Mental Inertia

use it or lose it

2009-11-13T19:27:00.011-05:00

This is the 3rd Friday the 13th this year. Apparently three is the maximum number to have in a 365-day period. While I'm not paraskavedekatriaphobic, I can't help but recognize that this is another example of how 2009 has been unequivocally unprecedented. And what a nutty month November has been so far too.

Things to remember and consider more when a little additional time passes:

1. I spent 18 hours in a state of shock and disbelief between the phone call from my doctor telling me the lab sent her delayed results from my visit over two months ago and I tested positive for something, and the phone call with an apologetic explanation that in fact she'd mixed up my lab results with someone else's.

2. I got my second speeding ticket in 19 years of driving, because I didn't know that the Palisades Parkway is a speed trap. If knowing is half the battle, knowing=$60 and the battle=$120.

3. I couldn't tell if I was being mocked or flirted with or both because I'm skeptical of people's motives, and a wolfish smile is just too freaking hard to interpret.

4. I now recognize that it's not early onset of incontinence, but rather the fact that I consumed three coffees, two Diet Pepsis, and an apple juice before getting in the car for four hours and needing to stop twice.

5. I am loved.

Halloweezerthon

2009-11-02T16:33:00.007-05:00

I'm still tired from the weekend. Friday happened. Then Saturday, when I finally ventured into the real world again, I watched the first wave of trick-or-treaters doing their annual sugar crawl down Broadway's storefronts. I grew up in the suburbs, so it’s funny to see costumed kids making the rounds in liquor stores, nail salons, delis, Dunkin Donuts, Lens Crafters, pizza places, bars, retail shops. My sister said she even saw some kids going into the sex shop on Amsterdam Avenue. “Trick or treat” indeed.

Later, at my third consecutive concert of the week (Blondie, Chargertron, Weezer), I thought it was hilarious to dress as a whorticulturist, and Tammy rocked it as a Robert Palmer girl. We marveled at the audience full of sexy cats, sexy Ghostbusters, sexy nurses, sexy cadets, sexy witches, sexy fairies, sexy bees, sexy angels, sexy Dorothys, sexy Snow Whites, sexy pirates, sexy zombies...

After seeing the umpteenth girl teetering in stilettos with thigh highs and some campy get-up, Tammy asked what would the most inappropriate costume to make sexy. I thought for a couple seconds and rattled off sexy undertaker, sexy breast cancer survivor, sexy AIDS baby, and sexy pedophile. She didn't play along which was weird since the game was her idea.

Marathon Sunday was awesome. I watched from a spot between Mile 12 and Mile 13 in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. It's so incredible to see all sorts of people fulfilling a goal. They (and my triple-marathoning sister) inspired me to participate 5 years ago, and even if I never run another marathon, it's nice to know that I can and did. The Achilles Track Club makes me cry without fail. I watched one woman running with two guides, and the sign being held stated: Seiko, 75 years old, blind, 12th Marathon. She finished in 8 hours. It's amazing to consider how many of the 40,000 participants of the the 2009 ING New York City Marathon finished after Seiko.

one way or another

2009-10-30T17:14:00.005-04:00

I had a couple of Full Circle moments this week. Most notably, I saw Blondie play a totally satisfying concert at the Brooklyn Museum of Art in honor of the Who Shot Rock & Roll exhibit opening. I tried to see Blondie in concert in Brooklyn a couple of months ago, but my new friend’s predilection for Nathan’s hot dogs thwarted my plans. This time, there were again hot dogs involved; Perhaps as a nod to Game 2 of the Phillies/Yankees World Series, the private preview for museum members was graced with standard stadium grub including pretzels, popcorn, beer, wine. I enjoyed my weiner with relish.

lullabye of broadway

2009-10-21T23:56:00.014-04:00

Tonight I saw Superior Donuts, written by Tracy Letts and starring Lenny. He has a real name, and a legacy of performances besides This is Spinal Tap I can never remember, but he'll forever be Lenny to me. It was a great play. Different enough from August: Osage County that it only makes sense to say Superior Donuts is relatively gentler. Letts is a terrific playwright. At one point, young Franco says to Arthur (Lenny), "You know what my dad told me? Never. Stop. Moving." It was perfectly uttered by a 21-year-old down on his luck, yet optimistic, quickwitted, and enterprising, to an almost 60-year-old ex-hippie proprietor of an ancient doughnut shop in desperate need of a new lease on life.

I've been putting my TDF subscription to good use this season:
Finnian's Rainbow - shlock.
Oleanna - still remains for me Mamet's most awkward and frustrating dialogue even after 16 years of watching a variety of Mamet productions.
Next to Normal - awesome and original, with only one dumb scene near the end.
After Miss Julie - Sienna Miller is just gorgeous, but her character is annoyingly bi-polar.
Brighton Beach Memoirs - slower than it needs to be.

Fingers crossed a ticket comes through for me for The God of Carnage before the cast change on November 17th...

Six months is a long time.

2009-10-18T11:32:00.008-04:00

To his Khoi mistress

2009-10-10T09:45:00.017-04:00

My best bud is having a boy. She was going to be surprised at the birth, but nobody could help but notice the blurry appendage on the sonogram. I told her that I hoped it was indeed a boy and not a girl with droopy labia. I thought this was funny. So funny, that I told my friend Kiersten, and she schooled me on Saartjie Baartman, one of the most famous of the Khoikhoi tribe, renown for their steatopygia and Khoikhoi curtain (sometimes referred to as the Hottentots Venus).

I learned all about Saartjie, who went by Sarah while traveling as a medical oddity cum sideshow act in early-1800s Europe, while at a ridiculously reasonable and tasty dinner for three at Shanghai Kitchen. We ordered Szechuan cabbage with shredded pork rice cake, shredded pork and preserved cabbage over rice (different enough from the rice cake dish), eggplant in garlic sauce (my favorite), veggie chow fun, and xiǎolóngbāo for a grand total of $21.50 including tip. We left $30. Shanghai Kitchen has a dumb waiter that delivers the food from mysterious fathoms below - reminding me of the old joke about one kitchen in Chinatown - and into this same elevator shaft the waiters toss down the scribbled orders on a pad of paper attached to a super long chain. It's like dinner theater.

Walking uptown from Chinatown, we overtook three Russian girls wearing heels so high I fervently hoped they didn't have a calcium deficiency - one misstep and they'd snap an ankle. They were like The Three Little Twigs. I particularly gawked at the one teetering on 6" blue suede platform stilettos. It occurred to me that I could so easily mug her. Two guys outside a corner bar on West Broadway failed to get their attention and consoled themselves by loudly declaring, "Whatever. They're lesbians." I clapped my hands and squealed, "Oooh, I hope so!" The misogynists laughed at that, and I replied, "And here I am wearing car mocs..." Kiersten and I had to explain to her husband why we thought that was so funny.

I'm gonna git you Sukkah

2009-10-04T23:25:00.019-04:00

Today began unexpectedly. I managed to get to synagogue on time (!) at 9:30am, and I wore my running clothes so that I could go straight to the park after the expected 20-minute service. Not being a Good Jew, I didn't realize it was Sukkot [pronounced sue-coat], and so when I entered the sanctuary and was handed a Chumash, I realized there would be a torah reading. Upon further inspection, I saw people carrying lulavs in special long, thin, clear bags. Plus, the fresh, lemony smell of etrogs filled the space. Three hours later, still in my running clothes, and having shaken the lulav multiple times towards the East, South, West, and North and having paraded around the temple in my dri-fit and lycra while surrounded by everyone else in their Sunday best, we finally got to recite the Mourner's Kaddish at 12:15pm.

At one point, a fibrous knot came undone from my sister's lulav, and I put the long fronds and leaves back together. Her daughter stage whispered, "See! She really does know everything." Ha. I stayed for the traditional grape juice and challah kiddish so that I could see my niece's contributions to the Sukkah's interior decorations. I immediately located her carefully patterned beadwork dangling from the branches in the ceiling. If I didn't already know the agricultural holiday of Sukkot signified the celebration of the harvest and involved wielding the lulav and eating in the Sukkah, I'd think it was all nuts. But I judge too easily.

During my stint at a Catholic school, I sat in on weekly liturgies and masses for all sorts of holidays. Once during a Prayer of the Faithful, the leader included a nod to the Jews around the world and mentioned that we were celebrating "Suck it." After an uncontrollable snort, I managed to contain my laughter if not my glee.

Hours later at our increasingly often family Sunday dinner where we all enjoyed Jake's lasagna, I took over during bathtime and washed my niece and nephew's hair. It is still one of my favorite things to sing to them while sudsing their locks. Those kids are the best. I stayed to watch Marley & Me, and was pleasantly surprised, yet a weepy mess, by the end. I want a dog.

trouble me

2009-09-27T12:42:00.016-04:00

I enjoyed yet another drenched run this morning. The cold rain and my hot sweat, combined with my weakened immune system, should ensure walking pneumonia - or running pneumonia - in no time.

Mid-route, an older couple stopped me for directions on West 65th Street as they didn't know how to get to The Met on East 81st Street. After righting their upside-down map, and explaining that most lampposts are marked with the street address, I told them to follow the path below Sheep Meadow to the East side and then walk North along the road from there. The wife had noticeably shaky hands, and the man had centimeters of hair tufting beyond the perimeter of his nostrils. It took effort not to stare or tear it out with my fists. I marveled internally at the irony of being across the street from Tavern on the Green's famous "Menagerie of Topiaries" and briefly wondered what shapes could be carved out of his nasal tumbleweeds.

Yesterday morning, en route to volunteer in Harlem, I helped a husky blonde frat boy make his way back to Hobroken from West 106th and Columbus. It gives me faith that strangers, albeit desperate strangers, will approach me for help, though I'll help almost anyone do almost anything. Often, I help because I can. Sometimes, I help in order to nullify my guilt. Occasionally, I assist someone grudgingly, and containing the resentment is a process I've been working on. Once, someone told me I was the best friend he'd ever had based on my help. I thought that was sad for a variety of reasons.

in the circle game

2009-09-23T23:27:00.026-04:00

It's late September and a few weeks since I've been back at school. My tan lines are almost fully faded. Though summer is officially over as dictated by the calendar, it's supposed to be 83 degrees tomorrow. Last week it was in the 60's. This bi-polar weather is hurting my sinuses, and so is my lack of sleep. I've been burning the candle at both ends professionally and socially. And I just sneezed three times in a row. And I've got an unquenchable thirst. When I get thirsty, two things happen; I know I'm getting sick, and I'm reminded of one of my favorite jokes.

A Russian walks into a bar saying "I'm tired and thirsty! Vodka!"
An Irishman walks into a bar saying "I'm tired and thirsty! Guinness!"
A Greek walks into a bar saying "I'm tired and thirsty! Ouzo!"
A Mexican walks into a bar saying "I'm tired and thirsty! Tequila!"
A Frenchman walks into a bar saying "I'm tired and thirsty! Wine!"
A Jew walks into a bar saying "I'm tired and thirsty! Diabetes?"

Earlier, I attended a 10pm minyun at an Orthodox temple nearby. My older sister has been dedicated, loving, respectful, responsible, and dogged in her pursuit of well-timed services to accommodate her daily routines and kaddish duties. Five months down, seven more to go.

While flipping through the siddur at tonight's session, I came across a page of blessings. There were prayers for lightning, thunder, rainbows, dutiful kings, good news, bad luck, the first flower of spring, outstanding Torah scholars, and my favorite: A blessing "upon seeing exceptionally strange looking people or animals." The Hebrew essentially translates to, "Praised our you, our Lord and God, King of the Universe, who makes the creatures different."

Today was nuts. Somehow, I'm still awake, but I'm hoping the sheer amount of sugar I consumed in the last 16 hours will eventually wear off, and the crash will put me into a stupor in a matter of minutes. Though I think I may have wrecked my chance to fall asleep at a reasonable hour, as I just polished off a bag of salted seaweed rice crackers. Only after tilting the bag into my mouth to swallow the last of those stubborn corner-clinging intensely flavored crumbs did I bother to look at the nutritional information on the back. 140 calories per each of the (anticipated) 6 servings. Great.

eat on down, eat on down the road

2009-09-13T21:52:00.015-04:00

Last night, Aparna's mother prepared an Indian foodfest in honor of my oldest friend's birthday. While Aparna is a gifted epicure, capable of magically whipping together sometimes seemingly incongruous ingredients, clearly her culinary gifts are genetic. I've been raiding their refrigerators for twenty years. Her birthday dinner included numerous dishes (potatoes, salmon, shrimp, aloo, lamb, fried rice, rasgulla, ice cream cake...), but the feeding frenzy truly began with chop, an incredible combination of beets, potatoes, nuts, cinnamon, and love. I ate more than my share, the last two with chutney on top. The chutney and the company made them taste even better; I crowded around the serving platter with friends and family that have been a part of my story for 10 to 35 years.

Today, I gorged on cheesesteaks and Slurpees with three generations of my gene pool. Viva la difference. I also ate handfuls of Peanut Chews (my father's favorite). There's a bowl of them in the Dining Room, and I eat my way to the bottom every visit home. My mother talked about selling the house. Even without his clothes in the closet, everything is a reminder anyway. Still, it seems better to remember than forget.

labor of love day

2009-09-07T23:22:00.001-04:00

Tonight, as I entered the subway station at 14th Street, I noticed an old man swiping his Metrocard repeatedly and ineffectively at the turnstile. The digital display kept flashing "Insufficient Fare," but he doggedly passed his card through the slot again and again. Not knowing if he was illiterate, vision impaired, or simply special, I interrupted him with, "Oh, it says your card is empty. Here, let me..." I slid my own Metrocard through his lane, watched him nod and mumble and shuffle through the turnstile, and wished him a goodnight.

peace, love, and understanding

2009-09-03T23:09:00.007-04:00

Saturday, I went to services with my family to say Kaddish for my father. Rachel made the mistake of calling it Kiddush. After the immediate and scornful simultaneous shout of "Kaddish!" from everyone else in the car, Rachel shouldn't be making that mistake anytime soon. One is a prayer of remembrance for the departed and one is a foodfest with challah, wine, and whatever else the congregation's kitchen fairies rustle up.

We arrived late to synagogue and caught the tail end of the rabbi's sermon. He summarized the Haftorah portion of the week from Isaiah 54:1-10 with: "It can be made good again." He called us prisoners of hope, as the last page has yet to be written. He said that God said, "My love for you will never end, and the covenant I share with you will always be a blessing." Lordy, sometimes it's so tempting to believe. In a roomful of followers, it takes effort to doubt, ignore, question, sneer, resist. This doesn't make me a better person.

I spent a chunk of last weekend and this week reminding myself that my mother gave me life. Unfortunately I wasted a larger amount of time angry and impatient and incapable of remembering what she is going through and that she defines her life through her children. If someone asks her how she's doing, she'll explain, "Amy is at the beach, Karen is busy in the city, Jeffrey is engaged, Rachel is a doctor, and Billy is in college." When I start doing that with my cats, I'm going to kill them. Or myself.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

2009-08-26T11:24:00.001-04:00

Last night, I watched hours of reality television on OPC (Other People's Cable) including Fox's More to Love. At the end of the episode, Kristian weepily blubbered about her devastation that she didn't receive a ring symbolizing an invitation to stick around. Thus, the 26-year-old substitute teacher from New Jersey would be returning to life as usual rather than looking forward to a lifetime of snuggling up to Luke's man-breasts. She says she deserves her happy ending. I figured she would feel right as rain again if she settled on a Happy Ending Sundae from Friendly's.

I woke up this morning humming "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da." This happens. I usually have a song stuck in my head, and often I change the lyrics to accommodate whatever situation I find myself in. The words flow more easily when I've had a Yuengling or two. Last month, my sister told me about her mediocre dinner at Bon Jovi's The Blue Parrot in East Hampton. At the time, she said the Tex-Mex food was bad, really bad. I asked her if she sang Bon Jovi songs throughout the meal and then immediately burst into, "Your food is like Bad Mexican! Bad Mexican is what I eat!" Weeks later, her 6-year-old daughter busted out those lines while in the car to buy clams for dinner. This is my legacy.

Anyway, I threw on my running clothes and headed out the door without first checking the weather on NY1. It was raining, but I forged ahead and splashed through 5 miles of Central Park. Two things stood out during my run: First, I glimpsed a blimp circling Times Square and didn't immediately assume god was laughing at me. Second, as I ran past the Southeast corner of the park, the carousel was playing an organ version of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da." This happens too. Full circle.

planes, trains, and automobiles

2009-08-16T23:51:00.026-04:00

There are a couple of weeks to go before work rears its ugly head again. Luckily, I love my job, but as I verbalized last night, I'd just rather not have to work. So I can have more weeks like this last one. It was pretty rocking, full of great meals, travels, live music, and memorable encounters; During the summer, this is all par for the course.

Monday: There was a clear, blue, blazing hot summer sky over the tip of Long Island. I spent a chunk of the afternoon with my family in Amagansett Square's gazebo, hydrating and temporarily resolving misunderstandings.

Tuesday: Had arepas at Caracas before Julie and Julia. The best part of the movie was the ridiculous preview for The Blind Side, starring Sandra Bullock as a white housewife that essentially adopts a black teen. She angrily says to some guys in The Hood, "You mess with Big Mike, you mess with me." I burst out laughing, much to the embarrassment of my companion. Later, I followed my friend to Brooklyn and was introduced to "Megan Wants to Marry a Millionaire." I consider the show to be an excellent example of capitalism.

Wednesday: I returned to Brooklyn to hear Taj Mahal and Bonnie Raitt in Prospect Park. "Lovin' in my Baby's Eyes" ranks for me as one of the most beautiful songs ever written. My epicure/date brought chocolate covered bacon. I was super impressed. Lordy, there's nothing like being understood.

Thursday: Back again to Brooklyn for The Donnas, Pat Benatar, and Blondie in Coney Island. Well, the siren call of Nathan's Famous and the sheer slowness of their incompetent waitstaff ensured that we missed Blondie. I'm annoyed about that. Anyway, "No! Sleep! 'Til Brooklyn!" is becoming my theme song.

Friday: Went up to Washington Heights to catch a bus to visit Tammy's clan. I wore an essentially modest tank top and shorts, yet the machismos along 181st Street sucked their teeth so forcefully to get my attention, I could practically hear them pull last night's mofongo out of their back molars. I love being with Tammy and her significant others. She said I'm the best kind of family, because she got to pick me. She's a keeper.

Saturday: Headed east on the LIRR for a beach bonfire BBQ. After it got dark, there were stars, s'mores, and skinny-dipping. Then I was propositioned by a married couple. That was a first. Strange as it was, it was still sort of flattering.

Sunday: Headed further east on the LIRR, and was shell shocked by the staggering number of (almost) legal youngins packing the train for the summer Sunday ritual of a day trip to Hampton Bays. One girl across the aisle from me sported a t-shirt emblazoned with "Tom Brady Sucks Balls." It wasn't until she exited at Hampton Bays that I saw the back of her shirt declared, "So does Eli Manning." Classy. At least she and her friends disembarked with their empty Bud Light cans. That renewed my faith in skanky teens. I eventually arrived in Amagansett, and in short order watched The English Beat play a free afternoon show and fed my skinny-dipping-induced-cold with Jake's homemade clam sauce. Mamacita, I ate a portion the size of my head.

food/fight

2009-08-05T23:57:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, I had a foodfest with Aparna. We began with self-named dishes like bibimbop in the hot stone pot at Bibim Bar and porchetta with cooked greens and mediocre beans at Porchetta. That was followed by cookies at Milkbar and a sampling of the ridiculously sinful toasted marshmallow and honey/lavender milkshakes at Stand.

Today included a noxious, frustrating, and complicated journey home, cinching my wavering belief that it is indeed worth it to pay for Amtrak as I could possibly avoid the degenerates that operate and ride Greyhound. I went with my mother to box up the last of my father's file cabinets representing 40 years of lawyering. It was exhausting, sweaty, emotional work, and unfortunately, a symptom of my depressed state of mind is to snap at everything my mother says and does. She doesn't need that. It's a habit that is proving impossible to curb.

We stopped for gas, and someone from my high school class recognized me. I totally forget that I went to high school sometimes. We talked for a short while while we pumped. She shared that she'd never ever been to New York City, and she had a 12-year-old daughter. I shared that my "I Heart NY" t-shirt cost $3 in midtown. My mother offered career counseling and told the girl to go back to school and work for the state as the retirement benefits are incredibly desirable. She's right as usual.

After, we picked up cheese-steaks and supped with my wisdom-toothless brother. Armed with handfuls of Peanut Chews, we marveled at the cinematography, soundtrack, fight scenes, and unsavory story line of Old Boy. Billy said that it's one of Quentin Tarantino's favorite flicks. It's a cross between The Count of Monte Cristo and Saw. If I were the protagonist, I'd wish to have the strength not to discover the truth. After 15 years of captivity, all he wanted was an answer to his ultimate question, "Why?" Yet the answer only led to more grief. Poor guy.

(65) Days of Summer

2009-07-28T23:23:00.023-04:00

Summer. When every day is Saturday. My minor jetlag and mild seasonal bug have passed, and I no longer yawn uncontrollably when out past 11:00pm. That's a plus. The oppressive city heat and humidity I could happily forgo though. Every subway ride is rife with nauseating odors. I've been reminding middle schoolers to wear deodorant for 13 years. I wish I could spread my gospel to everyone in the city. Thank god I'm taller than most people's armpits.

Except for the temperature, I love July. The days stretch on seemingly endlessly for a few weeks. Early August is ok too, but by the middle of the month, I start the anxiety-ridden countdown to another school year and another birthday. This one is a big one too. Sigh.

Tonight I shared Abita Amber and my taco truck with a buddy who lost her father suddenly in February. I hate being in this club, and I hate that I have close friends in the same boat, but it helps to know people that get it and don't utter hallmark card-isms. I updated her on the absurdity of the last 3 months of my life. If ever I were going to retain a harassment lawyer, therapist, or supplier, this would have been the time to do it, but I lack the inclination and finances. It takes all my energy to just keep on keeping on.

Later I bought toilet paper to the tune of Blondie's "Rapture" and watched one of my favorite Seinfeld episodes. Jerry's car gets stolen, Kramer scores a line in a Woody Allen movie, George fails at parking cars, and Elaine breaks up with the 66-year-old writer after he has his stroke. She complains, "It's a bitch to get here, I have to take two subways and transfer at 42nd Street!"

Then I saw some gossipy show with a segment about Survivor winner Ethan Zohn's latest survival challenge, Hodgkins' disease. He said his initial symptoms were itchy skin and night sweats. Lordy. Now I am desperately fighting the urge to scratch my left knee, and I have something new to fear. At least I have to get a full physical before school starts, so if there is anything wrong with me (physically), I'll know in a month. Or maybe the suspense will kill me first. Ba dum ching.

time to say goodbye

2009-07-21T09:36:00.016-04:00

I'm home. And drying out after a shower after my run through a shower. My next apartment needs windows at the front of the building. Street noise, shmeet noise. Though NY1 said it would storm all morning, I saw and heard a lull in the rain and figured it was my chance to get outside and renew my relationship with Central Park's running paths and my stress-relieving cardio routine. But when I exited my building, it was heavily drizzling and people had open umbrellas. By the time I hit mile 2, it was pouring, and I shared rueful smiles with the other drowned rats sloshing in their soaked running shoes. Still, it was a good run, especially after two weeks of a steady intake of bread, pasta, and red wine.

As for my 17 days away, I wish my memory weren't so crappy. I've been playing word games on my iPhone to prevent early onset of Alzheimer's. It's not working. I'm dredging through fuzzy flashbacks from the last two-and-a-half weeks to recall some favorite moments. They are mostly culinary: Scrambled eggs with caviar offered up by Valeria, Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo, slow cooked entrecôte accompanied by mouth-watering sides and two bottles of Nebbiolo. the Sognefjord, incredible sunsets that lasted for hours and hours in the land of the midnight sun, Spaghetti al tartufo at the same restaurant in Orvieto from our Tuscan tour nine years ago, lush Italian/Thai meals at the villa (panang, tom yum, beef salads, prosciutto and melon, fried rice, assortments of sausages and cheeses...), revisiting Medieval and Renaissance towns I was lucky enough to see for a second and/or third time, the sales (!) which prompted me to buy 3 pairs of Prada shoes and a navy-striped dress with a wide belt and a neckline that reminded me of something Sophia Loren would have worn in Houseboat, our lunch in Pienza, meals in San Gimignano and Rignana with views to die for, gelato up the wazoo, changing the lyrics to Andrea Bocelli's Time to Say Goodbye to describe a myriad of situations, making Nicha laugh (she's 8 though, so it's no great feat), making Chow laugh (harder, and so satisfying), seeing the Sistine Chapel again, and simply being surrounded by people I love and who have welcomed me into their homes for 18 years.

What are the chances that Chow and I took the same trip to Tuscany almost a decade ago and both times she was pregnant? I drank her wine and mine at every meal. That's what friends are for. Now I have another reason to return to Thailand in March to meet her newest little muffin. Another friend in Vietnam wants me to stop by on the way. I've only got a few blank boxes for arrival/departure stamps left in my passport before I need to get extra pages stapled inside. Then I need a new goal.

something old, something new

2009-07-05T16:56:00.018-04:00

"Se vai con lo zoppo, impari a zoppicare."
If you go with the cripple, you'll learn to limp.

I'm visiting Italian friends in Oslo en route to visiting Thai friends in Tuscany. It is a pleasure to have these opportunities. Tonight for dinner, we had a champagne-accompanied caviar tasting involving four kinds of eggs, followed by salmon in three ways: tartare, smoked, and with spaghetti in a creamy sauce. I have no idea how my body will react to the mass consumption of salty treats and piles of crème fraîche. Lord have mercy.

In the midst of dinner, my buddy reminded her beloved that she is mentally packing her bags as she has been relatively unemployable in Norway for the last 18 months. She is ready to return her focus on herself and her needs and not just be a house frau, albeit with her amor. I'm waiting for the Limoncello to be poured before I serenade her with, "I've been to paradise but I've never been to me." She has given them a deadline of September 1st. In two million years, I wouldn't leave this man of hers. To see them together is hilarious, enviable, and just right. My beautiful brilliant bombshell from Rome and her fabulous, funny, and phenomenal Venetian make each other better people.

Anyway, as a reaction to one of her more dramatic pronouncements, her other half burst out with an archaic Italian quote about absorbing the characteristics of the people you choose to be with (or, as the case may be, idolize). It might be the best expression I've heard in quite a while. Well, that and "Long too yen, cop?" which translates from Thai into "Clean your refrigerator?" This one is best uttered in a gay bar.

keep it simple, stupid

2009-06-30T01:44:00.003-04:00

And do not change. Do not divert your love from visible things. But go on loving what is good, simple and ordinary; animals and things and flowers, and keep the balance true.
-Rilke

My friend reminded me of this earlier. It's equally depressing and desirable.

like i needed a reminder

2009-06-21T12:29:00.014-04:00

Yesterday, I bought some stuff at Victoria's Secret's semi-annual sale. After waiting in the check-out line for a short stretch, some tall guy in a suit with a huge bouquet of flowers asked if he could return to his place in line where he was a few minutes ago and which happened to be in front of me. It was totally lame, especially as I'd never seen the guy before, but I suggested, "Do what you have to do." The lady behind me sighed loudly, and I turned to say that I hoped it was alright as I didn't feel like getting into a fight with anyone. I proceeded to return my attention to examining all the shiny toiletries and lipsticks and doodads on the shelves within arm's reach, when the same guy asked, "Have you noticed how much I am sweating?" Without facing him, I returned, "I'm going to try not to." Fortunately, the line moved quickly.

Hours later, I was at Studio Square, the new beer garden in Queens. It's more urban looking than Bohemian Hall and offers $18 pitchers of Stella and nice bathrooms. Without suggesting that I'm in need of 12 steps or anything, I feel better when I'm tipsy. The problem is that after the initial glow wears off, I get sad. I didn't realize I looked sad as well until the sweet, young, scantily clad girl standing in front of me in the bathroom line touched my arm, offered me a tissue, and asked me if I was gong to be alright. Great. I felt like Johnny Depp in Cry Baby. I am my own buzz kill.

This morning's theme of weird things that happen to me was "birds and turds." From passing the fledgeling red-tailed hawk nesting and testing out his wings in Riverside Park, to the sheer amount of scat I had to avoid for miles like a tire challenge in a gym-class obstacle course (goose, dog, and possibly human...) Considering the accumulation of rain that has been power-washing the streets of NY for the last week, it was quite an impressive and disgusting amount of fecal matter to dodge.

When I exited the park and re-entered the bedlam of Sunday morning life on the streets of the Upper West Side, I saw half a dozen pigeons bathing and wading and splashing in a large puddle by an ineffectual sewer drain on West End Avenue. Their feathers were fluffed out in matted peaks, like eyelashes after swimming. A block later, I saw a pigeon pressed face-down in the middle of Broadway with his shiny red innards trailing behind. I think I recognized a chunk that was his tiny heart.

So now I'm getting ready to head home for Father's Day cum my parents anniversary. Tomorrow marks their 40th. This too shall pass. I saw this tweet from @jdprickett on Twitter this morning: "It is much easier to become a father than to be one." ~ Kent Nerburn

family it has happened to me

2009-06-14T23:01:00.002-04:00

At lunch today, somehow we got onto the subject of the Special Olympics. It wasn't me; That's a consolation. I was reminded that years ago we saw some sort of exhibition of Gold Medal gymnasts at The Meadowlands, and the pre-show included a display of Special Olympians. We watched kids run up to the pummel horse and sit on it and wave their arms triumphantly. Others lurched over to the rings, were boosted up so they could latch on while we being held up from below, and swung limply for a few seconds. Apparently Jake and I were on our worst behavior. I don't remember.

Today, however, someone made my mother laugh by telling this joke:
Q. What's better than winning a gold medal at the Special Olympics?
A. Not being retarded.

It sorta reminded me of this questionable one:
Q. What's the hardest thing about learning to rollerblade?
A. Telling your parents that you're gay.

Though my new favorite conversation-opener was originally shared by an epileptic that works with someone that I know, so I convince myself that it's okay to tell. It's not, and it made for an awkward couple of minutes when I shared it with Vanessa Johansson, sister of Scarlett:
Q. What's the difference between an epileptic oyster shucker and a prostitute with diarrhea?
A. One has fits while shucking...

days like this

2009-06-12T22:44:00.007-04:00

Nobody told me. Or if they told me, how can you ever really know what it's going to be like until you're in your own shoes. Being busy is a godsend and a pain in the arse. When I finally pause, I can't restrain the whimpers that slip out when I think about why I'm at services whenever my sister drags me to synagogue, when I listen to my dad's voice on the outgoing answering message that I hope no one will change, when I look at pictures, when I hear ambulance sirens, when I glimpse a tall man with a headful of silver hair, when I see people dining with their parents, when anyone mentions death.

I hate knowing that my mother is without her beshert. I hate that I lost one of the two people that will love me unconditionally. I hate that every gathering from now on will be tinged with varying degrees of chronic sadness. And next week is Fathers Day. And the week after is their 40th anniversary. My mother asked if I could possibly understand what it was like to be alone after four decades of living with your best friend. I told her I would never know, though Chow has been asking me to move to Thailand for the last 14 years. If only it weren't so freaking hot there.

Everyone came home for his birthday today. It ended up being a gorgeous day. We played Gin Rummy on the front steps and picked strawberries. Rachel tried to teach Hannah to ride a bike, and Mom had a catch with Max. We went to a Moroccan restaurant in his honor, as Mom loves the photo of him with the bellydancer jiggling her jugs next to his face. True. Yes, it was fun. Yes, he was sorely missed. Yes, it is sadly ever so much easier to reserve a table for 6 than a table for 7.

multisensory

2009-06-02T23:47:00.001-04:00

Yesterday's run in Riverside Park was chock full of things to notice. Normally I don't focus much on anything besides the clouds and the river and the unfortunate teenager who emits a constant keen as he's walked between a couple of caregivers every afternoon. Like the Doppler Effect, I hear him for a while before I see him, and his wails fade quickly after I pass.

On this particular run, however, I crossed under the West Side Highway and entered the river path and immediately noticed loose pages ripped out of a male nudie magazine, fluttering in the breeze and depicting the full monty. A few paces later, there was a hand towel discarded along the edge of the grass. Blech.

I followed the river south for a few miles, and came across a gaggle of geese. One protective momma goose hissed at me to warn me not to get too close to her downy gosling. While I equally feared her bite and the avian flu, I passed by unscathed and proceeded to my turnaround point a half mile further along. The same goose hissed again on my return. I had wondered if she would.

I marveled at the multitude of available working fountains and the variety of fragrant rose bushes peppering the path. Baruch Hashem for the City of New York's Parks Department. By now, I realized that I'd used all my senses, as clearly I could feel the warm sun, the silky breeze, and the sweat gathering on different parts of my body. But, no, there was one more treat in store for me. A tiny fly flew in my left eye and died there. I had to wait until I was back on street level so that I could use a parked car's side view mirror to fish out the drowned carcass of the bug, wings and all. It was pretty gross. And if it was a sign, I'm unfortunately illiterate.

memorializing

2009-05-25T23:34:00.018-04:00

This was a good weekend. So was last weekend. Sometimes I forget to be sad, probably because I've been busy again and because I've been selfish while my siblings have been better at supporting my mother. Legitimately, I had recent visitors come in from Sydney and Bangkok, so I let myself be immersed in social activities and good times. Now I have all night for self-flagellation. I guess I'll multi-task, as I'm already paying for the unabashed foodfest earlier today consisting of fried chicken, blue cheese potato salad, peanut/sesame/ginger pasta, fruit salad, and guacamole. This was all before some genius suggested heading to Shake Shack for milkshakes. Their B&W shake is freaking awesome. When I wasn't eating today, I was napping. It made for a banner holiday, but falling asleep tonight is going to be difficult at best.

My fellow picnickers and I had a moment of silence for former and current members of the armed forces. My dad was in the Army for a second. He was honorably discharged after hurting his knee, so he didn't go to Vietnam. We all wore his Army jacket at some point in the 80s and 90s to supplement our fleeting fashion statements. During one of my lucid moments at today's picnic, I voiced my belief that the US should reinstate the draft or make military service mandatory like in Sweden and Israel. What could be more equalizing? It is too easy to recognize the similar qualities of the recent recruits wearing fatigues in the Middle East. My friend pointed out that his three cousins are currently enlisted and deployed, and it was the most immediate and available option for employment and future college funds.

I saw the Star Trek movie this weekend and reaffirmed that I'm too low tech to survive a nuclear holocaust, unlike the youngins manning The Enterprise. From what I've gleaned from watching dozens of disaster, war, invasion, and apocalypse movies over the years, it's clear that I wouldn't be one of those whip smart survivors with McGuyver-like life-saving skills. I'd be collatoral damage.

Side note: The Vulcan Salute is based on a Jewish blessing given by the high priests.

an object in motion

2009-05-17T23:08:00.015-04:00

Sometimes I find myself cruising along feeling almost alright, and other times my mpg is as efficient as a Hummer. Regardless, I've had very little time to idle this past month, so when my tears hit, I'm often in transit, and it's been weird, and unfortunate to my fellow New Yorkers, to grieve in any capacity publicly. Every now and again, I catch my reflection and I never recognize myself.

Tomorrow will be a month since my mom called 911, and we're marking the date by gathering at my sister's graduation from medical school. She's been staying with my mom every night, and I dubbed the house Grey Gardens, with my mother and sister playing the starring roles of Big RJ and Little RJ. Yes, they have the same initials. It's equally sad and funny.

This weekend was my first weekend home within The City and without the constant company of my blood relatives. Rather, I spent the last couple of days being Shellie's pack mule as she and her two tiny tots and I tramped about Soho, Greenwich Village, Chelsea, and the Upper West Side. To cap off the baby fest, we reunited with other friends and their Betty-Davis-eyed 5 month-old, and later I headed to a Brooklyn maternity ward to greet a new addition to another close friend's family. I rarely enter hospitals, and it was weird to acknowledge life and death so markedly one month apart.

After marveling at the thatch of hair, enormous big toes, and sheer delight at holding my friend's newborn daughter, I chased the sunset through Brooklyn Heights and over the Brooklyn Bridge. Now I'm finally home again. I sorta forgot what to do alone with myself. After alternately consuming beef jerky and Cocoa Puffs, I read, talked on the phone, flipped channels, weeded through photos, and folded laundry. I guess I can try going to sleep before the single digits start staring at me from the clock face. Or something.