100 words a day

After three years of ownership, I finally went to my first home owner’s association meeting. I didn’t expect the yelling.

Apparently there was significant water damage to a unit in my building and the condo’s insurance policy has refused to cover it. Now all of the owners have to pay an assessment to cover the costs.

Hence the meeting.

After an hour, my ears were rimming with comments like: “You’ll now be responsible for what’s behind your walls,
And “it doesn’t matter if you can’t see it, you’re liable anyway.” Excellent.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

In some respects it was easier dating a woman. The concept of gender roles didn’t apply. I’ve never been good with traditional gender roles in any environment. I’ve never fully accepted that I had to act, think, and be a certain way simply because I have a uterus.

I don’t understand why, if all I want to do is get to know someone a bit better, why I can’t just make that happen. Why do I have to hold back, be coy, and send stupidly subtle messages hoping that he’ll read between the lines and understand exactly what I mean?

All of my friends know him as the 23-year-old.  He was one of those beautiful boys who knew exactly how beautiful he was.

I never thought I would see him again. Our orbits seem to be concentric, destined to never intersect.

This afternoon I was walking in the city on my way to meet up with a girlfriend.  As I was walking I heard a man shout, “Stacy!” from far away.  I knew it wasn’t for me, but I turned around anyway.

I turned around and there he was. The 23-year-old. Sigh. I had forgotten how beautiful he was.

Some days the well runs dry.  I fantasize about just going to bed and eschewing my daily writing deadline.  I try to remember what it was like when I didn’t write every day. But then I think about going to bed without the satisfaction of meeting a daily deadline and I realize I’m not ready to let it go. I still enjoy/need the fix.

I am almost at the 250 post mark. This puts me well more than halfway through the experiment, although I am not sure experiment is the most accurate word anymore. Project? Self-imposed assignment? Daily torture device?

In school whenever we were introduced to a new medium, we’d have an entire class to play with it. For three hours we’d get dirty and experiment.  Art was never made on those days, but artists were.

Recently I’ve been concerned about my seemingly nonexistent creative spark. I finally figured out my art needs to be one of two things: meaningful and/or fun to make.

My latest paintings were neither.

Last week I gave myself the freedom to play.  I am experimenting with a new process, with no absolutely expectation of a finished product. And I’ve been having a blast.

I took an all-day training class today.  I made small talk with my neighbor for most of the day.   It came up casually that he was from the Bronx.  That’s when the small talk got a bit bigger:

“You’re from New York.  Me too. Is your family still there?”

“Yeah, well actually my mom is still in New York.  My dad is in Jersey.”

“Mine too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Is the state of New York too small for ex-spouses to co-reside? This is why my mom can’t find eligible divorced men: they’re all living on the other side of the bridge.

Usually the universe stays out of my way. She watches and coaxes and wrings her hands at the stupid things I do. But sometimes, well, sometimes she just intervenes.

Yesterday I got an email from my father. The first communication I got from him that was not a direct response to one of mine. In ten years.

“What Universe? What’s that you say? That I have some significant daddy issues that I should attend to before I even consider dating again? That I should be dealing with my inherent distrust of men from the man who caused it?”

Oh right.

I wish I loved the work that I was doing, all of the people I worked with, and everything that comes along with a new job.

But I don’t.

I really respect the organization and its mission, and its attempt to do good work day in and day out.  I wish I could see myself staying for the foreseeable future.

But I can’t.

On this trial-and-error journey of mine to discover what I want to do when I grow up, it seems like I’ve found another dead end. But this time it didn’t take me seven years to realize it.

For the first time in over seven years, we talked as if we’d never dated. As if we weren’t even interested. We spoke of other lovers and intrigues with none of the hypersensitivity or jealous curiosity that often underscored our conversations. Of course, there were slight nods to our shared past, confessions of trying to do things differently now.

I know our relationship befuddles many. They speculate about why I hang on.

I’m not an easy person to know. I ask questions, I deflect, I speak last. When someone has the patience to permeate, I don’t let go so easily.

I haven’t been out to dinner with a man in a very long time.  I’ve eaten with men, but I can’t remember the last time it was just me and a single male companion.  I did last night.  My brother was in town for a conference and he extended his stay by several hours to join me for dinner.  I don’t see it myself, but I’ve heard from enough people to know that we look alike.  The waitress thought we were dating.

It’s funny the assumptions that are made when a man and woman dine together on a Friday night.

That’s that. I got a response. It was friendly and polite. It matched my watered-down-wink of an email, though it was less of a wink. The notes were a matching pair of nondescript tennis shoes, a pair of Keds.

I responded late in the afternoon wishing him a nice weekend, thus completing the saga. Do I expect to ever from again? Nope. But it was fun.

So what have I gained here? A little more self respect. A bit more pride. I need to work on being this gutsy in person. It’s easy to have courage sitting behind a keyboard.

I did it.   Now I have to wait.  Usually waiting is the worst part, but I am strangely calm about it.   I think it’s because I actually don’t have any expectations.  I knew this was a long shot, but I had to try anyway.   There are people who go out there and create their own opportunities; they make things happen.   I want to be on that team.   I think it would be silly to let something like my gender (or my pride) stand in my way.

I’m starting to think that this may not have been about him at all.

Trying to force myself to not think about something (or someone) is useless.  I can’t control my thoughts any more than I can control all of the people around me.  Today I completed phase 1 of my two part plan.  Although I’m starting to realize that part two may never happen.

In temporarily relinquishing control (as part of phase 1), I risk never getting it back.   So I am trying to forget that I have a ball in the air.  If I forget it’s up there maybe gravity will work faster.  The ball can’t stay up there forever, can it?

In truth, I see myself as shy.   I see the looks I get when I admit this.   So I usually keep these thoughts about myself to myself.   I’m starting to think those people with their snide facial expressions of disbelief might be right.  

So I was introduced to someone on Saturday.   And now I want to see him again.   And I want to make that happen.

Normally I turn to my inner sixteen-year-old for courage, but her MO for getting boys including a lot of staring. And no talking. I, at almost 30, have a much bigger pair of ovaries.

Eons ago, I was an RA. The weekend after classes started my kids when buck wild.  There were parties everywhere we looked.  The night ended when I sent one of my students to the hospital.  I found him sitting in the grass, barely coherent, throwing up in his lap.  When I approached him he looked at me and just said, “Stacy, I’m so sorry.  I found out later that, among other things, he had taken opium that night.  A drug I had only associated with a war in China.

There are some things that training can never prepare you for.

The entire time I was paying her a compliment, she was peering around my back searching for the supposed knife in my hand.   At first I was taking full responsibility for her arms-up-always-protect-the-face stance.    She seemed to be preparing herself against the person who used to provide a daily does of sucker-punches.

But I don’t remember those hits.  I’ll admit that my fuse was shorter than it should have been on several occasions, but I’m starting to think her posture doesn’t have that much to do with me.   Maybe my role is that play is much smaller than I thought.

I approach most changes slowly, one toe at a time.  I start with my pinky toe, swirl it around, then decide if I should submerge with another toe.

I made eye contact tonight.  Undeniable eye contact.  Then there was conversation. That he initiated.  It wasn’t personal, it wasn’t one on one.  And now, I’m frustrated with my cowardice. I know that is ridiculous.  I need to just relish the fun that was tonight.  And this I truly believe: if we are supposed to meet again, we will.  If we’re not, then tonight was a great stepping stone for next one.

Do we inherit our sex drives from our mothers? Yes I said it. Gross as it might seem, is it true?

Of course, I understand that are many contributing factors’ to a woman’s sex drive, but considering a healthy, abuse-free childhood, am we destined to develop our mothers’ libidos?

Can it be helped? She shares her stories, she creates the folklore.  If you grow up in the absence of an older sister, what other reality do you have? What other women do you look at?

And if it is true, how do you break the cycle?  How do you unlearn?

Whenever I am feeling a bit lost, disillusioned, and teetering on just the right side of depression, I pick up a Kurt Vonnegut book.   Reading his books rights my world, clears my head, and resets my system.

Anyone who’s read his books will admit they are not fine literature.   They can be crass and lewd.   Sometimes he included his drawings of anatomical parts.   Sometimes those parts  were his own.

The worlds he created were always absurd and sardonic, just like our real world, but his were more eloquent.

He always made me think. He always made me want to write.

I’m a pitcher with a decent arm. Who’s just been traded.  I’m brand new to the team, but the coach won’t let me throw the ball.  I’ve been hanging out in the bullpen for about six weeks just stretching and throwing practice pitches. And bored out of my mind.

I can see everyone around me is playing. They’re batting and running and sliding and catching.

It’s like I’ve been sent to training camp and no one’s telling me how long it lasts. Or worse, I’m in the minors, waiting for the call bringing me up to the big leagues.

Aside from the obvious reason, sometimes a girl just wants to get her period.  (Goodbye lone male reader). All week I’ve felt off, in an inexplicable, indescribable way. It’s as if I’m having a bad hair week, except my hair looks fine, fetching in fact.  I just want to feel normal again.

I know it’s hormonal. However, I tend to think myself a woman who can rise above her fluctuating chemical make-up, who is not a slave to the moon. It’s always humbling (and more than a tad disappointing) when my body provides evidence to the contrary.

Sigh. How ordinary.

I know you have a lot of work.
I know you have crazy deadlines.
I know you are very responsible.

Let me tell you a secret: there’s no shame in taking a sick day, especially when you’re sick.

If this was my team you wouldn’t be here.  I’d send you home.   I’ve had employees show up sick, looking for a hearty pat on the back and a comment about their commitment. I sent them home every time.

I’d much rather they leave, get better, and not infect everyone else on my team.

But that was when I had a team.

How important is it to have similar levels of ambition?  I don’t know.   I find myself in an ambiguous murk when it comes to the “C” word.   I would not describe myself as having a career.  However, compared to people without, I know  I do.

So I wonder: does he need to have ambition, especially since I don’t particularly see that in myself? Is it critical?  Is it shallow to concede that yes, yes, it is?

The size of someone’s bank account has never been important to me. I’m not looking for a meal ticket, I know how to cook.

Anger: it’s like shards of shrapnel working their way out of the body over time.  Sometimes it takes months or years to surface.  Some pieces never emerge.

I didn’t realize I was angry. But clearly I was, am.  All of this residual anger bubbled up yesterday when I thumbed through that five-year-old photo album in my mind. There was so much anger that a little bit of it spilled on everyone.

But that was five years ago.  The moment has long since past.  Do I just toss the piece of shrapnel into the trash, or bring it home for show-and-tell?

I feel like they got married yesterday. I can see bits and pieces of their wedding easily in my mind’s eye.

I remember crying. A lot. Tears rushed down my face and leapt on my soon-to-be soaked dress

I remember who was there and, more importantly, who wasn’t. Who wasn’t welcome and who ultimately chose not to go.

I gave a fairly unremarkable toast. I realized that everything I had to say was to my brother and not his bride so I revised it to make it a bit more even. I lost some heart and truth in that revision.

It came innocently enough this morning.  It arrived and sat coyly in my inbox, like a beautiful woman waiting inside a cake.  The subject line, simply a symbol: a question mark.

Intrigued and curious, I quickly opened this email from a good friend.  And there it was:

“Want to go to Italy this September???”

I didn’t have to even think about it. I tried to be louder than all caps but I couldn’t figure out how.  I responded immediately with a resounding “YES!!!!”

I wouldn’t be surprised if people on the other side of the building could hear me smiling.

I can’t help but wonder, what would that date look like: me, with my chardonnay, him with his sippy cup.  Too harsh?

And this is why the date would be a disaster:  I would drink and it wouldn’t end well.

I admit an attraction is there.  I admit the earring helps.  What doesn’t help is that he looks about a week older than my cousin who’s just gotten into college.

But when there is absolutely no long term potential, what do you do?  I shouldn’t ask; I know what people do.  It’s just very different than what I normally do.  

There is something magical, maybe even mystical, that happens at a fantastic live music show.    The outside world fades; the inside world glows.  A great show makes you feel alive, joyous, and grateful all at the very same time.    There’s always that moment of dissonance when you see a person, a seemingly ordinary being, open her mouth and bring forth the beauty you are accustomed to hearing from your dashboard or a box in your bedroom.

I have always been impressed by talent, but for me, it’s the musicians that are the most humbling.  They are the divine among us.

Nobody I grew up with is still in Bellmore.  As soon as we got old enough we all got the hell out of dodge.  We went away to various colleges and only returned for a handful of vacations.

I know a pocket of uber-intelligent underachievers who grew up around here.  They stayed.  This is their hometown.  A friend of mine at dinner last night described them all as weird.  “Think about it, who stays where they grew up?”  Simultaneously, three minds began scanning their high school rosters to locate a soul who stayed behind.

All of us came up empty.

Prospects: they’re what every single woman is supposed to have.   You’re always expected to be working an angle, anything to help you escape out of the pitied state of singlehood.  Some women unintentionally fabricate prospects.  Not imaginary men per se, but fictional potential relationships.  We fantasize about men we hardly know, are unavailable, or are totally wrong for us.  If we’re determined enough, the object of our obsession fits all three categories.

What need does the faux prospect fulfill?   Is having a fake one really better than not having one at all?  Does having a prospect equate to having hope?