I killed someone.
None of the actual violent killing part was in the dream (I can’t watch violence, let alone create it in my imagination) but my sister -- played by Miss Ari -- just knew I’d done it and told me so. That kid we’d passed in the subway earlier? Yeah, she knew I’d killed him, but that was okay. She wouldn’t tell.
I proceeded to freak out. I raced along the boardwalk (we were no longer in the city) to find the body. I didn’t want to go to jail, so I had to get rid of it. Then my mind wondered if there really was a god and if I was gonna be in deep shit when I died for having killed someone – a CHILD no less. I had no memory of it, but I was certain it was true. I had murdered a child, hacked up his body and hidden him in a tool box.
I woke up in a cold sweat and decided not to read CNN at work anymore.
I arrive feeling as though I’m going to meet the in-laws for the first time. Acutally, remember that episode of Sesame Street where everyone finally got to meet Snuffy? More like that. Exactly like that.
For the longest time, Ari’s parents have thought I was a figment of her imagination. Her Snuffalupagus. And so, to determine the extent of my ‘realness’, I’d been invited to Sunday brunch.
I show up wearing flip flops and a wilted white corsage that Ben found for me on the sidewalk earlier that morning. My hair is wild from a surprise morning rain shower and the cuffs of my pants, still wet from frolicking in the fountain at the Natural History Museum. Mr. and Mrs. Ari will soon see that I am real alright. A real piece of work.
Though, in the Piece of Work category, it must be said that I am seriously outdone. Ari’s parents are out of control.
Mr. Ari speaks with one of those accents that makes everything he says seem wise. Every story like scripture verse. “When we went to Norway,” he begins, and already my mind is preparing for a meaningful ending, complete with moral. When there is none (it is nothing more than a story about a hotel room television), I still feel wizened, like I’ve brunched on parables.
“This is what an immigrant looks like,” Ari tells me over the mozzarella and fresh basil. “And when they tell you that not all Middle Easterners are terrorists, you now see that is a lie.” She points, swooping a manicured finger up toward her father. “They are all crazy. Lunatics!”
Her mother has gotten herself worked up into a fit of laughter trying to tell me about a book report Ari wrote in the fourth grade. She can’t speak, except to use Ari’s nickname. I have armloads of new ammunition now. Family nicknames that sound like poodles or deranged hobbits. Stories about pool tables and porn.
Mrs. Ari paces a bit while we watch the baseball game. She pauses behind the chair where I sit and begins to play with my hair. I lean forward to let her have at all of it. The Yankees take the lead while she idling combs her fingers through my now-dry hair. I have been adopted for the afternoon.
We hug and cheek-kiss good-bye as Ari promises to remember my model number the next time she calls the Agency (I am no longer imaginary, but a rent-a-friend) and we foolishly decline her father’s offer of an umbrella. Half an hour later, rainsoaked and sniffling (I’ve pulled off the corsage – it made me headachey) we’re home at our common coordinates.
I love knowing where people come from. Prior to brunch, it was my ‘realness’ that was in question. But having passed the afternoon with her parents, it was Ari who somehow became even more real to me. At least in the sense that should I feel inclined to blackmail her, I’ve got a hell of a lot more to work with.
Twenty-five minutes ago, I was supposed to be meeting Stephanie for drinks, some fifty blocks from here. She’s without her phone, so the best I can do is shout across the Internet, “I’m sorry, Stephanie. I’m just way too phlegmy to come out tonight!”
My right eye is weepy, my nose is Kleenexed raw and I just woke up in a puddle of my own drool. If that ain’t glamorous, I don’t know what is. I have ordered a big bowl of Vietnamese noodle soup and shall be surprised if the delivery boy does not fall head over heels. Some beauty is quite simply, irresistible.
Sniff.
Last night, I took my mucous membranes (are you sufficiently grossed out by all of this snot talk yet?) down to the Lakeside Lounge, to watch the Smith Family ride off into the neon sunset. Had it not been their last show, and had my love for every single one of those fellas (and their respective significant others) not been what it is, I’d have been right where I am now. In bed, hiding out in a pile of wadded tissues and cough-drop wrappers.
But I went. Of course I went. This was my Smith Family. I’d been there for the unforgettable first show, and I’d be there for their last stand -- hopped up on double doses of Dayquil if need be.
My mind was swimmy from cold meds and an ill-advised shot of SoCo and lime (or two), so when I first heard Jen’s voice, I thought it was a mistake. But there she was, with Krissa, The Kate and Conrad – all out to catch the last shenanigans of the Smith Family. I responded to Jen’s how are you with “so, so, so glad to see you.” Nothing truer. I was surrounded with dear friends, and cheesy as it may sound, it makes it no less true to say that the audience last night felt like a big old family reunion.
The evening was bittersweet. The music, as always, was rockin’ and had the jam-packed lounge stomping and clapping up to (and right on past, if I remember right) the noise ordinance curfew. But if you hung around for a bit, you noticed the hugs got longer, the mood more somber as musicians huddled around, two-fisting Brooklyn Lager vowing, “This isn’t the end. There’ll be a reunion tour, man.”
A handful of us two-stepped in the glow of the jukebox. The band clown-carred themselves into the photobooth. And eventually, one by one, when the clock started to signal the obscene, early hours of the morning, they wandered off to their separate destinations. A few to Queens, one to the Upper West, and one, eventually off to Minneapolis. Kevin Anthony Smith, I will miss your guts out. You, too Miss Monica. And that’s not just the drugs talking.
C’mere you. I got a snotty kiss with your names all over it.
....take to standing outside your building every night serenading you with the melodic stylings of Kenny Logins.
Ari is threatening me with torture if I don’t blog soon (see above), so here’s what I’ve been up to:
I came back from my weekend excursion to Boston with a bit of a fever and a tickle in my throat. By Monday morning, the tickle was a burn and I felt like the kid from the throat-spray commercials.
It’ll hurt if I swallow. It’ll hurt if I swallow. Mommy!
I didn’t call out for mommy, but I did call in sick. I’m pretty sure the entire office thought I was playing hooky, what with the weather being as nice as it was. But glorious weather be damned, I did not move from my bed all day long. I did wake briefly to incoherently answer an email or two, or shift positions so my cough drop would get stuck to another part of my mouth, but then I’d doze off again with Sir Hal beside me.
By early evening, I was all slept out. I was feeling better and beyond happy to leave my coma for a few hours to accept an invitation to share Chinese food and comedy with Ben. We sat on the roof deck and I blah-blahed about my weekend in Boston (the bridal shower and birthday extravaganza, the man I’d met on the train) and got caught up on stories I’d missed from Saturday’s show. Who knew shooting the shit required so much energy? At ten o’clock, I was tapped – exhausted – and heading back home to bed.
There are folks who deal well with sickness. They go to work, buckle down and make it through the day without too much complaint. I am so not one of those people. I whine, I pout. I daydream about bed. I can turn even the most minor of maladies into the Black Lung. Or at least a viable excuse to eat ice cream for lunch.
Which I just did. So I guess it’s not all that bad.
My life, until a certain point, followed a road map created by the Almighty himself.
The Great Cartographer deals only in deep blacks and pristine whites and in twenty something years, I’d never made a mistake, never strayed. It’s actually very hard to make a mistake when there is Right, and there is Wrong, and your fear of God – curiously, not your love for him – kept you far, far away from Wrong.
But as frightened as I was of hell, I was more consumed with the pride of always being right. Piety had always been my safe harbor; armor for the self-righteous. And then, one Sunday I walked down the red brick steps of that church in Cambridge, threw off my armor and embraced a new geography:
I was moving into the Gray Area.
I knew what assumptions people made when I made that move, too. But my leap from faith had little or nothing to do with the strict, sometimes arbitrary commandments of the Mormon religion. In fact, a year or more elapsed before I even had my first drink -- an event which was followed in good time with my first co-ed sleepover.
Religion had not necessarily failed me. Certainly, there had been times I’d turned to God, pleaded for some favor which had gone ungranted, but even those instances had been explained acceptably as, ‘Sometimes, the answer is no.’ Religion had sustained me, given me someone to cry to when I hurt and provided me with rules by which to live. Obey the rules, reap the blessings. It was all very simple.
And then, I outgrew simple.
I remember sitting in the congregation, listening to that week’s answer to the world’s problems when the thought struck me quite plainly, Says who? And with that, I began to question everything. Not simply the existence of God (though it must be said that I still haven’t quite reconciled that for myself), but the existence of Right. God’s Law, it seemed to me, was unbending and yet I knew from experience that the world required more compromise.
My piety was a sham. And it was annoying. Furthermore, the idea that God had been getting all the credit for my hard work started to prick at me. The Lord Almighty took all the glory for my success in school, career and for every good decision I had ever made. Years of religious training taught me that credit for what I now call 'good instinct' was to be given to the Holy Spirit -- a notion that I now consider to be malarkey.
A level head, rational thought and the ability to crank out one hell of a pro/con list had been the reason for many of my successes, not the supernatural. Still, the day I turned my back, headed down those steps with no intention of returning, something in me flinched. What if I was wrong? What if I abandoned a God I wasn’t sure I believed in and my life took a downward turn? What if I actually failed at something?
I felt it keenly then as I do now that I have always sustained me. Additional support came from family and friends, but ultimately, strength came from within myself. I did not need to fear punishment in order to do the right thing. Friends and siblings have wanted to know the ‘why’ behind my lifestyle change and even felt insulted by my dismissal of things previously held dear. The best answer I can give any of them is that it just isn’t for me. I don’t know who this God is, or why I can’t accept “because god said so” as an answer anymore. I know me, though. I do good, I treat people well and I understand the reasons why I should. And none of them have anything to do the expectation of a reward in heaven.
It’s been five years since that day. I’m still waiting for failure and for the Almighty’s retribution. I don't expect it to come. Though I admit, there are still brief moments when I wonder how it’s all going to turn out.
“Where are you? Have you seen the moon?”
It was sometime around 10 last night. I was in my apartment and had, quite honestly, not given a single thought to the moon. I cradled my cell phone, chatting with Ben as I pulled on a sweatshirt and hastily tied a sarong. I couldn’t very well go to the roof in my knickers.
Unfortunately, the moon was hiding in the only piece of the sky blocked from my view. Ben’s suggestion? Get on the 4/5 to Grand Central, hop the L to Williamsburg and meet him at Laila Lounge. If I couldn’t see the moon, I might as well catch a rock show.
“I am not going to Williamsburg.”
After a long-ass day, I was pajamaed, in bed with Magnum and finally relaxed. I told him as much, wished him a good show and settled in for the night.
Ten minutes later, he tried again. And this time, he said the magic words, “I’ll pay for your cab.”
I’ve been hearing about The Nadas for months. Ben met Jason at Sundance, and has sustained quite the devoted man-crush ever since. Which, after spending last night with them, is not surprising in the least. The music (uploaded to my iPod this morning) is really only the half of it, though. There was a serenade to pizza, a hilarious journey home with Ben playing Tour Guide for our new friends.
“Skate or die, man. Skate or die.”
If you were walking the streets on our route from Williamsburg to Manhattan, the odds were that The Nada’s Mike hollered at you through the car window. Skater, hooker, midnight snacker. All were encouraged to skate or die.
Hours after I planned to be asleep, prepping for another ass kicking at the office, I was back home where I’d started. And despite being something of a control freak, I didn’t really even mind so much. Several really honest, pure performances (Ben’s Shiver was particularly touching) and so much laughing.
It was shortly before three o’clock when I accepted a slap on the wrist from Ben over the state of my apartment (I was not expecting company), munched a bowl of Mini Wheats and finally collapsed into bed.
I never did get to see the moon.
In its never-ending search for balance, The Universe started Monday off at a break-neck pace.
My head is spinning. And I suspect that all of this frantic racing around the office can only be some sort of sick retaliation for my lazy Sunday. I spent the entire day reclined (getting up only for more Frosted Mini Wheats) with a very handsome, mustached private investigator. In Hawaii.
I guess we did dodge a bunch of bullets and go swimming at least twice an episode, but imaginary exercise never counts.
A few weeks ago, Ben gifted me with Season II of Magnum P.I. I don’t think he understood that when I said, “wow, thanks!” I mean, “I’m gonna need some time alone.” I really can’t help getting all hot-n-bothered over that gorgeous, sensitive, gun-carryin’, Ferrari-drivin’ P.I. I love him. So much so, that when I woke yesterday, head screaming from too many cocktails the night before, I decided needed a little TLC from TM P.I.
And by 'a little,' I mean six hours.
Ordinarily, days in which I do not leave my apartment make me feel guilty and like I’m unwittingly suffering from borderline personality disorder. But when I have a goal…say, of watching the entire second season, it’s not a day wasted. It’s a study in culture, damn it. And it’s clearly what the baby jesus meant for his day of rest.
You know, except for the dirty thoughts about Tom Selleck.
I stood at the counter, one knee bent, my left toe tapping impatiently on the heel of my right shoe. I’d been waiting just a bit too long and I was feeling sort of irritated. But the angry little man in the dark suit had me trumped. He was yelling, saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth, channeling his inner Napoleon.
“This is the worst god-damned organization ever!”
I couldn’t help but stare at him. A fully grown man in a three-button suit throwing a full-blown temper tantrum at the gym. Beet-red in the face, he screamed a few more obscenities and then, in a bizarre and dumbfounding climax, balled up his towel and threw it in the face of a large, milk-did-his-body-good personal trainer.
My eyes widened as the trainer took a step forward. But just as things were getting good (‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you…’), my wait was over (‘here’s your card, miss’) and I turned to leave.
Two days ago, my gym changed towel services. In a city where massively important things happen with great regularity, you’d think that a simple switch in linen policy would go by without too much to-do.
You’d think. But you’d be wrong. Because all hell broke loose.
Old policy: Swipe your card, receive two medium size (and relatively useless as far as showering goes) towels and toss towels in basket on your way out.
New policy: Hand over your card, receive one small towel (for the machines) and one large bath-size towel (which handily enough, wraps all the way around the body, heavily reducing the chances you will see too much uninvited locker room nakedness), return the towels, get your card back and go on your showered merry way.
Let’s just say that on day one of the new policy, mistakes were made. ID cards were lost. Lines formed. Saliva bubbled.
Women in the locker room were plotting emails to CEOs, passing out fliers with 1-800 numbers. Men screamed and demanded things like refunds and managers. Me? I waited in line for my lost ID card and hoped they’d get the kinks worked out soon. It was a good-on-paper policy, and I had faith the Less Nakedness towels would prevail. While I may be a typically slow-to-anger kind of girl, I am the bitchy sort and would normally grab the opportunity to whine about The Man or The Bad Policy. But about towels?
I don’t know about the rest of those folks, but I have to save my energy for those crazy elliptical machines. I refuse to break a sweat even before I get to the locker room.
Forget that by the time I got home on Friday afternoon the Wash-n-Fold was open. Forget that all 37 pounds of clean clothes had been lugged up four flights of stairs (the elevator was, predictably, out of service again) and put away neatly in closets and drawers. A seed had been planted, and it was time to shop.
My sister had flown in for the weekend and had arrived with no other agenda than to spend quality time with her big sis. Now, that I could arrange. We didn’t see a single museum. Didn’t take the ferry ‘round the Statue of Liberty. Empire State? Nope. Because nothing -- and I mean nothing -- says quality time like pounding the pavement in search of the perfect summer dress. And shoes. And maybe some new frilly unmentionables.
Over the next three days, we also somehow managed to take in a movie, walk the length of Central Park, scarf some Gray’s Papaya, brunch with the girls in Park Slope and even take Ben up on his invitation to an early Sunday dinner. But that was all just icing on a big, fat shopping cake.
Mmmmmm cake.
I realized on Friday that, in the last five or six years, my sister Audrey and I have probably spent less than a week’s time together. That’s insane. And over the weekend, I grew a new appreciation for her ability to maintain comfortable silences, easy-to-please manner and love for a good long ramble through… the Ramble. She’s Mini-Me. But because of college transience, the years and geographic distance between us, I didn’t even know it. So really, had there been no marathon shopping, had we done nothing more all weekend than plant ourselves on my couch and watch Calendar Girls (yeah, we did that, too), it would have been pretty fucking fantastic.