This is How It Was in The Jungle

1988

No streetlights.

A dirt road.

Packed like sardines in a Dodge Caravan.

We’re on our final stretch towards our family’s summer getaway. It’s a trailer park but no one calls it that any more. Prescott’s Trailer Park has become just “Prescott’s” or “The Park.” But in 1988, we’re on our way to the trailer. My father is driving. It is late. The youngest of his children are asleep but the oldest three are awake listening to his story. It is brief. It is just a list of instruction. He slows down the car. We can feel the tires ride the pockmarked road. The sound of pebbles crunching under our weight becomes background noise. He rolls down his window and turns off the air conditioner and the radio. He says listen. And we do. He tells us to listen to the sounds of the outside. The wind he says. The leaves he says. The animals he says. We try to hear it all. He tells us to look through the dense woods. He tells us to looks up at the stars. We try. And then he turns off the headlights. The tires still surf the dirt road like a surfboard on a choppy wave – dropping in and out of craters. Our torsos bob sideways as our hips steady our pelvises. I imagine this is what horseback riding feels like. He does not push on the brakes. Our eyes adjust to the dark. We put our noses against the windows of the caravan, those windows that don’t roll down. We can see the outline of trees. We point at the shadows of trees against the night sky. He tells us to look straight ahead. In front of the moving car. Where he is looking. We can’t see anything. My mom says, please be careful Freddie. Yep he says. Imagine being in the jungle like this he tells us. Imagine the silence. Listen. Can you hear an animal stepping on branches? The crackle? Do you know how many animals are watching us drive down this road? They know we are here. You just can’t see them. But imagine if they lit a cigarette, he says. Way out there in front of us if someone lit a cigarette a mile away. You’d be able to see it. You might not be able to see your hand if you held it in front of your own face, he says, but if you lit a cigarette an animal could see you from a mile away. We wonder about animals and cigarettes and if smoking cigarettes provokes animals to attack. This is how it was in the jungle he tells us. This is how quiet it was. How dark it was. How hot it was. None of us breathe for several seconds. Well, he says, it was hotter than this. He doesn’t tell us that there were human beings in the jungle darkness - other people who were waiting. In New Hampshire, on this summer night, it is only about the animals. Freddie, turn the lights back on, my mom says. And he does. We all sit quietly and stare out into the beam of the headlights. We begin to see what he sees.

Reverse

My brother picked me up from Logan Airport in my parents' Nissan Pathfinder. While we were in the passing lane on 93, the car seemed to exhale and the sports announcer on WEEI went silent.

Before I uttered a word, my brother shifted the car into Neutral and re-started the car.

I was horrified. "What just happened?!"

He started laughing so hard that his eyes sparkled with tears. "Welcome, home."

Ten minutes later we are approaching my parents' driveway on Elm Street (a busy throughway in our town). We are about ten houses away when Tommy pulls into the lane of oncoming traffic and puts the hazards on.

"What the hell is happening right now?"

He laughs again, this time telling me not to worry about it and shifts his posture in the driver's seat to crane his neck in all directions - taking precautions to make this illegal move somewhat "safe". We are going slightly uphill and I see a car coming towards us. Tommy takes his foot off the gas pedal as we pass the driveway, throws the car into neutral and we sit there - his hands loose on the steering wheel, mine gripping the rubbery door handle and dashboard.

"TOMMY!"

"Relax. We're all set. I've done it a million times."

And just as I think we're going to have a head-on collision with the oncoming car, we start drifting backwards. In increments Tommy turns the wheel to the right and we make our way ass-first into our parents' driveway.

 My brother looks over at me and winks, "there is no Reverse." 

"What is their issue with fixing cars?"

"One car at a time, Erin. One car at a time."

Butter on His Shoes

I begged my mom to make another cake. It was the day after my little sister’s birthday and I had a brilliant revelation: every night should be cake night. So my master plan was to persuade my mom to let me help her make a chocolate cake. It was Friday night, after all. This meant “TV night”: The Twilight Zone and Dallas were typically on the agenda. It was quite clear to me that Duncan Hines chocolate cake was the perfect accompaniment.

At six years old, the kitchen counter remained an obstacle that was out of reach so I used the standby dining chair to prop myself up to my mom’s height. She rolled up my pajama sleeves and let me pour the heaping cup of water into the bowl of mix. She walked to the fridge and carried over three eggs in one hand – something I would attempt later that year and fail miserably – and a gallon of milk in the other.

“Oooooo! Can I break the eggs?”

“Erin, I don’t know. We don’t want the shells in the cake.”

“I know. I can do it. Please!!”

She reached into the drying rack and grabbed a clean bowl and cleared the counter in front of my chair. Setting two of the three eggs gently on the counter, out of reach of my arm’s length, she prepared for the worst. “Ok. Let’s try it. We’ll see how the first one goes.”

She stood behind me with her arms around my torso, her fingers wrapped around mine guiding the egg to the edge of the bowl, striking it against the glass and then slowly separating the two halves over the center of the brown mix. Her fingers pried mine apart and a perfect yolk slipped out with the white goo. I smiled over the bowl, like looking into a crystal ball and then turned to her, “Ok. Another!” And we repeated the process twice again.

In the adjacent living room, my dad was laying on the couch with Kirsten cuddled up by his chest and Tommy sipping on a bottle down by his feet. The television was getting louder, the background noise polluting our composed cooking lesson in the kitchen.

“Daddy, we are trying to bake a cake!” It seemed completely reasonable to me at the time, as it does still, that concentration is a challenge when the television is chattering in my ear.

“Erin, I think you should come see this. Priscilla, come here. This is that moonwalk thing!” My dad called to us from the living room and the atypical urgency in his voice convinced us that the trip to the next room was worthwhile. As I approached the scene, I saw my brother and sister rocking their torsos side to side. With a deranged kind of smile on his face, my brother’s teeth gripped his bottle and the milk sloshed around inside as he jiggled to the music.

“Erin, don’t eat that, you’ll get sick.” My mom walked behind me watching me lick the chocolate from my fingers. I stopped.

Standing between my horizontal dad and my vertical mom, I planted my two feet, pulled my fingers out of my mouth and held them in the air in mid-gesticulation. I recognized the music from the album that my parents recently bought me. It was Michael Jackson on the screen. He had a sparkly diamond glove on his left hand and wore matching socks. I looked from his hand to my hand, amazed that we were holding our hands in the exact same position. My eyes locked onto the figure gliding back and forth on the screen, not distracted by the snapping of my mom’s fingers next to me as she kept the beat.

“Do you think you can get onto your toes like that?” My dad asked me. “How does he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can he just glide across the floor? He must have butter on his shoes.”

And then Michael Jackson moonwalked across the stage, across the screen, across my family’s heart.

Go Along to Get Along

I am sitting here quiet, reflective wondering why I feel unsettled. Perhaps it is the Facebook banter, the celebrity Tweets, the superficial distractions and the heavy political debates. I do not relish in conflict and expend what some might consider too much energy trying to avoid it. I may even consider it too much energy. I like when things run smoothly. I am, as my dad is known to describe me, a “go along to get along” type of gal. My dad also identifies his character under this category. But you know, Going Along to Get Along, takes a lot of hard work.

First, as a kid, I observed everything before I committed to verbal communication. I learned what was acceptable and what was forbidden by the way people interacted. Sugar cereal was not acceptable to my mom. When I was little, she worked in Downtown Boston at an insurance company on State Street (“the building with the blue door” I would say to my dad when he quizzed me about where she worked). My dad stayed home with my sister and me and we would eat an entire box of Sugar Pops in our underwear (me) and diaper (sister), standing on the kitchen chairs. Once we had a bowl or two, we would get into our oversized playpen and my dad would let us wear his oversized headphones and we would listen to Motown on the stereo. The pictures to prove it are fascinating. Kirsten was bald until she was three years old, meanwhile I came into this world wearing a shaggy brunette mop on the top of my head and by the time of playpen-palooza my hair was past my shoulder blades. We are only a year and half apart but if hair was any indication of our ages, it would appear that there were several years separating us. The Sugar Pops and Motown were a regular weekday combination (and now that I think about it, could reveal my passion for dancing: Motown on a sugar high) and it was a secret between me, my sister and my dad. Weekends were not nearly as raucous. Sometimes my mom let us have fluffernutter sandwiches, but that was pretty much the extent of sugary snacks. So, weekdays and weekends were structured quite differently and I understood that that was just how things were. I also was aware that my parents were totally happy with us regardless of the day or activity. And so my “go along to get along” attitude commenced. If they are happy, I am happy. Early on, I recognized their differences in parenting (sugar v. no sugar) but relished in my special understanding of each one.

Discovering that a thought can commit itself to verbal communication and be considered socializing was a revelation to me. I was in the backseat of a station wagon during a carpool ride from Boston Ballet to various North Shore towns where all of us little bunheads were dropped off in the driveways of our suburban homes. I happened to be the last girl dropped off this particular day. And being the last one was always stressful: it demanded that I interact with the other mom and her daughter in a more proactive, intimate way. When the car had two other girls in it, I could just stare out the window and not socialize (which is my tendency, a strong introversion bias). So, I got nervous. And it was during this five minute ride with mother and daughter that I had a revelation which has stuck with me through my life. In all honesty, I do not remember what she said. But that is not important. It is that whatever it is she did say, I had already thought it for months. It was some typical nine year old bullshit discovery – like “Can you always see the sun and the moon in the sky at the same time?” It was something inconsequential, or at least it seemed so, until I realized that she had started a conversation. The three of us started having a conversation because this girl did not just keep the thought in her head. It was amazing to me. Extroversion suddenly made sense which allowed me to understand some people in my life much better: my mom, being number one.

In a household of seven people, six of us were introverts. When my mom ever stated the obvious, which is sometimes what extroverts do (often used as a communication strategy), we would get frustrated and say things like, “are you serious?” or “no kidding.” We would take it at face value instead of recognizing her comment as a desire to communicate with us. The Clan of Introverts communicated telepathically. Magically. This socializing, this talking was overrated. But I began to understand her needs and felt compelled to bridge the gap. I had a conscious thought: I may be an introvert, but I understand these silly extroverts. I can translate. I can smooth things out. Things will run better with me as the representative for The Clan of Introverts.

The Clan of Introverts were not interested in representation, however. My efforts were solitary on the home front and in many ways have remained solitary. Diplomacy, tolerance and understanding are pillars of our familial structure but the one thing I lack, which everyone else seems to have embraced, is a strong dosage of stubbornness. A lack of stubbornness mixed with a heavy sense of guilt makes for a rather dysfunctional combination internally. Externally, however, the combo projects a “Go Along to Get Along” easy-going attitude.

So, I have hosted some political banter on my Facebook page and I am participating in it on others’ pages. Friends and family who have never met are debating the John Edwards Tragedy, the State of the Union address, the ridiculous Chris Matthews statement and I am coming to terms with minor conflict. I desperately try to channel the general consensus that I am Going Along to Get Along and not let the conflict-averting introvert get in the way of healthy (or unhealthy) debate.

Baptism

My dad just told me that when he was born his parents named him Gerard. He left the hospital as Gerard, spent the first month of his life as Gerard and then was brought by his father and uncle to his Catholic baptism. My father's name is Fred.

“Do women go to baptisms now?” He asks me as though he has not been to five of his children’s baptisms.

Well, four of his children’s baptisms. He missed my youngest brother’s baptism due to a work conflict. He was scheduled to meet us at the church after his shift at the Boston Police Department. During the pre-ceremonial hubbub inside St. Patrick Church, my mom asked me to run outside to see if he was here yet. I went to the main doors of the church and stood at the top of the long string of concrete stairs and scanned Central Street. There was his car. And he was sitting in the driver’s seat. I saw him lean over the middle console to roll down the passenger-side window and wave me over with his right arm. He has never been one for honking the horn to get someone’s attention, unlike my mother who would do sets of beeping push-ups as she beckoned us out of the house on school day mornings. I let go of the church door and place my hand on the iron banister for assurance as I skitter down the steps. I run to the car prepared to relay my mom’s message verbatim. I stand at the passenger side window, looking down at my dad as he bends toward me. He lowers his aviator sunglasses down his nose and I see it. I ask him what happened and he tells me that he was called to a house where a husband and wife were fighting and the husband clocked him in the face. I can barely see my dad’s left eye, it seems that all the skin from his cheek to his hairline is puffy and purple with little splotches of red. He smiles at me. He says he is fine. He tells me to tell Mommy that he will just meet us at the party at home, that he can’t go into church like that. I say ok and turn around to ascend the stairs back into the church. He watches me go back in. I tell my mom that a husband punched Daddy in the eye when he tried to help the wife. She looks at me, hands me my baby brother and walks down the church aisle to get the story for herself. A few minutes later she returns and the baptism goes on without my father. At the post-christening party I overhear all the adults talking about right hooks and Roxbury.

“Um, yes, women go to Baptisms.”

“Oh, ok, well they didn’t before. So, anyway, my father and uncle took me to the church as Gerard and I came back to the house as Fredrick.”

“Why?”

“At the church they decided it was a better name: it was their father’s name.”

“What did Nani think about that?”

“Oh she didn’t care. She thought it was a good name. I mean she had to think that, right? I mean it was Mad Men time. You know what I am sayin’?” And I do know what he means. I have finished the third season of Mad Men and he has just started watching Season One. “So, I went from Gerard to Fredrick. How’s that?”

“That is unbelievable,” I say. But it’s not unbelievable. Actually, it’s so totally, perfectly believable that it dawns on me: my blog needs a baptism of sorts.

The Movie Mogul

Chris and I went to a Saturday matinee of “The Dark Knight” last weekend. My favorite super-hero is Batman and I had been looking forward to it for quite awhile. Opening night was July 18th and I really wanted to part of the NYC audience for several reasons: I have a crush on Christian Bale, I was intrigued to see Heath Ledger’s ‘oscar-worthy’ performance as the Joker, and it was as hot as all get out in New York.

I really need to take a moment to emphasize the heat factor in New York City for the past week. If I am standing for more than 30 minutes, my legs start to swell. I woke up on Saturday with a heat rash on my right arm stretching from my wrist to my elbow. Chris and I both had middle-of-the-night hemorrhoid visits to the bathroom. The streets of New York smell like a dumpster, the rats are moving slower than their normal scurrying pace. The teeny tiny ants, who are the bane of my existence, are all over my kitchen and clearly confused about the humidity: “It’s going to rain, let’s get inside. Wait, wait, it’s not raining – everybody back out. Hold on, everybody back in. Let’s just camp in here until there is rain.” Fine with me, they gather naively around my patches of boric acid. I’m a terrible person who can’t think straight in this heat. Supposedly, it’s going to thunderstorm tonight. I have little faith that it will change a thing. It’s the "Dog Days of Summer"…which reminds me that this week Stephen King (via The Stand) taught me that the Dog Day time period ranges ranges from July 18-Aug 28 when dogs are more rabid than during any other time of year. I don’t know why that resonated so deeply, perhaps we behave like rabid dogs in New York during this time.

I digress.

After treating my rash, we made our way to Chelsea to park ourselves in frigid theater with a bucket of popcorn and a 2000 calorie Coke (always with two straws – note to self: is there a blog entry there? 9 years/2 straws…do my parents share a straw? Fascinating…need to poll). The movie rocked. This blog entry is not a film review, so let me skip to 2 ½ hours later. Chris and I stand up from our seats and make our way out of the auditorium and upstairs to the bathrooms. While on the escalator, we share some of our thoughts:

Chris:“So, was it all you had hoped?”

Erin: (nodding) “Awesome. Best movie I have seen in awhile.”

Chris: “After the last Batman, you said you felt like flying around taking care of business in Gotham. Do you feel like that now?”

Erin: (shrugging) “Little bit.”

Chris: “Yep, I thought it was ok.” (looking at Erin's crinkled up face, a confused and disappointed response) “Kidding. It was really good.”

Erin: “It was such a great cast. I mean, everyone is just talking about Heath Ledger, but that is really a fantastic cast. I think Christian Bale is a fabulous Batman and I find it really interesting that…”


***pause as Chris and Erin go their separate ways to the bathrooms***

5 minutes later

***descending the escalator and walking out onto 23rd street***

Chris: “OK. So, what were you saying?”

Erin: “Well, its just kind of ironic…I don’t know, I mean life imitating art or whatever, but I was watching some footage from the premiere – when the actors were walking the red carpet and giving interviews. And, all the reporters would ask Christian Bale things like, ‘So, what about Heath’ and he would say something to the effect of, ‘yeah, he was an incredible actor’. And it just reminds me of their Batman and Joker characters in the movie. You know, Batman doesn’t get much of the glory and the Joker gets all the attention.’

Chris: “Hmm. Yeah, I see what you’re saying.”

Erin: (takes a deep breath, recognizing his response as a Chrisism indicating that he’s not so into the topic of discussion) “I would have loved to see him in more movies…he has played such different roles.”

Chris: “He was the dude in Gayback Mountain, right? What else has he been in?”

Erin: “His first big one was The Patriot with Mel Gibson. And he was in a lot of other period movies – as a knight, etc.”

Chris: “Yeah, I haven’t seen any of them. But I guess that’s a testament to his work: that he is in movies that I won’t ever see and then he is the Joker. He was pretty awesome.”

Erin: “I wonder what his daughter is aware of – I mean, she’s too young to see the movie now, but I am sure she must see some of the posters and stuff. That must be kind of haunting.”

Chris: “Well, I mean how old is she? 3? She’s old enough to separate life from movies, right?”

Erin: “I guess..but, I still think it’s got to be traumatic for her on some level.”

Chris: “I guess.” (he doesn’t really, but wants to veer the conversation a bit) “So, what city do you think Gotham is supposed to be?”

Erin: (looking at him like he’s placing his finger into an electrical outlet) “Ummm.” Long pause “New York. Are you serious?”

Chris: “Well, I don’t know. Why do you think it’s New York.”

Erin: “Well, you see all the references: the same orange Staten Island Ferry is digitally enhanced to read Gotham City Ferry. And, it’s just something everyone knows.”

Chris: “What do you mean?”

Erin: “Lots of New York guide books refer to it as Gotham.”

Chris: “Hunh. Spiderman, Batman, Superman – they are all in New York.’

Erin: “Yep.” (intrigued by her boyfriend’s ceaselessly fluctuating IQ) “So, what do you think will happen to the Joker?”

Chris: “What do you mean? He didn’t die. He’ll be back.”

Erin: “Yes, I know. Who will play him?”

Chris: “What do you mean? That actor will.”

Erin: “You mean they filmed two sequels during filming?”

Chris: “No.”

Erin: “Then I’m confused.”

Chris: “Why?”

***30 second pause as Erin realizes that Chris’s social IQ may live in the basement permanently***

Erin: “Chris, you do realize that actor is dead.”

Chris: “No shit. OH! Is that the dude who O.D.-ed?”

Erin: “…”

Chris: (looking at Erin and beginning to laugh) “What?!”

Erin: “What do you think I have been talking about for the past 20 minutes – the red carpet, his talent, his daughter? Why do you think all the shows were sold out in New York for the past week? Why do you think the news is covering all this Heath Ledger Academy Award buzz?”

Chris: (cracking himself up) “Well, I think it was sold out because it was Batman not because what’s-his-face was in it.”

Erin: “Ok.”

Chris: (cracking himself up more) “It’s funny that I’m in the movie business and I am just figuring this out.”

Erin: “Not really. But, it’s a blog entry for shoa.”

Initiation

The maintenance man at my gym calls me “kiddo” and “buddy”: “Hey kiddo, how’s it going?”, “Hiya, buddy.” I know that sometimes I am paranoid that people think that I am 15 years old, but clearly he does not think I am 31. He reminds me of my dad, who still calls his 40 year old co-workers “kids”. So maybe the maintenance guy actually knows that I am 31 but is sympathetic to the fact that he is 20 years older. Or maybe, and here’s where my paranoia settles in, maybe he feels bad for me because he sees me at the gym every day: in the middle of the day. I imagine he wonders if I am lonely and unemployed and have an unhealthy self-perception of my body since I am at the gym so much more often than the 9-5ers. When I see him now, I can hear his thoughts: “Here comes the compulsive one. She doesn’t really need to lose weight. But she’s trying so hard. She’s been here for three years and hasn’t lost a pound. Actually, the winter hasn’t treated her well.” Little does he know that he should feel bad because his pre-occupation with my lifestyle has interfered with his ability to satisfactorily perform his maintenance work at the gym. Well, it may not be solely his job but work with me...

His gym attacked my leg with fungus.

About 3 weeks ago, I noticed a rash on my inner left thigh. Thinking it was excema, or some sort of allergic reaction, I applied hydrocortisone cream hoping it would clear up. After a few days, it didn’t change. It was incredibly itchy and took up an area about the size of my palm. I showed it to Chris and his mouth watered as he said, “I think you have poison ivy.” Chris is extremely allergic to poison ivy and was slightly disgusted with me. I tried convincing him that I had been nowhere near a climate that harbored plant life in March. He was skeptical. He pointed at the bumps without touching me (“now, don’t move, I don’t want to touch it”) and shook his head with disappointment.

A few days later, I happened to have my annual OB/GYN exam and decided that I could just ask her about the rash instead of making a separate appointment with my primary care doctor. It was itchy, it was mysterious, and I was far more interested in getting it checked out than my reproductive organs. Sitting in the pre-exam one-on-one consultation with the doctor, the OB/GYN asked me if “there was anything else” and I told her about this “weird rash thing on my leg”. So she said would take a look when she performed her exam.

She left the room and I changed into the paper outfit (“front open”). When she returned, she invited me to place my heels up into the stirrups. Then, with her head between my legs, she looked at my left leg and I could feel her hands applying pressure to my skin. She made a couple incoherent sounds and then turned on the light, at which point she said:

“OH! I know what this is. You have pets.”

At that moment I panicked and tried to respond calmly, “Um, nope. No pets.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hmmmm. Well, it’s fungus.”

I sighed, groaned , rolled my eyes and she gently reprimanded me by saying, “oh, there is no reason to be upset. We live in New York City. We share the same germs. We live all over each other.”

I had a surge of conflicting thoughts:

1. So, now I am officially a New Yorker because I have a mysterious fungus growing on my leg? Is this like an initiation to a collegiate sportsteam? I would rather have a party thrown in my honor now that I was a true New Yorker.

2. Well, it’s not meningitis. But, it sounds like that will come in my next stage of being a New Yorker. And I shouldn’t panic.

3. Bird Flu. It’s a just a matter of time. I need to store up on dry goods and an escape route from this island.

But the overwhelming question mark floating through my brain was: “Where did I get this?” I always wear pants at the gym, so her suggestion that I got it on the bike didn’t really make sense. She was perplexed as well. I asked her if I could have gotten it from a toilet at the gym and she said, “No, that’s not likely.” She patted my right leg and said, “I’m surprised you don’t have it on this leg.” She was not concerned about the origin of the fungus, but I was obsessed with it.

By that night, I was sitting on the couch grimacing from the sting of the prescription cream as I chased my prescription steroid with a tall glass of water.

So maintenance man gave me fungus.

Unless it was homeless man.

Recently Chris and I were riding on our subway line (the F train) from Manhattan to Brooklyn. It was a packed train, standing room only at 9pm on a Thursday. We were standing toward the back of our car and could see into the subway car behind us. Our view was priceless: a homeless man, taking up five seats with his body (torso on two, legs outstretched on three). He had the zipper to the crotch of his pants undone and had his right hand conveniently placed inside the opening. One of his laceless combat boots was about three feet from the seats, in the middle of the aisle, and ten minutes later, the other fell off and landed close by. At each subway stop between 14^th Street and 7^th Avenue, approximately eight people would jump out his subway car and leap into ours. No wonder there was standing room only. By the time we reached the first stop in Brooklyn, the folks in our car were asking me and Chris (the people with a view through the back window) for a play-by-play:

“Oh, ok. Now, he’s switching hands. No….wait. Both hands. Both hands are down the pants!”

“Man! It stunk so bad in there. Still one shoe off?

“No, both shoes on floor.”

“Wow, I can’t imagine how those people are still standing in there.”

A transplant passenger from that car was standing near us and I could see him pursing his lips, squinting his eyes, scraping his tongue with his teeth, stretching out kinks in his neck by rolling his head around. It was like he had been attacked by a skunk.

So, here I am three weeks later wondering how I caught that homeless man’s fungus. Evidently, I shouldn’t worry about it though.

We live all over each other.

Life on Pluto

Sometimes I feel like a visit with my parents challenges my brain to become a rubber band. As I sit and listen to their discussions about retirement (“I need to retire” says one while the other says “I will never retire”) and relocation to Florida, my rubber band is pulled in a direction so that my brain fits their dilemma into my orbit of consciousness. Before I am able to decipher exactly what has happened, I am sitting at my father’s laptop explaining that this ad on craigslist for the condo in Bonita Springs is a rental for $1000 per week not $1000 per month. By the time I realize that I have invested effort into their exploration on my planet of consciousness (and technical capabilities with modern day search engines) they think that not only are they going to find an affordable place near Ft. Myers (dad) and within walking distance of the beach (mom), we are also going to find that magical place at this very moment. Meanwhile, I am in the midst of a career crisis and have mentioned my idea about being a nutritionist to my father who responded by saying, “Everyone is a nutritionist today. Did I ever tell you I went to a nutritionist about 15 years ago and she just told me to stop eating junk? I could have told myself that.” The feedback is incredibly insightful and encouraging. It’s a trying time for them: there are major decisions to be made at the brink of retirement. Far more important decisions than those that one is making at the age of 31 (minor things like marriage, children, career). So I ask myself, “Why visit people who are always on the brink of a transition when you yourself are trying to negotiate your own decisions? Is this helpful? Is this relaxing? Is this creating clarity?” And my instinctual responses respectively are: “Masochism. No. No. No.”

Don’t get me wrong. Part of the reason I come to visit my parents in time of confusion and doubt is because they dwarf my worries and I find that comforting, albeit probably not in the most conducive way. Their lives are Jupiter and mine is Pluto (it is not a coincidence that I mention Pluto, which was recently stripped of its planetary status by NASA). In my studio apartment in Brooklyn, my Pluto life seems large and ambiguous with lots of cold, dark places that need investigating and definition. But next to Jupiter, Pluto looks just about right: the right size, the right banished placement out in the depths of existence (New York City). Somehow, though, there is always far more exploratory adventure on their Jupiter than there is on my Pluto. They are terrific tour guides who present the most dramatic of their landscape: “Exhibit A. House Heating Tank Buried Under a 12 Foot Snow Bank, Exhibit B. Should the new Faux-Antique-Countryish 5 foot sign that says something like ‘Good Friends, Good Times’ go on the wall in the kitchen or the living room?” They are great marketers, too. It seems that their neon “OPEN” sign is always blinking. Stepping into their lives is like driving down to 7-Eleven at 2am on a Tuesday: it has what you need and maybe a few distractions.

What is bewildering is that my parents seem slightly uninterested in their children’s storefronts. I’m not sure if my neon sign isn’t plugged in, or if they already have what they are looking for, but they don’t seem to pull into my parking lot. And, actually, I wonder if I am just not in their planetary neighborhood. They’ll open up their orbit to Pluto but they’re sure as hell not going to lug Jupiter to the outskirts of the universe for a visit. Again, this relates to their inability to travel down Interstate 95 for 180 miles to come visit their two daughters in New York City. That is really stretching the space-time-parental-travel continuum a bit too far. [Let’s not dwell on the two siblings in California or one in India]. Jupiter’s moons, of which there are numerous, consist of Daily Routines, Debt, Mortgages, Nieces, Nephews, Sisters, Brothers, Parents, Houses, Cars, and Children. My 7-Eleven is up and running. It’s location is just not public. It never has been. My parents have only found it a couple times and it’s because I handed them a map.

I sound awfully cynical. It’s a coping mechanism. Bear with me.

I bumped into an old friend last week whose mother always had her figurative car parked in her daughter’s figurative 7-Eleven parking lot. As a kid I remember it being torture when I was at my friend’s 7-Eleven and her mother was there, too. Always and (what turned out to be) Forever. I recall the internal strife I felt when a parent other than my own, would want to be friends with their kids (and me). It was weird. It was annoying. It was worse than having a younger sibling want to hang out with my friends. It was desperate. It was embarrassing. When my carpool dropped me off at home, I would walk in the door to a house full of chaos. With a sports announcer magically raising his voice over the family, a brother testing out his slapshot on me as I opened the door, and a sister microwaving her ice cream I would go directly up to my room to do homework and wonder who these aliens were. Upon my ascension on the second flight of stairs, I could hear one of my parents say, “Was that Erin? Is she home?” And then would hear one of my siblings respond with a South-Park like voice, “Yes, that was Er-WIN, she is HERE!”

It was tough transition: being with other parents who asked lots of questions, wanted to know the gossip, wanted to know who was good and who was bad and then coming home to my parents who simply wanted to know if I was present. I craved some middle ground. Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. They have plenty of other 7-Elevens and moons and planets and probably other universes, actually, to keep tabs on. What works out nicely in big families is that “keeping tabs on” doesn’t mean a thing. But thinking you know what is going on means more. As the family extrovert and hence as the Family Spokesperson, my mother projected what family goings-on were happening throughout my childhood. These projections, like today’s newscasts, were not always accurate. And to my surprise, to this day cousins, aunts, and uncles can still be astonished to learn the real version of any given story from the other six members of our household. My mother is generous, funny, straight-forward, among other qualities, but accurate she is not, at least when it comes to memory and story telling. My dad covers that area, but unless there is a need to fill in for the star news anchor or unless there is a personal appeal for a re-telling of the story, most of the audience is going to get the not-so-true story from my mom.

But I digress.

My parents lives, since I was a child, put my life in perspective. I was a worried kid. I worried about things that didn’t matter and could only pull myself out of my spirals by watching my parents try to figure out how to divide $10 between a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, enough tuna fish for three lunches, dish soap (used alternatively until the next pay day as shampoo), and enough unleaded gas to get my dad to work and back. It was just the ways things were and we never felt emotional about those decisions. I would need to be aware of that $10 crisis in order to push away the 12 year old anxieties I had.

The problem is: at 31, I’m not sure if I can take my parents worries and replace mine. Actually, I am pretty sure that they are going to be ok in retirement. I am pretty sure that if they made it this far, then things are looking pretty peachy for them. I am pretty sure that life on Jupiter is stimulating and that navigating their planet through the solar system of family members and life choices is a piece of cake for them at this point. I am pretty sure about them.

I’m just not pretty sure about me.

Don't Grimace at Me

As I stood in line (with 14 other people) at CVS yesterday, I looked over my left shoulder and saw a DVD for sale. The Edge is a 1997 movie starring Anthony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin. My first thought was: I don't understand why this movie is a featured sale item at CVS during the 2007 holiday season. My second thought was: I feel like I watch people make these faces [see Alec and Tony's expressions] every day. Maybe it's living in a big city, maybe it's the weather, maybe it's the crazed holiday season...I'm not sure. Nevertheless, I resented the grimaces silently shouting out at me over my shoulder. Last night I went online to find the movie poster so I could post it on this blog and I discovered something fascinating. The American poster is the grimacing-men version and the UK poster features a subdued-golden trio of Alec, Tony, & (get this one!) Elle MacPherson. I saw this movie almost ten years ago and I have no recollection of Ms. MacPherson starring in this movie. Anyway, it piqued my interest and thought I would share the two versions.

American:

and British:

Playing Catch Up

Well, getting back on the blogwagon proved to be a bit more of a challenge than originally thought. I’ll need to hammer out some details to get you caught up. Details like the Coopers’ visit to the Gottwalds, our trip to Munich, Germany, my literary love affair with Paul Auster, a clan of Gottwalds visiting Coors Field in Denver for Game 4 of the World Series, my recent dance performance in Brooklyn, and my newly found gluten-free lifestyle.

Where does one start with such a plethora of subjects?

COOPERS IN NH
Malcolm and Robin came to visit Fred and Priscilla in Laconia in August. My liberal grandmother and Chris’s conservative father cozied up to each other on the pontoon boat and as we floated atop the waves on Winnepesaukee, they provoked one another with political jargon. Tommy spent the first few hours on Sunday desperately trying to expedite a hangover, finally pulling the trigger while laying on his stomach with his head two feet from the lake’s surface. The whole family (plus the Coopers) was privy to the experience.

MUNICH

Chris and I went to Munich for a week in August. The lightweight men’s eight from Riverside Boat Club represented the USA at the 2007 World Rowing Championships in Germany. The week-long trip was split between attending crew races and riding our bicycles around Munich. Our first bicycle trip was a research trip; we wanted to see how long it would take us to bike to the race course which was on the outskirts of the city, about 15 miles from our hotel. Due to inadequate maps, vegetation pastures, overgrown bike paths, dense wooded areas, hidden parking lots with prostitutes who stepped out of their brightly colored umbrella-laden vehicles, and mazes through Florida-like retirement communities we had a rather difficult time finding our way. In hindsight, we estimate that we biked about 50 miles over the course of about seven hours. Somehow we ended up going in circles (we think). At 3:30 we saw a sign that told us that we were 2.5 km away. At 4:30, we passed a sign saying that we were 7.5 km away. The rural setting spooked me, as we were about two miles away from the Dachau Concentration Camp site and occasionally our bike ride took us over some old railroad tracks. There were patches of what seemed like forest, so thick that my heart-raced, thinking that ghosts from the past (whether Nazi or Holocaust survivors) were going to lurch out and grab me from my bike. I’ve never rode a bike so fast through pebbles, grass, and puddles. Finally, we could hear the fans cheering for the crews but couldn’t find the body of water (a man-made, spring-fed, perfectly rectangular, perfectly German piece of architecture). Once we saw the massive stands in the distance with people waving an array of international flags, we couldn’t figure out how to get to the entrance. The entire thing turned into a treasure hunt and became comical, especially when we arrived and the final race of the day had “just” finished. At least we figured out that we should take the train for the following race days when the Riverside (now the USA!) boat was racing. But at 5:30pm, we had only begun to think about the bike trip back to the hotel. Again, we got lost. This time in Munich: in the neighborhoods, in the parks, near the Mercedes headquarters. We finally made it home that evening just before dark, my speed had picked up as we rode through the English Garden (I knew we were close to our hotel). I was sunburned and exhausted and the next day my sit bones felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to them.

I mention sunburned in the previous sentence because I did not bring moisturizer with me. Luckily, the Holiday Inn had “Skin Moisturizer” in the shower. And luckily, I used it for the next four days. I was so lucky that by the fourth day, my skin was flaking off, my cheeks were irritated and red, my legs were itchy and my back had dandruff. Chris happened to ask me what moisturizer I had been using and I told him that I was using the moisturizer that the hotel provided. Upon my answer, he gave me the look. The Look is his way of not overtly condescending yet simultaneously seriously doubting my course of action. I get The Look rather often and to my chagrin it is usually apt. It turns out that “Moisturizer” in German means “soap”. I made Chris swear that he would not tall everyone about my stupid mistake so here I am, unveiling my idiocy to the world at large. We made a trip the pharmacy and purchased some Aloe Vera Moisturizer (not soap) and my body drank it in like it was the fountain of youth. Nevermind that 6 ounces cost $17.

PAUL AUSTER

This summer I started reading his books. First I read The Book of Illusions and then Oracle Night. Then I decided to read his Collected Prose. Now I am reading The New York Trilogy. Several of his stories take place in my neighborhood (where he also resides) so they have piqued my interest. His grandmother murdered his grandfather at his father’s boyhood home and Paul did not discover any of this until immediately following his father’s death. He has a fascinating family history. And his fiction is unsettling: peculiar plots, depressed characters, and bizarre adventures. I watched him interviewed on The Charlie Rose Show and decided that Paul Auster is my New Favorite Person Who I Don’t Really Know. Charlie Rose kept trying to get Auster to say who was the best artist of the century…and the best writer…and the best…and Auster looked at him like he had asked him who had the bigger shoe size, Picasso or Hemingway. Auster did not really answer the question but instead just said that “there is no best.” I suggest you get to know him.

GOTTWALDs AT COORS FIELD

Kirsten, Danny, Tommy, Nicole, Kerri, and Alison (Gretchen’s roommate) flew to Denver for the Red Sox World Series SWEEP. I don't think there was much drinking going on (see photo below):

To make a long story short, they ended up atop the Red Sox dugout for the post-win celebration on the evening of October 28. Here are a couple photos with my brothers (from boston.com) so you can play the Gottwald version of Where’s Waldo?.

DANCE

I performed with Digby Dance while the Red Sox were demoralizing the Rockies. The cast was chock full of Red Sox fans, so as soon as the house lights went up we all were aware of the score (thanks to text messages from fellow fans and siblings in Denver). The show was a collaboration with Urban Juke Joint, a group of poets. It was totally mesmerizing to see how another performance art form rehearses. As dancers we are so used to rehearsing and by the time tech week is upon us, we know all our cues (for the most part) and general outline for the performance evening. The poets were much more improvised and we didn’t really get a clear sense of what they would be performing until the actual showtime. It added some nervous performance energy for me, which I realized I had missed a little bit.

GLUTEN-FREE

Without going into lurid detail about my gastro-intestinal issues, I have been having issues for quite some time. I finally had my first visit with my Primary Care Physician and he asked me a series of questions about my symptoms. I did not know that he was giving me a gluten allergy screening test. Anyhow, he suggested I try going gluten-free for two weeks and see how my system would react. Chris thought I had found a ‘touch-feely’ doctor but nevertheless agreed that I should try it out. So, I did. And I cannot express to you how much better I feel. It blows my mind. If you want more details, I can give them to you upon request. I will leave it there for now.

Getting Back on the Blogwagon

But first, just a brief entry.

Chris and I were on the subway and I saw a crinkled-up New York Post hiding underneath one of the seats. I could make out the back page that said something like "Red Sox are Floundering." My heart raced and I could feel my stress level increase. Another September is here and I need to avert my eyes from gazing into sports bars as I walk down the streets of New York City. Anyhow, we got off the train in Brooklyn and were walking home when we overheard a man behind us. He was talking to his date about "those Red Sox fans."

"I don't understand them. They're still a game and half ahead and they act like they've already lost."

I looked up at Chris as we crossed the street, raised my eyebrows, and imagined the blissful existence of a baseball fan who has never routed for the Red Sox...who has never been tortured in the Autumn season.

History Repeats for Another Family

This article appeared in the Boston Herald today. Ed (or Eddie, as I call him) is my uncle & godfather.

Service and sacrifice
Family of firefighters mourns lost brother
By Peter Gelzinis
Friday, September 7, 2007

Lt. Ed Gottwald was 11 years old when he first took part in the heartbreaking majesty of a fallen firefighter’s funeral. The hero being carried to his rest that day 27 years ago [this is actually incorrect...supposed to read '37 years ago'] was Ed’s father, Boston Fire Lt. George J. Gottwald.

Yesterday morning, Ed Gottwald walked behind Engine 30, a fire truck that had made the poetic transformation into a funeral bier. It cradled the flag-draped coffin of his friend, Firefighter Paul J. Cahill.

Pipers from departments all over the East Coast led Cahill’s casket past the sea of dress blue uniforms on Centre Street and through a West Roxbury rotary - Lt. George J. Gottwald Circle.

As Ed Gottwald slowly marched into the spot memorializing his father’s valor, his heart most certainly swelled with equal parts of pride and sadness. Yet, there was no one who could understand the symmetry of being the son of a fallen jake and helping to carry a brother firefighter’s casket into Holy Name Church better than him. His family’s sacrifice reaches back to the 1898 line-of-duty death of his great-grandfather, another George Gottwald, for whom his fallen father was named.

The thousands and thousands of ordinary heroes who stood at attention for more than a dozen blocks yesterday usually don’t waste much time pondering the more spiritual aspects of a job that is actually a calling, something deeply rooted in the blood. That kind of reflection is saved for scenes like the one that unfolded in West Roxbury yesterday . . . and will be duplicated today in Dorchester with services for Firefigher Warren Payne, the man who perished beside Paul Cahill last week.

It is within the panorama of these magnificent fanfares for common men that the basic notion of public service is redefined by sacrifice.
Paul Cahill was lovingly remembered as a good and kind man who adored his family, loved to fish and could do things with a steak that would make Wolfgang Puck jealous. But what separated this modest, self-effacing man from the rest of us is that he went to work at the firehouse each day knowing that it could cost him his life. That kind of unvarnished courage and devotion are not part of most job descriptions.
“When people are having the worst day of their lives,” said Ed Kelly, president of Boston Firefighters Local 718, “we show up and try to make things better. And sometimes, it costs us our lives.”

Capt. Steven Keough walked down Centre Street yesterday, out ahead of the engine company he commands. He held the helmet of a brother he lost a week ago when a routine kitchen fire went horribly bad. Keough was among those who were rushed to the hospital in the aftermath of a disaster that unfolded two blocks away from the firehouse.

What he chose to remember from the altar yesterday - and will carry with him for the rest of his life - was the echo of jokes, the sounds of laughter, the dinner table conversation, the proud accounts of his children’s exploits . . . and above all, the understanding that in Paul Cahill, Engine 30 had a guy who would be there with you, and for you, in the midst of whatever hell you happened to stumble upon.

Only a tiny handful of the men and women who flooded Centre Street yesterday knew Paul Cahill well enough to have tasted one of his gourmet beef dishes. But then again, they all knew him. What binds them to each other is a kind of pedestrian, blue-collar courage the outside world really doesn’t understand, until a city is humbled by the drone of the pipers and the sight of fire apparatus as it rolls slowly and silently through the neighborhood, carrying the remains of a public servant who gave us . . . his life.

Yes, we will take notice for a little while; we will be grateful and then get on with our lives. But the thousands who stood shoulder-to-shoulder outside Holy Name Church were linked to Paul Cahill by blood, much in the same way that Lt. Ed Gottwald is linked to the father and great-grandfather who willingly surrendered their lives answering the bell.

Dessert

Ordered Chinese food last night.
This was my fortune inside my cookie:
"Today, your mouth might be moving but no one is listening."
That was a nice way to end my meal.

As a Matter of Fact, it's a Five-Leaf Clover

All I want to do in Prospect Park is relax. It’s August 18, about 75 degrees, not humid. Picture perfect. A day when everyone else seems to be able to relax on the freshly cut lawn. But when I lay down my sheet, I catch a glimpse of dozens of bees hovering atop the blades of grass. All kinds of bees – honey bees, yellow jackets, hornets, bees the size of hummingbirds. I resent them all for ruining my time at the park. I had to get up, finally, and move to a bench where I am now writing this. The bench is not safe territory, though. But the bees congregating here are mostly honey bees, those bees who Chris says “don’t sting.” I’m not sure if I believe him, but it is helping convince me to stay put. A woman just bent down and stuck her hand in the grass, right next to all the bees, just to see if there was a four-leaf clover. She didn’t find one, but tells her friend that she actually already has a five-leaf clover. They pass me by and continue on their walk:

“Are you serious—a five-leaf clover?”

“Yes. It was one of the first clovers I ever found.”

I don’t really understand what this means since within a five foot radius of my bench, there has to be close to a million clovers. How does one distinguish a “found” clover? Is it one that is picked? It’s a strange concept to me and I am skeptical that one of the “first clovers” this woman ever picker was a five-leaf clover. Don’t we first search for four-leaf clovers when we are about three feet tall? I never found a four-leaf clover so I would be insanely jealous of a fellow five year old picking a five-leaf clover upon her first trot across a clover-filled lawn. So, I’m a five-leaf clover virgin: jealous, hungry, and bitter.

During my yogatoday (www.yogatoday.com) class this afternoon, I spit up a hunk of mucus so big that I had trouble catching my breath as it lodged half-way between my throat and my mouth. “Is there such a place?” you ask. Yes and I discovered it today. Anyhow, with all the upward and downward dogs, I was expecting the dislodged mucus. I could feel the bubble crackling rumble after each inhale and knew by the end of the class that the sputum would make its entrance (or exit). I have a doctor’s appointment on September 12^th and I wonder if this mysterious “bronchitis” (diagnosed by two different doctors) will turn into tuberculosis or cancer by then. It will be my first appointment with my official Primary Care Physician with my new health insurance.

In choosing my PCP, I asked my landlord if she had a doctor that she recommended. As a matter of fact, she did. She even had a list of runners-up and OB/GYN candidates. I was legitimately excited about having full-on health insurance and about getting a doctor who came recommended. So, I called the doctor’s office to make my first appointment and as a matter of fact, she happens to be on maternity leave through November. She (her voicemail) suggests that I contact Dr. B____’s office (one of the runners-up from my landlord). So, I do. As a matter of fact, this doctor is also on maternity leave. I ask the receptionist if she can recommend another doctor and she says “no.” Click. End of phone conversation. So, I decide to ask a fellow dancer who has the same health plan about her doctor. She gives me her name and look up the info on the health insurance website. Voila, she’s listed. Her office is at Columbus Circle, but I figure if she comes recommended by a dancer, then the trip will be worth it. [Dancers are hypochondriacs: so in tune with physical sensations and overall system functioning that a leg cramp is a definite sign of a blood clot. Vice versa: the seven year clicking in the hip that causes severe limping and an awkward catapult out of bed each morning is ignored. Later to be discovered that is severe arthritis and a reason for hip replacement at age 40.] I call the 800 number on the back of my insurance card and ask them to change my PCP. As a matter of fact, Dr. I___ “doesn’t take your plan,” I am informed.

“Well, that’s funny because Elise is on my plan and she is her doctor.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.”

“Thanks for your help. I’ll call back.”

Back to square one. I am living in Brooklyn with thousands of doctors within a five mile radius but some of these physicians are listed as “Eligible” under Board Certification on the website instead of “Certified.” To be fair, I don’t know the difference, but decide that “Certified” is probably best. I am at a loss. Do I close my eyes, slide my finger across the page and randomly choose whoever my finger lands on? I decide to do a PCP search within a three mile radius of my zip code. I discover a doctor right around the corner: a woman, a Family Physician. I google her name and locate her personal website. It’s fantastic: she looks friendly, posing with her children, telling readers that she wanted to start her own private practice so that she could get to know her patients better and give them better care and attention. Perfect! I’m psyched. I call back the insurance company and tell them I would like to change my PCP to Dr. C_____.

“Hmmmm. I seem to be getting blocked with my request.”

“OK. What does that mean?

“Well, I can put in a request and they will get back to you within five business days.”

“Ok. Sounds good.”

I hang up and decide that I will contact the doctor directly. I notice that on the appointment page on her website there is a posting from October 2006 that states she is not accepting new patients. Since it is August 2007, I decide that I will push my luck. I send her an email asking if there is any chance of getting an appointment with her. She responds the next day saying that she doesn’t expect being able to see new patients for “at least a few years.” I think google has changed everything. Dozens of other people just like me probably did the same google search, had the same thought process and decided that she had to be their doctor (just a year before I did). In her email, she recommends another doctor. I do yet another google search and find an obituary for this new doctor. Not a good sign. But after some more google research and a return to the insurance website, I see that the recommended doctor is alive and well in Brooklyn. Same name as the deceased, just 40 years younger. I call the insurance company, change my doctor, call my new doctor and make my first appointment.

Finding my new doctor was like finding that four-leaf clover.

It was that simple.

I’ll just be dry-heaving mucus onto my rug for the next three weeks.

TORNADO IN BROOKLYN!

It’s 5:30am and the flicker of a strobe light wakes me up. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the strobe light is actually lightning striking so rapidly outside the window that it seems someone is operating an “On/Off” switch. The sounds of thunder make it seem that we are below a bustling bowling alley. I sit up in bed with a full bladder and am irrationally frightened of walking to the bathroom, thinking that this basement apartment will be struck by lightning and go up in flames. Somehow the bed seems safer than the floor. “The car is the safest place to be during a thunderstorm,” my mom used to tell us as she drove down to the lake during stormy summer days and we would sit to watch the violent upheaval of the waves. A half hour passes and the storm begins to grow quiet, I visit the bathroom and return to bed in one piece and I fall back asleep.

Waking up a few hours later, I turn on the television to see FoxNews “TORNADO HITS BROOKLYN.” The news coverage continues to inform me that all New York City subway lines are not running, there are trees strewn across cars, and that it will be 95 degrees today. Chris pumps up his bike tires, I gather together my laptop and headphones and we leave the apartment together: Chris to Manhattan, Erin to the air-conditioned coffee shop down the block. As I walk into the café, I see that all the Brooklynites who decided to stay away from the subway have chosen to come to my coffee shop/office to do work. This makes me frustrated, watching the novice tele-commuters scream into their cell phones while gesticulating wildy with their other hand. The cell phones are turned up to the highest ring, with Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” blasting away in one corner and Bob Marley’s “Jammin’” playing along with a synchronized vibration on the table of an absent owner (presumably in the bathroom). The more experienced independent workers take their phone calls outside, put their cell phones on vibrate, and bop in their seats to the late 70s folk music once in awhile. The Stranded Subway Brooklynites who can’t cross the East River today are not impressed with the musical choices as they talk on their cell phones, plugging their free ear with their finger, “I can’t hear you above this soft rock!”

Evidently, the people-watching today is going to provide me with a plethora of distractions.

My favorite conversation is one between a woman and a man, both about my age. They are discussing her job as an anti-bias educator who teaches public school teachers and his career transition in the real estate market (something about him threatening a law suit so the firm let him go with a severance package of $10,000). Luckily, it is mindless work that I am catching up on today so I am completely dedicated to eavesdropping on their conversation.

The woman is attractive, average height, with dark, curly hair which she eventually pulls back into a loose pony tail. She is dressed in dark colors and projects her voice aggressively. In particular while the man is discussing his latest career disaster she goes, what I call, all “Bitchy-Concerned.” Bitchy-Concerned is prevalent among pretentious urban women, and it is not limited to New Yorkers. When an empowered woman is in the company of a friend who she feels is not making the most of himself (or herself), who is having a difficult time, who is not as successful as she is and has the potential to be an embarrassment, the Bitchy-Concerned feign a motherly, yet aggressive attention: wide-eyed, exasperated. They believe they are the sole individuals who can defend a less successful friend’s honor. They would like this action to be interpreted as a gracious, empathetic gesture but in reality it stems from a fear of being friends with someone less ambitious. She definitely seems Manhattan (as opposed to Brooklyn).

My first impression is to indicate that the woman is white and the man is black. But, since their conversation revolves around race issues and anti-bias education, I am now aware that she does not “identify with the white privileged race because [she] is Jewish.” She makes her point to her black male friend that she feels discriminated against “often.” She also talks about her recent stay in Los Angeles where she had been for three months and about the nice subway system there and how no white people ride it…but she did…she rode it “all the time.” Several minutes later, as he is trying to grasp a better understanding of her time there, she off-handedly remarks that she “rode the subway five or six times while I was there.” Indeed, she “rode it all the time”:

3 months divided by 5 times = NOT “ALL THE TIME”

She discusses race issues (police relations with the community, teen pregnancy, educating teachers) with her friend and he mostly says “yeah” and “no way.” She is “outraged” by discrimination and prejudice and fifteen minutes later says, “I wonder if there are Republicans here.” Oh, the irony.

The last thing I find out from her is that she will be attending a Doctoral Program at a prestigious university where she will be a research assistant for a “world-renown” professor. Of course, she is going to this prestigious university because she “didn’t want to go to Harvard or Stanford.”

I sit in my seat and look around to see if anyone else is listening to this conversation. I can’t find any eye contact, but I see one guy rubbing his forehead as he stares at the barista and I recollect another woman seceding her throne next to the conversation to drink her iced coffee in the less ironic 95 degree weather in the café garden.

The “TORNADO” in Brooklyn had thrown me into the orbit of an amazing conversation away from which I could not tear myself. I wonder if people are at all self-aware. I also wonder if I will be forced to get my doctorate in order to cancel out the idiocy of the people who are congregating my world.