The Sky is Falling! The Sky is Falling!

Being from California, I'm well aware of the vast devastation that can occur in the aftermath of an earthquake. You can imagine, then, how dismayed I was at the paucity of news coverage last Friday's earthquake in Missouri received. In fact, I only know about it at all because a Missourian (Missouri-ite? Missouri-itian?) happened to mention it to me. At first, I assumed that it couldn't have been a big deal. Otherwise I would've heard about it, right? Wrong. When I saw these pictures from the Southeast Missourian, I couldn't believe my eyes. Chairs people are no longer able to sit in, salt and pepper shakers upturned. Of course, I realize that most news stations already had their hands full, vigilantly storm-watching the light drizzle in Chile. But still, Missouri is just as much a part of this country as Chile is. When a disaster strikes them, it strikes us. And we deserve - we demand - to know about it.

The Perfect Website

For years, I've been searching for the perfect website. I have googled. I have Yahoo! Searched. Back in the day, I even asked Jeeves. There were days when I had nothing, nothing to keep me going but a glimmer of hope and a granola bar. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that those days are over. Salon's broadsheet has brought me to the holy grail, the site that is perfectly tailored to my womanly needs. That site is SheZoom.com.

SheZoom, the first video website for women - I know, I too was shocked that this important niche had not yet been filled - presents an embarrassment of riches for women who, like me, just need a little help sometimes.

Because my most important role is in the kitchen, I was overjoyed to find featured on the homepage a tutorial on quick and easy lemon lime pasta.

But SheZoom offers more than just pasta recipes - it offers life recipes. These videos, produced by SheZoom's team of experts, address the whole woman. mind, body, and spirit.

SheZoom knows that I'm not so good with technology. Thankfully, Lights, Camera, Action! Must-Have Features for Your Digital Camcorder, told me that most camcorders take videotapes. Who knew?

And of course, we women have to watch our figures. But never fear - SheZoom has an obesity expert. Today I learned how to eat out and still lose weight. Thanks, SheZoom!

SheZoom's not all fluff, either. Its hard-hitting investigations go where no other website dares to venture. With Menopause, Meet Puberty: Can One Household Survive the Ultimate Clash of Hormones? SheZoom has delivered a thrilling, and much-needed examination of the dark underbelly of American families.

And whereas some websites smother their pages in Pepto-Bismol or lavender, SheZoom refuses to pander to stereotypes about the aesthetics of womanhood. Women can appreciate an aggressive red and gray color scheme just as well as any man. But SheZoom also knows that being a woman does present its own unique challenges. For that reason, the top left of the homepage helpfully reminds you that "you are here."

SheZoom is the site we've all been waiting for. A safe space where women can learn to deal with their hormones, improve their cooking skills, and lose those extra pounds.

Cinderella Man

I don’t believe in love in first sight. Never have. Never will. And not for lack of trying either (at least on my Nana’s part). As a kid, I was taken to the ballet, dressed in pink taffeta, and subjected to an endless string of Disney movies, all in the hope that someday I would find faith. But I never could buy into an idea of love, the platonic expression of which was a comatose centenarian in a glass box. Frankly, it all seemed a bit creepy to me. I remember the first time I refused to watch Cinderella – my grandmother was in hysterics for weeks (I thought it was implausible; she thought I was a lesbian).

And yet, here I am after only one evening together, in love. He’s smart, kind, funny, and has an irresistible toupee. (No, really I can't resist - I almost pulled it off, right there at the dinner table). He also happens to be twice my age, gay, and …a Roman Catholic priest.

Okay, so maybe I’m not in love – sorry, Nana – but I am completely fascinated.

I met him this weekend when, after attending a recital, I somehow got whisked away to dinner with the in-crowd (the recitalist, the Music Director, a few businessmen, and the aforementioned Roman Catholic priest/heartthrob). For nearly two hours, the priest was the center of rapt attention. Alternating between pointed critiques of the church, pointed critiques of the other diners, and jokes I am almost certainly not old enough to hear, he single-handedly shattered every stereotype I’ve ever held about Catholic clergy.

And then he disappeared. I never learned his name or what parish he was from or how he came to be part of the in-crowd. Even my most sophisticated google-stalking techniques have come up empty. I may have to resort to the glass slipper approach …

Hers

Sometimes, if I close my eyes really tight, I can see her, standing there, in between the spots. She’s gorgeous – at least, sometimes she is. (Sometimes, she’s fourteen and knock-kneed and doesn’t know quite what to do with her hands.) Once, when she didn’t know I was listening, I heard her singing, a lullaby she always claimed not to remember. Her voice is just like his, quick and smooth and a little sad. But she looks like me.

I wonder if she can see me, hear me, smell me. I wonder if sometimes when she squeezes her eyes shut, she catches me, watching her. No, no, of course, not. She may be mine, but I am not hers. Hers wakes up early in the morning in her perfectly clean house and goes to work in her perfectly pressed suit and arrives home at five exactly to greet her perfectly perfect husband. Hers has mine. And I … I get to visit when I close my eyes.

The Wonders

I can’t sleep. Haven’t for days. (Hence the unfortunate slipper-sock incident). I lie in bed for hours, first waiting, then wriggling, pulling my left leg into my body, then my right, then left again. I swing my arm behind me resting it briefly (and painfully) on my shoulder blades before swinging it back again. Twister, anyone? I try balancing on my side, my back, my breasts. I wince -- breasts aren’t made for balancing. I squeeze my eyes shut, harder, harder. My alarm clock is staring at me. If I fall asleep right now, I can get five and a half hours … four … two …

Despite liberal use of various eye gels, cucumber creams, and goops not otherwise specified, the grey-blue patches under my eyes are beginning to bear a disturbing resemblance to the state of Montana. If this continues, I worry my face will soon amount to little more than a large bruise resting precariously atop my neck. This has to stop. People are beginning to notice. When asked, I shrug my shoulders and look suitably perplexed before writing it off to stress or too much ice cream. Then I smile gratefully, as I receive a sympathetic nod and a homily on the virtues of warm milk at bedtime.

But, truth is, I’m not stressed. And really, let’s be honest here; there’s no such thing as too much ice cream. All I’m suffering from at the moment is a particularly tenacious bout of the Wonders. As a little girl, it used to happen all the time. Nothing serious, or even entirely unpleasant; just a mild case of nerves mixed with no small amount of giddiness.

After hearing my first concert at the Hollywood Bowl, I was up all night wondering. I kept imagining myself on that stage, the second violinist in a famed string quartet, or the soloist with the LA Philharmonic, or, once, the fiddler in a mariachi band. Over and over and over again, I watched myself take the stage. I could hear my dress crinkle, feel my knees lock, smell the stage lights all trained on me as I bowed before an audience brought to its feet by my wondering.

In the sixth grade, I was up two nights in a row, wondering whether Brian Li would ask me to his seventh-grade banquet. And then two more nights once he’d asked, weighing my options: Li-Bennett, Bennett-Li, just Li, just Bennett.

But the more I grew up, the less I wondered. There were years I didn’t wonder at all. I was so busy finding a place to sleep, I didn’t have time to notice I was forgetting to dream. I suppose I have a lot of wondering to make up for. I wonder, though, if perhaps I couldn’t sleep a bit as well.

Smell My Fingers

My hands smell like peanut butter. Over the past few hours, I’ve sniffed and resniffed, and it’s confirmed – definitely peanut butter. Given that I haven’t ingested any in weeks (and have most certainly washed my hands in the interim, thank you very much), this has thrown me into a tailspin of confusion and self-doubt. After I came dangerously close to picking her nose, my roommate assured me I smelled only of hand lotion. But then again, she has her own host of olfactory issues – differentiating between skunk and marijuana, for example, is not her strong suit. I am no longer mollified. Have I been mis-smelling for all these years? Or perhaps I’ve always had a faint peanut buttery-ness about me and just never noticed before? Why didn’t anyone tell me? What will the neighbors think?

A Narrow Escape

I very nearly just posted a piece about slipper socks (you know, thick, warm, fuzzy, bumps on the bottom so that you don't slip dashing into the kitchen during commercials). Thank goodness for Blogger's Edit Post function. I think I better get some sleep. I know, know, how am I ever going to become a world famous blogger if I just throw my hands and give up every time I happen to write a post about stay-at-home footwear?

An East Coaster After All

My freshman year of university, I was that girl. You know, the one who came East for college convinced that it couldn’t possibly be THAT cold. Given a parka, a pea coat, and an iron, I would have been hard-pressed to identify the one most appropriate for a snowstorm. I did, however, own several pair of long underwear, a collection amassed over years of fierce L.A. winters.

The first time it snowed, I ran out of the shower, threw on my bathrobe, and skipped down the stairs. Not two minutes later, a gaggle of very amused neighbors looked on as I shivered my way back up in shame – who knew your hair could freeze to your shoulders?

That year I learned the difference between cold, damn cold, and f***ing cold. I learned that you cannot wear flip-flops to class in December, even if it is sunny outside. I learned that East-coasters easily confuse the “yes, Mr. Stranger, I acknowledge your presence as you pass me on the street” smile with the “yes, Mr. Stranger, I would very much like you to take me home and have your way with me this instant” smile. I learned that tennis shoes are called sneakers. And sneakers are called “those shoes that the nice cafeteria ladies wear.” I discovered that I too can produce that horrifying ah sound that apparently distinguishes Aaron and Erin, even without plugging my nose. And that I too can look quizzically at the uninitiated, pretending to be completely unable to understand their ah-less language. Above all, I learned that I am NOT an East-coaster.

So, naturally, here I am a few years later, sitting in my New Haven apartment, watching the snow fall. Lest you think this is merely post-college inertia, I did manage to live in both Louisville and Berkeley before deciding that no, really, that was just way too much sun. Connecticut winters are much nicer indeed -- keep my skin a lovely shade of gray.

Truth be told, I’m beginning to like it here (although, if anyone asks, I’ll deny it). I like that on the East Coast you can drive an hour and a half in any direction and be in a different state. In California, you drive an hour and a half in any direction and … you’ll be in California. I like that people around here can both define and locate public transportation. In Los Angeles, such skills are quite rare, found only among East Coast transplants and those pursuing careers in sociology. I like that on this coast, you can have a good fire going in the wintertime without fear of heat exhaustion -- and without turning on the air conditioner. I like (and hate) that some buildings don’t even have air conditioners. I like that the children in my building all gather outside at the first sign of snow. And I like that, on occasion, they let me join them, even if I am lacking in the color-coordinated snow outfit department. I like hot chocolate, and snow angels, and leaves that change color. And I like wondering if maybe I am an East coaster after all.

Noah

So called because he is a righteous man in his time. Also because when I first met him he had his pants hiked up so high it looked as if he were waiting for the flood.

He's long since bought new pants (one of the first big steps in our relationship). But I still make fun of him -- Pedal pushers for men, anyone? Capris pants: longer than shorts, shorter than pants, now in S, M, L, and Manly -- mostly because I can fault him little else. For one, he's brilliant, I mean absolutely ridiculously brilliant. He'd beat I-can-make-a-girl-sleep-with-me-with-both-tennis-rackets-tied-behind-my-back guy in a smart contest any day. And he's kind. And just. And loving.

He got married recently - not to me. We broke up a long time ago. He was ready to settle down. I wanted to roam. I wanted to have adventures, to spend summers in countries with names I couldn't pronounce. He said we could roam together, but I never quite believed him. That, or maybe, I just needed to roam alone.

Arm-Muscle Man

So called because my roommate could never remember his name and, well, his arm muscles were quite nice.

Arm-muscle man was my Jewish grandmother's* dream, Jewish enough to count, not enough to matter. Non-offensive last name. From my hometown (no tussling over where the wedding would be). Former pro tennis player. Ivy leaguer. Rhodes scholar. And fed starving children in his spare time. No, really. Oh, and did I mention he had really nice arm muscles?

Only one teensy tiny problem. He had also managed to acquire a severe case of arrogant arsehole syndrome (yes, that is the technical psychological term). For those unfamiliar with this all-too-common affliction, symptoms of AAS may include: perplexedly asking why a woman doesn't want to sleep with you on the first date, as if this has never happened to you before; relentlessly pressuring said woman, while doling out equally relentless assurances that all you want is to make her happy; confessing that the symposium you just attended was dreadfully boring because, after all, you knew far more than the speaker (or, for that matter, anyone else there); speaking incessantly of former girlfriends, including one who "just happened to be a model"; bringing a resume to the first date and keeping it handy for any subsequent meetings (n.b. arm-muscle man did not, in fact, do this -- he had his memorized for more fluid delivery); and a host of other behaviors that indicate absolutely no awareness that astronomers years ago discovered that the earth revolves around the sun.

Now, the danger of those with AAS is that they are often quite charismatic, convincing hapless young women that a second date is a good idea when it is clear that one was plenty, thank you.

Recommended course of treatment: Do not call. Do not write. Do not pass go. Do NOT sleep over.

*Not to be confused with my Southern Baptist grandmother (both lovely in their own way, but one makes kreplach and one makes toilet paper cozies). A subject for a later post ...

Namings, Weddings, and New Year's, oh my!

When I was a kid, I used to dread New Year’s. Not so much the day itself, but the retrospectives that heralded its coming. Commercial after commercial would advertise the replacement of perfectly good tv shows with clip after clip of people I didn’t recognize. Then the event itself would arrive, and I would sit on the couch smooshed between my grandparents, watching more clips of more people I didn’t recognize. “Such a tragedy,” my grandmother would say. “More ice cream?” my grandfather would respond. And I would nod piously as together they bemoaned the death of people I knew nothing about … although I was quite sure most of them must have been born several hundred years before I was.

Television retrospectives still aren’t my favorite part of the New Year’s celebration. Maybe it’s because I’m too young even now. Or perhaps I just don’t like the ignorance I feel when faced with montages of “famous” people I can’t identify.

But I do like the idea of celebrating lives. I like birthdays. And namings. And brisses, and Baptisms, and weddings (especially those that come with cute ushers). And New Year’s. I like New Year's. I like that with every 365 (or, yes, occasionally 366) days comes a new chance (and the champagne doesn't hurt either).

Trains, planes, and automobiles ...

... or, just trains.

I love trains. See the world. Meet new people. Chat up men in uniform (with whistles, nonetheless). All within an easy walk of a moving oasis of microwaveable foods and stale pretzels. Well, easy insofar as you're able to walk steadily forward in a car moving largely from side to side -- without doing a faceplant in that nice elderly gentleman's lap.

For all these reasons (in combination with my complete inability to drive through any form of precipitation), I decided to take the train yesterday to visit my college roommate who lives in Boston. Now normally when I take the train, I choose an empty row, allowing my attention to wander quietly from book to vista to half-dreams involving a bizarre interweaving of the two.

This time, however, I was rescued from my isolation early on by a woman with her two children who, thankfully, despite all the empty surrounding rows, chose to sit right next to me. Not only that, but I was treated to all of the intimate details of her life as she relayed them via cell phone to her husband, then mother, then friend, then boss (?!?), kindly repeating the stories of the day several times in case I didn't catch them the first time 'round. Said stories included the fascinating details of her laundry (it hadn't been done in a while); her dinner (to go out or stay in, decisions, decisions); and story to top all stories, her son's -- yep, the one seated next to me -- morning vomit (must have too much mucous in his throat). Sadly, she got off at Providence leaving me to fend for myself with just a book and a window to keep me company the rest of the way.

Some Things Never Change

"I'm going to be a trashman." Or so I proclaimed for years, every time I was asked the dreaded question – “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” I loved the alternately amused and bemused reactions of my inquisitors when faced with a little girl in ruffles proclaiming a passion for waste management. Not to mention the added satisfaction of watching my grandma make the "I'm totally mortified, but if I just purse my lips and smile, everyone will think I am the most wonderful and supportive grandmother ever" face (I’m still not sure whether it was the trash part or the man part that upset her most). Everyone would laugh. I had spunk, they said. At six, I couldn’t yet articulate that I was inexplicably drawn to the cacophony of churning glass against glass against metal, to the safety of a life lived largely within sturdy metal walls.

Apparently, some things never change. I'm still captivated by the world of sound. And, it seems, I still have spunk. Men tell me so with a difficult-to-interpret half-laugh, half-wink, hoping, I think, to see more. Older ladies tell me so with one eyebrow raised, hoping, I'm sure, to see less. And, truth be told, sometimes I still want to be a trash collector. There are days when I want nothing more than to make a noise the whole world can hear, nothing more than a large smelly container within which nobody can find me.

The Pretty People

After several riveting rounds of the what-nothing game, my wonderful, yet ambiguous, visitor left for the airport this afternoon. Videos were watched; Thai food was eaten; tension was ignored. A good time was had by all.

After he left, I carted myself off to the gym to run off any lingering confusion (and Thai food). I walked onto the floor, and immediately found myself awash in a sea of pink lycra. It was 5:30, and "the pretty people" were out in full force. You couldn't do one tricep dip without getting a honeybabysweetheart from a gruff-looking man with no neck. I did my 45 minutes and got out of there, reminding myself yet again why I don't work out between the hours of 5 and 7 pm.

Gyms seem to be their own ecosystems, and 5-7 is apparently not my ecological niche.

My in-depth scientific research (i.e. going to the gym) has revealed that gym habitats appear to be arranged not so much geographically as chronologically. There are the 5-8ers, executive types. They arrive in the latest moisture-wicking technology and leave precisely sixty minutes later in pinstripes. They are well-dressed, well-mannered, and well-built. Elliptical machines, stairmasters, and treadmills are their stomping ground. The stationary bikes are unused and unloved, for early morning gymgoers do not exercise sitting down.

As the pencil-skirt brigade makes its exit, a new set begins to trickle in. These are the 9-5ers, people who work out while the world is at work. Though by far the largest habitat, it is also the least populated, with people meandering in and out throughout the day. Workday gymgoers are friendly creatures, coming as much to chat as to work out. They are easily recognized by their uniform: oversized t-shirt and undersized leggings. Typically, though not always, they are sporting at least one (if not several) Mickey Mouse iron-on. There are no men of the species.

5:30 heralds the arrival of the pretty people, so named not so much because we think they are, but because they think they are. Women of the species wear as little as possible, but that which is worn is brightly colored. Many seem to have had an unfortunate run-in with an Loreal truck in the recent past. Female pretty people have the miraculous ability to spend hours at the gym without touching a single piece of equipment. Males wear tank tops with inordinately large arm-holes and mesh shorts advertising their steroid of choice. Their necks are often diminished, or completely gone, having fallen prey to their ever-expanding shoulders. They walk from machine to machine, straining to lift twice their body weight, and then precipitously (and ear-splittingly) dropping it to the floor. Pretty people are constantly on guard, always on the look out for other pretty people.

Finally there is the evening crowd, the 7-10 folks. This group is still a mystery. Some wear spandex, some sweats. Some come for the nifty tvs that are attached to the treadmills, some to check out the rear ends of those who came for the nifty tvs. Clearly, more research into this group is needed.

Now, where does a non-lycra-owning, crazy-hours-working musician fit into this schema? Your guess is as good as mine.

Catching Corners

He sits on the other side of the couch as I type, staring intently at a book he must have found in one of my months-and-still-not-unpacked boxes. Austen, an interesting choice.

He hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes. The corner of my eye catches the corner of his. I smile.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”

He turns the page. More staring. More typing. More corner-catching, this time his foot, my knee.
My turn. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”

We go on like this, I’m sure, for hours on end. I glance at the clock. It claims only thirty minutes have passed. I make a mental note to have it checked later. I try another approach:
“What would you like to do?”
“I don’t know, you?”
“Dunno. Whatever you’d like.”
“Whatever you like.”
“You’re the guest.”
“You’re the host.”

I’m suddenly nostalgic for the what-nothing game.

I want to ask him what’s going on. I want to ask him what he’s feeling. I want to ask him if he intended more in his visit than just … visiting.

I ask if he’s hungry.
“Sure. Dinner?”
“Sure.”

Stories

"Hey, girlie!" She called after me as I raced officeward, morning diet Dr. Pepper in hand. "You forgot your change." I raised an eyebrow (on the inside -- much to my dismay, I have never been able to get my external eyebrows to move independently). She knows I never keep the two cents.

"And, you never did tell me your New Year's Resolution." Ah, there we go. And I had so hoped the season of exchanging vows with total strangers had come to an end. Silly me. "I'm losing twenty pounds. Atkins," she confided between bites of chocolate-chip muffin. Apparently, she's starting tomorrow.

So, what's my resolution? Well, here's a hint: you're reading it. My vow for this year is to write. Once a day, every day, like Flintstone's vitamins (except not fruit flavored). As a kid, I was constantly writing: epics set in fantastic lands (many of which bore an uncanny resemblance to stories you may have heard of, like, say, Lord of the Rings); angsty poems about Capitalist oppression (these weren't, I don't think, my best work); my name in red crayon on my grandma's wall (this, on the other hand, may quite well have been the height of my writing career). But, somewhere along the way, I must've forgotten to keep writing. Maybe by posting where all the world can - but likely won't - see, I'll remember this time.

In the beginning ...

By all rights, this should be the obligatory why-I'm-starting-a-blog post. But truth be told, my motives are neither unique, nor frankly all that interesting. I could ramble on a bit about writing for its own sake or creativity or accountability or, maybe, if I were feeling particularly high and mighty (read tipsy), art. But many people before me have so rambled and I'm quite confident that many after me will take up the charge. One blogger more or less is no matter. (That said, if I come up with a particularly creative fib or witty retort, I reserve the right to post it later.)

Instead, a couple notes of warning. First, despite my excessive use of "quite" and my substitution of the word "nice" for other positive adjectives that carry infinitely more meaning, I am not, in fact, British. It is a common mistake. After all, I colour with a "u" and write checques with "que"s. I even say advert for advertisement. I'm not sure quite how it happened. It's something I picked up somewhere in middle childhood and later forgot to exchange for more grown-up pretensions.

Second, this may or may not turn out to be "about" anything. More, I expect it will be my random thoughts/funny anecdotes of the day interspersed with short fiction, and perhaps amusing stories from the past, mostly about men, sometimes women, and every so often public transportation. Enjoy!