100 words a day

I’d feel much better about my Arabic if I believed my teacher understood me.  Last week we talked about Ramadan and the meals.  We learned the words for the meal eaten before sunrise and the one for breaking the fast – breakfast.

I asked my teacher if it’s difficult for women to not eat and then make a large meal.  She didn’t understand.  I switched some words and asked if it’s difficult to cook and not be able to eat.  She used both hands to form a V by her crotch and said in English, “What?  You ask about the period?”

Yesterday was a huge anniversary for me….not the usual kind, more like waking from a persistent vegetative state. 

It was the day I met my dietician and good friend, Carla.

Rather than nutrition overload, she helped me to change my behavior, gives tough love as necessary but the first thing that helped was that she looked me in the eye and said she knew I could do it. 

Six years later, she still gives that same encouragement and confidence by telling me how fantastic I am for accomplishing this.    

Over and over and over and over, as often as needed.   

And women everywhere put their hands on their hips in “oh, no you didn’t” incredulity. 

Today, I explored a nearby lake and surrounding park with my dog like a botanist dropped into a foreign jungle.

I moaned at having nothing else to do but watch reality TV. 

I pretended I was on stage as I danced along to my Ipod.

After ravaging my dinner, I inhaled an ice cream bar and then drove to the store to get root beer float fixins.  Now I’m choking it down like I’m in a contest. 

Tomorrow’s the sonogram. I’m hoping it’s a boy.

A long time ago my mother took me and my brother somewhere.  I can’t remember where, but we left my dad at home, by himself.   I felt just terrible about this.   I asked him about it: was he sure he didn’t want to come, what was he going to do, wouldn’t he be lonely all by himself?   He looked at me very seriously and said, “Stacy, there’s a big difference between being alone and being lonely.”  I nodded along, wide-eyed, knowingly, even though I had no idea what he meant.

Twenty years later, I’m still trying to figure it out.

I’m a night owl.  Sleep has never been a necessity for me; so because of that I’ve become fairly knowledgeable about the night sky and am somewhat of a decent star-gazer.  I pretty much know where I am in the world just by looking up at the heavens.

Scanning the night sky is a solitary pleasure and when you do see something miraculous, it loses a lot when you tell someone the next day.

Last week my kids’ Mom and I both saw the biggest meteor over
Texas.  Huge, bright green and close.  A good thing to share with her. 

All the guy said was “I’d vote for Bush to have a third term,” and I am instantly surrounded in a hot veil of rage.  I start to catalog everything in the room that is suitable to slam his head against. 

Meanwhile, my mind begins preparing a powerful soliloquy about Habeus Corpus and the Patriot Act and staged photo ops, which this moron can study while he’s crammed into a shipping crate being mailed to a Red State where they think a guy named Adam used to ride a triceratops to work every day along with a mischievous talking snake.

I searched long and hard for the perfect bookcase on Craigslist.  Finding none, I followed up on a cute bedside table.  When my husband and I went to check it out, the young couple selling it was also selling a mahogany ladder bookshelf.  In the course of discussing properly assembly of the bookshelf, the conversation flowed easily about fair division of household labor, how we met and wed our spouses, our favorite wine country town, and the best $1.75 tacos in city.  We left laughing, with the bedside table, the shelves, and a dinner date next weekend with new friends. 

I’m telling myself it doesn’t matter.  None of it.  Which is kind of true.  The only thing I really need is my passport and a visa to get there, and I checked that off my list last week.  If I don’t pack something I need, I can buy it; they have stores there.  If I don’t pass my Arabic final, they’ll give me a language waiver; besides, I’ll likely be using translators. 

So it doesn’t matter.  If I tell myself that enough, maybe I’ll actually sleep through the night.  That’d be lovely since it hasn’t happened in over two weeks.

Every Sunday, I make a weekly menu for myself.  Quick and easy dishes for during the week, and complicated stuff for the weekends.  From the menu, I make a grocery list.  I type it up and neatly sort out items based on what section of the store they’re in. Back at home, I neatly arrange and divide the ingredients.  I clean out the fridge.  Then I clean the whole kitchen.

Nice system right? 

It’s too bad it fails 99% of the time since I always forget to take something out of the freezer the night before.

Looks like takeout tonight.

Our teenage daughter is well on her way to “knowing” everything, but along the way she has “learned” a thing or two.  She has learned to question authority, not to assume, to be nice and tell the truth. 

Last week she received difficult lessons in tolerance vs. narrow-minded, respect vs. disregard and listening vs. stupidity.

Friday was a Day of Silence to bring awareness to the ill treatment many in the gay community receive.  She wore pink duct tape across her mouth all day.  She explained it simply was the right thing to do.

She’ll lose some so-called friends.  Good.

Yeah, right. You apparently don’t know me at all. 

I went into Baskin Robbins today and discovered something that I wished and dreamed for the whole two year duration I worked for them:  HOT PEANUT BUTTER SAUCE! 

*pause for crowd applause*

I know, I know!  So, how did I celebrate?  Three scoop sundae with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup and Peanut Butter & Chocolate ice cream with hot fudge, said new sauce, chocolate crumblies, whipped cream, nuts and the pinnacle cherry. 

I was abdomen-clutching sick at the end of it but it was all completely worth it.  Screw you, protein bar!

I’m feeling pretty bad because I haven’t called my parents in a month, and my brother says they’re worried not to have heard from me. (Though at least they know through him that nothing truly awful has happened.)

Truth is, I get too tired when I get home at night. And work and my relationship are quite tough just now, and I can’t face discussing them. And my hearing seems to have got worse, so phone calls aren’t great at the best of times. And, anyway, why can’t they call me?

Sometime soon, I will call. Just not right now. 

It’s our third date, and I’m way nervous.

If it weren’t for my sense of humor I’m sure things would not have gotten this far.  After all, she looks a little like Julianne Moore, and I look a little like a walrus.

But it’s the sense of humor that got me in this tight spot.  All those phone calls and emails where I joked heavily about things that don’t happen until the third date.  She makes a reference to them and I drop my fork on the floor.  The waiter gives me a new one along with a knowing smile.

Moments of clarity aren’t planned.  Sure, you can keep your mind open and cleanse your thoughts to heighten your awareness.  Thinking quietly and peacefully can even welcome one of these crystal-clear events.  Still, they usually come when least expected.

I’m working my way through a Texas airport in a mental fog at two am after a 13 hour flight and one of those rare moments hit. There is a vending machine which sells hot dogs.  The sign says “Chilled To Grilled In One Minute.”

Right then, I know.  I know with all certainty; all is wrong, the end is near.

I was supposed to jump out of a plane today.  I’ve been looking forward it for weeks.  Unfortunately the gods had other ideas.  They rearranged the winds, darkened the clouds, and added enough water to cancel my jump.

This has happened before.  The day before my thirtieth birthday my friend called to say the next day would be too windy.  I immediately asked how much my mother had paid her to say that.  Then I offered her double.

Maybe I should see this as a sign, but twice is only a coincidence.  If it happens again I’ll consider bungee jumping.

This past Thursday was “take your child to work day;” so our son was invited to go to Texas with his Mom to see what she does all day.  I tagged along to basically help carry the bags.

A simple trip from the heart of Dixie to the pulse of Texas showed our son not only is traveling for business really time-consuming, but flying is usually best left for the birds.

Between tornados, closings and diverted landings, we made the 1,200 mile trip in 13 short hours.  Our son thinks what his Mom does for a living is so cool.

Sunny Friday afternoon, my sister and I chatter happily at the intersection when the girl approaches us.  She is twenty-something, casually dressed, and on the verge of tears. 

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing,” she says, “I’ve never done this.” 

She apologizes and stutters some more, before I finally make out that she’s in college up north, lost her wallet, and needs gas money to get home. I give her a twenty, my name and address. 

“You’ll get a check in the mail next week, I promise.” 

Walking away, I ask my sister, “Was I being kind or just stupid?”

AGAIN today, someone told me they were moving to the suburbs “to be a grownup”.

I’ve kept my mouth shut about it until now, but really.  How you act, not where you live, makes you a grownup.

If gaining 50 pounds because you got married, had a baby, traded sneakers for a car, or just plain let yourself go makes you a grownup, then have fun being a grownup. (just stating the cases with these particular “grownups”)

I feel pretty grown up just going to work, taking care of my health, and contributing to society. Right here in the city.

So many things were going on in my mind as I walked past Grant Elementary School of the Arts:  where the hell I was going, whether it would rain, who would be kicked off American Idol that night, how much I’ve changed since I was in school – when from the bustling playground I hear, “You suck, Mailman!” 

I instantly reverted back to the rotund, awkward 4^th grade Mike with sloping shoulders who did nothing as his peers chanted, “Renz, Renz has no friends!”

I ignored him as if I had never heard him. I can’t exactly flip off a child.

It’s 6am on Sunday, a time I never previously knew existed. I am sleeping on the sofa in a holiday home we have rented for the weekend, a two-day university reunion. A small army of little kids comes charging in, though it seems like halfway through the night, demanding to be read stories I have already read to them twice the night before.

(Ironically, one is called Mr Grumpy …)  

I return to my adult world that afternoon, to newspapers and coffees that can be enjoyed in peace, to blissful silence, feeling slightly guilty and selfish, yet also hugely relieved.

I’ve been spending time with a five year old lately.

I can’t remember a time when I was so helpless, but so cheerful about it. I don’t recall being able to laugh endlessly, or being fascinated by tall people, or being able to fall asleep anywhere.

He approaches me last night, and from eye level with my kneecap demands that I tie his shoe. I tell him it will cost five bucks, and the priceless look on his face completely erases a stressful week from my mind.

He runs to his mother and asks to “borrow” ten bucks…“just in case”.

I refuse to give up on him.  He’s not a lost cause, he can’t be.  Firing someone takes time.  And paperwork.

But it’s not documentation that is stopping me, it’s my ego.  The truth is I’m not willing to give up on myself, and my ability to teach him.  If he’s not learning then it’s something I’m not doing right.  And I have to figure out what that is.

Programming isn’t for everyone. It has nothing to do with intelligence. It’s about the hard wiring in our brains. Some say it can’t be taught.  That won’t stop me from trying

Everyone in the world supposedly walks to the beat of a different drum.  The drums in our house are more like a Fender Stratocaster guitar with a huge
Marshall amplifier, a gentle flute which can explode or implode depending how it’s played, a set of congas and a pan (steel drum).

Not all drums, but certainly different beats.

On the one hand, all our “drums” are interchangeable; all of us can march to each one, which is a great thing.  On the other hand, rarely to our “drums” all play together at the same time, which isn’t always so great.

I don’t know what to write.  I’ve been racking my brain for days attempting to come up with something that’s happened to me recently that is write-worthy.  When I didn’t succeed there, I thought, “well, maybe something from the archives?”  Nothin’.  Perhaps it doesn’t have to be event-related.  Maybe some cosmic ponderings.  My thoughts have been less then stellar as of late.

I’m in a dry spell, which sucks because this is the only thing I have left.  I don’t meet in my writer’s group.  I’ve stopped doing my writing homework.  I no longer write in my book.  

Now this.

While working in my kitchen awhile ago, I glanced up and noticed an enormous cockroach overhead.  I’m more afraid of bugs than many people are of public speaking.

I contemplated ordering takeout and bribing the delivery man into killing it.  Went knocking on my neighbors doors, to find someone to take care of it.  No answer anywhere, and as I was about to hit the streets, I looked in the lobby mirrors and saw a truly humiliating sight.

Earlier that day, I had changed my print cartridge.  I had a bright green Hitler moustache, and a huge bug back home.

We’ve been looking forward to Earth Day today for some time; especially our children.  Both have gone to school and spoke with friends about solutions to our planet’s problems.  For the most part, third graders don’t really know or listen and high school teenagers tend to be busy with facebook and texting instead of what their carbon footprint is.  Still, the two of them plug away in earnest.

We planted two trees, three bushes, flowers and a good sized vegetable garden last night.  The television is off and we’re discussing issues as a family.

Their Mother is the driving force.

I am dragged - kicking and screaming and cursing and grumbling - to a ’speed dating’ event.  The things I do for friendship…

I spend a series of five minute meetings with a wide variety of women, most of whom appear to have gotten tanked at the bar before it began.  I wish someone would have suggested that to me.

In the end, I give my email address to two of them, and bet myself twenty bucks that the wrong one will write.  Then I get tanked at the bar.

Check my email this morning – I owe myself twenty bucks.

The pope’s visit had him staying a half mile away from my apartment.  Helicopters buzzing from the crack of dawn Friday, new vocabulary such as “popetastic” and “get your pope on”, introduction to NYPD vehicles I never knew existed (a moving bucket truck type thing?), and imagining (realizing) there must be sharpshooters on top of most of the buildings I walked by made me feel like walking around with my hands on my head in a “don’t shoot me!” pose.

After not winning a ticket to mass at Yankee Stadium, I was glad to feel like part of the excitement.

My cell phone alarm chirps at 6 AM, normally a crime on a Sunday.  My eyes fly open and I spring up like a jack-in-the-box: today’s the day I go home! It was one of those weeks that felt like a year and a single day all at the same time. 

Soon I’m in my packed car heading down the familiar highways that I’m always happy to greet and happy to leave.

Four hours later I get out of my car and do a little dance, partly out of urinary urgency, but mostly because I’m so excited to be back.

Saturday morning farmer’s market, my husband is in charge of fruits for the week and I the veggies.  I finish earlier than usual and spot him at one of the fruit stalls, paying for two large bags of oranges.  A young woman gives him change and a demure smile.  She brushes her blond curls away from her pretty eyes that say everything.  In his usual formal and quiet way, he thanks her politely. 

After we walk away, I tease, “She’s real friendly.” 

“She’s real friendly with everybody.”

“You sure?”  I’m tickled.

“Yeah, with everybody who spends $30 a week there.”

The thing about fresh pasta is that it feels alive in your mouth.

It’s there - but it isn’t.  You get used to the stuff in the box, maybe every now and then you splurge on that “fresh” (read: frozen and shipped for days) stuff in the dairy aisle.

But to make it yourself - to mix the flour and the eggs and then roll it, cut it, and slip it gently into a full rolling boil (along with your pinky finger - for added flavor), is to experience the ‘whole idea’.

I think I’m hooked.

Dinner just started taking longer.

My friends are meeting up at 9:30 and driving out together to the karaoke bar. 

  9:45:   I arrive and save a large table.  My Long Island is full.
10:00:  A couple songs, a couple sips and the place starts to fill up.
10:15:  Short-haired, crazy girl begins dancing near the stage.
10:25:  No sign of my friends but they’re “on the way”.
10:30:  Sweater vest, bald-spot guy spills his beer on me.
10:40:  Twelve people are standing around my table, asking to sit down.
10:47:  My “friends” are five minutes away and I’m closing out my tab and walking out.

I woke up early this morning to an empty house, except for our two Westie dogs.  Our kids had a sleepover at their aunt’s house and their Mom was in
Kansas City on business.

I called their mom around 6am to see how her business day and evening functions had been when she said, “Did you feel the earthquake?”

“What earthquake, I’m in Georgia and you’re in
Kansas?”

She went into details about her experience and we both turned on CNN.

“It woke me up, I felt the bed move,” she said.

Damn, I miss hearing those words, every day.

When something doesn’t work out with me and some guy, I imagine that a giant crater in the earth opens up and swallows them whole.

No screaming, no pain, no torture.  Just no more “them”.

Till they turn up on the same 2-hour Hampton Jitney bus ride as me.

Or on NBC, in the audience of an awards show, where they lose to the cast of Ugly Betty.

Or at a hugely overpopulated concert on the Great Lawn of Central Park and theirs is the first mug that I see.

I guess I need to live on a fault line.

I make an effort to bring lunch to work.  Usually leftovers from dinner the night before, nothing fancy, but saves time and a few bucks.  Yesterday, as I am eating it and enjoying a little down time, a co-worker comes by.

“What smells so good?”  She asks. 

“It’s just sautéed whole Brussels sprouts and a chicken apple sausage over rice,” I say. 

She looks at it, tilts her head, and goes, “Oh my god, that looks totally phallic.” 

If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all, I think.  That plus something else about her I won’t say. 

I came across something yesterday which struck me in a profound way.  I have used my considerable research skills to attribute it, but I simply can’t.  I’ll share anyway. 

“When you look at a net closely, it’s primarily made up of blank, empty places.  Try telling that to the fish.”

We see things and one another so quickly, sometimes so deeply (we think).  Truth is we aren’t Zen masters and never have or take the time to fully investigate or understand.

I’m going to try harder.

That said; I’m pissed at school administrators, pseudo-educators, political crap-shooters and myself at times.

I’m going through the running list I keep on the fridge, separating things I need to buy at the grocery store from the errands I need to run, when I come across a perplexing entry.

“Block Research” it says in my nearly illegible hand.

Why on earth did I write this?  It’s not my drunken handwriting, so I must have been sober at the time.  Did I mean to research my neighborhood?  Buy cinderblocks for my hidden lair?  Foil someone from looking into my evil and tawdry background? 

I rewrite it on next week’s list.  Maybe it’ll come to me.

Our daughter is off this morning obtaining her driving permit.  This milestone is a complex thing for most parents and for a lot of the new applicants.  For our family, this great day for her isn’t complex at all.

One, she’s prepared.  Two, she’s confident. Three, it’s time.

I talk about our kids here a great deal.  There’s a great deal to talk about.

Our daughter knows insurance costs, car costs (models too) and is pissed about gas prices, especially when her generation’s “time” is now.

We live in the South.  Ever seen “Dukes of Hazard?”

Thankfully, Mom took her.

Whether it be from the chapping powers of the frosty wind or the endless fumbling scrapes against unforgiving metal mailboxes; whether it be from the myriad paper cuts or the rogue dirt that burrows deep under every fingernail; whether it be from the rain, whether it be from the sun…my hands have changed.

No longer do I possess the weak, supple hands of a flaccid office manager. I now proudly own the calloused, rough and tumble hands of a man who will not be stopped either by rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor heat of day, nor gloom of night.

My first Monday after being laid off two summers ago, my only goal for the day was picking up a package at the post office.

After fifteen minutes in the wrong line, I started crying and felt like a failure.  

The only solution was to embrace the great weather and my fantastic terrace and drink some mimosas outside.

I pulled on the door of the liquor store and it didn’t open.  I knocked, shrugged at the guy inside, and then checked the time.  11:30am.

Unemployed. 

Can’t handle a simple errand. 

Desperately clamoring to get into the liquor store before noon.

Sunday evening and he calls and asks about the weekend.  

“It was OK,” I say.  

And it was, in many ways. I went out for dinner on Saturday night, and ate mussels in champagne and smoked salmon sauce, and drank white wine. Sunday brought a sunlit walk in the countryside.  

“Sounds great,” he sighs, unable to see the problem.  

But I haven’t seen him for two weeks, and probably won’t see him for at least another two.  

Most of all, I want him to understand that none of these things, the walks and the meals, mean a thing without him.

The girl is beautiful, so of course I keep my eye on her as she stands next to me on the train platform.  We exchange smiles.  I notice when she follows me onto the train, and I notice when she willfully sits in front of me.  I notice her peek through the seats twice.

All the lights are green, but my mouth stays firmly shut.  I spend twenty minutes wondering what her hair smells like and what she’d say if I asked her to dinner.

It’s two days later, and I’m still wondering. 

Like Frank says – “Regrets….I’ve had a few.”

I get to Grand Central minutes after my train leaves. I stare at the schedule willing it to make sense, but the numbers keep jumping around the page, refusing to sit still. I shake my head and scold myself: if you’re going to start drinking at 4:30, you must eat more than popcorn.

On the ride home I replay the evening’s conversations. Did Walden really force American to cancel all of those flights? Has Rose actually convinced me to run a marathon? How am I going to get us in Gawker?

And when are we going to do this again?

Frozen margaritas w/salt, Burt’s bees lip balm, champagne, JCrew, outdoor dining, Andersen Cooper, coffee, Chelsea Handler, the Brooklyn Heights promenade, Snow Patrol, snow, Ellen Degeneres, raw silk fabric, Jack Black, my calves, Valentino and Carolina Herrera, being from a big family, Seinfeld, the leg press machine, my cousin Paula and my friend Paula, Helen Keller, magnolias, The Office, 68 mustang convertibles, red, The New York City Marathon, Judy Blume books, shrimp cocktail with extra-horseradish cocktail sauce, Trish McEvoy makeup, Grey Gardens, the guy who sings at my church, Jennifer Aniston, heavy card stock stationery, being an aunt and Chicago’s Lakefront.  

I’m Sharkboy for lots of reasons.  I’m an avid diver and have had the pleasure of many shark encounters.  My kids and their mother love them too.  A few years ago in Belize our family spent a couple hours snorkeling off a reef named Shark Ray Alley.  Our son was only three and our daughter 10.  There were dozens of 10-footers.

Sharks are as old as dinosaurs and basically unchanged over millions of years.  There are more than 400 varieties.

So I’m fan and the name was given to me.  Besides, sharkguy or sharkman or sharkdude don’t sound very cool.

On a beautiful and crisp Manhattan evening, three writers span the many miles (or city blocks) to meet for drinks.

17 bowls of popcorn later, they go their separate ways - refreshed, inspired, and somewhat inebriated.

Among the many things we discussed: 

Why are we all not famous yet?
Why is Sharkboy called Sharkboy? 
What is up with this music?
What is it with writers and alcohol?
Doesn’t it stink when you have 101 words and can’t find one to delete? 
Who is going to get Walden to stop dancing on the bar?
Can we get another round over here?

My flat is the first home I got on my own. It’s where my heart soared when I heard I got the job I am doing now. It’s where I plunged the depths of despair when I realised the job before wasn’t going to work out.
It’s where my brother called to say he was getting married, where Dad rang to tell me my favourite aunty had died.

I’ve cried over G so many times in this apartment, but it’ll always be the place he first kissed me, unexpectedly, one Sunday lunchtime.

How will I ever bring myself to leave?

For those non-East Coasters, a meeting of the “100wordsaday Minds” took place tonight! 

Attendees:  “Rose” (Rose), Stacy, and “Walden” (Bill).  Walden thought I wrote under a pseudonym.  Nope…I’m really Rose (“Rosina”).

We are all now BFF….we bonded over our love of alcohol and our desire to get this thing more attention.

Lots of laughs, lots of popcorn, an odd coincidence over Foreign Service recruits, and an easy “getting to know you” phase that required no effort, in my opinion.

On top of which, we may have another marathon runner in our midst….Stacy, you’re the next contestant in Running 26.2 Miles!

I got my groove back – mostly.  Ewan and I went out four times, including a Tartan Day celebration.  He looked so hot in his kilt.  Yesterday he returned to Scotland.  It was fun while it lasted, and I’m now interested in younger guys.  Totally cougarific.On the other side of the romantic coin, I was pre-emptively dumped – TWICE – last week.  Apparently there were rumors that I was dating two of my colleagues, and they each felt the need to have the “Let’s just be friends” talk.  It was ludicrous.  We are just friends.  Or were.  I didn’t appreciate the rejection.

There I am in the shower with all of my toiletries waiting for me, laid out like they are every morning on the bathroom counter.  I’m shakin’ my groove thang along with whatever’s blaring from my iHome when suddenly the music ceases.  The stream of water is now all I can hear.

Dripping across my bedroom carpet, I tinker with my iPod to discover what’s wrong.  It’s frozen.  Then it’s glitching.  Then it’s not playing at all.

I retreat back into the silent shower and half-heartedly finish the process, marveling at how much music is a part of my life.