The Message

Handsome and well dressed, his smile goes beyond ear to ear and approaches infinity. We met when I was 14 and he was 22. I received an early morning call from my mother informing me that he requested my presence at his 40th birthday celebration. Of course I would go.

I haven't seen him in years which is purely my fault. While inviting a friend to the party, I gave her a short, obligatory bio. I never remember the details of his condition. It make me uncomfortable to mention that my friend is wheel chair bound, and a paraplegic. It paints a unfairly grim picture and makes me feel as though I'm compartmentalizing him. He's not my handicapped friend. He's simply my friend. But since his condition makes it difficult for him to communicate, I do the obligatory bio.

Much grander than I expected, the party was a sit down dinner affair. Ignoring my apology for my jeans and sweater, Grace, the mother of the birthday boy, hugs and thanks me for coming. Seated at a table with familiar faces, I am embarrassed at how little time I have taken to keep in touch with certain people. True, I seldom do things I don't wanna do, but that is the mantra of the obstinate child I used to be and not of the woman I am becoming.

Grace sings a gospel song at the request of Tyrone (the birthday boy)- And no, I don't know it. My irreverence has loomed out of control. I keenly felt the spectre of my faith scrutinizing me as I listened.

"Don't pay me any mind little miss. I'm not here for the likes of you." It remarks primly.

But still, I am touched. I'm tortured, not heartless. *clears throat* Anyway. Her love for her son is evident. The entire room is full of love for Tyrone, the positive energy is dense and palpable. It seems to fill him up, leaving no empty spaces for irreverence.

The singing continues and at some point my father (stepfather) vanishes. His early departure surprises no one. After another song Grace comes over to our table and passes a cellphone around, displaying a text message for us to read.

"If you sing one more damn song, I'm gonna drive into a goddamn wall."

This message is from my father, the jerk and the cynic. We all laughed hysterically, Grace laughing the loudest. If anything his audacity heightened the spell that we were all under. That's the thing about faith.

Paper hearts/ Happy people

Paper hearts don't bleed but they do break easily. I don't know what possessed me to write this sentence. But what possesses me to do anything I do? My actions lately... Lately, I have been dancing on the top of a plateau.

Occasionally, I peek over the edges, don't like what I see, then step back and take a look around. I'm stumped. There seems to be no way to move vertically. Seemingly, I can move forward but eventually something's gotta give. I'm back at the edge again. Irritated by this wry conundrum, I wonder what's the point in even moving.

If I think hard enough, I know one person who's overtly happy with the current state of her life. She will remain unnamed. I wouldn't want her to be swamped with unsolicited inquires. I would bug her myself for the answer but I know that her "joy" is internal. The rest of us, we have to find our own. Unless we crack her open like a pinata and steal it but that's a bit extreme. Put down those sticks you savages! It wouldn't work anyway.

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." (Leo Tolstoy)

I don't necessarily endorse the first half of this statement. The second half is what I'm really after but even this portion requires further distillation. Every unhappy person is unhappy in his or her own way. This reduction is no brilliant feat but it is interesting how this works in practice.

• My discontent stems mostly from my lackluster career. (mostly)


• My friend with the fancy high paying job tells me that even though I'm unmarried, I should feel lucky that at least I have a child.


• Another friend who didn't finish school tells me that I should be happy because of my education.


• I tell my married friend who is also struggling with her career that she is lucky to have a loving husband and a beautiful home.


• Then I tell my single friend she should be happy that she has a rewarding career (and great boobs).


• My friend struggling to lose weight would tell all of us skinny bitches to shut the hell up.

And back and forth the circle of malaise continues with each one graciously counting the blessings of others, while rudely snubbing her own. Malaise is fast becoming the new angst. Granted, it's a less confrontational, panicky condition than angst but it still has many of the same pimply, uncomfortable existential undertones. I'm hoping that we will all grow out of it.

Seems simplistic but unless we figure out a way to switch lives, bodies and circumstances, then it's all I've got. Perhaps if I had a bigger budget I could make every one of you a personalized "It's a Wonderful Life" montage, so you could see how special you all are but fat chance. I can barely format this blog. It isn't much but I like the idea of fooling around with the prospect of happy people. It's better than fumbling around with the vagaries of paper hearts.

From now on

Allegedly, I drove through a few yellow lights as they were turning red. Don't jump to conclusions, I'm not a complete scofflaw. I would never intentionally speed through a red light. But yellow lights are a gamble and sometimes you lose.

The obvious consequence of losing is the associated fines. But is the extra aggravation, albeit free, necessary? I needed the citation numbers in order to pay the fines. I didn't have the citations, so I called for assistance and reached "Phyllis", an amalgamation of a dismissive government employee, and a prim Sunday school teacher, all judgment and dry manners.

The last thing I needed was Phyllys' lecture. Numerous notices were sent out regarding the violations. So what? I didn't have them. Moreover, if I cared about it eighteen months ago, I wouldn't have waited until today to call. Quite honestly, I still didn't care but I was compelled to pay in order to renew my tags.

I wanted to give Phyl a little lecture of my own. It would go something like this:

"Look here Phyl, ExX-CUSE me if I don't come to a screeching halt on yellow. Sorry if I tried to shave a few minutes off of my two hour commute by trying to make a yellow light or two. I ain't having a good week, month, or to be honest, a good freaking year. So wrap up the soliloquy, and give me the damn citation numbers." ( I hope my use of a familiar diminutive, and bad grammar indicates that I mean business).

I think I know how to manage my life (just trust me on this point) and regardless of my circumstances, paying extortionate fines is NEVER going to be a priority. On the bright side, I learned an important driving lesson. I am a financially conscientious woman, so no more casually driving through yellow lights. From now on, I will be driving through yellow lights much faster.

Gone

The problem with fireworks is that eventually they fizzle and fade. Washington is a small city, so it isn't surprising to run into the same strangers, and bump into the occasional tangential friends. I saw a stranger last night that used to be quite dear to me. It was a decade ago, pre-law school, pre-motherhood, pre-everything that's important to me now. I adored him. Last night there were no fireworks, which is good because he's now a married man and a father, and not the boy who had scratched my heart. It was supposed to be a minor wound, but it had taken years to heal. Maybe because I kept picking at the scab, finding excuses to make it bleed.

Though our embrace had been warm and genuine, the experience had been anti-climatic. I no longer thought of him, but for some reason I had thought of him recently. Randomly, I had a vision of a night, years ago, that I spent in his company. As usual, his behaviour had frustrated and confused me. Back then, he had been possessive yet unavailable. He owned me, enjoyed the power, but offered no reciprocity.

Last night, things were different. He no longer had a claim on me. He teased me about the absence of a wedding ring on my finger: "Come on man, what you waiting on?"

Eight years ago, he would not have asked me this question because we both knew that the answer would have been : "Come on man, I'm waiting on you."

We parted with a hug and the contact left me empty. Don't get me wrong, I am happy for him. More importantly, I am happy that there was no ambiguity. We no longer have a conflict as I could no longer offer adoration. Gone was the tension that had created the magical tendrils of fireworks.

I sipped my drink and thought about the burden of his former rejection and the inexplicable heaviness of it's absence. His behavior had been appropriate and respectful, but it bothered me that he still seemed physically attracted to me. Why had that aspect endured, while the others had faded?

Then I met a likable stranger who offered to buy me ice cream. I accepted. Admittedly, I am easily distracted. Furthermore, crushes come and go but I will always love ice cream.

What you see

I submitted the exactingly short story below to a website called Six Sentence Story. Turn six sentences into a story... My contribution is called "Painting Moments".

"Even pain can be pretty if applied properly with smooth, efficient strokes. Sitting on a magenta towel to protect the floor from possible stains, I wondered why I still cared about maintaining order, when it was obvious that my attempts were futile. The weight of the week's rejections had buoyed slightly as I glimpsed the glint of the small bottle at the bottom of my densely packed closet. Once again, I hadn't gotten the job, and once again, the man was ignoring me. My obligatory morning meditation had revealed nothing worthwhile, so I decided to act quickly before my mind changed. The first stroke brought crisp glossy red relief, and with eager hands, I painted my way from that less than perfect moment."

Flash fiction seemed to suit my impulsive nature. I desperately needed to write and it needed to be done quickly. So it was done. The response to my entry was equally swift. At first it was complimentary (I'll spare you the details).

Then someone commented:

"Oooo. I never understood cutting. I hope this is fiction."

Followed by:

"I share your disappointments, as I share them. Mostly, I hope your are Ok."

Then:

"I know two young ladies who did this. No matter how much comfort I gave them, they only concentrated on how they perceived the world."

My response:

"... I [am] astonished to see that I had been diagnosed a cutter. Perhaps it's my fault. I wanted to convey a sense of discontent and borderline dysfunction. But although the blood imagery was intentional it was not at all literal. I thought it was socially acceptable to bleed through writing."

The lady doth protest too much. I didn't owe any of these people an apology or explanation for writing a story about nail polish. Ironically, I had editted the story so that it would be obvious that I was talking about red nail polish. The original version was more ambiguously suggestive of cutting. Editting was a waste of time since the original tone remained. Somehow I thought I could sneak it in without anyone noticing. It was immensely satisfying to paint the picture but not at the cost of triggering a damn intervention. I just needed to let some things out with a few strokes.

Okay, I know that sometimes I creep some people out. My dark place shines brightly within me. I wander there often but it isn't on purpose. For me, it's peaceful there, dimly lit and sobering like a graveyard. I don't know how to be any other way and editting doesn't work. You see what you see. So let me bleed ( figuratively at least). If it bothers you, look away.

Flashy

In Reverie

Lost in a trance, isolated moments hold me together. I write in fragments, obscuring subjects, emphasizing actions, resenting adjectives and articles too. “Bird flew home.” Don’t care if you know the color, size, texture, variety. Just know it flew on its own volition. That’s the only thing that seems true.

Fifteen Minutes

Strolling, felt Jasmine, soft and brightly lit. Not to be confused with the muffled waves of lavender lurking hours behind it. It was too early for a celestial lavender mood. Steps preceding glances, the movement of strangers parting. No one is immune to the energy of the mid-day sun, straining to be noticed in the fragrant day.

Eventually

I’ll tear it off eventually. Although it is mine, I feel no allegiance to it; I honor no misplaced alliances. Technically, it’s the outsider not a part of me. On it's own, it changes, grows thicker, thinner. Conspicuously on the outside, it is merely a casing for a mangled sausage of blood and bones. The glossy cover on a poorly organized book of stories, nothing about it intimates the bizarre anthology within.

Of my father

Of my father, who passed away two years ago, I remember very little in regards to his physical attributes. My older brother is a very close mirror image, and my son's curly hair is a vague reminder. Of my father, I mostly remember temperaments, and moods; a lack of temper and mood is probably more accurate. Can't recall a raised voice, or a moment where his words were tinged with a negative infliction. His lack of excitability made him seem perpetually aloof. Overall, I enjoyed his company. As a loquacious child, I liked not having to compete for air-space. Our dealings were simple. I prattled, and he listened patiently, without interruptions.

He seemed to accept that I was going to do what I wanted to do. Not in disobedient way, but still in my own way. Whether that meant that he got barrettes in his hair, or that he would be eating flowers for dinner, it didn't matter. There was a level of acceptance in our relationship that I am just starting to appreciate 20 plus years later. My mother alternated between being a doting playmate, indulging my every whim and a petty dictator, who would not accept even the appearance of defiance. She had been blessed with a formidable will of her own. But still, she owned my heart. I adored her. Though unpredictable, she was beautiful, and vibrant, and the strong, silent type of a man just couldn't compete with that. No one could.

While I appreciated that my father let me eat ice cream for dinner, his smooth, melodic sense of unwavering sameness did not interest me. For the the last two years, I have been joking about developing daddy issues to commiserate his untimely passing, but it seems I've always had them. I'm starting to realize to the women in my life are my emotional anchors and that my emotional veneer is hard and macho despite the frou-frou shell. It's as though I'm an emotional drag queen, acting the part of "woman". It's convincing in the right light but some times my cues are off; especially when dealing with the opposite sex.

After I left Jamaica, my father and I rarely spoke. There was no animosity or malice, just a general air of indifference. I simply didn't think about him, and assumed that with him the sentiment was the same. After his death, I learned differently. Now, I suspect that he had remained distant because he had been hurt that my mother had taken me away. When we had waved goodbye at the airport twenty years ago, I had asked him not to leave until my flight took off. Despite the four hour delay, he had waited patiently in terminal, where I could see him through huge glass window.

I don't remember whether he said I love you that day. But now his actions ring loudly in my ears. Which makes me rethink my approach to loving, and acceptance. Or maybe my approach to accepting love.

Universal Discrepancies

I gave up coffee for lent in a characteristic fit of self-denial. In return, I had hoped for a surge of positive energy, a karmic pat on the back for a job well done. Instead, I got bronchitis, had a severe asthma flare up for the first time in seven years, followed by the flu and strep throat; it would have been a nice time to have health insurance. Since I hadn't been seriously ill in almost two years, I accepted that I had some of that coming.

But the spell of unemployment coupled with the foreboding letter from the IRS complaining that they found a discrepancy in my 2008 return? By time I found out that I had an even larger tax liability for 2009 (since apparently I'm required to report ALL the money I earned), I didn't really care about my rent increase, my malfunctioning computer or the engine light situation in my ride. I had already reached my overkill threshold and was still reasonable calm. Yeah, yeah, whatever, life is hard, gotcha. *wink* But then a family member had a potentially fatal medical emergency, and my control faltered. I began fantasizing about flipping the bird to the universe and many of its inhabitants.

It was like my friend's complaint about the movie "Precious". It simply was just too much. I just wanted tune it all out, which led to my spending a lot of time watching Looney Tunes, bonding with my kindred loser Wile E. Coyote.

I admit that I have no "middle". These circumstances reminded me that there is seldom balance in my life. My cup runneth over or I choketh on a cupful of dust. All the same, even with the delayed karmic gratification, I am apt to believe that small acts of self-denial are good for for me, good for everyone in general. Suffering is an inevitable part of life, so maybe if you pick your torment it is easier to bare than the pain inflicted on you by the unseen hand. But the hand is essentially the house in Vegas. It sees all, it knows all, and no matter how clever or lucky you think you are, it usually wins.

PBS ran a documentary on the life of Buddha last week. I have a philosophical crush of Buddhism; I associate it with a yummy, free-spirited, almost bohemian form of self-denial. Then the specter of "moderation" crept into the program, one of Siddhartha's first lessons learned during his six year long journey towards enlightenment. The universe seems really hung up on this principle, so begrudgingly, I embrace this assignment.

Still I wonder, what will I do with balance if I actually bother to find it? And where will I even put it? Perhaps on the mantle of a consistently organized, productive, and fulfilling life. BlaHhh! I'd rather choketh on dust.

Kindreds

My German shepherd Venus had been the smartest dog I had ever known. Though they shared the same parents, her sister Jamaica was only slightly smarter than a very stupid chew toy. Jamaica's bark was literally an inaudible "woof". Often when the other dogs barked ferociously at strangers, she would be turned in the wrong direction woofing unconvincingly at something random and wagging her tail. She was more of a gatherer than a hunter, and spent a prodigious amount of time collecting pebbles and leaves.

The Shepherds were funny, but our Rottweiler Black had been my favorite. My step dad brought him home, hidden in his jacket during a snow storm. The black fluffy mass of puppy couldn't walk so he scooted around like a baby learning to crawl. We adored him.

Then he grew bigger. Some would say he grew big and menacing. People were terrified of him. They noticed his huge head, and powerful jaw but no one took notice of his beautiful eyes or his gentle soul. He weighed more than I did by the time he was 9 months old but to me he was still the amorphous puppy ball. We wrestled (he held me down and chewed playfully on my shins), we danced to Wu tang Clan(he wiggled his body and shook his stump) and we talked.

Mostly I talked and he listened. Occasionally, I apologized for his stump and chastised him for trying to kill the trampy cat my mother had taken in. I disliked her as much as Black did, but mauling was not the solution. The mauling only made her look like a sympathetic victim, and she wasn't; she was a bully and she started the fight.

It was my first year at the prissy girls high school and things were changing. He listened, and knitted his brows, and he seemed to understand. We were kindred in an inexplicable way. He was the kindest soul I had ever met and by some perversion he trapped in a huge, scary body, and armed with formidable teeth. Back then, I was a ball of caustic sarcasm and angst trapped in a small, scowling body prepared to bare fangs. In retrospect, I was the one they should have found menacing.

Grounded

I delight in teasing the willful logic that keeps me tethered to its side.
Me:
"Let me go strange bedfellow."
Captor:
"What? And let you float away?"
Me:
"Your restraints are chafing me."
Captor:
"You think that everything that is necessary is chafing."
Me:
"But I want to be free."
Captor:
"Free to do what?"
Me:
"Stop asking me that. Told you already that I don't know."
Captor:
"You'll be free enough when you're dead."
Me:
"You don't know that. Besides, I told you I wanna be reincarnated as an flower. Maybe then I'll enjoy being grounded."
Captor:
"Don't get clever with me. Keep talking like that and I'm going to hug you harder."

Learning Happy

Learning happy. It's not instinctive for all of us. Some of us find it difficult, if not suffocating. I drove my son to school this morning, and listened patiently to usual complaints. He's a complainer, and a good one. Most of all I want him to be happy, so I interrupted his tirade regarding his friends telling lies, and about Tae Kwon Do lessons, and asked him to smile.

This request was met with confusion, as it should have been. Couldn't count how many times in the past people have burdened me with that seemingly innocuous request. Frankly, he had been perfectly happy complaining but I felt a maternal obligation to intervene, encourage him to be happy in a less annoying way. The smile was a more of a teeth baring grimace but it stopped his whining. This whine was the vestige of the one that had begun the day before at his grandmother's house.

He had not wanted to leave. I didn't want to leave but I had no desire to stay with the sun no longer twinkling. Plus I couldn't breathe. The dog hair flurries, ignited by the vacuum, irritated my airways. We had been lying down on the beloved new furniture, inhaling the newness that stood out among the weathered antiques. I was on the couch, Mom on the love seat, and boy in chair, or occasionally on the floor next to the chair. Rocko, the geezerly German Shepard, was trying in vain to rub me with his drippy nose; it was craggy from his ritualistic rooting in the dirt, and stones. No sane person would touch that nose on purpose.

"How old is Rocko," I asked my mother. He seemed naive and boyish for a dog his age.
"Thirteen, or fourteen."
"He's not that old. I think he's eleven."
"Rocko's older than me?" The boy interrupted.

I hardly noticed her vacuuming until I heard laughter and felt the upholstery hose pulling at my thigh. I hardly noticed her screaming at the hyper-active dog. PlAtZZ!

The dog seemed to think the command "to stay down" was directed at the boy, so I tried it. He ignored me. The new couch was a perfect place to watch the sunlight twinkling through the trees. A perfect halo for my easy ennui. I seemed to be the only one at rest. At that moment, despite the screaming child, barking dog, vacuum and woman, I was completely at peace, and floating lightly in the chaos. Then the noise diminished, and with it the sun began to wane.

"Come on, time for us to go. Your grandmother is trying to kill me."
"But I wanna to stay." Brows wrinkled, lips set.
"So are you gonna come with me to Atlantic City?" My mother asked. She could not have been more similar to the boy and I was their unlikely common denominator.
"What am I gonna do in Atlantic City? I don't even have a job."
"Can I go to Att-lantic City?" The boy asked hopefully.

I didn't answer him. Instead, I wondered if he would remember that day fondly. I wondered if he would remember that covered in dog hair and chaos, we had recognized happy.

Queue

After years of avoiding those annoying little Netflix pop-ups, I had an impulsive moment... Now I have a Netflix Queue. Normally, I hate queues because of the association with waiting, but in the interest of growing up, I've decided that having one less hang-up wouldn't hurt.

So what I have I been watching? Lots of things. Surprising because I thought I was too impatient and too slender in the attention span to watch movies on my own. I've been a co-dependent movie watcher for most of my life and I have never seen a movie in a theater by myself.

No desire to sit in the dark and stare at big pictures; provides no comfort in illuminating my real big picture, cloaked in darkness and uncertainty. So once again, in the interest of the growing up (which I suspect is fundamental to my big picture) I'm finally sitting down to watch movies on my own. I'm not ready for the theater but my couch has transformed from lackluster enabler to eager co-therapist.

During my therapy, I've rediscovered several movies that I love. One of my favorites is "Chungking Express". Saw this movie several times one summer, about 10 years ago. Moody, and subdued, it's simultaneously agitating and soothing. It's like a lullaby that repeatedly wakes you up and then soothes you back to sleep. But that's enough with the movie reviewing. I'll share my random thoughts with you about Netflix (and it's tangential role in the growing up) but not my opinions about the obscure foreign movies that I watch via Netflix.

Some things are better left unshared anyway. You try to share something that you find wonderful, and enchanting, and you are often greeted with the equivalent of a disinterested shrug, verbally, non-verbally, sometimes in writing.

And perhaps that's what you deserve if you go around pushing your opinions on people. Not only is it boorish, but it's quite wasteful. Keep them to yourself! Jealously guard them. They are tiny little pieces of your picture, and shouldn't be shared freely, not like the contents of your Netflix queue.

Funnel Cake

If I'm not obsessing about something (often food) it's a bad sign. As a general rule, I eat when my feelings range from happy, to normal, to so-so, and bored, with my appetite atrophying as I approach sad or discouraged.

I was feeling elated the other night, was suffering from a over-abundance of manic energy. It was president's day, and I had gotten home in less than two hours, which in my world counts as a reason to celebrate. The first thing that came to mind was donuts. It was already after 8 pm, so that likelihood of finding fresh donuts was very unlikely. Then I started thinking about funnel cake. I remembered my friend had made fried Oreos...dipped in funnel cake batter that she had whipped up with some seemingly basic ingredients.

Funnel cake recipes are deceptively uneasy. That is perhaps why normal people don't make funnel cake at home. It's public food, usually shared, and there's something taboo about making for yourself at home on a Monday night. I should have been ashamed of myself, but I've long accepted I have no dignity when it comes to food. My search of online recipes yielded several promising options. The Food Network's Alton Brown had a recipe that deviate from the standard by almost a entire stick of butter. I doubted that funnel cake contained a pound of butter. This seemed to be the consensus of some disgruntled foodies that pointed out that the recipe was a Choux recipe (dough for eclairs, beignets etc) and NOT funnel cake. I also learned from these rants that funnel cake is essentially deep fried pancake batter.

How long did it take me to formulate the plan to deep fry pancake batter? Sadly not long enough.

Three minutes later I was heating up a gigantic pan of oil and transferring pancake batter into the bottle I would use to replicate the pouring of the funnel. But the oil wasn't hot enough. My heart sank along with the batter to the bottom of the pan before puffing and rising to the surface. No desire, or need to taste it to tell that the whole thing was a hot steaming oily mess. This fat bloated wretch of a funnel cake was quickly discarded; but I wasn't done yet, I was happy and determined so I improvised with funnel cake strips. Flavor and texture were good, but still way too oil; sick to your stomach oily. I had wolfed down two, making my digestive tract literally a slippery slope.

The deed was done, the mess was made, and my craving for funnel cake had been smothered in oil, fried up and quickly discarded. Despite the imperfect results, I'm still worried that I may become proficient at making funnel cake. All it would take is one good day to send me hurtling over that greasy edge.

Telling Time

I spent a total of 6 hours commuting to and from work yesterday, in order to work a pathetic 6.5 hours. Frankly, a waste of time, all of it, the working and the commute.

On the bright side, my 4 hour odyssey home gave me an opportunity to think about some important things. For example: What is the DMV's snide equivalent of the term "Bridge and Tunnel"? Perhaps something to do with this anathematic Beltway I'm always hearing about. Which reminds me, witnessed a masterful piece of road rage last night, a stunning display of misplaced frustration. Kinda like when that Haitian guy beats up the hooker on YouTube (Do a search of Haitian vs. Hooker if you really must know).

It's becoming increasing difficult for me to distinguish time well spent from time spent foolishly. My labor was technically paid, but has long alienated and certainly not my own. While my 6 hours of commuting were unpaid but wholly my own time to think, to talk (not to myself but to my passenger).

This idea is contrary to my normal, rather anal conception of time. Very droll, and sand in the hourglassy, this concept of linear time. Every moment experienced is a moment instantly lost, or so I suspected but wasn't certain. Unfortunately, my research on the subject was stymied when the rules of thermodynamics came into play.

Thermodynamics: a confusing and ironically time consuming subject to learn via wikipedia.

Precarious

The founder and designer of the Alexander McQueen brand was found dead today, sadly his death an apparent suicide. The avant-garde genius is gone. Good or bad, all of our lives are ephemeral. Genius appears to be more so because it dances closer to the edge of the unknown. Often it falters and falls in.

For those of us firmly entrenched on the land, far from the precarious shores of fame and greatness, it's easier to pretend that we are more substantial.

My stepfather, the mortician with the morbid sense of humor, thought it was funny to pick me up from school in a hearse, slathering yet another layer of childhood trauma onto my delicate psyche. "What's the big deal? You're gonna die one day you know." This did nothing to alleviate my irrational fear of death. I now equate my fear of death with my fear of the dark... of the void, of the nothingness. No feeling, no light, no joys or pain. Couldn't live like that but of course I would be dead.

Used to have a bad habit of looking at my reflection compulsively in mirrors, in car windows etc. This was interpreted as evidence of a profound and offensive vanity; this interpretation was only partially true. Seemed more embarrassing to admit that I had not learned the concept of object permanence, had not learned that my physical being was not the sum of my insignificant existence. Mirror or no mirror, I was there. And here I am being a downer.

Sweetest Taboo

Downloaded Sade's Soldier of Love album yesterday, and I'm still picking my way through the songs. I seldom buy albums but I felt obligated to buy this one. Partly, because I have a raging non-homosexual girl crush on Sade Adu. I wish she were my mother so she could sing me to sleep. It's possible, after all, she and my mom are the same age. But my mother would never indulge me with singing. Her indulges are more of the material kind, and her baby girl has always been jonesing for the soul.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of illicitly watching Sade's "Sweetest Taboo" video while I was supposed to be sleeping. She wore red lipstick (a given) and stood in front of a huge glass window with tears softening the surreal beauty of her face, making her not just captivating but also amazingly real. Didn't understand what she was singing about but she became real to me.

I got in trouble for staying up late that night. I also got in trouble because I had been caught sleeping with my pillows over my face. I was a repeat offender. It seemed to me that my mother was unduly concerned with the possibility of my suffocating, about my mortality in general. What did she know? My pillow cocoons kept me safe from the dark. And the light which I gained (the light headed euphoria I experienced) was simply a bonus.

Ten years later, I was still surreptitiously building pillow cocoons while listening to my Mama Adu. By then I was in college, and the purpose of the cocoons had been inverted; created specifically to produce darkness, not to escape it. Back then I couldn't get enough of this darkness. Eventually I stopped. Then unexpectedly, as I approached my thirtieth birtday, I suddenly had a desire to once again taste darkness. My darkness?

For months I became consumed with the desire to spend my birthday on the couch with a pillow over my face. Of course, it didn't happen as I imagined. After 20 minutes, it felt pointless if not ridiculous. My cocoon felt neither protective nor insulating, just melodramatic and self-indulgent.

Yesterday morning, I was lying in bed and my son came in to check on me. He is of the morning; bright and sunny is his disposition. He inquired about Wilbur, the polar bear he had given me to sleep with.

"He's right here," I muttered, pulling it from the waves of rumpled bedding.

This seemed to please him. After a few minutes of snuggling and polite chatter, he was leaving me to build a zoo. Fine. He has his life, I have mine. Before he left, he adjusted my blanket and made me spoon Wilbur, who was now our shared substitute baby. He finished his doting ministrations by gently placing a pillow over my head. Strange because I try not to be overtly weird around the kid. Guess some things are inherently genetic. My son, my sun.

"Can you breathe?" He asked while wiggling his loose front tooth.

"Yes." I inhaled and indeed I felt the light.

O ye of limited self-awareness

"Nobody will love you like I love you." Which I now realize is far from a selling point to a man. Makes sense. This strategy of loving has certainly never endeared anyone to me.

I'm starting to think that it's my fault that I'm single. I had lunch with my friend the other day. She's hilarious, charming and kind. Lets call her Grace. Her marriage is fascinating to me. They are happy. They are settled. They don't seem to be bored, or play acting. This is a rarity. I don't know many marriages that are held together by more than routine, unwholesome co-dependency or obligation (or perhaps that's my uncharitable take on it. I'm certainly not an expert).

While we talked at lunch, I had an epiphany. I've been single for the better part of three years. And I realized that if Grace's marriage were to end (heaven forbid) her "three years later" would look very different from mine. I doubt she would be single. But we aren't so different. We are both foreign born,and raised in the suburbs of Maryland, partied at the same hole-in-the-wall-pre-gentrification nightclubs of DC. Both have an unhealthy obsession with coffee, ice cream and cake. So what's the diff?

Oh ye of limited self-awareness. I've made this remark jokingly a thousand times, but it's not so funny when it applies to me. When I'm being whimsical, I like to blame Turgenev. Turgenev's novella "First Love" was my first real introduction to Russian literature, and those Russians do a magnificent unrequited love and suffering. Okay, fine. I will stop trying to divert you with Red Herrings.

I don't have an explanation or an apology ready. Sometimes I don't know what I'm supposed to be apologizing for. "Why are you single?" was once sweet and flattering but now it has a connotation of judgment. Perhaps I deserve to be judged. One of my male friends told me recently that I remind him of the title character "Summer" from "500 days of Summer". REally? I remind you of a fictitious, callous, flakey, emotionally unavailable woman-child? Sadly there is a tiny grain of truth there. Second epiphany: it's not a coincidence that I'm a magnet for emotinally unavailable men. Birds of a feather.

"But I had a very bad break up," I could whine, but I know it's not about anything external. That's just another Red Herring. I think the first line says it best. For what it's worth, I'm not callous or fictitious, just a flakey, emotional unavailable woman-child thank you very much. And that's all the explanation and apology you'll get.

Loads and loads of it

An ad hoc snow removal committee gathered this afternoon on the frozen tundra that used to be our parking lot. I'm not a planner by design. Many of my actions are formed intuitively and snow removal seemed to fall under this same rubric. So after several minutes of complaining on the phone to my mother (her princess was after all in distress), I was at a complete loss of what to do.

The plow trucks had created a 5 foot tall impenetrable wall of snow around my car; essentially a snow cozy from hell had eaten my car. The president elect of the snow committee sauntered over to me, introduced himself and offered his condolences. Yes sir, it was a shame that they had plowed me in. And yes, I did have a lot of work to do. And yes, it would be much better if I had a shovel because my sponge mop was not quite getting the job done. A carpenter is only as good as his tools but it certainly wasn't the poor hapless mop's fault that I sucked at shoveling.


I guess Mr. President meant well; eventually, he produced a shovel, which meant it was time to start shoveling, which was of course bullshit. Shoveling bullshit. Loads and loads of it.


It was at this point that a neighbor kid offered to help me. And all he asked for in return was $50 dollars. I laughed openly at the ambitious little upstart. After all, he already had his parents' cars to dig out. I didn't commit to a specific dollar amount. I mean, who was this kid fooling? Plus, at this point I finally had a back up plan.

Screw you snow! So what if I didn't have a boyfriend to do my shoveling? My best friend has a boyfriend who is young, strong, and very eager to please. For the past two years, he had been competing with me for her love, but good naturedly. And since it made her happy, he helped me graciously.

Captain Boyfriend arrived just in time. I was just getting to know Neighbor Kid. He was hustling up money to pay for his Boost mobile phone. Sometimes it's best not to know too much about your neighbors but neighbor kid was a fascinating geyser of mannisms. He explained that he had been compelled to help me. It wasn't right that a woman should be shoveling snow by herself, and it was a shame that none of the other men had offered to help me. As he chattered on amiably, I laughed at his boyish audacity.

The snow committee was still standing (literally standing around) because apparently they needed a plan. Neighbor Kid and I scornfully agreed that they were wasting time. Just shovel it. Captain Boyfriend had transformed into a human snow plow, and had demolished at least one third of my snow cozy, while the committee (about 8 people) had accomplished nothing. To be honest, Neighbor kid and I were only shovelers in theory. We were easily distracted and took to throwing snow around and climbing on top of things.

Eventually, Neighbor Kid decided that it would be a good idea if I helped him dig out his mom's car. Again I laughed. Of course I would help the adorable little chauvinist. I am a woman, and a mother, and more importantly, I am bigger than the ambitious upstart.

Captain boyfriend finished digging me out, and didn't even have the decency to complain about it. He refused my offer of homemade cookies. When I took him to the gas station, he offered to pump my gas, and tried to pay for my gas with the money I was forcing him to take in payment.

I was starting to admire Neighbor Kid and his ulterior motives. The kid had me on the hook for cash, and chicken nuggets from McDonald's, and this was after I helped him dig out. Then Captain Boyfriend revealed that Neighbor Kid thought that I was pretty, and that he hadn't appreciated Captain Boyfriend's interfering. Now THAT disturbing, ulterior motive, I had not suspected.

When I returned to the parking lot, the committee had just started the actual digging. They were still talking about how dire my situation had been earlier, and throwing the hardening chunks of snow in the street. I heard Mr. President bragging to my neighbor (fake flower patio-garden lady to be exact) how he had loaned me the shovel. I shook my head. Mr. President was finally shoveling loads, and loads of bullshit.

Setting in

Everyone has setbacks. Some are no more than small minor irritations that collect like dust on the surface of our lifes. Others are like avalanches. They bury, they smother, they suffocate. The loss of a parent, the splintering of a seemingly airtight relationship. Doesn't matter what it is. We all have our problems to deal with.

I have been checking the mail anxiously for the last week. Been waiting on a check, the return of the downpayment on I house I almost owned. The house I almost got my hands on. Major setback, but I am not disappointed. Waiting for disappointment to set in and it hasn't. I tried my best. I did everything that I was supposed to do, and it didn't happen. Don't really understand why it didn't happen but I accept it.

And this acceptance bothers me. Never been one for denial and suppression of feelings. Always been a confrontational rile against the universe kind of girl. But this is different. This is a calm, ruthless kind of acceptance and I don't know what to do with. Perhaps I've finally ran out of ammunition. Perhaps the universe is finally sick of my tantrums, and my belly-aching about what I deserve. Lots of people deserve more than what they get. And I certainly don't deserve anything more than anyone else. Haiti comes to mind. Haiti with its innumerable sufferings.

Oh well, so this setback didn't give me the nasty little burn my inner masochist is craving... As I sit in my nice safe home (albeit rented), I don't feel disappointed, just grateful for everything else, and that is what is finally setting in.