Revision Piece

Everything about it is a contradiction, the antithesis of who I am, but the contrasting angles and mismatched edges fit together and the vision is flawless. Motivated by integrity, I see the world in black and white, but the dream is shallow and the city is filled with color. The goal is unrealistic and the industry is competitive. Those who fight their way through the door gain respect and their power trumps the materialistic root of their success. The streets are gritty, the sprawling landscape unappealing to the eye but it’s a city known for beauty and perfection.

It’s called the City of Angels, a place where few dreams come true and millions of souls are trampled. The neon lights are bright but so aren’t the hungry eyes of the masses that gaze at the starless sky at night, praying for their big break.

In LA, everybody thinks they’re someone and they never let you forget it. On my first and only trip to Los Angeles I remember being taken aback by the number of people I met who “worked” with insert famous person here. Relatively trusting in normal life, I was suddenly skeptical of every person I met. The distrust left me with a gross feeling in my stomach, unsettling, as if I were so hungry I couldn’t eat. I wondered if I could overlook the incessant name dropping and blatant lies. As I walked down the wooden steps of a thrift shop in Venice I worried one day I wouldn’t think twice about dropping a name or two in a town where networking is the number one way to get ahead and vowed to remember how ridiculous I thought the owner sounded when he told me about the time he dressed Kirstie Alley for a photo shoot.

One particular man passionately told me about his experience as a producer for NBC/Universal. We were on the train at Union Station when he sat across me, ready to talk. His name was Manny and he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His dark hair was thick and though he spoke English better than some Americans he couldn’t shake his Mexican accent. “Yeah, me and Fergie,” he said. “She loves me because she knows I’ll tell her the truth.  One time…she came up to me in hoochie-mama dress. Tits hanging out, her ass wasn’t covered and she said ‘Manny, how do I look?’ You know what I told her? I said ‘Baby, you look like a hoochie –mama!! You gotta leave something to the imagination, girl. Make them want more! You know what I’m saying?”

I’m polite. I smiled and feigned interest in the appropriate places, feeling bad for the guy whose self-worth was attached to embellished relationships with the rich and famous. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth but it was difficult to believe the man sitting across from me in dirty jeans and a Hanes tee-shirt had close relationships with Dave Matthews and Britney. 

I’ve fantasized about living in LA for year but like most things in life, fantasy doesn’t transcend the realm of reality. I’m disgusted by the dirty streets and cinder block buildings covered in graffiti but the strip-mall atmosphere and smog aren’t enough to pollute my dreams, so I have to go. Most people question my sanity and people who live there advise against it. “Good luck finding a job,” said an out of work writer I called about a sublet. “I don’t know if you know this or not but the competition for servers is high. You need a portfolio full of things you’re working on, what your goal is, pictures….and once you get a serving job, you don’t give it up. There. Aren’t. Any.” I told her I’d have six months rent saved up and she said “Well….you might be able to find a job by then,” but her voice was thick with skepticism.

Every job I’ve applied for has rejected me via courtesy emails citing a ‘large number of applicants.’ They say they’re not interested at this time and always thank me for my interest but the polite dismissal does nothing for my ego. Of course, I justify their decision with the fact I currently live 3500 miles away.

When the rejections first started piling in, I lost the idealistic optimism that gave me the courage to go to California in the first place. For two days I stared at my computer screen thinking the worst. I’d spend my days aimlessly searching for a job in the miniature cities that make up LA without luck until my money ran out, no other option but to go home without my pride. It wasn’t going to happen for me. I wasn’t going to be a fashion journalist; there are millions of writers just like me who, more talented or not, have connections I don’t.  ‘It’s sad’, I thought, ‘that before I even arrive, I’m discouraged.’ Fear had overtaken my excitement and with the reality I couldn’t plan everything, panic ensued.

This downward spiral of second-guessing and uncertainty had to stop; I could feel the urge to back out forming in my gut. I made a decision that some might say is...crazy. I chose to ignore every negative aspect of the move. Mind over matter, I am positive I will find work if I try hard enough. 13.2% unemployment rate? No big deal! I’m optimistic I’ll make friends because I know I’m fun to be around and can carry on witty conversation. I don’t worry about finding a place to live after my three month sublet in Westwood runs up because in a city that big, there are apartments to be found. I don’t worry about getting stabbed because I’ve managed to survive living on Elm Street where in the past six months there was a major drug bust, a man was murdered, and a woman raped. This past Saturday there was a standoff, guns and all, and I had a prime view from my living room window. I don’t think about what I could lose or that for the first time in my life I’m set up to fail because I simply don’t believe that will happen. I have an annoying level of self-awarded confidence that borders on conceited but it has served me well so far. You might think I’m blind, naïve, or clueless to how the world works and my mother would agree with you. Me? I choose to think about things in a positive light, never letting negativity get in the way of achieving my goals.

girls

                So I finally gave in to the hype and watched the first season of “Girls.” Not because I wanted to, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a teensy bit curious, but because those DVD’s a friend shoved at me looked a hell of a lot better than my microeconomics objectives. “One episode,” I thought as I pressed play, “Then I’ll do my homework.”

                One episode turned into five because the HBO series is just that good. I have to admit, I was a cynic. I had seen Lena Dunham at the Golden Globes where she took home multiple statues. She and her cast of ladies looked dazed on the red carpet as they were interviewed by E!  and none of them looked like stars to me. My dislike of them wasn’t fair but it was impossible to avoid. You see, I’m a die-hard “Sex and the City” fan and this show seemed like its ugly stepsister. Just another show about well-off sophisticates in fabulous NYC. I’d seen it.  

Fast forward to five days ago when my cynicism turned to pleasant surprise when it wasn’t the rip-off I had anticipated. For one, Dunham, the brain behind the gritty show, has created relatable characters. These girls aren’t walking around on Louise Vuitton’s red soles and carrying Gucci on their arms. They wear ragged tee-shirts and underwear to bed and their eye makeup is questionable. They live in tiny apartments with second-hand furniture that doesn’t match.  Some of them can’t pay their bills and are all of them are emotional wrecks. They take the subway.

                Dunham plays Hannah, a lost dreamer who looks for acceptance in all the wrong places. Narcissistic and self-involved, her innumerable character flaws become glaringly obvious as the series unfolds. She sleeps with the wrong men and denies reality as she gets entangled in an emotionally abusive relationship while trying to finish her book.  As the bills pile up and her relationship with her roommate, played by Allison Michaels, becomes increasingly strained, the show shows the fragile nature of friendship. There’s a lot of serious stuff going on from STD’s to homosexuality but Dunham and her team of writers keep the tone light with hilarious quips and clever dialogue. Dunham holds nothing back as she embraces her imperfections by  making them a central component of the show. Her weight, oily skin, flat chest, and masculine features are frequent topics of conversation and the butt of many jokes. As for the woman behind the television screen, it is impossible to differentiate between Dunham the writer/producer and the character she plays because her acting skills are flawless as she keeps the emotion raw, though somehow, she never over-does it.

 “Girls” has a unique cast of supporting characters, most notably Shoshanna, played by Zosia Mamet. Shoshanna produces laughs with her nervous babbling and wannabe valley girl demeanor. An innocent girl who wishes she wasn’t, Shoshanna is the definition of awkward and hates herself for it. Though Mamet’s character is relatively insignificant in terms of plot development and at times it is not clear how she knows the other characters, she brings some of the biggest laughs of the first season when, in episode seven, she accidentally smokes crack because she thought it was pot. The irony of the virginal girl smoking crack at a rave where she is dressed like a school girl in silver eye shadow cannot be missed.

Clever writing aside, “Girls” explores the harsh reality of dreaming big while living in the real world. Unlike “Sex and the City” where the primary characters are successful, these new girls struggle to start their lives. Some realize their life may not be what they thought while others refuse to give up on their dreams. The characters fight to figure out the world and while the lessons imparted in the first season could easily become cliché, they don’t because the script is so good that every time somebody makes a mistake you can’t help but cringe out of sympathy as you learn along with them. Over the course of ten episodes you might get a sinking feeling in your stomach and you’ll likely cry. I am certain you’ll laugh. However you react, you’ll know you’ve stumbled upon something great because the best testament to good work is how it makes you feel and “Girls” arouses a kaleidoscope of emotions while making you think at the same time.



an expert on nothing except.....

                I wouldn’t call myself an authority on anything. I majored in psychology for two years but I gave it up when I learned about Melanie Klein's outrageous theories of human development (that she hypothesized while battling the demons of a six year psychotic state). I’m a good cook but my trial and error approach is not the fine work of a skilled chef. I’ve read a lot of books about crime but I don’t have the courage to be a detective and while I’ve flown frequently I still can’t get through TSA without holding up the line. I am obsessed with nutrition but I can’t explain to you the chemistry that makes monounsaturated fat so good for you (or even if chemistry would explain it, it might be biology…) and I can’t construct a workout regimen for a woman who wants to lose weight in her thighs.

                Really, I should feel pretty bad about myself. I’m halfway educated on the mind, a hit-or-miss cook, and a crime junkie who can’t even make it through airport security. I’ve spent years in school for a wide range of superficial knowledge on everything from economics to statistics to literature but half the time I don’t know what I’m talking about at all. And here is where my expertise comes in, the place I really shine.

                Now this isn’t something to be proud of. Of course I wish I could tell you all about how eating protein and calcium together stimulates the metabolism (or whatever. That topic may be made up because it is very likely eating protein and calcium together is detrimental to your metabolism. There is also the distinct possibility one has nothing to do with the other) but I can’t. I can’t tell you about that or how potatoes are farmed or how we keep coming up with different breeds of genetically engineered miniature dogs. Like I said, I’m not an expert on anything. What I can tell you is how to act like you know what you’re talking about even when you don’t.

                There are a lot of scenarios where you might be called upon to reach out of your comfort zone and personal areas of “expertise.” The most obvious and easiest to maneuver through is at school when you have to write a paper about something you know nothing about. It’s simple. Do your research, cite your sources, and use spell check.

                It gets more confusing when you’re put on the spot. You get asked a question in class and people are staring at you. You don’t know why the Protestant Reformation had such an impact on the lower class, all you know is that Martin Luther guy was like a cult leader. But here you are, forced to say something. In a confident voice repeat the question back. This allows you to stall for time, giving you ten to fifteen solid seconds to formulate your answer. Most importantly, it allows you to avoid that awkward pause that screams I don’t have a clue!!!  During this time think about everything you know about the topic. Use key words in the question to guide you. In this example the term “reformation” is the ticket to forming an answer without a lot of facts. Think about what you know about reform, the Catholic church, and England in general. With a smile, speak with authority and confidence, always remembering if you don’t know the answer it’s best to keep it short and sweet.

If you can’t even manage an educated guess it may be best to switch topics. You know all about Martin Luther and have a strong opinion about his cult-like ways but of course, this theory has left you without any time to explore the religious significance of the Protestant Reformation. While you were thinking about the blood and gore and the Thirty Year War you forgot what everyone was fighting about and you definitely don’t know anything about the lower class, except that they were called peasants. I’m not gonna lie, it’s a risk trying to steer the discussion in a different direction but I’m taking a gamble and betting your teacher is happy as long as people are talking about anything in class (maybe not anything...) . That being said, here’s how you do it. Repeat the question like we did before. Keep your pace even and never once think about letting your voice shake. Address the part of the question you know the most about and talk briefly (ten seconds, tops) about that before you begin talking about the closely related subject you know (something) about. Feel free to end your spiel with a question of your own that expands on the topic. At that point, everybody will have forgotten the original subject and your teacher will be thrilled by your eager participation. You really can’t go wrong.

Finally, one last piece of advice and though I’m not an authority on anything, I hope you listen to this. If you really, really, really don’t know the answer and you can’t pull together the words to pretend you do, just say so and be attentive when the answer is presented to you. Nobody can fault you for being honest and who knows everything anyways?

the glass castle

                Its cover, plain white with an uninteresting blue border, does nothing to draw the eye of those browsing the shelves of the bookstore on Saturday afternoon. I bought it for fifty cents at a yard sale and can honestly say if it hadn’t been so cheap I never would have read “The Glass Castle” by Jeannette Walls.

                I can also say if I hadn’t picked it up out of a cluttered cardboard box that summer day I would have missed out. Walls’s words are mesmerizing; they suck you in as she makes you laugh and cry at the same time. They evoke anger and frustration as well as hope. I traded Friday night dinner and drinks to lie in bed and read the vivid descriptions of her cursed childhood. The next morning I was exhausted and hit my snooze button three times before dragging myself up out of bed for work because I couldn’t go to bed without knowing the end.

So what is this book with the boring cover about? It’s a memoir that begins in Walls’s childhood and follows her as she achieves success despite all odds. Of course, this sounds unoriginal but the Walls family is so unique that the reader can’t help but be simultaneously intrigued by their utter dysfunction and envious of their love. One part hilarious, one part disturbing, and two parts shocking, this is a story so good that it has to be true because nobody could make it up.

One the perimeter of the story lie problems that plague many. Alcoholism, homelessness, and mental illness all play a role in “The Glass Castle” making it relatable, though almost everyone who reads it will be thankful for their own lives as they realize they didn’t have it that bad after all. If you’re thinking the book sounds pretty miserable, it is.  At the same time, it is inspiring, hopeful, and thought-provoking.  Without a doubt, the reader will want to draw from Walls’s strength and drink in her depth. Walls writes with certainty and her descriptions are perfect. Her storytelling ability is unmatched as she knows how to balance heavy topics and humor but it is her uncanny ability for forgiveness, acceptance, and love that make “The Glass Castle” worth reading again and again.

pills pills and more pills

                It was seven pm and the air was fresh with the excitement of early summer. School was out for the year and it was his tenth birthday. The party had been earlier that day and now everyone was home. Mike was sitting on the front porch in his usual position. Elbows on his knees, hands crossed in front of him, signature frown on his face. Harley sat next to him, with his elbows on his knees and his hands crossed in front of him. With a dazed smile that didn’t match the tone of his voice he whined,”Daddyyy, I have to take my meds.” Mike glanced at his watch and ignored his request. Harley’s voice grew to a high-pitched screech. “Daddyyyyy….” He pulled at Mike’s arm as he yelled, “I HAVE TO TAKE MY MEDS!!!” and like clockwork, the evening ritual of pill-popping and drool-induced sleep began before the sun even set.

                My younger brother Harley is just one out of the 2.7 million American youth between the age of 4 and 17 who is medicated for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Over the course of his young life he has been prescribed more medications than most thirty year old adults. Various types of Ritalin, Adderall, and Concerta have graced the medicine cabinet in my family’s home along with sleeping pills, allergy medicine, mood stabilizers, and antidepressants. Whenever one wouldn’t work the doctor would move on to another, never once thinking to re-evaluate his diagnosis. Through trial and error, the doctor would find a cocktail of pills that suppressed Harley’s outbursts, confusion, and meltdowns and when they stopped working she upped the dose or added the newest miracle pill to the mix.

                “Hey buddy,” I said, groggy as I opened my eyes. He was standing in the corner of the room, back to me. In the dark I could just make out his shadow and nothing more. “What’s up?” He didn’t respond. Instead, Harley pulled down his pants and proceeded to pee on my bedroom floor, in a dead sleep. The next day he didn’t remember his surprise bathroom break and Mike installed a lock on his bedroom door.

                He came home from school one afternoon and kicked the door open. Throwing his coat on the floor, he scowled at me before he ran upstairs. I chalked it up to just another one of his moods until our brother told me that they had been weighed in gym class that day. My stomach sank as I imagined his embarrassment when it was his turn. He didn’t wear baggy tee-shirts and jogging pants every day because they were cool and he knew it wasn’t normal for kids his age to be on strict diets. He knew he was different and he was beginning to understand why.

                It’s impossible to measure the benefits of something when all the good comes at a high price.  For a stable mood Harley gained weight and sacrificed a genuine smile and the light in his eyes. In order to focus he gave up sleep. To capture the sleep that evaded him, my brother gave up evening bike rides and ice cream, baseball and game nights.

                Does Harley value stability, focus, and sleep? I don’t know because I never asked him and nobody else did either. He was six when he took his first pill and my mother was exhausted. Fed up with his incessant crying and the daily outbursts, she did what she had to do to make her life easier. A short-term solution for a lifelong problem, behavioral therapy has never been utilized though one would think it would be the first option for families with challenging children. Not only would behavioral therapy change patterns of thinking in the long-term, it can correct bad habits before they become too ingrained. Impressionable children learn coping skills and families can learn together how to manage ADHD with charts and incentives for the child to behave. At six, drugs should not be the first option but a last resort.

                There’s little emotion in his voice when he speaks. It’s weird to hear him talk because his voice is changing; it cracks sometimes and I try not to say anything about it because I don’t want to embarrass him. He’s fourteen, a freshman in high school but he’s still Harley to me, wearing those jogging pants and a baggy tee-shirt that falls to his knees.

 Reference

“Increasing Prevalence of Parent-Reported Attention –Deficit / Hyperactivity Disorder Among Children ---United States, 2003 and 2007” (12 Nov 2010). Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. Retrieved from: http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/mm5944a3.htm?s_cid=mm5944a3_w

Week Two Re-Do: Series of Events

                It wasn’t love but I won’t deny I had a small crush.  My fingertips melted into the softness and I imagined how they’d feel on my skin. Heavenly, I thought. Like nothing I’ve ever had. Then there was the white lace detail. I may have been able to bypass the lace but white?? It was too much, I couldn’t resist. I looked at the price tag and reluctantly pulled my hand away from the silky material. Maybe I could resist after all. “Hello!! Can I help you with anything?”

                “No….I was just browsing,” I replied.

                “Well what kind of jeans do you normally wear?” the girl asked. Her brown eyes sparkled behind a pair of black glasses and she was smiling brightly.

                “Uh….jeans?” I said. What kind of question is that? “American Eagle mostly,” I clarified.

                She looked me up and down, a frown of concentration on her face. “Turn around for me?” she asked. I turned around awkwardly, uncomfortable with her critical assessment of my body. “You look like you’d wear a size two or zero here,” she said. I was still stuck on her delusion when she asked “What kind of jeans were you looking for?”

                “Skinny jeans,” I said. Wait!! What?!?! I didn’t want ANY jeans!

                She came back with two pairs and led me to the dressing room where I found out how that silky fabric felt against my skin. Weightless, I felt like I was relaxing around the house in leggings. They were even the perfect length. At five feet, that never happens and my jeans always end up tattered and frayed. They were perfect.

                Handing them back to her I said, “I didn’t really like them.”

                “What exactly didn’t you like about them?” she asked, visibly concerned. Clearly, this wasn’t something she heard all the time.

                “I don’t know. They just didn’t fit right.”

                “We do have other styles. I saw you were looking at these ones when you came in?” and she pointed at the jeans. “Why don’t you try these on and show me so you can tell me exactly what you don’t like about them.”

                Ohhhh, I was getting sucked in. I could feel it. My first attempt at walking out of there without swiping my card failed, my second one did too. This girl was a force to be reckoned with, she was winning every round. She had me trying on jeans I never wanted to buy; I was just trying to kill some time before my flight. She flattered me, manipulated me, and now she had figured out my weakness in these perfectly girly, tomboy jeans that made me look amazing.

                I’d like to blame it all on her and the fact that she probably relies on commission to pay her rent; it’d be so much easier that way. But it wasn’t all her (even though she literally forced me to try on jeans). No, it was a combination of my seemingly uncontrollable spending habits and the irrational guilt I felt. She had been so nice, so helpful. I didn’t want to waste her time and every girl needs a pair of nice jeans, right? I swiped my card and the second I entered my pin I knew I was making a mistake. I would never wear these jeans. I should’ve gone with the skinnies, I thought. At least then I’d be able to wear them. She wrapped them up and gently placed them in a little brown bag, sliding them across the counter as if she were giving me a gift. I took it and smiled at her as I vowed to stop shopping for two months…..or one.

big risk, big reward?



               

              It is called the City of Angels, a place where few dreams come true and millions of souls are trampled. The neon lights are bright but so aren’t the hungry eyes of the masses that gaze at the starless sky at night, praying for their big break.

In LA, everybody thinks they’re someone and they never let you forget it. On my first and only trip to Los Angeles I remember being taken aback by the number of people I met who “worked” with insert famous person here. Relatively trusting in normal life, I was suddenly skeptical of every person I met. The distrust left me with a gross feeling in my stomach, unsettling, as if I were so hungry I couldn’t eat. I wondered if I could get used to the incessant name dropping and blatant lies.

One particular man passionately told me about his experience as a producer for NBC/Universal. We were on the train at Union Station when he sat across me, ready to talk. His name was Manny and he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His dark hair was thick and though he spoke English better than some Americans he couldn’t shake his Mexican accent. “Yeah, me and Fergie,” he said. “She loves me because she knows I’ll tell her the truth.  One time…she came up to me in hoochie-mama dress. Tits hanging out, her ass wasn’t covered and she said ‘Manny, how do I look?’ You know what I told her? I said ‘Baby, you look like a hoochie –mama!! You gotta leave something to the imagination, girl. Make them want more! You know what I’m saying?”

I’m polite. I smiled and feigned interest in the appropriate places, feeling bad for the guy whose self-worth was attached to embellished relationships with the rich and famous. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth, that part of his story was real, but it was difficult to believe the man sitting across from me in dirty jeans and a Hanes tee-shirt had close relationships with Dave Matthews and Britney.  

I’ve fantasized about living in LA for years and even though I was disgusted by the dirty streets and cinder block buildings covered in graffiti, it’s a part of me. The strip-mall atmosphere and smog wasn’t enough to pollute my dream, so I have to go. Even though most people I talk to question my sanity and people who live there advise against it, I have to go. “Good luck finding a job,” said a woman I called about a sublet. “I don’t know if you know this or not but the competition for servers is high. You need a portfolio full of things you’re working on, what your goal is, pictures….and once you get a serving job, you don’t give it up. There. Aren’t. Any.” I told her I’d have six months rent saved up and she said “Well….you might be able to find a job by then,” but her voice was thick with skepticism.

Thank you, kind lady, for your advice and encouragement.

I got off the phone and panicked. Was I really that naïve? I thought that I would fly into LAX with three suitcases and my cat and find a job within a week. Maybe a month. It had never crossed my mind that this plan might not work out. The idealistic optimism that had given me the courage to go was suddenly my downfall.

I was thinking the worst. The cute apartment in a secure building became a small room on the first floor with five locks and bars in the windows. I’d spend my days aimlessly searching for a job in the miniature cities that make up LA without luck until my money ran out, no other option but to go home. It wasn’t going to happen for me. I wasn’t going to be a fashion journalist; there are millions of writers just like me who, more talented or not, have connections I don’t.

It’s sad, I think, that before I even arrive, I’m discouraged. Maybe it’s just fear that has overtaken my excitement or maybe the reality this might not work out has cut deeper than I realized because I don’t feel like myself. Maybe I know I’m doing the wrong thing but don’t care. Maybe I’m crazy for giving up everything or maybe my risk will get me everything I ever wanted.

I’ll keep you posted.

and we ended up here

              

                She wasn’t surprised they had ended up here.

The distance used to keep her up at night. She’d go over and over in her head where he was, no, who he was with, always imagining the worse. There was one girl, pretty. Prettier than her. Petite, she was tomboyish in that beautiful way that tormented girls because they wanted to be her friend but at the same time they were insanely jealous of the way every man flocked to her. He’d go to the bar every Thursday night to see her and insisted a little too adamantly that he didn’t find her attractive. “Kate?!” he’d say, a twisted grimace hiding behind his beard. “No way.” They exchanged mysterious text message that didn’t say much but reeked of hidden meaning. She knew he understood what they meant even though she couldn’t. He captured her essence in a jar and kept it on a shelf in the kitchen and he’d laugh about it with his friends but never explained to her what it meant. She was grateful.

She opened the jar of melatonin, shaking three into her hand before swallowing them. You were supposed to take two but that was never enough. The chocolate coconut water wasn’t cold enough and it left a rotten aftertaste in her mouth. Or maybe it was because she had just brushed her teeth. He wasn’t home again and it was time for bed.  

This addiction to sleep aids was unfortunate but it was the lesser of two evils. At least she wasn’t a walking zombie during the day. Every night she tried to go to sleep without them but it was impossible. If she had to use something she figured melatonin was the healthiest solution. Benadryl, safe in the short-term, caused long-term memory loss if used on a regular basis and everything else was too addictive.

                She woke up the next morning, still alone. The cat was crouched on a pillow above her head, purring to herself. With a dainty meow the cat arched her back, lifted her tail above her back to touch the back of her head, and came closer for morning snuggles.

                He hadn’t come home. Again. The white comforter next to her hadn’t been ruffled, his pillows were still fluffed. “Thank God for melatonin,” she thought before getting out of bed to get ready for work. She was excited for the day. It was finally getting a little warmer out and she only had to work six hours. She’d be out by four. She didn’t even think about calling him until she grabbed her purse on the way out but decided not to. She didn’t really care where he was. Is that when you know it’s over? When you just don’t care anymore?

                His birthday came and went and she never got him a card. It was sad and she even cried a little because she remembered how she used to buy him cards for no reason. One time he was struggling a little bit, depressed. So she went to Hallmark and got him something silly, really. The card was humorous, a list of ridiculous reasons he was great. “You give me butterflies” was the last reason. She told him she loved him and it made him smile.

                She wanted to still love him but all she could think about all the reasons she couldn’t anymore. It was obvious that things had changed. Every time he touched her she pulled away as if it were a natural reflex, like pulling your hand off a hot burner. She was always the one to end a kiss and he always said “I love you” first.

                It was the first time he had done anything for her birthday in the four years they were together. The rings he bought her were beautiful; she knew he spent hours picking them out. One was white. A statement right, it was cut into an isosceles triangle and in different light it shimmered shades of lavender and light blue. She knew she should feel full, consumed with love, but she knew the only reason he did it was because he thought he was losing her.

                The thing was, he lied all the time. Stupid lies about things not worth lying about.  She always found out the truth.“Did you clean the cat box?” He’d say yes even when he hadn’t, only to be caught a few hours later when she got home. When he was drinking his lies were outright weird. One night he had the audacity to tell her that the reason he didn’t come home until five was because he was sitting on a park bench after the bar closed. Every time she felt insulted that he actually thought she’d believe something so ridiculous.

                “I love you too,” she said, wishing she was strong enough to see the hurt on his face so she didn’t have to say it back.

                “Hey….I have to work early so if you don’t want to come home tonight, you don’t have to,” she said, hoping he’d go out. She needed some distance between them.

a little slice of heaven

hospitality

                 The hospital. It’s so serious. Everyone there has the same blank smile, the one they hope masks their concern. Nobody says hello in the elevator and the mellow green walls designed to be calming, are not. You look at the ground when walking the halls because you don’t want to intrude on anyone’s privacy….or you’re afraid of what you’ll see.

                I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals. I was six the first time. I had been sick for days; couldn’t really breathe. My mother rubbed Vicks Vapor rub on my chest and propped me up on a mountain of pillows to help me breathe. I coughed incessantly, a dry, tight cough that took all the energy out of me. It was dark out when my mother bundled me up for the drive to the hospital. We sat in the waiting room in hard plastic chairs lined up next to the windows. There were toys in the corner of the room and a pile of picture books but nobody was playing with them.

                Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. I was so weak and cold but my mother insisted I take my jacket off; I just wanted to feel better. A doctor I didn’t know walked in the room with a bright smile on his face. Him and my mother spoke about me as if I wasn’t sitting in the room but I didn’t have the energy to explain how I was feeling myself. The doctor listened to me breathe, moving his stethoscope around on my back. His smile was gone and a slight frown was in its place. He told my mother he waas concerned about my high fever and the rattling her heard in my chest and would like to get some chest x rays.

                More waiting. For what, I didn’t know. I couldn’t rest. The bed’s lumpy mattress was uncomfortable and it was too high off the ground. I ached.  The lights were bright and too many people were walking by the room talking in hushed voices that weren’t quiet enough.

                Minutes, or hours, or minutes that felt like hours, went by before two men in blue scrubs arrived to take me to my x ray. Symbiotically, they locked the bars on each side of me and wheeled me out of the room. We winded down the corridors and I watched the dark green border whiz by me. The ride is the only thing I remember about my first x ray.

                I was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. It was the first time I heard the word. I was allergic to the penicillin I was prescribed, complicating my recovery. But I did recover and went home with two inhalers and a new bracelet.

                When you spend a lot of time in hospitals you develop a liking for people-watching and you learn a lot about relationships. You see sick wives downplaying their pain to ease the worries of their husband. You wonder why, when life is at stake and everything is exposed, people are more dishonest than ever.

                In 1992 my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was young, only seven and I wasn’t given many details about her illness. She was hospitalized often and I grew accustomed to seeing her in a hospital bed. I was too young to realize the severity of the situation, probably because of my grandmother’s impressive acting chops. Yes, she looked sick. She had tubes hooked up to her arms with clear liquid running through them and her eyes were sagging, her skin sallow. She had lost her hair. But she always smiled for me.  She stayed awake while I read to her and chattered about school. I laid with her in bed and we watched Days of Our Lives, her favorite soap opera. If she was scared, she never showed it. If she was angry, I didn’t know. Each week I painted her nails.

                When she had a double mastectomy she joked about it and showed off her new “ta ta’s.” Her good humor didn’t last long before she landed back in the hospital. This time it was lung cancer.

                Shocked. Another adjective that describes most people in hospitals. Whether you’re a patient or a visitor, you’re probably thinking “Why? How could this happen to me/someone I know? It’s not fair.” It’s never fair but people say it anyways, as if fairness ever factored into the bad genes or bad decisions that led the person to their hospital bed. As if saying it changes anything.

                My grandmother smoked for two years when she was twenty, before she got pregnant with my mother. She told me she gave it up easily, that she never really liked it anyways. Two years.

                She didn’t bounce back as quickly the second time. Her stays at the hospital were longer; she was home less. During the week my mother got out of work at five and we would get in the car and drive to Bangor to visit her in the hospital. We would say hi to the nurses congregated at the main desk. We didn’t need directions to her room and her doctor became a friend whom we all loved. He celebrated with us when she went into remission.

                Our happiness was short-lived, our enthusiasm premature. The dark winter was over and spring leaves covered the trees; flowers bloomed. My grandmother's spring allergies turned into a cold. Her immune system,weak from chemotherapy and radiation, was ravaged by the seemingly minor cold and it quickly escalated to pneumonia.  

                You always think you know what to worry about. You’re scared when somebody tells you they have cancer but shrug it off as a minor concern when someone gets admitted to the hospital for the flu. Most people think appendicitis is no big deal but what they don’t know is that your whole life can change in a day and it’s the things you least expect that will crush you.

                She was admitted to the ICU. Nurses and doctors in the ICU are the most empathetic of all hospital employees. They don’t bother with forced smiles. Instead, their eyes shine with pity and concern. Here, they don’t bother with lies. They don’t sugarcoat situations and they don’t bend the rules.

                I wasn’t allowed to visit her. I was underage. It killed me knowing that I could make her feel better. I wanted to tell her I knew it was going to be okay. I had had pneumonia only three years before and was completely fine.

                That was the last time we went to the hospital to see my grandmother. I was nine.

                I lost faith in medicine. Didn’t understand how someone could beat two forms of cancer and die from a simple virus like pneumonia. The only answer I had was that doctors didn’t know anything.

                Yet, I couldn’t avoid them. My asthma hadn’t gone away and the next winter I became a patient at the lovely Eastern Maine Medical Center when I developed pneumonia. I was petrified, too young to understand the factors that led to my grandmother’s death. I didn’t know about white blood cells and the immune system. I thought I was going to die.

                Every time I got sick there on out I was convinced it was a chronic illness. My knees ached and I was convinced I was arthritic. When I found bruises on my body I knew it was leukemia. Rashes were the worst for me.  A symptom of virtually everything, I would spend nights awake obsessing over what the rash (bug bite) meant. During my yearly physicals I would show my doctor freckles on my body that I had deemed cancerous only to find out they were just freckles.

                Since I knew I was being irrational, I spent a lot of time outside of the doctor’s office, convincing myself nothing was wrong with me. As a result, I avoided the doctor when I should have gone.

                I woke up early on a summer day in 2006, my stomach burning. I couldn’t stand up and cried out; it hurt so bad, I couldn’t help it. I spent the morning keeled over in the bathroom unable to move, the sharp pain stabbing my right side. I tried to drink water, do anything to make me feel better, but nothing worked. I laid back down in the fetal position, willing the pain to go away. Finally, at seven p.m. I couldn’t take it anymore. Terrified, I had my roommate drive me to the hospital where I waited three hours to be seen.

                This time I went into the examining room alone and as I chugged the fluorescent yellow liquid to prepare for my CT scan, I realized how lonely the place full of people really was. As I lay in the capsule, still as I could be, I prayed they would find something wrong with me. I needed an answer to the pain.

                I was preparing for surgery, the valium dripping into my veins. Quick. The surgery had to happen right away. This was pretty serious. So serious I had called my parents; they were in the waiting room. The nurse administering my drugs had a soothing voice and I wasn’t nervous anymore. Maybe it was the drugs or just relief to have the answer I had prayed for.

                My stay was short and sweet. I came out of surgery on schedule and my appendectomy was successfully. They sent me home with a prescription for vicoden and instructions to rest for at least a week.

                The hospital saves lives.  A scary place, you can justify avoiding it almost every single time. Not enough money, no insurance, the pain's not that bad. It’s probably nothing, let’s just wait it out. You’ve done it, I’ve done it. I almost did but something made me go. Fear, our most primitive symptom; it keeps us alive.

numbers

                 Arms behind my back I sucked in, trying to zip the last inch of the strapless cocktail dress. It was the dress I had been looking for; it was perfect. Winter white, its subtle lace details shimmered and the short hem made me look three inches taller. It was the last one and I had to make it fit. I turned to view the back in the mirror and admired the graceful way it fell above my knees. Elated I finally found the one I bought the dress and on my way home stopped at Hannaford to stock up on spinach, veggies, and coconut water.

                The Christmas party was a week away. Seven days to lose the five pounds that prevented the dress from zipping. Five pounds that would drop me from a healthy size four to a hungry size two. Five pounds that would grant me a generous “Samantha, you look nice.” instead of the usual, “Honey, you’re looking a little heavy in the stomach/butt/thigh/face….” from my mother.

                Numbers have directed me since middle school. In sixth grade, we started algebra and it took me months to figure out how to find x. I realized there was a thirty dollar difference between my Kmart jeans and everyone else’s from American Eagle. I measured my food and counted my calories to maintain a size zero figure. These numbers, simple and straightforward, complicated everything.  Dark and ugly, the numbers on the scale were the definition of everything I wanted to change.

                My alarm went off, its obnoxious ringing impossible to ignore. It was barely light out and the snow was coming down heavily. The weatherman had predicted four to six inches by noon. There was nothing more I wanted than to close my eyes and stay in bed until I had to go to work but I saw the white dress hanging in my closet.

                Half an hour later I was on the elliptical machine at the gym, watching my incline climb from four to five. I had been on it for six minutes and burned twenty seven calories. I had twenty four minutes to go before I could get off and six more days to fit into my dress. I wasn’t going to let one inch of stubborn zipper and my mother’s insult-laced compliments ruin my Christmas. When my time ran out I chose the extreme fat burning course and I settled in for another half an hour of hell.

                With every movement my legs burned and I wondered why I was even doing this. I watched myself in the mirror on the wall and I looked fine. I was thin. Nobody could call me fat, not even me. Yet I was driven by numbers. I let my pants size define me. I deprived myself holiday cookies and cupcakes to fit into a dress I would wear for four hours. The 116 flashing up at me on the scale made my stomach turn. It would be different if I was at the gym for the first time in months because I was motivated to be healthy and fit but….I was there out of pure vanity.

                I still had seventeen minutes to go on my second course when I slapped the stop button with my shaking hand. My legs felt like rubber when I stepped off the machine and I remembered why I had been meaning to cancel my membership.

                For the next five days I set my alarm at seven for an early morning workout but never got out of bed. I ate the muddy buddies my co-worker made and a piece of cheesecake. The night of the party, I wore my hair down to cover the imperfect inch in bouncy curls. I felt like a princess and when my mother looked me up and down and said “Honey….you’re looking a little heavy. How much do you weigh now?” I smiled sweetly and lied. “I don’t know, Mother. I threw out my scale.”

 

               

               

               

               

 

               

a new order

                 Erin and I trudged up the hill, sweating. It was early October but it felt like summer and we soaked up the afternoon sun.  We were later than usual but we weren’t in a hurry to get home where we would have to explain the reason why we were so late. I was dreading the inevitable interrogation of my mother who would never understand that I didn’t deserve to get detention. I couldn’t wait to be grounded from the phone for another month. “Isn’t it weird that your Mom is having a baby?” Erin asked.

                “No, not really,” I said, smiling to hide my guilt. At twelve, I knew it was selfish of me to dislike my unborn brother. I knew I should be happy for my mother, that I should be excited to be a big sister. Part of me was. I loved that sweet smell only babies have, their smooth skin. I knew he’d be cute and laughing babies always made me crack up.  Still, at twelve, I saw his arrival as an invasion of privacy. Our apartment was tiny, barely large enough for all live members of my family. There was no extra bedroom and the new bundle of joy was booting me out of mine. My new residence was the large hallway we used as an office between the living room and kitchen.  It had a tiny closet and retro orange tiles covered the floor in a hideous geometric design. Curtains were put up as doors and I knew I wouldn’t be able to block out the baby’s constant wailing. As someone who highly valued their beauty sleep, this was catastrophic.

                He was born on June 30^th in the same hospital as me. Eight weeks early, he was a tiny 4 pounds 7 ounces and his lungs were underdeveloped. He didn’t cry; he wasn’t strong enough, and the only way he could breathe was through tiny tubes. His name was Harley Michael, a true homage to his father.

                Mike was a biker. It was his vice, his joy. Mild-tempered and quiet, he lived to ride his Harley Davidson. Every summer night Mike and my mother took a ride, travelling east to Belfast or down Route 1A to Bar Harbor. In the winter they went to Bike Week in Daytona, riding their cobalt blue bike all the way down the east coast. He had a good job as a member of the parts department at Darlings Honda Nissan. It was uninspired work and while he was apathetic towards his day-to-day life, he was an adventurous and happy peson. A carefree lifestyle had allowed him many years of irresponsibility and at thirty-six Mike was ready to be a father for the first time. He had been ecstatic when my mother found out she was pregnant, proud when he found out they were having a boy. Now he was worried and sad, praying to a God I never knew he believed in.

                I prayed right next to him, silently taking back every negative thought I’d had about my brother. I bartered with God, promising to be the best sister I could be if Harley was okay. It was rough. Very early, he had a violent allergic reaction to breast milk. He was also allergic to soy milk; the only thing his sensitive body would accept was rice milk. He gained weight slowly and eventually he could breathe on his own. One and a half months after his birth, Harley came home.

                He took over my room. The walls were bare and the closet was filled with puke rags and diapers. Tiny shoes and socks barely big enough to cover my pinkie sat on the shelves and a white crib was against the wall where my bed used to be. My bookshelf was gone and its place was a shiny white changing table. There was a rocking chair in the corner and each day my mother spent hours sitting in it, cradling him in her arms as she tried to get him to sleep.  He cried all the time, hardly slept at all. It was colic, the doctor said. It was supposed to go away after a while. The striped curtains hanging in my doorways did nothing to block out his screaming and I slept with headphones on, a pillow over my head.

                I didn’t sleep through a single night for months. None of us did. We took advantage of the hours Harley silently slept only to be woken up by his desperate screams.  Most nights my mother, irritable and exhausted, was unable to coax him back to sleep. Eventually, Mike would gently take Harley from her arms and send her back to bed, doing everything he could to calm his son.  On particularly bad nights, he’d pack up the diaper bag and go for a ride, just so everybody else could get some sleep. Sometimes I sang him songs under my breath as we paced across the living room.  I bounced him up and down in my arms for hours, lulling him to sleep. The second I stopped moving he would wake up and I quickly learned which floorboards creaked as I walked in circles in the dimly lit living room, enjoying the silence.

                Eventually, Harley slept through the night and his ear piercing screams became angry murmurings only he could understand. Settled in his crib, baby monitor on, my whole family could sleep again and a new order was restored. Each night, before I retreated to my makeshift bedroom, I would wander into his room and place my hand on his tiny back, touch his silky skin. I missed our time together, those long nights hanging out in the living room.

a love affair

         “We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not we are homesick most for the places we have never known.”   Carson McCullers

 

 

 

             Sometimes the comforts of home, the assurance of familiar roads and the friendly faces at the neighborhood store are not enough to quell the desire to travel. Sometimes the simple things are suffocatingly mundane. The woman behind the counter at the bakery knows your order too well. She has your coffee, two creams, one equal, ready when you walk in so you feel bad telling her you actually wanted an ice coffee with a shot of espresso. Your mailman knows the date your cable bill is due and the mountains across the still river seem so small.

My mother, born and raised in Massachusetts, has never been able to appreciate where she is. She’s fascinated by the endless fields in Nebraska and Montana’s blue sky. She buys books about Alaska and looks for homes to buy in Kansas. She’d rather be anywhere than here, even places she’s never been.

When I was a kid, she was obsessed with Florida. It was all she talked about. “Someday….” she’d say wistfully and I could tell she thought if we were there everything would be different. In her alternate reality Florida was the magic potion that would fix her problems.

I was nine the first time we took a vacation to Orlando. We drove the East coast in Bessie, my Mom’s old Chevy. My brother and I fought nonstop. He hogged the backseat and the Gameboy, laughed when I got carsick. Our grandmother, sitting comfortably in the front seat, ignored us as she read her Danielle Steele romance and my mother occasionally yelled “shut up” when our bickering got out of hand. Most of the time she ignored us, turning the radio up and belting out Bruce Springsteen tunes.

Two days and too many stops at the McDonald's drive-thru later we arrived at our hotel and checked in. My mother was relaxed. She couldn’t get enough of the warm air and the palm trees softly blowing in the air. Lizards winded across the concrete path to the pool and when it rained in the afternoon she said it smelled like heaven. I had never seen her smile more or heard her laugh so hard. She was happy.

The ride home wasn’t nearly as fun. My brother and I argued and my mother’s patience disappeared along with her smile. The radio stayed on whatever country music station was available and she cried when a sad song came on. Florida’s magic waned before we even saw the sign that said “Welcome to Georgia,” and my brother and I settled in for the long ride home.

As the years went by my mother’s Floridian love affair grew deeper. She lived for that one week in April when she could smell the afternoon rain again. Each year, at the end of the trip, her and my stepfather would come home arguing, my mother miserable and depressed because he didn’t want to move to Florida.

My mother forgets that Maine is Vacationland and millions of people travel every summer to see its rocky coast. They come thousands of miles to climb Mount Katahdin and eat fresh lobster. The coastal air is fresh and clean and there is an incomparable charm to the small towns nestled along the ocean. My mother, homesick for a place she barely knows, cannot see the Maine everybody loves because she is mourning a life she’ll never have.

I am my mother’s daughter. I’m a traveler too and I am in love with cities whose air I’ve never breathed. I adore the shops in Paris and the beaches of Nice. I lust over the hills in Italy; my mouth waters for tiramisu. Penguins are my favorite animal and I am in awe of the ice-covered terrain they inhabit.  I pretend to know the culture of Manhattan like I’ve lived there my whole life though I’ve only been to New York once….and stayed in Brooklyn. My love affair with travel is with the whole world.  Innocent and idealistic, it's open to anything and hopeful for it all. Crushingly romantic and curious, my passion comes from a craving for adventure, not a need to escape. I am half my mother's daughter....

a fly on a dressing room wall

                “Where was the last place you remember having it?

                “I don’t know! I didn’t even know I had it….you must have left it in there when you gave me my purse back.”

                I couldn’t believe I had lost Megan’s camera. Her BRAND NEW camera. The one she had bought to film an audition on. The role was made for her. The character only had a few lines but she was memorable. Beautiful and sarcastic, carefree.  After thirty-two takes, her audition was flawless.

                “I can’t believe you lost it…..Oh my God, Sam, how the hell could you do this? It was perfect! I had finally gotten it right. I can’t do it again! You have to remember where you went today. Every. Single. Store.”

                “Okay…..First I went to Walmart to get cat food. Left my purse in the car. From there I went to Macy’s. Oh my God, I forgot! Remember that dress you almost got for Olivia’s wedding last summer? The one with the turquoise and orange? It’s ON SALE for like, twenty-two bucks. “

                “Did you buy it for me?”

                “No.”

                Megan stared at me, her arms crossed in front of her. “Then I don’t care.”

“Anyways, I couldn’t find anything I liked there…..isn’t it weird how when you have money to spend you can’t find anything you want to buy but when you don’t you want everything you see?”

                “Sam!  Focus! Where did you go next?”

                “Sorry. Okay….sorry. So I went to American Eagle and got a hoodie for like twelve bucks and then I went to Target.”

                “Did you try anything on” Megan asked.

                “Yes, and nothing fit right.”

                We drove to Target. I prayed her camera was there, knowing my future happiness depended on it. I distinctly remembered how long Megan had pouted when the heel on a fifty dollar pair of boots broke. Every time we saw anybody wearing a similar pair she re-lived how much she ‘loved’ them. “See how good they look on her? They go with everythinggg,” she would say. “Comfy too….” She was relentless, complaining until spring rolled around and everybody stopped wearing her boots.

                I knew losing her camera was worse and it crossed my mind that if we didn’t find it I might not have the luxury of listening to her whining ever again. I was sweating as we ran past the racks of bathing suits and flowing maxi dresses towards the dressing rooms in the back of the store. “Hi! I was in here earlier and I lost a camera. Have you found anything?” I asked

                The girl behind the counter stared at me blankly. “Ummmm, I don’t know. I just got here.” Her dark brown eyes were dull and bored and her pale skin looked lifeless against her jet black hair. “You can go look if you want.”

                Megan ran past the service desk and carts filled with rejected clothing. “Which one were you in?” she asked.

                “This one.”

                The dressing room was a disaster.  Shirts and jackets were hanging up on the hooks, inside out. More clothes were on the floor. “I would be so pissed if I worked here and people did this to me,” I said.

                Megan agreed, nodding as she sifted through the pile of swimwear and tank tops in the corner. “Yes, oh my God! Thank God!” It was there, hiding under a striped sundress and a skimpy black one-piece.

                “It’s on….” Megan said, scrutinizing the camera’s small screen. “How do I get to the main menu?” She fiddled with the buttons until the screen went black and the giggling started. “What is this?” she asked.

                “I can’t believe how much weight I’ve gained since last summer!” a young girl exclaimed.

                “Shut up! You’re soooo skinny!” said another girl in the distance.

                “No, I swear. I tried on this dress I bought last summer and it is so friggin’ tight I can’t even zip it.”

                “Whatever, you’re crazy,” her friend said. “Ugh. This looks so bad! I can never wear long skirts…”

                “Let me see.” We heard the simultaneous click of two dressing room doors opening. “Oh yeah….I see what you mean! Definitely. No.”

                “FYI. I got that shirt you’re wearing last week and it’s already falling apart,” the other girl said.

                The doors clicked again and there was silence.

                Megan and I looked at each other. “Those poor girls are so worried about their weight,” she said.

                I laughed. “They sound just like we did when we were in high school.”

                All of a sudden we heard a baby screaming. “Shhhhh, sssshhhhh. It’s okay,” a woman cooed. “Let Mama try on some clothes.”

                “Mama, Mama, Mama!!!” a toddler yelled, clapping his hands.

                “Oh Eve, it’s okay,” the woman said soothingly.

                “Mama!!”

                “Jackson! Sit down!” she said sharply. “Please.”

                “I’m booooooreeeeeddddd!” he yelled.

                “Here. Why don’t you show your sister the pictures in this book.”

                She sighed heavily, her exhaustion and frustration apparent.

                “This is a cat. This is a dog. This is a fish. This is bear. This is a bunny rabbit. This is a….Mama! What is this?” the little boy said.

                “That. That is a cow,” the woman said. Her patience had returned.

                 “This is a cow. Mama?”

                “Yes, Jackson?”

                “You should get that one. You look pretty!”

                
                  The red light on the camera faded out and the screen went completely blank. The battery was dead.

                Megan and I smiled at each other, giggling like the two girls in the beginning of the recording. “Weird,” I said and she laughed.