underthefalseimpression

It’s me, hi, I’m the problem it’s me.

May 9, 2024

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You know how some people always seem to be dropping things/spilling on themselves/bumping into stationary items? Yeah, hi. I am sure observing our behavior causes a range of emotions/reactions from humor to annoyance to outright pity, but I’m here to tell you, even when it seems like maybe we should just sort our shit out, we simply cannot.

First, a small example so we’re all on the same page. Recently, a friend asked if I would mind bringing extra ice to a small party at her house. Not a problem! Proceed to store and secure me a 10 lb of ice which am in a slight panic about because 10 lbs seems like, well, a lot of ice. I soldier on. Bring the bag of ice home and discover the cubes have sort of iced into a block amongst themselves. Decide to do the obvious thing and break up the ice a bit so it’s not a solid mass when I arrive at party. I hurl the bag of ice onto the garage floor to shake those bitches up. Everyone but me knows what will and does happen next. Bag breaks open and ice spills onto my garage floor. Small chaos ensues during which I somehow get muddy even though there is no mud. Summary: It’s a regular Wednesday.

So why can’t we just “figure it out” (which, incidentally, is my parenting mantra) and, like, not do things like that? Trust, it’s is not an realistic option. Here’s why.

First, recognizing that you actually fall into this category of human can take a while (read: decades) to register. Pre-realization, we are not even a little worried that we will drop/spill something while also hurting ourselves in the process. When that does happen, we brush these incidents off as “whoops!” or “eh, once in a while I spill.” We’re not yet paying attention to frequency of our miscalculations because we are still unaware and fancy ourselves just like everyone else. Perhaps not graceful, but also not the last kid picked for dodgeball. We’re better than that.

No, the realization that you are the problem/outlier dawns slowly. Like when you notice that you have a lot of cleaning products with words like “get stains out fast!” or “even for the toughest stains!” Or when you start seeing bruises in on your arms or legs that you don’t remember getting. At first you are concerned for your overall health (are you ill? severely dehydrated?). You try to make mental note of when you actually bang yourself so that you’re not (yet again) searching “is bruising an early symptom of leukemia” on the google when you spot another “inexplicable” black and blue mark.

As you exit denial, you welcome in the next phase: Anger. For example, you are making a smoothie in your absurdly expensive blender that you bought for its blade power and the blender decides (independently) to jam 80% of the time you make a smoothie. During these blending sessions, you start to have an argument with your opponent, saying things like “you have one job to do” and “what the fuck is your problem.” You’ll sometimes get physical with it since you’re the obvious boss here, hitting the bottom of the blender with force, resulting in a bruise on your wrist you won’t remember that you just formed while giving the blender a beat-down. You also learn (repeatedly) that bitch slapping the blender often results in the smoothie going everywhere (including, somehow, the ceiling?). The slippers you just bought and are wearing for the first time? Yup, that’s the spot.

The other problem is that knowing you’re clumsy plays exactly zero into being less clumsy. In fact, taking extra care only makes things worse. The more careful a klutz tries to be, the more likely she is to ruin all the things, even the ones that weren’t directly involved with the first blunder. What does this mean? Oh. You fumble to save phone from dropping, miraculously catch it hacky-sack style with your ankle/foot. You then bend down and bang the shit out of your head on the counter while trying retrieve saved phone from its precarious location on your talus. Or – just tossing this hypothetical out there – you take blueberries out of the fridge and don’t notice the container is open until every blueberry hits the floor in unison. While fuming, you accidentally smush some blueberries with your knee as you scootch around trying to clean up the mess (all he while yelling at the container whose fault this obviously is). I could go on.

If anyone out there reading this is feeling truly understood for the first time, que paso and welcome to the tribe. For those of you grateful to *not* relate to this, good for you. Must be lovely, enjoy what you now know you’re missing.

Finally, some advice. Don’t ask us to carry something that absolutely cannot spill. Don’t let us borrow your clothes. And for the love of god, stop throwing things like keys our way thinking we’ll catch them. We very well might, but something else will go wrong. Count on it.

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Breaking up with NYC was the best thing I ever did and yet it’s so hard to write that

April 8, 2024

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On our first date, I told my husband, “One thing you should know about me is that I’m never leaving NYC.” It was a sexy approach. I was what you would call a die-hard New Yorker (possibly – probably – annoyingly so). I was born and bred there and then chose to move back to bear and breed my own. NYC and I were, in a sense, married – mostly happily. That girl got to me and more importantly, formed who I am. In love might be strong, but I did love her.

I didn’t love NY for the theater or the museums or anything artsy. Fuck that commotion, though okay, okay, I’ve been to truly amazing theater, some of it by luck, like when I saw Rent (which I’d never heard of at the time) with its original cast because a friend really wanted to and dealt with buying 8 tickets (during which time I likely complained about going due to “not digging musicals”), or by accident when I happened to buy tickets to Ann Ranking’s last performance of Chicago in New York. Aaah, the 90s. (Yes, these are both musicals, the irony is not lost here).

What I loved (love!) New York for is the convenience (insomnia cookies delivered? Roger), the pace and the vibrancy and the people. And by people, I don’t just mean family and friends – though so much that – but my fellow New Yorkers who speak the unspoken language of going down the stairs on the right, not making eye contact unless it’s to roll your eyes at a common annoyance, not stopping when you get the the top of the subway stairs for the love of all things and not needing (or wanting) to make small talk. People say New Yorkers are rude, but what we are is gruff. And in a rush. We’ll help you (mostly or okay sometimes) but don’t expect a nice tone along with it.

My favorite way I’ve heard it put is is this: Californians are nice but not kind (if you have a flat tire, people will walk by and say things like “Aw, man, that sucks, dude.” And New Yorkers are kind but not nice (if you have a flat tire, inevitably some guy will come over saying “nah, nah, you’re doing that shit all wrong.” And he’ll wordlessly take over and your tire will be fixed.

Anyway. Over the years, husband would casually say things like “we could save a lot of money by moving to the burbs.” And I would answer things like “not happening while I’m alive.” Or, more succinctly, “No.” (Not the money saving part – that’s lovely. The rest.)

Back to my 1st first marriage. When we are in a good place (NYC and I), we jibe. Some of the reasons the two of us click: I am someone who will run to make the light even when I’m not in a rush (no explanation other than it’s obviously criminal to miss a light); use an app called “Exit Strategy” which shows you where in the subway you should be at your destination to be closest to the exit (WMATA, please get on this) and I once had a black and blue mark the size of a tennis ball on from racing down the subway stairs to make train and falling – literally – on ass whilst doing so (Sidebar: Made the train. Other sidebar: No one asked if I was okay. I know I said New Yorkers will help you, but note the “sometimes.” This was not one of those times. Told myself it was because I look too tough for “help”).

But…..I’m also someone who hates noise, most people and crowds. In fact, as much as I love the old gal, I’m not sure Tinder would have matched NY and me. Still, I didn’t want to leave, leaving is for wusses. And this bish ain’t a wuss.

Then, 16 years into my 2nd marriage (this time to a human), life happened. Or more like my kids’ school tuition bill arrived. When I tell you it amounted to more than some colleges (including room and board), it is not an exaggeration. Even this native could see that continuing to throw more and more shekels on, say, middle school, was problematic and also kind of absurd. So, in 2019, we decided that 2020 was the year of change and we were going to move in June, once the kids were done with school. Cute and naive right?

And yet. Despite arriving mid pandemic, despite leaving a week after a cancer diagnosis (I’m doing well, thanks!), despite my kids being in virtual school/not meeting anyone for almost a year….a funny thing happened. This urban ride or die chick kind of loved the peace and quiet of the suburbs. Who dis? It turns out that much of what I love about NYC (the convenience of, well, everything) is also doable elsewhere. It turns out, that having upstairs neighbors really kind of sucks ass. Ditto piles and piles of garbage boiling in the summer sun.

But this is not an “I hate NY” post. Please. It’s more like New York and I ran our course, and then she unexpectedly let me fly.

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What do we tell our kids?

November 6, 2024

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In the early morning hours when I was unfortunately still awake, Donald Trump was re-elected.

I have no interest in figuring out “what went wrong.” We have had two capable, smart women run against this guy, the second of whom ran the fiercest and best social media campaign I think I’ve ever seen (kudos Gen Z, you’re hired). We know what went wrong. If this isn’t a bro culture, I really don’t know what is.

What really gets me – sparked from a text I got at 3 am from my kid in college that read “I’m depressed and teary. I just wanted to hug you all night” – is, what do we tell the kids? As a parent, your go-to is to reassure, to protect, to tell them it will be okay. This is more complicated than that. I’ve spent a chunk of today discussing how we approach this feeling of despair with our kids among various groups of friends. One shared a note he gave his son in 2016:

While I absolutely love the message here, I can’t say with any sort of confidence that our country won’t fall apart. I think it might. But that attitude gets me nowhere. I refuse to tell my kids that I’m counting America out. Here’s what I’ve decided to tell them instead. I’d love to hear what you’re telling yours.
1. Effect change by doing what you love. I don’t mean at the sacrifice of others. I don’t mean ace or be aced (though also, absolutely ace or be aced). What I do mean is that there are myriad ways to generate change: Politics is just one of them. You can make a difference in this world in other ways. Let’s say you want to study psychology: Great, go do that. Will you impact the country? Maybe not. But you’ll impact individuals, and that’s important too. Art is your thing? Paint away and bring a little beauty into the world that was not there before. Not all change has to be mighty.
2. There are lots of good people in this country. This morning, I watched a video of a bunch of people at a football game banding together to help create a landing pad for a cat who was dangling off the side of an upper tier (s’up my fellow cat ladies). Was it schmaltzy? Yes. Did it give me a small jolt of joy? Also yes. So, don’t close yourself off. Mentors and friends come in unexpected ways in unexpected forms. Be open to them. In my 20s, I spent two years living in L.A next door to a woman in her late 70s who was constantly calling me to ask if I wanted to use her parking space instead of my own. I found her a little annoying. But guess what? She was the person who came knocking on my door on 9/11 to see if my family had been hurt. She was the one who ended up taking care of my cat when I was out of town and couldn’t find anyone else. You never know what someone might do for you and what you might be able to do for them.
3. Celebrate small joys. Embrace the endorphin kick from a test you aced, from finishing a crossword puzzle, from the smell of rain. Look for stars on a clear night. Surprise your friend with flowers. These are small joys that can make today and these days to come a little bit better.
4. Don’t give up. The world is an enormous place, and sometimes change comes more slowly than we want. You have time. Your actions matter.
As the wonderful Maya Angelou said, “we may encounter many defeats but we must not be defeated.” Let’s go.
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Lessons from my daughter

September 19, 2024

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As my older child – the girl – prepares to leave for college, I’ve been reflecting on her and us and all of the things. One memory that keeps surfacing is our first visit to the pediatrician after she was born. The receptionist handed me forms to fill out, and under “mother’s name,” I put my mother. Hi. Let’s call it one of those aha moments, but in very (very) slow, embarrassing motion. We’ve come a long way.

On top of catching on to the fact that *I* am the mother, I’ve learned many things about myself and parenting over these (almost) two decades. More recently – given her impending departure – I’ve been thinking about how much I’ve learned from her more specifically. Here are the three lessons that have been most inspiring.

Slow and steady wins the race (shout out to Aesop, though I’m not even sure she’s read that fable. My bad): Unlike her madre who either makes quick decisions and/or agonizes for hours over, say, the “best” toaster oven – this girl takes her time with things. She puts in the work/research. She doesn’t jump in head first: She has a plan. She is willing to wait. When she was a child, I sometimes worried that she was too risk-averse and that opportunity would pass her by (Side note: Who knew that non-risk taking could be a parental worry? I’m here to tell you it can and it was). But no: Turns out, being steady gets it *done.* Time and again, her efforts are rewarded. Not immediately, but in the far more important big picture. It’s shown me that being careful pays off. That immediate reward is not the only reward. That she’s got this thing in her own way.

LOVE YOUR BODY. This one needs to go in all caps because I/we Gen-Xers really need it bashed into our craniums. In this era of social media and crop tops and booty shorts, somehow my kid is comfortable in her own skin (or fakes it till she makes it which is same/same). She wears what she wants and when she and her compadres post pictures on insta, their comments tend to be things like “HOTTIE” and “U R gorge” and “Iconic.” This is not a flex on her beauty or her looks. This is a flex on girls hyping girls and loving each other as they are. Of course body shaming isn’t some relic of the past. But maybe, just maybe, it will be a thing of the past in the near future. I know I can’t speak for all, but I can speak about this one human, this amazing human, who, through her quiet confidence, has taught an old dog the new trick of loving her own body more. The one that is 53; that housed two children; that fought off cancer; that lost its ovaries and estrogen but can still walk for miles and do Pilates and, in my own mind, take down men-folk if need be.

Laugh a lot – at yourself, at the situation, at all of it. Though – because? – her generation has had far too many hits (Social media. Media. School shootings/lockdowns. The pandemic. THE FUCKING PANDEMIC); though Gen-Z’s mental health may be, well, in the gutter….my kid still knows how to laugh and poke fun at things including herself (and us. So much us)

In the dark Covid times, we all became pranksters because, like, what else was there to do? And she was the queen. My favorite was the time when she prank called her own pa and convinced him that she was an Instacart driver looking to deliver our groceries. Probably had to be there, but suffice it to say that it involved the mister running around the house flinging open doors and screaming things like “can you see me now? I’m waving.”

Another time when we were playing trivial pursuit (quaint, I know) – a game annoyingly dominated by husband – both she and I had secured our pink wedges. Husband landed on pink and (hallelujah) got the answer wrong. My girl, deadpan, turned to me and said “Imagine not being able to get the pink wedge.” That’s the kind of genius I’m talking about.

I once read that when people are laughing, they (subconsciously) look at the person they feel closest to. When my daughter is around, that person is inevitably her.

So here’s what I’ve learned from you, my grown daughter: Go forward, kick ass. Take names. You got this. And because of you, maybe I do too.

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Getting hit on as a middle-aged married lady is apparently a thing

March 14, 2024

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Guys, I moved to the burbs and got hit on by a swinger.

Let me rewind. ‘Twas Friday afternoon and these two old folk (that’d be me and the man I call husband) got it in their pretty little heads to late afternoon drink because why not. We headed over to a favorite cocktail joint in D.C and sat at the bar. To paint the full picture, we were also a smalls bit stoned and husband thought he had discovered the secret to life (he may have). Amidst this deep AF conversation, an old/middle-age fella took the empty bar seat next to me. He shook hands with the bartender who addressed him by name (let’s call him Larry). He then took out a sketchbook and began some architectural sketching as he and the bartender chatted (husband immediately called this detail out).

If you know me, you know I’m a nosy/chatty mofo who will talk to strangers and shout out “love your jeans” (or the like) to people on the street/subway. I got this trait from my father and it was something I liked about him so I’m sticking with that POV.

Somehow, Larry and I start to chat (translation: I started a convo with Larry); husband is also part of the discussion. Larry had a lot to say, but first he paused our conversation to ask if husband and I were married (we are). I found that odd, but more socially awkward than anything else. We went on to learn that his son graduated from a rival high school to our kids’; we live near one another; he, like, I, grew up in NYC. The conversation was easy.

The three of us talked about getting together with his wife and exchanged information. As soon as we left, husband looked at me and said “I have a theory.” In case you were wondering, this is when it clicked for this old lass that perhaps there was something else going on. We’re at the swinger-noticing part, guys.

Some of the signs I may have missed/misinterpreted:
1. After Larry asked if the Mr. and I were married, Larry may have, how do I put this, touched my hand and shoulder a few times? My take: My husband was right there, who cares? Husband’s take: “He was establishing that I was aces with him hitting on you .”
2. Larry – mid convo – stood up from his stool and asked if we were okay if he took his blazer/jacket off (uh, we’re at a bar, you may absolutely remove your jacket my man). Underneath the jacket was…a tight black muscle-showing t-shirt. My take: Immediately no. But also, so? Husband’s take: He was showing us that he might be 60, but he fit, at least in his own mind.
3. Husband went to the bathroom. Larry proceeded to show me several pictures of his wife. My take: Huh? But okay? She looks nice? Husband’s take: He’s showing you who I’m supposed to fuck. Or maybe watch as you fuck.
4. Larry invites us over to his house (at a TBD date) saying it would be “fun.” My take: We made friends! Husband’s take: Confirmation that we are agreeing to have the sexual relations because who goes to someone’s house as a first plan? (To be fair to me, I thought the invite over was a bit much. but hey, maybe that’s how they roll in the burbs, what do I know?)
5. Larry sends both husband and me follow up text with his address and a picture of him and his wife. My take: Um….. Husband’s take: Told you.
6. FaceTime a bestie in NYC to relay story/get her POV with husband filling in essential details. Bestie 100% on husband’s side and says the word “run” while laughing her ass off.
Upside: Husband and I have a blast at dinner – at my naïve ass’s expense – going over each and every signal I missed. We decide that maybe we are not in fact friends with Larry.

Fin.

Part 2: A look back.

So….this is not the first time your pal here has missed some cues. I’m flashing back to a particular night in Sarasota, FL, circa 2015. I had arrived in FL with my two children who were staying with my in-laws in their RV. Husband and I were staying in an airbnb by the beach (was it an amazing arrangement? Yes, yes it was). Anyway, on this particular trip, husband was meeting up with us a day or two later due to this annoyance called “work.”

I had an early dinner with the kids/in-laws near our airbnb. Since it’s only 7 pm, I decide to have myself a drink at a restaurant bar before going home. I walk in, and there’s one seat left at the bar. Fantastic. To my left is an older man (70+) and his wife. They initiate chit-chat about my drink when I order it because apparently they too like a dirty martini (Note: No longer drink dirty martinis).

The wife leaves after about 5 minutes to “go bring the car around.” I’m there with the oldster and my book which I begin to read. Unfortunately, the old guy was having none of that. He proceeds to ask me where I’m from and such. After a few minutes, here’s what he knows about me: I’m married with two young children. I’m visiting my in-laws. Here’s what I know about him: He’s old, somewhat ruddy (like an alcoholic) and likes to chat – more at people than with people, but hey, he’s male. I also learn that he has grown kids and is a big Penn State fan. I can also tell that he likes to consume the alcohol.

Without asking, he orders me another dirty martini. Say what? I tell him thank you but I’m not going to drink it and tell the bartender I’m set. He insists on ordering it anyway. I ask him (in a nice way) what the fuck is taking his wife so long. He says something along the lines of “we come here all the time, she probably bumped into someone she knows.”

While we are talking, he’s also benignly flirting with the bartender (who is in her 20s. Or maybe 30s because let’s be real, everyone looks young now). To me, this signals that he’s just an old drunk flirty geezer. ALSO, HIS WIFE IS ON THE WAY BACK. Not that I’m feeling defensive.

Finally – finally! – he gets a text that his wife is outside. He pays his bill. He asks if he can have a kiss goodnight. I tell him no, but he can have a handshake. He says “how about a quick kiss on the cheek?” I look at his ruddy nose, doughy lips and somehow the word “fine” comes out of my mouth. (Yeah, I know. I KNOW). I aggressively present him my cheek. Somehow – SOMEHOW – this mossback pulls a fast one and plants a very wet doughy-lipped kiss on my mouth.

GIRL.

My first thought – after the knee-jerk aggressive wiping off of my mouth and uttering the word “EW” as he darted out spry as fuck – was….I haven’t been kissed by someone new in over a decade and it’s gonna be this homie? With pulpous old-ass lips and drinking scars?

My second thought was “what in the fuck just happened. And how and why and how again.” Bartender nods in my direction and says something like “he’s harmless.” EXCEPT HIS LIPS WERE ON MY LIPS.

Upside: None.

And reader, I leave you with that. Maybe this savvy, street smart GenX-er isn’t quite as sharp as she thinks, but eff that! I got picked up by a swinger. And an octogenarian.
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What no one tells you

December 12, 2018

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Just over two years ago, my father died. His was a slow, painful death, riddled with tumors from cancer, stuck with an already weak heart, plagued by emphysema and COPDS from smoking (despite having quit). Back then, I naively thought that watching him suffer and lose bits of himself piece by piece (his ability to walk, his hair, his dignity, his voice) was the most brutal thing I would experience, at least for a time. Because of him, I thought I knew pain, how to cope with the death of a loved one.

I didn’t.

Six months ago, Julia, my oldest younger sister dropped dead at 35.

No one tells you what this loss will be like because most people don’t know, can’t know, don’t want to know.

No one tells you that when your sister dies, you mourn not just her loss, but the loss of what could have been. The loss of the parents you knew, parents who once had four living children and then only had three. The loss of someone you never expected to outlive.

No one tells you that you will not rush to the hospital the night you hear she is there because, you think, still naive, “I’ll go tomorrow, she will be fine.” No one tells you that when you do get to the hospital, your sister will look completely like herself, only with tubes in her mouth, her arms, her head. No one tells you that she will look peaceful and young and at ease.

Here are other things no one tells you:

You won’t be able to stop flashing back to those three days in the hospital when we all knew but didn’t know it was bad, so we laughed and we told her things and smoothed her hair from her head. When she was still warm and alive and we could hope.

You will find looking at pictures unbearable because, unlike your father, she did not have a long life and there is thus no joy in seeing her young because she never grew old.

You will review every (negative) conversation you had with her and wish you had been more tolerant, more understanding, better. You will struggle to remember anything good because all you will do is beat yourself up for the bad. The time you told her she had no friends when she was 10. The time you ripped her a new one for missing an event. The times you screened her calls because…well, because.

And more:

You will see your parents crumble, become shells of themselves. The pain will be inexorably, permanently etched in their faces, through smiles and hugs and attempts to survive. You will feel to your core the gut- wrenching, unbearable pain they are in. You will know you can’t fix it, can’t fix them, but you will want to. You will want to be enough for them, to be enough daughter for the two of you, you and your dead sister. And yet you will also know that you can’t.

You will see your stepfather who is maybe the kindest person you know continue to be kind and patient and giving.

You will realize that needing your mother – and your need is deep – is the best thing you can do for her because she is her best self when she’s needed, when she can still mother you even if she can’t mother her.

You will feel angry, so angry. At the world, at her, at yourself.

You will feel betrayed by friends you thought were close and moved to tears by the actions, the generosity, the graciousness of others.

What is left, you will find, is a blanket of sadness, a black cloud of anger, an incomprehension, a longing for a sign, a dream, anything that she is okay.

No one tells you that when someone says “tell me about her,” the first thing you’ll say is “Her smile lit up a room.”

Julia, your smile lit up a room. I miss you, I love you. Come back.

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Confessions of a not busy person

December 7, 2017

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You know the expression “If you want something done, ask a busy person”? Truer words have never been uttered. I’m what is commonly known as “not busy,” and what I’ve discovered in my years of not working (outside the home!) is that not having a job/time dedicated to work can make other things oddly and perhaps inappropriately overwhelming. It also allows me inordinate amounts of time to hyper-focus on semi to mostly irrelevant matters. Let me explain.

Small decisions become very, very important.

An example: After toasting myself a bagel* at a friend’s house recently, I decided we were in absolute and dire need of a new toaster oven. Why? Because where said bagel would have taken an unexaggerated 15 minutes to toast in my toaster, my friend’s got the job done in two minutes flat. Those two minutes felt life changing and my toaster crusade was ignited.

My husband who does not give a lot of thought to household appliances (other than making sure we have the latest over-sized television) thought I made a good point about the years we’ve lost waiting for bread to toast in our abode and was on board with the purchase. Was even encouraging of it.

I proceeded to research the shit out of toaster ovens in manner of prepping for thesis. I poured through Consumer Reports, cnet, businessinsider, Amazon and any other site that might have an opinion/ratings about this important topic. I learned more about the ins and outs of toaster ovens than I’d learned about anything since my intense statistics class in grad school circa 1996. Deep into my search (with five toaster ovens in my shopping cart), husband pointed out that maybe I should check dimensions of these bad boys before purchasing as we are in Manhattan apartment and not mansion in New Canaan. Deleted five toaster ovens. Started again with increased determination. I then narrowed it down to three. Asked husband to weigh in. He said, “It’s a toaster oven, I don’t care, whatever is fine.” Which is all very well and good but I had a decision to make and it was IMPORTANT and I was IMMOBILIZED because, like, what if I picked the wrong one? After asking him yet again to “just take a quick look” an hour or so later, he said, “Just pick one! What’s the problem here?” The problem here is that I’m picking a damn toaster, a cause to which I have dedicated an embarrassing amount of time and become evangelical about. Couldn’t he see that this was a critical decision? (He could not.)**

What else? Errands take on new life force

No one likes to do errands, particularly those that involve a trip to Herald Square and/or the DMV. But I have the time to do these types of chores, so you’d think I’d maybe look at it at breaking up my day/giving me something to do. I do not look at it this way.

Instead, any given chore outside of (and okay, including) my daily grind seems like…how do I put this…an imposition. The enemy, if you will. Like, I have gym classes to go to, guys. Can’t my husband who works full time and travels at least a week out out of every month deal with returning our license plates (for example)? Yeah, yeah, the intellectual/semi-normal part of me knows that’s not right. I get it, I have the time. But the jobless, not busy part of me feels like I have been wronged and perhaps interrupted. From what, I don’t know. But something.***

There is time to hyper-focus on things like your neighbors’ (and family’s!) quirks and the habits of their dogs

While our apartment is generally pretty quiet, our dining room looks out into an interior alleyway, and lemme tell you something: Noise echoes/reverberates off those walls. Because of these acoustics, I’m well aware that there’s a guy who loudly and honkingly blows his nose at 6:26 am every day. There’s a grown man who blasts Taylor Swift and sings along off-key after work/on some weekends. People do in fact yell at their kids (so it’s not just me, thank god).

Unfortunately, I am also intimately familiar with all of the dogs on my side of the building. Like, I can recognize their barks. To be fair, I really only passionately dislike one dog (please know that I have a dog and like most animals that are not avian. Or rodent. Or reptilian. Simians good). The dog I loathe deeply barks from 4-5:30 pm M-F (he takes the weekends off). Because of this, even one bark from him puts me on immediate edge. To the point where I may have crafted anonymous notes that say things like “PLEASE HAVE SOME CONSIDERATION AND SHUT YOUR DOG UP FOR THE LOVE OF GOD” (Note: I said crafted. Did not actually leave this note. Wanted to. Didn’t. Still might).

I often wonder if I would be less focused on nose-blowers and smallish mammals if I had a j-o-b. Or maybe I would notice these quirks regardless since I suffer from the very real curse/affliction called Mispophonia (https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/03/health/sounds-people-hate.html?_r=0). Still. It makes a gal wonder about her own mental health (and un-busyness) when she has a vague death wish for a random dog.

But not to worry – there’s another channel for my energy. I also have plenty of time to zealously focus on my husband/children’s foibles. For example, no one in my family but me fully shuts closet doors. The hell? I could go on but will spare you/them although they are all well aware of the attention I give to things like breathing too loudly/a whistle in the nostril region (see: aforementioned illness).

Back to the “if you want something done, ask a busy person” idea. The funny thing about being busy (I’ve learned from my working friends) is that when you are, you sort of assume everyone else is busy too. As in, they say things like “I’m sure you’re busy too, just in a different way” and mean it. I’m not saying I’m never busy, but….don’t give credit where credit is not due. And if you want something, don’t ask me. I’m not busy.

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*Don’t judge. While I’m of the “who the hell toasts bagels? ” camp (you know who you are), this one needed toasting.

**If you think husband did not have opinion once we got the toaster, think again.

***At times I’ve even felt that the pedicure I scheduled (for myself) three blocks away is a burden, albeit a less rude one. This is real, people.

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Life without kids

July 7, 2017

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People. My kids are both at summer camp for 7 weeks. SEVEN WEEKS! This has been a shock to my system on many fronts. Last summer, only kid #1 went, and she only went for four weeks. If I’m honest, I missed her fairly desperately. Not that I felt unsure about sending her or that I didn’t think she would love it (and she did, see: Seven weeks this summer). But adjusting from being a family of four to a family of three was bizarre and threw me off my game. For one thing, it meant that my #2’s babysitter (aka his older sister) was gone for the summer and, like, who was going to entertain him? Oh, right. Us. For another, it meant all eyes were on him. He was having none of it. As in, he begged to go to sleepaway camp the second his sis left. Because he apparently found life with good ole ma and pa to be dull and unsatisfactory. When your eight year-old begs for sleepaway camp – for the full summer mind you, none of this four week BS for him – you gotta wonder how boring you actually are, particularly as he was in day-camp from 8-4:30 and then got unprecedented Ipad/TV usage.

But I digress. This summer both offspring are gone and the shock has been multi-faceted.

First shock: I don’t miss them as much as I thought I would. Don’t get me wrong, a highlight of my day is checking the mail to see if these two dickens of mine have written. When I think about the fact that this is a highlight, I feel a little sad for me, as I have gotten exactly one letter from girl child and okay, five letters from boy kid (one of which read, verbatim, “Oh, I forgot, can you also send me stamps?” and another of which checked-off boxes indicating that his favorite activity is lunch, that he likes to eat, and that the weather has been “bad.”). In other words, the daily dash to the mailbox has been, well, unrewarding to put it mildly. Another highlight of my day is hitting the bejesus out of the “refresh” button on the camp’s website until I see pictures of my shining, beaming youth. But as all of us with kids at camp know, those pictures are both a gift and a torment. Gift because when they are in fact smiling, the world is good. And torment because when they are not, or when they are….what’s the word…AWOL, as in, not in any pictures, you (or okay, I) create scenarios ranging from “She has no friends this year/she had a fight with a girl in her cabin. Will kill that bitch” to “He’s in the infirmary with a horrible illness and no one has let me know/What is wrong with this camp” to “Are they purposefully avoiding the camera dude for fux sake?” (Boy kid completely capable of this antic given his general disdain for being in pictures, and I, amateur that I am, made the mistake of writing him to let him know how happy he looked in the camp pictures. Mistake people, mistake. Smiles stopped for a week after that comment. That may also have been when he disappeared for two days. Whatever).

Second shock: Even though I am a stay-at-home mom (more on this here: https://wordpress.com/post/underthefalseimpression.wordpress.com/1697), as in, even though my key responsibilities/daily obligations revolve around my progeny, I am apparently JUST FINE spending my days solo, or, say, day drinking (not really, mom!). Or watching the Amazing Race. Don’t get me started on that addiction as I swore when I decided to be home with the kids that I’d never turn on the TV during the day. And I haven’t. But now I am alone, blissfully alone, so it doesn’t really count, right? Anyway, TV or no TV, it turns out I am aces without my twice-daily laps around the Upper West Side bringing children to/from school. I don’t miss my daily sprint for the M7 or my jog back uptown so I can (mostly unsuccessfully) avoid being late for Kid #2’s school bus. I do not miss coming up with a dinner plan every night or being greeted with a ‘tude for simply answering “fish” when asked “what’s for dinner.”

Third shock (and this has been a nice one): Unpredictable boy child is actually writing letters to me. And, when not demanding material items, said letters have been pretty damn upbeat. Why is this a shock? Oh. Because he, like his moms, is a complainer and well, can be kind of a Debbie Downer. Glass half empty if you will. So I was fully prepared to get letters full of complaint/misery despite happy-looking pictures (back when he was in pictures). Instead, I am getting letters saying “I am having so much fun!” and “I am not homesick at all!.” (Uh…good? Thank you?). Boy has also taken his two weeks at camp to morph from an average-sized 8 year-old boy into Eminem. You know, the rapper. Got himself some neck ink (I am assuming it washes off at some point, but almost two weeks in, those tats look as dark as they did day 1). He started sporting his never-before-worn baseball cap backwards and, it seems, wears his Run DMC shirt daily. When we spoke for the first time last night (joyous, that was joyous), he said, “true dat” to a comment his pops made. This is a Jewish white boy in an Episcopal school, just to remind everyone. But apparently the lily-white state of New Hampshire has brought out his urban. So that’s happening.

Fourth shock: Ok, maybe “shock” is an unfair word, but guess what, people? The husband and I still have stuff to talk about! We like hanging out! Going from a family of four to a family of two is MUCH easier than going from four to three. Because with just the two of us, there are no shackles (I mean kids) holding us back. We can spontaneously do things. We can “play things by ear,” a phrase I have not used since 2006. Also, we saw a movie in an actual movie theater. I repeat, we went to the movies and did not see “Despicable Me 3” or its kinfolk. (Shout out @thebigsickmovie). Also. There’s a musical called Hamilton some of you may have heard of, and I am entering its lottery daily because I know I can go when I win (For the record, I have not won. What’s their problem by the way?).

Before I sound like a complete asshole slash someone who many or may not be fit to parent at all, I will admit that I would very much love to give them both a hug right now. I miss hearing about their days (when it does not involve complaints about dinner/bedtime/practicing/homework/my very presence) and kissing them goodnight.

But here’s the beauty: I can do all of that again in five weeks. For now, I will enjoy my freedom and my family of two. Who’s up for drinks? I’m flexible.

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White entitlement and being “woke”

May 22, 2017

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As a white woman who grew up going to private schools, I have always tried to be very cognizant of how obnoxious it is when people like me act entitled. I mean, acting entitled is jacked no matter what, but coming from a white folk, it’s even worse, sort of by definition. I remember going into a bar with my boyfriend circa 1992, and some frat-boy looking type (who probably could have passed for my fraternal twin), came up to my boyfriend – the only person of color in the joint – and asked him to fetch him a chair. I was outraged. Boyfriend took in stride as he said it was par for the course. Okay, maybe that particular incident was wasn’t entitled, it was just racist, but there is a fine line.

Because my kids are also of the white persuasion, we are trying to raise them not to be douchebags, and to teach them that they are not owed anything just because they live a comfortable life. If I cook dinner, I am not also cleaning the pots. You do not deserve a seat on the subway more than anyone else. There is no reason I should be getting you your orange juice when you have legs and arms (some might call getting your kid a drink “maternal” or “taking care of your children’s basic needs” but eff that noise).

While I know I am lucky that because I’m white, cabs always stop for me and that no one follows me around a store thinking I am about to shop-lift, I am still surprised – or more accurately, disturbed – when I see blatant entitlement in action. Incidentally, there is no better example of white entitlement than @PassengerShame (#Passengershaming). You’re welcome.

Anyway, my family was recently out to dinner with two other families. Our kids ranged from 8-11 years-old. The kids were talking amongst themselves; we adults were talking (and drinking) amongst ourselves and all was copacetic. Until a toddler — little white dude – approached our table. He talked about wanting to show his buttock to our kids and was very demanding of their attention. He raced in circles around our table. Our kids – god bless – tried to handle the situation on their own but they eventually – at about the time the toddler pulled up a chair and actually joined our table – asked us for help.

We looked around to identify his parents. No one in the vicinity appeared to be paying any attention to this tot, so we asked him who he was with. He pointed at a couple deep in talk. We looked over at them. They ignored us. As in, their child was at a chair at our table, and they were on a date. Finally, one friend went over and asked the parents if the toddler at our table was theirs. They said yes. And made no move to do anything or, say, apologize for bothering us. They may have even gone back to their conversation….until my friend asked them directly to take their child back to their table. This involved eye-rolling on their part, and is a perfect example of whom I’m striving never to be (that’d be the parents – the kid was too young for my judgment…mostly).

You may be wondering why a blog titled “white entitlement’ is now about everyone but me. Right. So, last Thursday, after losing 3-5 lbs of sweat at my daughter’s 5th grade publishing party (there is no AC in her school; a room mean for 10 people was packed with the 65 kids in the grade and at least one of their parents….You get the picture) and then striving to lose another 3-5 lbs at the gym, I made what I hoped would be a quick stop at the supermarket to purchase 4 items. There were two cashiers open. One was occupied by a man buying at least 6 dozen eggs which he seemed to want to bag personally, and the other had a woman laying a few sad looking vegetables on the conveyor belt. There were two men (Latino) standing a few steps back from the line, but I barely registered them as I rammed/sprinted my way to the cashier (there was an old lady approaching, after all). I stink-eyed the egg guy for taking an inordinate amount of time collecting his belongings (because that was important to do) and got in line behind the vegetable woman.

After I plunked my goods onto the belt, one of the aforementioned men pushed his fleet of water bottles (on the ground in front of him) toward my cashier, thereby tipping me off that he and his friend had actually been in line. As in, I totally disregarded them because I was in a hurry/in a full-body sweat and the egg-man was taking his-sweet ass time. Would I have done so if they were two white dudes? I have no idea. Maybe. Maybe not though. As soon as I realized what I’d done, I apologized and offered to let them go (see, am not a complete asswipe, just sometimes), but as one of them was saying, “No, don’t worry about it,” the other said, “No problem, ladies first.”

As someone who says “you’re welcome” to jaggoffs who don’t bother to say “thank you” when I go out of my way to hold a door for them, it was a good lesson. Not just in how someone like me who truly tries not to be *that guy* ends up being that guy, but in the graciousness of others.

That was going to be the end of this blog but then I discussed this post/topic when I was out to dinner with some friends (all people of color) later that night. This is how that conversation went:

Me: “You guys, I did something entitled and I feel awful about it (I may have even blushed). I’m going to blog about it.”
Them: “That’s good that you’re owning it/being honest about it. What happened?”
Me: Relayed the above.

One of them: And then….Is there more?

Another one of them: You mean you accidentally cut someone in line? And then asked if they wanted to go in front of you?

The third one: That’s not entitlement.

All three together (okay, not really, but kind of): Do you understand what entitlement is?

Apparently I could use a refresher, which may be what some white people’s problem is in the first place (i.e. not knowing wtf). Believe me, I’m not making excuses for the behavior of my people, and I was relieved to hear that I wasn’t *that guy” in the supermarket. But my girlfriends then proceeded to list actual examples of entitlement: White people putting their feet up on desks at work in a way people of color never would or could get away with; an older white person asking a bunch of white people if they were in line for first class (before getting in line behind them) but not asking my (black) friend who was, in fact, also in line for first class; a white woman asking the few white people in an almost empty bar if she could switch the channel to Fox from CNN but not asking my Latina friend and her black husband who were also there…they went on.

I know we all know this stuff happens. And maybe we really need to look no further than boorish, uncontrolled Donald Trump on his third wife with kids by three different women vs. gracious, measured Barack Obama happily married for decades to elucidate the point. Because we all know – even the entitled among us – that the country would not have elected a black version of DT. Ever.

But it shouldn’t have to be so extreme to matter. Our conversation that night was, to me, a good reminder that even someone who thinks of herself as pretty damn aware (that’d be me) can be kind of clueless. So. I say, in this day of being “woke,” there needs to be more dialogue, it needs to be better dialogue, and maybe just talking about this kind of thing with one other will in its own small way make our white brethren a better, less entitled group. Then we can not just *be* woke, but stay so.

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Massages

May 12, 2017

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Getting a massage is supposed to be a relaxing experience. Even when, say, you’re getting one to help cope with the authoritarian regime that has apparently taken over your once democratic country. Especially then.

Sadly, “relaxing” is not always how these massages pan out. In the 20 or so years that I have been paying for massages, I have found that sometimes things can go vaguely to dramatically awry. I realize that this is a bougie problem. I do. But since I’m shelling out the Benjamins for an experience (that’d be relaxation, temporarily forgetting about life), I have some observations/critiques I’d like to share. Call it a public service announcement or something.

My main problem may stem from the fact that my first acquaintanceship with massage was at a spa called Burke Williams (@Burke_Williams) in Santa Monica where I lived for a couple of years. I have never been one who cared all that much for saunas or steam rooms (am I the only person who feels she will die/asphyxiate/become water-logged in these joints?), and I don’t really get the appeal of dipping into a pool with naked ladies bobbing about. But at Burke Williams there is some sort of mist room that seems to have been created exactly for me and my hair/skin/inner emotional self. Mist jets out at room temperature; it is fabulous and feels like my ancestral natural habitat. Plus — more importantly – the massages were consistently awesome. Each and every one (except for the one where the massage guy asked me on a date. That’s a different more disturbing story).

Since Burke Williams, nothing has really lived up, though when I travel I’ve had some good experiences. Big shout out to a massage I got in Istanbul where my only complaint was that the lady asked me if I wanted my breasts massaged, which is apparently how the Europeans do. I did not, but didn’t want to be the uncool American, so I said yes. Mistake: Mine.

Then, again while traveling, there was the dude ranch in Montana that was my induction into the very serious and worldly problem of bad massages. I call the issue I encountered there (and other places – don’t mean to just hate on the Wild West) the limp handshake – massage version.

On this particular trip, a nearby dude ranch to our home base claimed to have hot springs and a spa, so we decided that on our second to last day we would reward ourselves for hiking around Yellowstone by getting ourselves some Montana massages (at NYC prices, but I digress).

The first problem was that there didn’t seem to be actual hot springs at the hot spring spa. It was more like an outdoor pool that was somewhere in the tepid to luke-warm range temperature-wise. Perhaps that should have tipped us off. It didn’t. The second problem was – wait for it – the massage itself. My first thought upon the commencement of said massage was “Did the masseuse call in sick and have some housekeeping/accounting/billing staff member fill in for her?” (To be fair, this was actually my friend’s first thought. My first thought was “Montanans don’t know from massage.”) So I lay there for an hour while the lady gently rubbed my back. “Rub” is generous though. Picture someone who doesn’t really want to give you a hug doing those formal light taps on your back that some do (hi, mom!). I mean, my 8 year-old gives a better, deeper massage.

After that, I should have been clued in that not all massages (or spas) are created equal, but I was the optimistic gal my friends know me to be. So I searched. And what I found time and again – and each time I was naively caught off guard – were massage therapists who likey the chat. The real problem here is that you never know who is going to be a chatter. You can’t tell, and that seems unfair. I get that it might get dull spending hour after hour not speaking, but part of what I am paying for is silence. I don’t want to make small talk, especially whilst only one of us is naked.

My worst experience on this front was a masseuse who told me – specifically and with great detail – why she had gotten divorced (there was embezzlement involved). I do not know what launched her into her saga, but suffice it to say that her ex sucked. The saving grace was that she gave a pretty damn good massage and went 15 minutes over without charging me, possibly since I had taken on the role of her therapist. But this was not my first or last experience with this particular issue. Why don’t I speak up, you ask? Because I do not want to piss off the person who is in charge of manhandling my body for the next chunk of my life.

I kind of blame Burke Williams for all of this, as I have not found her brethren here in NYC (sidebar: Bliss is NOT the same. It’s not. And please never tell me to go to the Mandarin as a solution to this pursuit. A) I’ve been there; B) it’s overly expensive (like don’t have prices on their website expensive) and C) I do not need or appreciate some the most fantastic views in the city while I am lying face down on a table). So because of that bastard Burke and her failure to exist in NYC, my quest for the perfect spa has veered me in the opposite direction: Places that offer no ambiance (I mean none), just massage.

My first exposure to this type of spot was in a place called “Salon de Tokyo” in Midtown, where the masseuses actually walk on your back (by the by, there are bars on the ceiling that they hold onto to avoid crushing, say, your vertebrae or spleen). But since the rest of the clientele (other than me, to be clear) were businessmen clad in suits in town from Japan – I was sharing locker space with these lads – I did not go back (excellent massage though).

What I have found in my crusade – the search is real, people – is that the best massage places are run by people who may also do Chinese acupuncture on the side (perhaps with no license). Sometimes you will find these places in your local nail salon. Don’t judge. I mean, one of my sisters does, but her husband, also a massage lover, is with me on this. Though okay, telling you a guy is on board with Asian women quietly massaging him might not convince you that these places are legit.

I, for one, am sold. For $48 (not a typo), you get an hour-long massage. No, the table isn’t as comfortable as good old BW. No, there is no privacy and you can maybe hear the person in the next cube. Yes, the staff might pause to answer the phone while she massages you (true story). But for that price, who cares?

What you will get at these places without having to specify is a deep — deep-ass, I should say – tissue massage. Don’t get me wrong. I “like” this type of massage as much as the next guy. I put “like” in scare quotes because let’s be real, while it’s going on, the massage hurts. That said, most of these massages shed years off my spinal-life so I’m generally willing to bear with the discomfort.

The problem is, sometimes the discomfort is actual pain of the intense variety. I’ve had deep tissue masseurs who are possibly/probably taking out childhood issues on my tight, knotted back. They’re kind of like the chatters, only they speak with their ferocious, almighty hands. The pain is such that I have been tempted to leap from the table and find that limp-ass lady from Montana.

Just last week, I went in for a massage where the woman looked….how do I put this…actually angry to see me. Like maybe I was intruding on her day/person/religious beliefs in a way I didn’t understand. She started out with a massage so painful that I may have inadvertently yelped out. I truly debated paying for my time and leaving, just so I didn’t end up with some sort of crippling and permanent back injury. But then (after she got off the phone or went on a cigarette break or something), she asked “too hard?” so maybe she wasn’t so angry after all, just Herculean-level strong. Naturally, in order to impress her with my fortitude, I said, “No, it’s all good!”

I know what you’re thinking. I’m a huge nebbish and maybe I should stop pretending to be someone I’m not (i.e. someone comfortable with bosom massage, chit-chat and/or intense pain). So maybe it’s not them and it’s me. It’s a theme that’s somewhat consistent in my life because I like to keep it real.

Still, if you haven’t tried these Chinese massage joints, do it. It’s no Burke Williams, but you’ll thank me (or judge me) later.

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